Christie Golden - Arthas - Rise of the Lich King

“Soon, I will order the invasion to begin. But first, I will make an example of these paltry wizards…by crushing their city into the ashes of history.”

He strode off, his body erect and proud and commanding, his hooves landing firmly with each step, his armor gleaming in the rose and gold and lavender of the encroaching twilight. Beside him, still making obeisance, strode Tichondrius. Arthas waited until they were some distance away before he finally whirled on Kel’Thuzad and burst out, “This has got to be a joke! What happens to us now?”

“Be patient, young death knight. The Lich King foresaw this as well. You may yet have a part to play in his grand design.”

May? Arthas whirled on the necromancer, his nostrils flaring, but he tamped back his anger. If anyone—either of the demons or the Lich King himself—thought for one moment that Arthas was a tool to simply be used and then discarded, he would soon show them the error of their thinking. He had done too much—lost too much, cut out too much of himself for this to be cast aside.

It couldn’t all be for nothing.

It would not all be for nothing.

The earth rumbled. Invincible shifted uneasily, lifting his hooves as if to minimize contact with the earth. Arthas glanced up quickly at the mage city. The towers were lovely at this time of day, proud and glorious and glittering in the deepening twilight hues. But as he watched, he heard a deep cracking noise. The apex of the tallest, most beautiful tower in the city suddenly fell, slowly and inexorably, tumbling downward as if the length of the tower had been clenched by a giant, unseen hand.

The rest of the city fell quickly, shattering and crumbling, the sound of destruction loud and thrumming in Arthas’s ears. He winced at the volume, but did not tear his eyes away.

He had instigated the fall of Silvermoon. Had directed his Scourge against it. But this—there was casualness about it, an ease…Silvermoon had been a hard-won prize. Archimonde appeared to be able to shatter the greatest of human cities without even being present.

Arthas thought about Archimonde and Tichondrius. He scratched his chin thoughtfully.

In his lap, Frostmourne glowed.

Kel’Thuzad, Arthas mused as he waited atop the verdant hill for the one he had been assured would come, was a useful lich to have around.

He was utterly loyal to the Lich King, even to the point of convincingly playing the lapdog to Archimonde and Tichondrius while in their presence, if that was what was required to secretly serve. Arthas had opted for silence; he did not trust himself to lie as convincingly as Kel’Thuzad. The two demons had deemed them nonessential. They would soon see how wrong they were. Carelessly they had left the Book of Medivh in the lich’s bony hands. In that mind, too, were spells and magic so powerful that Arthas knew he would never be able to fully grasp their scope.

“The third part of the plan,” Kel’Thuzad had said once the demons were gone, as idly as if he were conversing about the weather, “was the true heart of the Legion’s plot.”

Arthas remembered what Kel’Thuzad had told him earlier. First had been the creation of the Scourge, then the summoning of Archimonde. He listened now with intense interest as Kel’Thuzad continued. “The Legion is after nothing less than the taking of all magic and the devouring of all life upon this world. And to that end, they plan to consume the concentrated, powerful energies contained within the elves’ Well of Eternity. In order to accomplish this, they must destroy the single thing that contains within it the truest, purest essence of life energy on Azeroth. The Well of Eternity lies across the ocean, on the continent of Kalimdor. And the thing that would thwart the Legion is called Nordrassil…the World Tree. It grants the kaldorei immortality, and they are bound to it.”

“Kaldorei?” Arthas was confused. “I know of quel’dorei. Are they another race of elves?”

“The original race,” Kel’Thuzad corrected. He waved a hand dismissively. “But those details are of no consequence. What matters is that we must stop the Legion from achieving this goal. And there is one among the kaldorei who would aid us.”

And so it was that using his magics, Kel’Thuzad had teleported Arthas to this distant continent and this hill that afforded an expansive view. The forests here were lush, healthy, but Arthas could already see what the Legion had wrought in the distance. Where the land, trees, beasts were not dead, they had been corrupted. Devour all life, indeed.

A figure crested another hill below him, and Arthas smiled to himself. This was the one whose arrival he had been awaiting.

They were certainly different, these “night elves.” This one’s skin was pale lavender, etched with swirling tattoos and scars cut into the skin in ritualistic patterns. A black cloth was tied around his eyes, but he appeared to have no difficulty in navigating the terrain. He carried a weapon that resembled nothing Arthas had ever seen. Instead of a traditional sword, which would be grasped by a hilt with a blade extending from it, this weapon had two jagged blades that glowed the sick green hue of something tainted with demonic energies.

So, this one had trafficked with demons before.

Arthas waited a while, observing. The night elf—Illidan Stormrage, Kel’Thuzad had said his name was—raged to himself. Apparently the list of wrongs piled against him was a lengthy one, and he ached for vengeance and power as much as Kel’Thuzad had said he would.

Arthas smiled.

“I am free after ten thousand years, yet still my own brother thinks I am a villain!” Illidan ranted. “I’ll show him my true power. I’ll show him the demons have no hold over me!”

“Are you certain of that, demon hunter?” Arthas said, his voice carrying. The night elf whirled, brandishing his weapon. “Are you certain your will is your own?”

The elf might have been blind in the traditional sense, but Arthas felt seen regardless. Illidan sniffed and growled. “You reek of death, human. You’ll regret approaching me.”

Arthas grinned. He was itching for a good one-on-one fight. “Come then,” he invited. “You’ll find that we’re evenly matched.” Invincible reared and galloped down the hill, as eager for action as his master was. Illidan growled and ran to meet him.

It was almost like a dance, Arthas mused as the two warriors faced each other. Illidan was strong and graceful, his skills demonically enhanced. But Arthas, too, was no mere soldier, nor was Frostmourne an ordinary blade. The fight was fierce and swift; Arthas had been right. They were indeed evenly matched. After too short a time, both combatants fell back, breathing heavily.

“We could go on fighting like this forever,” Illidan said. “What is it you truly want?”

Arthas lowered Frostmourne. “From your muttering earlier, I hear that you and your allies are beset by the undead. The dreadlord who commands this undead army is called Tichondrius. He controls a powerful warlock artifact called the Skull of Gul’dan. It is responsible for corrupting these forests.”

Illidan cocked his head. “And you wish for me to steal it? Why?”

Arthas’s white brows lifted. This one was indeed quick. He deserved a semi-truthful answer, Arthas decided. “Let’s just say that I have no love for Tichondrius, and the lord I serve would…benefit from the Legion’s downfall.”

“Why should I believe anything you say, little human?”

Arthas shrugged. “A fair question. Let me answer. My master sees all, demon hunter. He knows that you’ve sought power your whole life. Now it lies within your grasp!” His gauntleted hand clenched into a fist in front of Illidan’s blindfolded face and, as he expected, the night elf’s head turned toward the gesture. “Seize it, and your enemies will be undone.”