Christie Golden - Arthas - Rise of the Lich King

Just dead meat and sundered spirits. Not subjects. And they never had been. No matter what the little shade’s smile said.

“You honor me, my liege. I shall do as you ask, King Arthas. I shall.”

She had a body now, what her own had once been, though changed, as she had been changed. Sylvanas walked with the same easy stride she had had in life, wore the same armor. But it was not the same. She was forever, irrevocably altered.

“You seem troubled, mistress.”

Sylvanas started from her reverie and turned to the banshee, one of the many who floated beside her. She could float with them, but she preferred the heaviness, the solidity, of the corporeal form she had stolen back for herself.

“Aren’t you, sister?” she answered curtly. “Only days ago we were the Lich King’s slaves. We existed only to slaughter in his name. And now we are…free.”

“I don’t understand, mistress.” The banshee’s voice was hollow and confused. “Our wills are our own now. Is that not what you fought for? I thought you’d be overjoyed.”

Sylvanas laughed, aware that it was perilously close to hysteria. “What joy is there in this curse? We are still undead, sister—still monstrosities.” She extended a hand, examined the blue-gray flesh, noticed the cold that clung to her like a second skin. “What are we if not slaves to this torment?”

He had taken so much. Even if she extended his death over a period of days…weeks…she would never be able to make Arthas suffer sufficiently. His death would not bring back the dead, cleanse the Sunwell, nor restore her to her living, peach-and-gold self. But it would feel…very good.

He had eluded her at their confrontation several days past. His lackey, the lich, had come at precisely the wrong moment. Arthas had gone far beyond her grasp now, trying to heal himself. She had learned that he’d left Kel’Thuzad in control of these plagued lands. But that was all right. She was dead. She had all the time in the world to plot an exquisite revenge.

A movement caught her eye and she got gracefully to her feet, drawing the bow and nocking it in one single, swift movement. The swirling portal opened and Varimathras stood there, grinning patronizingly down at her.

“Greetings, Lady Sylvanas.” The demon actually bowed. Sylvanas raised an eyebrow. She did not for a minute think he meant it. “My brothers and I appreciate the role you played in overthrowing Arthas.”

The role she played. Like this was some sort of theatrical game.

“Overthrow? I suppose one could call it that. He has scurried away, that much is sure.”

The mighty being shrugged, his wings spreading slightly with the gesture. “Either way, he no longer troubles us. I’ve come to offer you a formal invitation to join our new order.”

A “new order.” Not very new at all, she mused; same subjugation, different master. She could not have been less interested.

“Varimathras,” she said coldly. She did not bow in return. “My only interest was in seeing Arthas dead. Since I failed in my first attempt at this goal, I now wish to concentrate my efforts on succeeding the next time. I have no time for your petty politics or power mongering.”

The demon bridled. “Careful, milady. It would be unwise to incur our wrath. We are the future of these…Plaguelands. You can either join us and rule, or be cast aside.”

“You? The future? Kel’Thuzad did not go with his precious Arthas. He was left here for a reason. But perhaps a lich reborn by the very essence of the mighty Sunwell is nothing to beings as powerful as you.” Her voice dripped scorn, and the dreadlord frowned terribly.

“I’ve lived as a slave long enough, dreadlord.” Funny, how one used the word “lived,” even though one was dead. Old habits died hard, it would seem. “I have fought tooth and nail to become more than what that bastard made me. I have my own will now, and I choose my own path. The Legion is defeated. You are the last pathetic remnants. You are a dying breed. I won’t relinquish my freedom by shackling myself to you fools.”

“So be it,” Varimathras hissed. He was furious. “Our reply will come soon.”

He teleported out, his face twisted in a scowl.

Her needling had gotten to him, and he fairly quivered with outrage. She noted this dispassionately. He was easy to anger; he was the one they had sent to her, thinking her no great threat.

She would need more than a handful of banshees to fight Arthas. She would need an army, a city of the dead…she would need Lordaeron. The Forsaken, she would call these lost souls who, like her, did not breathe but who yet had their own will. And even more immediately, she would need more than her spectral sisters to fight the three demonic brothers. Or maybe there would be only two she needed to fight.

Sylvanas Windrunner thought again of Varimathras, how easy he was to manipulate.

Perhaps this one could be useful….

Yes. She and the Forsaken would find their own path in this world…and would slaughter anyone who stood in their way.

Northrend. There was an odd sense of coming home. As the shore came into view, Arthas remembered the first time he had arrived here, his heart full of pain at Jaina and Uther’s betrayal, aching at the necessity of what he had been forced to do at Stratholme. So much had happened that it felt like a lifetime ago. He had come then with vengeance in his heart, to kill the demon lord responsible for turning his people into the walking dead. Now, he ruled those walking dead and was allies with Kel’Thuzad.

Strange, the twists and turns of fate.

He did not feel the cold, as he had then. Nor did the men who had followed him so loyally; death dulled sensations for such things. Only the human necromancers bundled up against the icy wind that sighed and moaned and the snow that began to drift lazily downward as they made anchor and debarked.

Arthas moved stiffly from the rowboat onto the shore. He might not feel the cold of this place, but his powers, and his physical self, were weak. As soon as his feet touched the earth, Arthas felt him—the Lich King. Not in his mind, not speaking to him through Frostmourne, although the runeblade’s feeble glow strengthened slightly. No, Arthas sensed him here, his master, as he had not before. And there was a prickling sensation of increased threat.

He turned back to the rest of those who were following him ashore—ghouls, specters, shades, abominations, necromancers. “We must make haste,” he cried. “Something out there is threatening the Lich King. We must reach Icecrown quickly.”

“My lord!” one of the necromancers cried, and pointed. Arthas whirled, drawing Frostmourne.

Through the veil of the falling snow he could see golden-red shapes hovering in the air. They drew closer, and his eyes narrowed in surprise and anger as he recognized the creatures and realized who their masters must be.

Dragonhawks. He was astonished. He had all but exterminated the high elves. How could it be that any of them survived sufficiently to regroup, let alone determine where he had gone and confront him here? A slow smile spread across his handsome features, and he felt the sneaking sensation of admiration.

The dragonhawks came closer. He lifted Frostmourne in salute.

“I have to admit,” he shouted, “I am surprised to see quel’dorei here. I would have thought the cold too unpleasant for so delicate a people.”

“Prince Arthas!” The voice came from one of the riders, its beast hovering above Arthas. His voice rang clear and bright and strong. “You still do not see quel’dorei here. We are the sin’dorei—the blood elves! We have sworn to avenge the ghosts of Quel’Thalas. This dead land…will be cleansed! The disgusting things you have created will rest properly at last. And you, butcher, will finally receive your just punishment.”