Arthas: Rise of the Lich King (15 page)

He thought it would get easier. It didn’t. It just got worse. Arthas refused to yield. The men looked to him for an example; if he wavered, they would too, and then Mal’Ganis would triumph. So he kept his helm on so they would not see his face, and himself lit the torches that burned down the buildings full of screaming people locked inside, and refused to let the horrible sights and sounds slow him.

It was a relief when some of the citizens of Stratholme began to fight back. Then the self-defense instinct kicked in. They still did not have a chance against professional soldiers and a trained paladin. But it mitigated that horrible sensation of—well, as Jaina had said, slaughtering them like farm animals.

“I’ve been waiting for you, young prince.”

The voice was deep and shivered in his mind as well as his ears, resonant and…there was no other word for it…evil. A dreadlord, Kel’Thuzad had said. A dark name for a dark being.

“I am Mal’Ganis.”

Something like joy shot through Arthas. He was vindicated. Mal’Ganis
was
here, he
was
behind the plague, and even as Arthas’s men, who also heard the voice, turned and sought the source, the doors of a house where villagers had been hiding was flung open and walking corpses hastened out, their bodies limned by a green, sickly glow.

“As you can see, your people are now mine. I will now turn this city household by household, until the flame of life has been snuffed out…forever.” Mal’Ganis laughed. The sound was unsettling, deep and raw and dark.

“I won’t allow it, Mal’Ganis!” Arthas cried. His heart swelled with the rightness of what he was doing. “Better that these people die by my hand than serve as your slaves in death!”

More laughter, and then the disturbing presence was gone as swiftly as it had come, and Arthas was busy battling for his very life as a throng of undead, three deep, charged him.

How long it took to slaughter every living—and dead—person in the city, Arthas would never be able to tell. But at last it was done. He was exhausted, shaking, nauseated by the smell of blood, smoke, and the sick, sweet scent of poisoned bread, hanging in the air even though the bakery itself was a burning building. Blood and ichor covered his once-bright armor. But he was not done. He waited for what he knew would come, and sure enough, a mere moment later, his enemy arrived, descending from the air to land on the roof of one of the few buildings still intact.

Arthas staggered. The creature was enormous. His skin was blue-gray, like animated stone. Horns curved forward and up from his bald skull, and two mighty wings like those of bats stretched out behind him like living shadows. His legs, encased in metal adorned with spikes and decorated with disturbing images of bones and skulls, curved backward and ended in hooves, and the very light of his glowing green eyes revealed sharp teeth bared in an arrogant sneer.

He stared up at the creature, rapt with horror, disbelief warring with the evidence before his eyes. He had heard tales; had seen pictures in old books, both in the library at home and in the Dalaran archives. But beholding this monstrous thing, towering over him, the sky behind him crimson and black with fire and smoke—

A dreadlord was a demon. A thing out of myth. It couldn’t be real—and yet it was here, standing before him in all its dreadful glory.

Dreadlord.

Fear threatened to overwhelm Arthas, and he knew if he let it it would cripple him. He would die at the hand of this monster—die without even a fight. And so with sheer will, he drowned out the mindless terror with another, better emotion. Hatred. Righteous fury. He thought of those who had fallen beneath his hammer, the living and the dead, the ravening ghouls and the terrified women and children who didn’t understand that he was trying to save their souls. Their faces bolstered him; they could not—would not—have died for nothing. Somehow Arthas found the courage to meet the demon stare for stare, clutching his hammer.

“We’re going to finish this right now, Mal’Ganis,” he shouted. His voice was strong and firm. “Just you and me.”

The dreadlord threw back his head and laughed. “Brave words,” he rumbled. “Unfortunately for you, it won’t end here.” Mal’Ganis grinned, black lips pulling back from sharp, pointed teeth. “Your journey has just begun, young prince.”

He swept an arm out, indicating Arthas’s men, long, sharp claws glittering in the light of the flames that still burned and consumed the great city. “Gather your forces and meet me in the arctic land of Northrend. It is there that your true destiny will unfold.”

“My true destiny?” Arthas’s voice cracked with anger and confusion. “What do you—” The words died in his throat as the air around Mal’Ganis began to shimmer and whirl in a familiar pattern.

“No!” Arthas shrieked. He surged forward, blindly, recklessly, and would have been cut down in a heartbeat had not the teleportation spell been completed. Arthas cried out incoherently, swinging his faintly glowing hammer at empty air. “I’ll hunt you down to the ends of the earth if I have to! Do you hear me?
To the ends of the earth!”

Manic, raging, screaming, he swung his hammer wildly at nothing until sheer exhaustion alone forced him to lower it. He propped it up and leaned on it, sweating, shaking with raw sobs of frustration and anger.

To the ends of the earth.

T
hree days later, Lady Jaina Proudmoore walked the streets of what had once been a proud city, the glory of northern Lordaeron. Now, it was the stuff of nightmares.

The stench was almost unbearable. She lifted a handkerchief, liberally scented with peacebloom essence, to her face in a partially successful attempt to filter out the worst of it. Fires that ought to have consumed themselves, or have abated at least slightly from lack of fuel, continued to rage at their full height, telling Jaina that some dark magic was afoot. Combined with the acrid smell of smoke that stung her eyes and throat was the reek of putrefaction.

They lay as they had fallen, most of them unarmed. Tears welled in Jaina’s eyes and slipped down her cheeks as she moved as if in a trance, carefully stepping over the bloated bodies. A soft whimper of pain escaped as she saw that Arthas and his men, in their misguided mercy, had not even spared the children.

Would these bodies, lying still and stiff in death, have risen to attack her if Arthas had not slain them? Perhaps. Many of them, certainly; the grain
had
indeed been distributed and consumed. But every single one? She would never know, nor would he.

“Jaina—I ask you again, come with me.” His voice was intense, but it was clear his mind was a thousand leagues away. “He escaped me. I saved the city’s inhabitants from becoming his slaves, but—at the last minute he got away. He’s in Northrend. Come with me.”

Jaina closed her eyes. She did not want to remember that conversation of a day and a half ago. She did not want to remember how he looked, cold and angry and distant, fixated on killing this dreadlord—Light, a demon—at the expense of everything else.

She stumbled across a body and her eyes snapped open again to the horror that the man she had loved—still did love, despite everything, how she could still love him after this she did not know, but Light save her, she did—

“Arthas—it’s a trap. He’s a demon lord. If he was powerful enough to elude you in St-Stratholme, he will certainly defeat you in his own territory, where he is strongest. Don’t go…please…”

She had wanted to throw herself into his arms, physically keep him there beside her. He couldn’t go to Northrend. He would be going to his death. And although he had dealt out so much to others, Jaina found she could not wish for his.

“So much death,” she murmured. “I can’t believe Arthas could’ve done this.” And yet she knew he had. A whole city…

“Jaina? Jaina Proudmoore!”

Jaina started violently, snapped out of her sickened trance by the sound of the familiar voice. Uther. A strange feeling of relief swept over her as she turned in the direction of the hail. Uther had always intimidated her slightly; he was so large and powerful and…well…so deeply entrenched in the Light. She recalled with an incongruously guilty flush how, when she and Arthas were younger, they used to make fun of Uther’s piety, which to them verged on the pompous and sanctimonious, behind the knight’s back. He was a fairly easy target. But three excruciating days ago, she and Uther had both stood against Arthas.

“You swore you would never deny me, Jaina,” Arthas accused, his voice sharp as an icy knife blade. “But when I most needed your support, your understanding, you turned against me.”

“I—you—Arthas, we didn’t know enough to—”

“And now, you refuse to aid me. I’m going to Northrend, Jaina. I would have you with me. To help me stop this evil. Won’t you come?”

Jaina winced. Uther noticed, but said nothing. Clad in full plate armor despite the overwhelming heat of the unnaturally blazing fires, he strode swiftly toward her. His stature and presence was now a picture of strength and solidity rather than intimidation to her. He did not embrace her, but did grasp her arms reassuringly.

“I thought I might find you here. Where has he gone, girl? Where has Arthas taken the fleet?”

Jaina’s eyes widened. “The fleet?”

Uther grunted an affirmation. “He’s commandeered the entire Lordaeron fleet and taken off with them. Sent only the briefest message to his own father. We don’t know why they obeyed without direct orders from their commanders.”

Jaina gave him a small, sad smile. “Because he’s their prince. He’s Arthas. They love him. They didn’t know about…this.”

A flicker of pain crossed Uther’s rugged features and he nodded. “Aye,” he said softly. “He’s always been good to the men who serve him. They can tell that he genuinely cares about them, and they’ll serve him with their lives.”

Regret laced the words. They were true, insofar as they went, and once Arthas had deserved such undying devotion.

“And now you refuse to aid me….”

Uther shook her gently, bringing her back to the present. “Do you know where he might have taken them, child?”

Jaina took a deep breath. “He came to me before he left. I pleaded with him not to go. I told him it sounded like a trap—”

“Where?” Uther was relentless.

“Northrend. He’s gone to Northrend to hunt Mal’Ganis—the demon lord who is responsible for the plague. He couldn’t defeat him…here.”

“A demon lord? Damn that boy!” The outburst startled Jaina. “I’ve got to inform Terenas.”

“I tried to stop him,” Jaina repeated. “Then…and when he…” She gestured helplessly at the almost inconceivable number of dead that kept them silent company. She wondered for the thousandth time if she could have stopped it—if she had found the right words, touched Arthas the right way, if he would have been swayed. “But I failed.”

I failed you, Arthas. I failed these people—I failed myself.

Uther’s heavy, gauntleted hand dropped on her slim shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, girl.”

She laughed humorlessly. “Is it that obvious?”

“Anyone with a heart would wonder the same. I know I do.” She glanced up at him, startled at the admission.

“You do?” Jaina asked.

He nodded, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion, and there was a pain in those depths that struck her to the core. “I could not fight him. He is still my prince. But I wonder…could I have stood in his path? Said something else, done something else?” Uther sighed and shook his head. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But that moment is in the past and my choices cannot be undone. You and I must both look to the future now. Jaina Proudmoore, you had nothing to do with this…slaughter. Thank you for telling me where he has gone.”

She lowered her head. “I feel like I’ve betrayed him again.”

“Jaina, you may have saved him—and all the men who are going with him in ignorance of what he’s become.”

Startled at his choice of words, she looked up sharply. “What he’s become? He’s still Arthas, Uther!”

Uther’s eyes looked haunted. “Aye, he is. But he made a dreadful choice—and one with repercussions we’ve yet to see played out. I don’t know that he can come back from this.” Uther turned and eyed the dead. “We know the dead can be raised to unlife. That demons truly exist. Now I wonder if there are such things as ghosts, too. If there are, our prince will be ten thick in them.” He bowed to her. “Come away from this place, lady.”

She shook her head. “No, not yet. I’m not ready.”

He searched her eyes, then nodded. “As you will. Light be with you, Lady Jaina Proudmoore.”

“And you, Uther the Lightbringer.” She gave him the best smile she could muster and watched as he strode off. Arthas would no doubt see this as yet another betrayal, but if it saved his life—then she could live with that.

The smell was starting to become more than even her stubborn will would permit her to handle. She paused for a last look. Part of her wondered why she had come here; the other part knew. She had come to brand these images into her brain, to understand the depth of what had happened. She must never, ever forget. Whether or not Arthas was past reaching, she didn’t know, but what happened here would need to never become a footnote in the history books.

A raven wheeled down slowly. She wanted to rush forward and shoo it away, to try to protect the poor, battered corpses, but it was only doing what its nature told it to do. It did not have a conscience to tell it that what it was doing was offensive to human sensibilities. She looked at the raven for a moment, and then her eyes widened.

It began to shift, change, grow, and in an instant, where a carrion bird had once perched stood a man. She gasped in recognition—this same prophet she had seen twice before.

“You!”

He inclined his head, and gave her an odd smile that told her without words,
I recognize you, too.
This was the third time she had seen him—once when he was speaking with Antonidas, and once with Arthas. She had been invisible on both occasions—and clearly, her invisibility spell had not fooled him for a moment, either time.

“The dead in this land might lie still for the time being, but don’t be fooled. Your prince will find only death in the cold north.”

His blunt words made her flinch slightly. “Arthas is only doing what he believes is right.” The words were true, and she knew it. Whatever his failings were, he had been utterly sincere in his belief that the purging of Stratholme was the only option.

The prophet’s gaze softened. “Commendable as that may be,” he said, “his passions will be his undoing. It falls to you now, young sorceress.”

“What? Me?”

“Antonidas has dismissed me. Terenas and Arthas as well. Both rulers of men and masters of magic have turned their faces from true understanding. But I think you may not.”

The aura of power around him was palpable. Jaina could almost see it, swirling about him, heady and strong. He stepped closer to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. She gazed up into his eyes, confused.

“You must lead your people west to the ancient lands of Kalimdor. Only there can you combat the shadow and save this world from the flame.”

Staring into those eyes, Jaina knew he was right. There was no control, no compelling—just a knowing, deep and certain and down to her bones.

“I—” Swallowing hard, she took one last look at the horrors wrought by the man she loved and still did love, and nodded.

“I will do as you say.”

And leave my Arthas to the destiny he has chosen. There is no other way.

“It will take time, to gather them all. To make them believe me.”

“I do not know that you have that much time left. So much of it has already been squandered.”

Jaina lifted her chin. “I cannot go without trying. If you know so much about me, then surely you must know that.”

The raven prophet seemed to relax marginally and smiled at her, squeezing her shoulder. “Do what you feel you must, but do not tarry overlong. The hourglass empties swiftly, and delay could be deadly.”

She nodded, too overcome to speak. So many to talk to—Antonidas’s chief among them. If he would listen to anyone, she thought, it would be her. She would bear witness for these dead—for the folly of not retreating to Kalimdor while the living yet walked here.

The prophet’s form dwindled and shifted, becoming once again that of the large black bird, and he flew off with a rustle of wings. And somehow as it brushed her face, the wind from those black wings did not smell of carrion, or smoke, or death. It smelled clean and fresh.

It smelled of hope.