Christie Golden: Arthas: Rise of the Lich King

Lothar looked every inch the warrior, Arthas thought as he regarded the man. Tall, powerfully built, he wore heavy armor with an ease that indicated he was well accustomed to its weight. Although his upper lip and jaw sported a thick mustache and short beard, his head was almost bald; what hair he had left had been tied back in a small ponytail. Beside him stood an old man in violet robes.

Arthas’s gaze fell on the boy who could only be Prince Varian Wrynn. Tall, slender yet but with broad shoulders that promised the slim frame would one day fill out, he looked pale and exhausted. Arthas winced as he regarded the youth, a few years older than he, looking lost, alone, and frightened. When addressed, Varian recovered and gave the polite requisite replies. Terenas was an old hand at knowing how to make people feel comfortable. Quickly he dismissed all but a few courtiers and guards and rose from his throne to greet the visitors.

“Please, be seated,” he said, choosing not to sit in the glorious throne as was his right but instead perching on the top stair of the dais. He drew Varian down beside him in a fatherly gesture. Arthas smiled.

Hidden away, the young prince of Lordaeron watched and listened closely, and the voices that floated up to him spoke words that sounded almost fanciful. Yet as he regarded this mighty warrior of Stormwind—and even more, as he studied the wan visage of the future king of such a magnificent realm—Arthas realized with a creeping feeling that none of this was fantasy; all of it was deathly real, and it was terrifying.

The men gathered spoke of creatures called “orcs” that had somehow infested Azeroth. Huge, green, with tusks for teeth and lusting for blood, they had formed a “horde” that flowed like a seemingly unstoppable tide—“Enough to cover the land from shore to shore,” Lothar said direly. It was these monsters that had attacked Stormwind and made refugees—or corpses, Arthas realized—of its denizens. Things got heated when some courtier or other clearly didn’t believe Lothar. Lothar’s temper rose, but Terenas defused the situation and brought the meeting to a close. “I will summon my neighboring kings,” he said. “These events concern us all. Your Majesty, I offer you my home and my protection for as long as you shall need it.”

Arthas smiled. Varian was going to stay here, in the palace, with him. It would be nice to have another noble boy to play with. He got along well enough with Calia, who was two years his elder, but, well, she was a girl, and while he was fond of Jarim, he knew that their opportunities to play together were perforce limited. Varian, however, was a prince of the blood, just like Arthas, and they could spar together, and ride, and go exploring—

“You’re telling us to prepare for war.” His father’s voice cut in on his thoughts with brutal efficiency, and Arthas’s mood grew somber again.

“Yes,” Lothar replied. “A war for the very survival of our race.”

Arthas swallowed hard, then left the viewing box as silently as he had come.

As Arthas had expected, a short time later Prince Varian was shown into the guest quarters. Terenas himself accompanied the boy, resting a hand gently on the youth’s shoulder. If he was surprised to see his son waiting in the guest quarters, he did not show it.

“Arthas. This is Prince Varian Wrynn, future king of Stormwind.”

Arthas bowed to his equal. “Your Highness,” he said formally, “I bid you welcome to Lordaeron. I only wish the circumstances were happier.”

Varian returned the bow gracefully. “As I told King Terenas, I am grateful for your support and friendship during these difficult times.”

His voice was stiff, strained, weary. Arthas took in the cape, tunic, and breeches, made of runecloth and mageweave and beautifully embroidered. It looked as though Varian had been wearing them for half his life, so dirty were they. His face had clearly been scrubbed, but there were traces of dirt at his temples and beneath his nails.

“I will send up some servants shortly with some food and towels, hot water and a tub, so that you may refresh yourself, Prince Varian.” Terenas continued to use the boy’s title; that would wear off with time, but Arthas understood why the king emphasized it now. Varian needed to keep hearing that he was still respected, still royal, when he had lost absolutely everything but his life. Varian pressed his lips together and nodded.

“Thank you,” he managed.

“Arthas, I leave him in your care.” Terenas squeezed Varian’s shoulder reassuringly, then departed, closing the door.

The two boys stared at each other. Arthas’s mind was a total blank. The silence stretched uncomfortably. Finally Arthas blurted, “I’m sorry about your father.”

Varian winced and turned away, walking toward the huge windows that overlooked Lordamere Lake. The snow that had been threatening all morning was finally coming, drifting softly downward to cover the land with a silent blanket. It was too bad—on a clear day, you could see all the way to Fenris Keep. “Thank you.”

“I’m sure he died fighting nobly and gave as good as he got.”

“He was assassinated.” Varian’s voice was blunt and emotionless. Arthas whirled to look at him, shocked. His features, in profile to Arthas now and lit by the cold light of a winter’s day, were unnaturally composed. Only his eyes, bloodshot and brown and filled with pain, seemed alive. “A trusted friend managed to get him to speak with her alone. Then she killed him. Stabbed him right in the heart.”

Arthas stared. Death in glorious battle was difficult enough to handle, but this—

Impulsively he placed a hand on the other prince’s arm. “I saw a foal being born yesterday,” he said. It sounded inane, but it was the first thing that sprang to his mind and he spoke earnestly. “When the weather lets up, I’ll take you to see him. He’s the most amazing thing.”

Varian turned toward him and gazed at him for a long moment. Emotions flitted across his face—offense, disbelief, gratitude, yearning, understanding. Suddenly the brown eyes filled with tears and Varian looked away. He folded his arms and hunched in on himself, his shoulders shaking with sobs he did his best to muffle. They came out anyway, harsh, racking sounds of mourning for a father, a kingdom, a way of life that he probably hadn’t been able to grieve until this precise minute. Arthas squeezed his arm and felt it rigid as stone beneath his fingers.

“I hate winter,” Varian sobbed, and the depth of the hurt conveyed by those three simple words, a seeming non sequitor, humbled Arthas. Unable to watch such raw pain, yet powerless to do anything about it, he dropped his hand, turned away, and stared out the window.

Outside, the snow continued to fall.

Arthas was frustrated.

He thought when word had come about the orcs that he’d finally begin serious training, perhaps alongside his new best friend, Varian. Instead, exactly the opposite happened. The war against the Horde resulted in everyone who could swing a sword joining the armed forces, right down to the master blacksmith. Varian took pity on his younger counterpart and did what he could for a while, until at last he sighed and looked sympathetically at Arthas.

“Arthas, I don’t want to sound mean, but…”

“But I’m terrible.”

Varian grimaced. The two were in the armory hall, sparring with helms, leather chest pieces, and wooden training swords. Varian went to the rack and hung up the training sword, removing his helm as he spoke. “I’m just surprised, because you’re athletic and fast.”

Arthas sulked; he knew Varian well enough to know that the older prince was trying to soften the blow. He followed sullenly, hanging up his own sword and unfastening his protective gear.