Christie Golden - Arthas - Rise of the Lich King

“You have my thanks, my ladies. I am glad to see that you and your mistress remain among my allies.”

They hovered, their voices soft and haunting. “Indeed, great king. She sent us to find you. We’ve come to escort you across the river. Once we cross it we’ll take refuge in the wilderness.”

The wilderness—the same phrase Kel’Thuzad had used. Arthas relaxed even further. Clearly, his right and left hand were in agreement. He lifted a hand and concentrated. “Invincible, to me!” he called. A moment later a small patch of mist appeared, swirling and taking on the shape of a skeletal horse. A heartbeat later, Invincible was there in reality. Arthas was pleased to notice that the act took little effort; Invincible loved him. This was the one thing he had done completely right. The one dead thing that would never, ever turn against him, any more than the great animal would have done in its life. Carefully, he mounted, doing his best to hide his weakness from the banshees and the other undead.

“Lead me to your mistress and Kel’Thuzad, and I shall follow,” he said.

They did, floating away from the palace and deep into the heart of Tirisfal Glades. Arthas noticed with a sudden unease that the path they were taking led uncomfortably near the Balnir farm. Fortunately, the banshees veered off, heading into a hillier area and through there to a wide-open field.

“This is the place, sisters. We’ll rest here, great king.”

There was no sign of Sylvanas, nor of Kel’Thuzad. Arthas drew rein on Invincible, looking around. He felt a sudden prickling of apprehension. “Why here?” he demanded. “Where is your mistress?”

The pain descended again and he cried out, clutching his chest. Invincible pranced beneath him, anxious, and Arthas clung on for dear life. The gray-green glade went away, replaced by the blues and whites of the oddly broken Frozen Throne. The Lich King’s voice stabbed in his head and Arthas bit back a whimper.

“You have been deceived! Come to my side at once! Obey!”

“What is…happening here?” Arthas managed through gritted teeth. He blinked, forcing his vision to clear, and lifted his head, grunting with the effort.

She stepped out from behind the trees, carrying a bow. For a wild second, he thought he was back in Quel’Thalas, facing the living elf. But her hair was no longer golden, but black as midnight with streaks of white. Her skin was pale with a bluish tinge to it, and her eyes glowed silver. It was Sylvanas, and yet it was not. For this Sylvanas was neither alive, nor incorporeal. Somehow, she had gotten her body back from where he had ordered it left—safely locked in an iron coffin to be used as additional torment against her. But she had turned the tables on him.

As he struggled to make sense of what was happening through the pain, Sylvanas lifted her sleek black bow, drew, and took aim. Her lips curved in a smile.

“You walked right into this one, Arthas.”

She released the arrow.

It impaled his left shoulder, piercing through his armor as if it were as flimsy as parchment, adding a fresh type of agony. He was confused for an instant—Sylvanas was a master archer. She couldn’t possibly miss a fatal shot at this distance. Why the shoulder? His right hand went up automatically, but he found he couldn’t even curl his fingers around the shaft. They were becoming numb—as were his feet, his legs…

He flung himself onto Invincible’s neck, draping and doing what he could to cling to his mount with limbs that were rapidly becoming useless. He could barely turn his head to stare at her and rasp out the words, “Traitor! What have you done to me?”

She was smiling. She was happy. Slowly, languorously, she strode toward him. She was wearing the same outfit she had when he had killed her, revealing a great deal of her pale blue-white skin. Oddly, though, her body bore no scars from the innumerable wounds she had received on that day.

“It’s a special poisoned arrow I made just for you,” she said as she approached him. She shifted the bow to her back and drew a dagger, fingering it. “The paralysis you’re experiencing now is but a fraction of the agony you’ve caused me.”

Arthas swallowed. His mouth was dry as sand. “Finish me, then.”

She threw back her head and laughed, hollow and ghostly. “A quick death…like the one you gave me?” Her mirth faded as quickly as it had come, and her eyes flashed red. She continued her approach until she was only an arm’s length away. Invincible pranced uncertainly at her proximity, and Arthas’s heart lurched as he almost slipped off.

“Oh no. You have taught me well, Arthas Menethil. You taught me about the folly of showing mercy to my enemies, and the delight of exacting torment from them. And so, my tutor, I’ll show you how well I learned those lessons. You’re going to suffer as I did. Thanks to my arrow, you can’t even run.”

Arthas’s eyes seemed to be the only thing that could move, and he watched helplessly as she lifted the dagger. “Give my regards to hell, you son of a bitch.”

No. Not this way—not paralyzed and helpless…Jaina…

Sylvanas suddenly staggered back, the pale hand that clutched the dagger twisting and opening. The look on her face was utter astonishment. A heartbeat later, the little shade that had come to Arthas’s aid earlier materialized, smiling happily at the thought that she had helped to save her king. Happy to serve.

“Back, you mindless ones! You shall not fall today, my king!”

Kel’Thuzad! He had come as he had promised, finding Arthas all the way out here where the traitorous banshee had lured him. And he had not come alone. Well over a dozen undead were with him, and they now launched themselves at Sylvanas and her banshees. Hope rose inside him, but he was still paralyzed, still unable to move. He watched as the fight raged around him, and in a few moments it was obvious that Sylvanas would need to retreat.

She shot him a look, and again her eyes flashed red. “This isn’t over, Arthas! I’ll never stop hunting you.”

Arthas was looking directly at her as she seemed to melt into the shadows. The last parts of her to vanish were her crimson eyes. With their mistress gone, the other banshees under Sylvanas’s command disappeared as well. Kel’Thuzad hastened to Arthas’s side.

“Did she harm you, my liege?”

Arthas could only stare at him, the paralysis so far gone he could not even move his lips. Bony hands folded with surprising delicacy around the arrow and tugged. Arthas bit back a cry of pain as the arrow came free. His red blood was mixed with a gooey black substance, which Kel’Thuzad examined carefully.

“The effects of her arrow will wear off in time. It seems the poison was meant only to immobilize you.”

Of course, Arthas thought; otherwise she would not have needed the dagger. Relief shuddered through him, leaving him even more exhausted. He had come very close—too close—to his death. If not for the loyalty of the lich, the elf would have had him. He tried again to speak and managed, “I—you saved me.”

Kel’Thuzad inclined his horned head. “I am grateful I could be of assistance, my king. But you must hasten from this place, to Northrend. All the preparations for your journey have been made. What is it you would have of me?”

Kel’Thuzad had been right. Even now, Arthas was beginning to feel some semblance of life returning to his limbs, though not enough that he could move under his own power.

“I need to find the Lich King as soon as possible. Much longer and…I don’t know what the future holds, or if I’ll even return, but I want you to watch over this land. See to it that my legacy endures.”

He trusted the lich, not out of affection or loyalty, but simply as a cold, hard fact. Kel’Thuzad was an undead thing, bound to the master they both served. Arthas’s eyes flitted to the little ghost, hovering, smiling, a few feet away, and to the slack-faced, rotting corpses who would walk off a cliff if he told them to.