Arthas: Rise of the Lich King (11 page)

He chuckled. “Indeed not, my lady. You will fight alongside us in these battles.”

She sighed. “I pray there is no fighting—only investigating. But I will do what I must. I always have.”

Jaina withdrew her hand. Arthas hid his disappointment. “As we all do, my lady.”

“Oh stop that. I’m Jaina.”

“And I’m Arthas. Nice to meet you.”

She shoved him then, and they laughed, and suddenly a barrier was gone between them. His heart warmed as he looked down at her, at his side once again. They were facing real danger together for the first time. He was conflicted. He wanted to keep her safe, but he also wanted to let her shine in her abilities. Had he done the right thing? Was it too late? He’d told her that he wasn’t ready, and that had been true—he hadn’t been ready for a lot of things then. But much had changed since that Winter Veil. And some things hadn’t changed at all. All kinds of emotions tore at him, and he pushed them all away except one: simple pleasure in her presence.

They made camp that night before dusk, in a small clearing close to the road. There was no moonlight, only the stars, glittering in the ebony darkness above them. Jaina jokingly lit the fire, conjured some delicious breads and beverages, then declared, “I’m done.” The men laughed and obligingly prepared the rest of the meal, skewering rabbits over spits and unpacking fruits. Wine was passed around, and the feeling was almost more of a group of comrades enjoying the evening than a battle-ready unit investigating a deadly plague.

Afterward, Jaina sat a little bit away from the group. Her eyes were on the skies, a smile playing on her lips. Arthas joined her and offered her more wine. She held out her goblet while he poured and then took a sip.

“This is a lovely vintage, Your H—Arthas,” she said.

“One of the benefits of being a prince,” he replied. He stretched out his long legs and lay down next to her, one arm behind his head as a pillow, the other arm holding the goblet steady on his chest as he looked up at the stars. “What do you think we’re going to find?”

“I don’t know. I was sent as an investigator. I do wonder if it doesn’t have something to do with demons, though, given your encounter with the orcs.”

He nodded in the darkness, then, realizing she couldn’t see him, said, “I agree. I wonder if we shouldn’t have brought a priest along with us now.”

She turned to smile at him. “You’re a paladin, Arthas. The Light works through you. Plus, you swing a weapon better than any priest I’ve seen.”

He grinned at that. The moment hung between them, and just as he started to reach out a hand to her, she sighed and got to her feet, finishing the wine.

“It’s late. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well, Arthas.”

But he couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned in his bedroll, staring up at the sky, the night sounds contriving to catch his attention even when he did start to drift off. He could take it no more. He’d always been impulsive, and he knew it, but dammit—

He threw back the blankets and sat up. The camp was still. They were in no danger here, so there was no one set to watch. Quietly, Arthas rose and went to the area where he knew Jaina was sleeping. He knelt down beside her and brushed her hair back from her face.

“Jaina,” he whispered, “wake up.”

As she had done that night so long ago, she again awoke in silence and unafraid, blinking up at him curiously.

He grinned. “You up for an adventure?”

She tilted her head, smiling, the memories obviously coming back to her as well. “What sort of an adventure?” she countered.

“Trust me.”

“I always have, Arthas.”

They spoke in whispers, their breath visible in the cold night air. She was propped up on one elbow now, and he imitated her, reaching with his other hand to touch her face. She did not pull back.

“Jaina…I think there was a reason we were brought together again.”

There it was, the little furrow in her brow. “Of course. Your father sent you because—”

“No, no. More than that. We’re working together as a team now. We—we work well that way.”

She was very still. He continued to caress the smooth curve of her cheek.

“I—when this is all over—maybe we can…talk. You know.”

“About what ended at Winter Veil?”

“No. Not about endings. About beginnings. Because things have felt very incomplete to me without you. You know me like no one else does, Jaina, and I’ve missed that.”

She was silent for a long moment, then sighed softly and leaned her cheek into his hand. He shivered as she turned her head and kissed his palm.

“I have never been able to deny you, Arthas,” she said, a hint of laughter in her voice. “And yes. It feels incomplete to me, too. I’ve missed you very much.”

Relief washed over him and he leaned forward, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her passionately. They would get to the bottom of this mystery together, solve it, and come home heroes. Then they’d get married—maybe in the spring. He wanted to see her showered with rose petals. And later there’d be those fair-haired children Jaina had talked about.

They were not intimate, not here, surrounded as they were by Arthas’s men, but he did join her under the blankets until the steely dawn called him reluctantly back to his own bed. Before he left, though, he caught her in his arms and held her tightly.

He did sleep a little then, secure in the knowledge that nothing—no plague, no demon, no mystery could stand up to the joined efforts of Prince Arthas Menethil, paladin of the Light, and Lady Jaina Proudmoore, mage. They’d see it through together—whatever it took.

B
y mid-morning the next day, they were starting to come across scattered farmsteads. “The village isn’t too far distant,” Arthas said, consulting the map. “None of these farms is mentioned here.”

“Nay,” said Falric firmly. There was a degree of familiarity in how he spoke to his prince due to how long the two had known each other. Arthas had come to rely on the man’s forthrightness, and Falric had been first on the list of those he wanted to accompany him. Now Falric shook his graying head. “I grew up in this area, sir, and most of these farmers are the independent sort. They bring their produce and livestock in to the villages, sell it, and come home.”

“Bad blood?”

“Not at all, Your Highness. It’s just the way things are done.”

“If that is the relationship,” Jaina said, “then if someone fell ill, they might not summon outside aid. These people could be sick.”

“Jaina raises a good point. Let’s go see what we can find out from these farmers,” Arthas ordered, clucking to his mount. They approached slowly, giving the farmers time to notice and prepare for them. If they were isolationists and if the plague had indeed cut a swathe through here, the farmers would be wary of large parties sweeping down on them.

Arthas’s eyes scanned the area as they approached the farmhouse. “Look,” he said, pointing. “The gate’s been smashed and the livestock is gone.”

“That’s not a good sign,” Jaina muttered.

“Nor has anyone come out to greet us,” Falric said. “Or even to challenge us.”

Arthas and Jaina exchanged glances. Arthas signaled the group to halt.

“Greetings to you all!” he said in a strong voice. “I am Arthas, prince of Lordaeron, and my men and I mean you no harm. Please, come out and speak with us—we have questions concerning your safety.”

Silence. The wind picked up, flattening the acres of grass that should have been grazing ground for cattle or sheep. The only sound was its soft sigh and the creaking of their own armor as they all shifted uneasily.

“No one’s here,” Arthas said.

“Or maybe they’re too sick to come out,” Jaina replied. “Arthas, we must at least go and see. They could need our help!”

Arthas glanced at his men. They looked none too keen on walking into a house that might be infested with plague victims, nor in truth was he. But Jaina was right. These were his people. He had vowed to help them. And so he would, wherever that promise led, whatever it took.

“Come on,” he said, and swung down. Beside him Jaina did the same. “No, you stay here.”

Her golden brows drew together in a frown. “I told you, I’m not a fragile little figurine, Arthas. I was sent to investigate the plague, and if there are indeed victims here, I need to see them for myself.”

He sighed and nodded. “All right then.”

He strode forward to the farmhouse. They were almost at the garden when the wind shifted.

The stench was horrific. Jaina covered her mouth and even Arthas struggled not to gag. It was the sickly sweet smell of the slaughterhouse—no, not even that fresh; it was the reek of carrion. One of his men turned and vomited. It was by sheer will that Arthas did not emulate him. The foul odor was coming from inside the house. It was by now obvious what had happened to the inhabitants.

Jaina turned to him, pale but resolute. “I have to examine—”

Horrible, liquid-sounding cries filled the air along with the stench of death as from inside the farmhouse and behind it
things
came at them with startling speed. Arthas’s hammer suddenly began to glow with a light so bright he had to narrow his eyes against it. He whirled, lifting the hammer, and stared straight into the eye sockets of a walking nightmare.

It wore a rough shirt and overalls, and its weapon was a pitchfork. Once, it had been a farmer. But that had been back when it had been alive. It was obviously dead now, the gray-green flesh sloughing off its skeleton, its rotting fingers leaving smudged bits on the pitchfork handle. Black, congealed fluids oozed from pustules and its gurgling roar spat flecks of ichor on Arthas’s unprotected face. So shocked was he by the apparition that he barely had time to swing the hammer before it jabbed him with the pitchfork. He got his blessed weapon up just in time, knocking the farming implement from the hands of the walking dead man and bringing the radiant hammer crashing into its torso. The thing went sprawling and did not rise.

But others came to take its place. Arthas heard the
fwhump
and telltale crackling of Jaina’s firebolts and then suddenly another smell was added to the sickly miasma—the odor of burning flesh. All around him he heard the sound of weapons clashing, men screaming battle cries, the crackle of flame. One of the corpses stumbled distractedly into the house, its body and clothing ablaze. A few moments later, smoke began to billow from the open door.

That was it—

“Everyone get out, now!” Arthas cried. “Jaina! Burn the farmhouse! Burn it to the ground!”

Despite the horror and panic that was racing through his men—trained soldiers, all of them, but not trained for
this
—his orders were heard. The men turned and ran from the house. Arthas looked over at Jaina. Her mouth was set in a grim line, her eyes were fastened on the house, and fire crackled as comfortably in her small hands as if the flames were innocuous as flowers.

A huge fireball as big as a man exploded into the house. It burst into flame and Arthas lifted his hand to shield his face from the blast. Several of the animated corpses had been trapped inside. For a moment Arthas stared at the conflagration, unable to tear his eyes from it, then he forced himself to turn his attention to slaughtering those that had not been caught in the pyre. It was the work of a few more moments, and then all the things were dead. Really dead this time.

For a long moment, there was silence except for the crackling sound of flames consuming the burning house. With a slow sigh, the building collapsed. Arthas was glad he could not see the corpses as they were turned to ash.

He caught his breath and turned to Jaina. “What…”

She swallowed hard. Her face was black with soot, save where streams of sweat had cleared a path. “They—they are called undead.”

“Light preserve us,” Falric muttered, his eyes bulging and his face pale. “I’d thought things like this were just stories to scare children.”

“No, they’re real enough all right. I just—I’ve never seen one. Never expected to. The, ah…” She took a deep breath and calmed herself, getting her voice under control. “The dead sometimes do linger on, if their deaths were traumatic. It’s what gave rise to ghost stories.”

Her demeanor was calming after the horror. Arthas noticed his men turning to listen to her, eager for some understanding of what the hell had just happened to them. He, too, was more grateful for her book learning than he could ever recall being before.

“The…the animation of corpses by powerful individual necromancers is not unheard of. We saw examples of this in both the First War, when the orcs were able to animate skeletal remains, and in the Second, with the appearance of what would come to be known as death knights,” Jaina went on, as if she were reciting a passage rather than trying to explain a horror that the mind could barely grasp. “But as I say—I’ve never seen any of them before.”

“Well, they’re really dead now,” one of the men said. Arthas gave him an encouraging smile.

“We have your swords, the Light, and the Lady Jaina’s fire to thank for that,” he told them.

“Arthas,” Jaina said. “A moment?”

They walked away a little bit while the men began to clean themselves up and recover from the unnerving encounter. “I think I know what you’re going to say,” Arthas began. “You were sent here to see if this plague was magical in nature. And it’s starting to look like it is. Necromantic magic.”

Jaina nodded wordlessly. Arthas glanced over at his men. “We haven’t even hit the main villages yet. I have a feeling we’re going to see more of these…undead.”

Jaina grimaced. “I have a feeling you’re right.”

As they departed the cluster of farmsteads, Jaina drew her horse up and paused.

“What are you looking at?” Arthas stepped beside her. Jaina pointed. He followed her gaze, to see a silo standing alone on a hill. “The granary?”

She shook her head. “No…the land around it.” She dismounted, knelt and touched the soil, scooping up a handful of dry dirt and dead grass. She examined it, poking at a small insect, its six legs curled up in death, then sifted the dirt through her fingers as the slight wind took the powdery soil and bore it away in a little puff of dust. “It’s as if the land around that granary is…dying.”

Arthas glanced from her hand to the earth. She was completely right, he realized. Several yards behind him, the grass was green and healthy, the soil presumably still rich and fertile. But beneath his feet and in the area around the granary, it was as dead as if it were the middle of winter. No—that wasn’t a good analogy—winter was when the land slept. There was still life in it, dormant, but ready to be awakened when spring came.

There was no life here.

He stared at the granary, sea-green eyes narrowing. “What could have caused this?”

“I’m not sure. It reminds me of what happened with the Dark Portal and the Blasted Lands. When the portal was opened, the demonic energies that sapped the life from Draenor spilled through into Azeroth. And the land around the portal—”

“…died,” Arthas finished. A thought struck him. “Jaina—could the grain
itself
be plagued? Carrying this—this demonic energy?”

Her eyes widened. “Let’s hope not.” She pointed at the crates the men were hauling out of the granary. “Those crates bear the regional seal of Andorhal, the distribution center for the northern boroughs. If this grain can spread the plague, there’s no telling how many villages might be infected.”

She almost whispered the words, looking wan and sick. He stared at her hands, pale with the dust of the dead land. Fear suddenly shot through Arthas and he grabbed her hand. Closing his eyes, he murmured a prayer. Warm light filled him, spread from his hand to hers. Jaina glanced at him, confused, then down at her own hand clasped in his gloved one. Her eyes widened with horror at what she only now realized could have been a very narrow escape.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He gave her a shaky grin, then called out to his men, “Gloves! Every man here wears gloves in this area! No exceptions!”

His captain heard him and nodded, repeating the order. Most of the men were in full armor, and so were already wearing gauntlets. Arthas shook his head, dispelling the worry that still clung to him. He had sensed no sickness in Jaina at all.

Thank the Light.

He pressed her hand to his lips. Jaina, moved, blushed and smiled softly. “That was foolish of me. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Lucky for you I was.”

“A reversal of our roles,” she said wryly, offering him a grin and kiss to take the sting out of the gibe.

Their mission was now clear—to find and destroy any infected granaries they could. Their task was aided the following day when Arthas’s troops crossed paths with a pair of quel’dorei priests. They, too, had begun to sense the wrongness that was starting to creep through the land, and had come to offer what healing they could. They offered more tangible help as well—they were able to direct Arthas toward a warehouse at the far end of the village they were approaching.

“There are some houses up ahead, sir,” Falric said.

“Well, then,” Arthas said, “let’s—

A sudden
boom
took him completely by surprise and his horse reared, spooked. “What the—?” He looked in the direction from which the sounds had come. Small shapes, barely visible, but there was no mistaking the noise. “That’s mortar fire. Come on!” He regained control of his horse, yanked its head around and galloped toward the sound.

Several dwarves looked up as they approached, as surprised to see Arthas as he was to see them. He wheeled to a halt. “What the hell are you shooting at?”

“We’re blasting those damned skeletons. This whole flaming village is crawling with them!”

A chill ran up Arthas’s spine. He could see them now, the by-now-too-familiar figures of undead shuffling with their unmistakable gait closing the distance. “Fire!” cried the leader of the dwarves, and several skeletons were blown into bones that flew in several directions.

“Well, I could use your help,” Arthas said. “We’ve got a warehouse to destroy at the end of town.”

The dwarf turned to him, brown eyes wide. “A warehouse?” he echoed in disbelief. “We’re being set upon by tha walkin’ dead and ye’re fretting about a
warehouse
?”

Arthas had no time for this. “What’s in the warehouse is killing these people,” he snapped, pointing at the remains of the skeletons. “And when they die…”

The dwarf’s eyes widened. “Och, I ken ye now. Lads! Move up. We’re tae be helping this bonny boy’s troops!” He peered up at Arthas. “By the way, who exactly
are
ye, bonny boy?”

Even in the midst of the horror, the offhanded nature of the question made Arthas grin. “Prince Arthas Menethil. And you are?”

The dwarf gaped for just an instant, then quickly recovered. “Dargal, at yer service, Yer Highness.”

Arthas did not waste further breath on pleasantries, instead attempting to calm his steed sufficiently to keep up with the now-moving unit. The horse was a charger, bred for battle, and while it had not given him a moment’s trouble while he was fighting orcs, it clearly did not like the scent of the undead in its nostrils. He couldn’t blame it, but its skittishness made him think of Invincible’s great heart and utter lack of fear. He forced the thought away; it was a distraction. He needed to focus, not mourn a beast even more surely dead than the lumbering corpses that were being blown to bits.

Jaina and his men fell in behind him, catching those who weren’t quite destroyed by mortar fire and those who stumbled in from the sides and behind him. Energy filled him, flowed through him, as he swung his hammer tirelessly. He was grateful for Dargal’s timely arrival. There were so very many of these undead things, he was not sure his troops could handle them all.