Christie Golden: Arthas: Rise of the Lich King

He was amused for a moment. Their numbers were not insignificant. Arthas realized that he was most likely looking at the last few of an all but extinct race. And they’d come just for him? Then his smugness faded into irritation. Despite his wearied state, anger filled his voice as he cried, “Northrend belongs to the Scourge, elf, and you will soon join them! You made a terrible mistake by coming here!”

More dragonhawks appeared, along with rangers on foot. Arrows flew through the skies, seemingly as numerous as snowflakes, peppering the undead as they charged. Most of them, however, did not fall; the sting of arrows, as long as it did not pierce a vital spot, troubled them not at all.

Not bothering to even mount Invincible, Arthas charged in. Frostmourne hungered; it seemed to gather energy and strength, as did Arthas himself, with each of the bright, shining souls it consumed. In the midst of the clamor of battle, he heard a voice that was deep and cold as Northrend itself call out from a hill above them.

“Onward for the Scourge! Slay them in Ner’zhul’s name!”

Despite all he had seen, despite all he had done, Arthas felt a deep chill sweep over him at the sound of that bone-cold voice. He risked a quick glance upward and his eyes widened at what he beheld.

Nerubians! Of course—this was their homeland. His heart lifted as they poured forth. He could make out their shapes through the snow, the familiar, unsettling, scuttling speed with which the spidery beings descended on their prey. Arthas had to give these so-called sin’dorei credit—they fought valiantly—but they were hopelessly outnumbered, and soon Arthas was standing in a sea of red-and gold-clad bodies. He raised his hand, and one by one, the dead elves twitched and lurched to their feet, staring at him glassy-eyed.

“More soldiers for the one we serve,” Arthas said. He looked again, and his eyes fell upon the nerubians’ leader.

He was larger than those he commanded, towering over them as he moved easily down the snowy landscape toward Arthas. He moved among them like the king he was, with deliberateness and precision. Arthas tried to find something familiar in something so incredibly alien to him; to the human’s eyes, Anub’arak looked like a cross between a beetle and the other, more spidery-appearing nerubians he commanded. Arthas found that he had taken an unintentional step backward and forced himself to stay where he was as the creature approached.

It kept coming until it was right in front of him, then loomed over him, gazing down with multiple eyes, a thing of utter horror. His ally.

Arthas found his voice and forced it to be calm. “Thanks for the assistance, mighty one.”

The creature inclined its head, mandibles clacking gently as it spoke in that deep, sepulchral tone that still made Arthas uneasy. “The Lich King sent me to aid you, death knight. I am Anub’arak, ancient king of Azjol-Nerub. Where is the other?” It reared up on its hind legs, looking about.

“Other?”

“Kel’Thuzad,” Anub’arak rumbled again in that hissing, sighing, reverberating voice. He lowered himself down and fixed Arthas with his multiple-eyed gaze. “I know him. I greeted him when he first came to serve the Lich King, as I greet you now.”

Arthas wondered briefly if Kel’Thuzad had felt as unsettled as he upon first encountering this undead, insectoid king of an ancient race. Surely he had been, he told himself. Surely anyone would be.

“Your people were a welcome addition to our ranks the first time we attacked these elves,” he said, glancing again at the fallen sin’dorei. He was very glad Anub’arak’s “people” were on his side. “And I welcome your aid again now. But we have little time for pleasantries. Since the Lich King sent you, you must be aware that he is in danger. We must reach Icecrown immediately.”

“It is so,” rumbled Anub’arak. He bobbed his fearsome head and shifted, extending two of his forelegs. “I will gather the rest of my people, and we will march together to protect our lord.”

The massive creature moved off imperiously, summoning his obedient subjects who scurried to him eagerly. Arthas suppressed a shudder and nudged one of the bodies of the fallen elves. It had been ripped limb from limb, too badly damaged to be of use. “These elves are pathetic. It’s no wonder we destroyed their homeland so easily.”

“Pity I wasn’t there to stop you. It’s been a long time, Arthas.”

The voice was musical, smooth, cultured…and laced with hatred. Arthas turned, recognizing it, startled and pleased to find its owner here. The twists and turns of fate indeed.

“Prince Kael’thas,” he said, grinning. The elf stood a few yards away, the shimmer of his teleportation spell still fading. Seemingly ageless, he looked exactly the same as Arthas remembered. No, not exactly. The blue eyes gleamed with suppressed anger. Not the hot rage he had seen upon the visage the last time they had encountered each other, but a cold, deep-seated fury. He no longer wore the purple and blue robes of the Kirin Tor, but the traditional crimson hues of his people.

“Arthas Menethil.” The elf did not use a title. He obviously meant it as a slight, but it bothered Arthas not at all. He knew well enough what he was, and soon, this too-pretty princeling would know it also. “I would spit at the thought of your name in my mouth, but you aren’t even worth that.”

“Ah, Kael,” Arthas said, grinning. “Even your insults are unnecessarily complicated. Glad to see you haven’t changed—as ineffectual as ever. That raises a question. Why weren’t you at Quel’Thalas anyway? Content to let other people die for you while you sat snug and secure in your Violet Citadel? I don’t think you’ll be doing that anymore.”

Kael’thas gritted his teeth, his eyes narrowing. “That much I will give you. I should have been there. I was instead trying to help the humans fight the Scourge—the Scourge you unleashed on your own people. You may not care for your subjects—but I care for mine. I have lost far, far too much in dealing with humans. I stand only for the elves now. For the sin’dorei—the children of the blood. You will pay, Arthas. You will pay dearly for what you have done!”

“You know, I’m almost enjoying this banter. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? I haven’t seen you since…” He let the sentence trail away, watching as a muscle twitched near the elf prince’s eye. Yes, Kael’thas remembered. Remembered stumbling across Jaina and Arthas locked in a deep kiss. The memory briefly unsettled Arthas as well, and the pleasure he took in inflicting the torment upon Kael’thas soured ever so slightly. “I must say though, I’m rather disappointed in these elves you lead. I’d hoped for a better fight. Maybe I killed all the ones with spirit in Quel’Thalas.”

Kael didn’t rise to the bait. “What you faced here was merely a scouting force. Don’t worry, Arthas, you’ll have a good challenge shortly. I assure you that defeating Lord Illidan’s army will be far more difficult.” The prince’s full lips twisted in amusement as Arthas started at the name.

“Illidan? He’s behind this invasion?” Dammit. It would have been better if he had killed Tichondrius himself, rather than involving the kaldorei. He’d known Illidan was power hungry. He just hadn’t realized that the night elf would evolve into so great a threat.

“He is. Our forces are vast, Arthas.” The silky, rich voice was laced now with delight. The bastard was really enjoying this. “Even now, they march upon Icecrown Glacier. You’ll never make it in time to save your precious Lich King. Consider this payment for Quel’Thalas…and other insults.”

“Other insults?” Arthas grinned. “Perhaps you’d like the details of these other insults. Shall I tell you what it was like to hold her in my arms, to taste her, to hear her call out my—”