Arthas: Rise of the Lich King (2 page)

“H
old her head; that’s it, lad!”

The mare, her normally white coat gray with sweat, rolled her eyes and whickered. Prince Arthas Menethil, only son to King Terenas Menethil II, one day to rule the kingdom of Lordaeron, held fast to the bridle and murmured soothingly.

The horse jerked her head violently and almost took the nine-year-old with her. “Whoa, Brightmane,” Arthas said. “Easy, girl, it’ll be all right. Nothing to worry about.”

Jorum Balnir grunted in amusement. “doubt you’d feel that way if something the size of this foal was coming out of you, lad.”

His son Jarim, crouching beside his father and the prince, laughed and so did Arthas, giggling uncontrollably even as hot and soggy foam from Brightmane’s champing mouth dropped onto his leg.

“One more push, girl,” Balnir said, moving slowly along the horse’s body to where the foal, encased in a shiny shroudlike membrane, was halfway through its journey into the world.

Arthas wasn’t really supposed to be here. But when he had no lessons, he often sneaked away to the Balnir farmstead to admire the horses Balnir was known for breeding and to play with his friend Jarim. Both youths were well aware that a horsebreeder’s son, even one whose animals were regularly bought as mounts for the royal household, was not a “proper” companion for a prince. Neither cared much, and thus far none of the adults had put a halt to the friendship. And so it was that he had been here, building forts, throwing snowballs, and playing Guards and Bandits with Jarim, when Jorum had called to the boys to come watch the miracle of birth.

The “miracle of birth” was actually pretty disgusting, Arthas thought. He hadn’t realized there’d be so much…
goo
involved. Brightmane grunted and heaved again, her legs held stiff and straight out, and with a sloshy wet sound her baby entered the world.

Her heavy head thumped down into Arthas’s lap, and she closed her eyes for a moment. Her sides heaved as she caught her breath. The boy smiled, stroking the damp neck and thick, rough mane, and looked over to where Jarim and his father were attending to the foal. It was chilly in the stables at this time of year, and steam rose faintly from its warm, wet body. With a towel and dry hay, father and son rubbed off the last of the foal’s unsettling shroudlike covering, and Arthas felt his face stretching in a grin.

Damp, gray, all long tangled legs and big eyes, the foal looked around, blinking in the dim lantern light. Those large brown eyes locked with Arthas’s.
You’re beautiful,
Arthas thought, his breath stopping for a moment, and realized that the much touted “miracle of birth” really
was
pretty miraculous.

Brightmane began to struggle to her feet. Arthas leaped to his own and pressed back against the wooden walls of the stable so the great animal could turn around without crushing him. Mother and newborn sniffed each other, then Brightmane grunted and began to bathe her son with her long tongue.

“Eh, lad, you’re a bit worse for wear,” said Jorum.

Arthas looked down at himself and his heart sank. He was covered in straw and horse spittle. Arthas shrugged. “Maybe I should jump into a snowbank on my way back to the palace,” he offered, grinning. Sobering slightly, he said, “Don’t worry. I’m nine years old now. I’m no longer a baby. I can go where I—”

There was a squawking of chickens and the sound of a man’s booming voice, and Arthas’s face fell. He squared his small shoulders, made an intense but ultimately ineffectual attempt at brushing off the straw, and strode out of the barn.

“Sir Uther,” he said in his best
I am the prince and you had best remember it
voice. “These people have been kind to me. I pray you, don’t go trampling their poultry.”

Or their snapdragon beds,
he thought, glancing over at the snow-covered piles of raised earth where the beautiful blooming flowers that were Vara Balnir’s pride and joy would burst forth in a few short months. He heard Jorum and Jarim follow him out from the barn, but did not glance behind him, instead regarding the mounted knight, fully clad in—

“Armor!” Arthas gasped. “What’s happened?”

“I’ll explain on the way,” Uther said grimly. “I’ll send someone back for your horse, Prince Arthas. Steadfast can travel faster even with two.” He reached down, a large hand closing on Arthas’s arm, and swung the boy up in front of him as if he weighed nothing at all. Vara had come out of the house at the sound of a horse approaching at full gallop. She was wiping her hands off on a towel, and had a smudge of flour on her nose. Her blue eyes were wide, and she looked over at her husband worriedly. Uther nodded politely to her.

“We’ll discuss this later,” Uther said. “Ma’am.” He touched his forehead with a mailed hand in courteous salute, then kicked his horse Steadfast—armored as his rider was—and the beast leaped into action.

Uther’s arm was like a band of steel around Arthas’s midsection. Fear bubbled up inside the boy but he pushed it down even as he pushed on Uther’s arm. “I know how to ride,” he said, his petulance covering up his worry. “Tell me what is going on.”

“A rider from Southshore has come and gone. He brings ill news. A few days ago, hundreds of small boats filled with refugees from Stormwind landed on our shores,” Uther said. He did not remove his arm. Arthas gave up that particular struggle and craned his neck, listening intently, his sea-green eyes wide and fastened on Uther’s grim face. “Stormwind has fallen.”

“What?
Stormwind?
How? To who? What—”

“We’ll find all that out shortly. The survivors, including Prince Varian, are being led by Stormwind’s onetime Champion, Lord Anduin Lothar. He, Prince Varian, and others will be coming to Capital City in a few days. Lothar has warned us he bears alarming news—obvious enough if something has destroyed Stormwind. I was sent to find you and bring you back. You’ve no business playing with the common folk at this moment.”

Stunned, Arthas turned and faced forward again, his hands gripping Steadfast’s mane. Stormwind! He had never been there, but had heard tales about it. It was a mighty place, with great stone walls and beautiful buildings. It had been built with sturdiness in mind, to withstand the buffeting of the fierce winds from which it had taken its name. To think that it had fallen—who or what could be strong enough to take such a city?

“How many people came with them?” he asked, pitching his voice louder than he really wished to in order to be heard over the drumming of the horse’s hooves as they headed back toward the city.

“Unknown. Not a small number, that much is certain. The messenger said it was everyone who had survived.”

Survived what?

“And Prince Varian?” He’d heard of Varian all his life, of course, just as he knew all the names of the neighboring kings, queens, princes, and princesses. Suddenly his eyes widened. Uther had mentioned Varian—but not the prince’s father, King Llane—

“Will soon become King Varian. King Llane fell with Stormwind.”

This news of a single tragedy hit Arthas harder somehow than the thought of thousands of people suddenly rendered homeless. Arthas’s own family was close-knit—he, his sister, Calia, his mother, Queen Lianne, and of course King Terenas. He’d seen how some rulers behaved with their families, and knew that his was remarkable in the degree of closeness. To have lost your city, your way of life, and your father—

“Poor Varian,” he said, quick tears of sympathy coming to his eyes.

Uther patted his shoulder awkwardly. “Aye,” he said. “It is a dark day for the boy.”

Arthas shivered suddenly, and not from the cold of a bright winter’s day. The beautiful afternoon, with its blue sky and softly curving snow-draped landscape, had suddenly darkened for him.

A few days later, Arthas was standing up on the castle’s ramparts, keeping Falric, one of the guards, company and handing him a steaming hot mug of tea. Such a visit, like the ones Arthas paid to the Balnir family and the castle’s scullery maids and valets and blacksmiths and indeed nearly every underling on the royal grounds, was not unusual. Terenas always sighed, but Arthas knew that no one was ever punished for speaking with him, and indeed he sometimes wondered if his father secretly approved.

Falric smiled gratefully and bowed deeply in genuine respect, pulling off his gauntlets so the mug would warm his cold hands. Snow threatened, and the sky was a pale gray, but thus far the weather was clear. Arthas leaned against the wall, resting his chin on his folded arms. He looked out over the rolling white hills of Tirisfal, down the road that led through Silverpine Forest to Southshore. The road along which Anduin Lothar, the mage Khadgar, and Prince Varian would be traveling.

“Any sign of them?”

“Nay, Your Highness,” Falric answered, sipping the hot beverage. “It could be today, tomorrow, or the day after. If you’re hoping to catch a glimpse, sir, you may be waiting awhile.”

Arthas shot him a grin, his eyes crinkling with mirth. “Better than lessons,” he said.

“Well, sir, you’d know that better than I would,” Falric said diplomatically, clearly fighting the impulse to grin back.

While the guard finished the tea, Arthas sighed and looked back down the road as he had a dozen times before. This had been exciting at first, but now he was becoming bored. He wanted to go back and find out how Brightmane’s foal was, and began wondering how difficult it would be to slip away for a few hours and not be missed. Falric was right. Lothar and Varian might still be a few days away if—

Arthas blinked. He slowly lifted his chin from his hands and narrowed his eyes.

“They’re coming!” he cried, pointing.

Falric was at his side immediately, the mug forgotten. He nodded.

“Sharp eyes, Prince Arthas! Marwyn!” he called. Another soldier snapped to attention. “Go tell the king that Lothar and Varian are on their way. They should be here within the hour.”

“Aye, captain,” the younger man said, saluting.

“I’ll do it! I’ll go!” said Arthas, already moving as he spoke. Marwyn hesitated, glancing back at his superior officer, but Arthas was determined to beat him. He raced down the steps, slipping on the ice and having to jump the rest of the way, and ran through the courtyard, skidding to a halt as he approached the throne room and barely remembering to compose himself. Today was when Terenas met with representatives of the populace, to listen to their concerns and do what he could to assist them.

Arthas flipped back the hood of his beautifully embroidered red runecloth cape. He took a deep breath, letting it escape his lips as soft mist, and nodded as he approached the two guards, who saluted sharply and turned to push open the doors for him.

The throne room was significantly warmer than the outside courtyard, even though it was a large chamber formed of marble and stone with a high domed ceiling. Even on overcast days such as this one, the octagonal window at the apex of the dome let in plenty of natural light. Torches in their sconces burned steadily on the walls, adding both warmth and an orange tint to the room. An intricate design of circles enclosing the seal of Lordaeron graced the floor, hidden now by the gathering of people respectfully awaiting their turn to address their liege.

Seated in the jeweled throne on a tiered dais was King Terenas II. His fair hair was touched with gray only at the temples, and his face was slightly lined, with more smile lines than the creased frowns that etched their marks on souls as well as visages. He wore a beautifully tailored robe in hues of blue and purple, wrought with gleaming gold embroidery that caught the torchlight and glinted off his crown. Terenas leaned forward slightly, engrossed in what the man who stood before him—a lesser noble whose name Arthas couldn’t recall at the moment—was saying. His eyes, blue-green and intent, were focused on the man.

For a moment, knowing whose coming he was about to announce, Arthas simply stood looking at his father. He, like Varian, was the son of a king, a prince of the blood. But Varian had no father, not anymore, and Arthas felt a lump rise in his throat at the thought of seeing that throne empty, of hearing the ancient song of coronation sung for him.

By the Light, please let that day be a long, long time away.

Perhaps feeling the intensity of his son’s gaze, Terenas glanced over at the door. His eyes crinkled in a smile for a moment, then he returned his attention to the petitioner.

Arthas cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Pardon the interruption. Father, they’re coming. I saw them! They should be here within the hour.”

Terenas sobered slightly. He knew who “they” were. He nodded. “Thank you, my son.”

Those assembled looked at one another; most of them, too, knew who “they” were and they moved as if to end the meeting. Terenas held up a hand. “Nay. The weather holds and the road is clear. They will arrive when they do, and not a moment before. Until then, let us continue.” He smiled ruefully. “I have a feeling that once they come, audiences such as this will need to be tabled. Let us finish as much business as we can before that moment.”

Arthas looked at his father with pride. This was why people loved Terenas so much—and why the king usually turned a blind eye to his son’s “adventuring” among the common folk. Terenas cared deeply about the people he ruled, and had instilled that sentiment in his son.

“Shall I ride out to meet them, Father?”

Terenas scrutinized his son for a moment, then shook his fair head. “No. I think it best if you do not attend this meeting.”

Arthas felt like he’d been struck. Not attend? He was nine years old! Something very bad had happened to an important ally, and a boy not much older than he had been rendered fatherless by it. He felt a sudden flash of anger. Why did his father insist on sheltering him so? Why was he not allowed to attend important meetings?

He bit back the retort that would have sprung to his lips had he been alone with Terenas. It would not do to argue with his father here, in front of all these people. Even if he was totally and completely in the right on this. He took a deep breath, bowed, and left.