“Armor,” he said. There were armored men stationed about the perimeter of the cemetery and one near a small tomb. He squinted, and then his eyes widened. Not just living beings, not just warriors, but paladins. And he knew why they were here. Kel’Thuzad, it seemed, drew the interest of many.
But he had dissolved the order. There shouldn’t be any paladins, let alone gathered here. Frostmourne whispered; it was hungry. Arthas drew the mighty runeblade, lifted it so the little army of acolytes who accompanied him could see and be inspired by it, and charged. Invincible sprang forward, and Arthas saw the shock on the faces of the cemetery’s guardians as he bore down on them. They fought valiantly, but in the end, it was futile; and they knew it, he could see it in their eyes.
He had just tugged Frostmourne free, feeling the sword’s joy in taking another soul, when a voice cried, “Arthas!”
It was a voice Arthas had heard before, but he couldn’t quite place it. He turned toward the speaker.
The man was tall and imposing. He had removed his helm, and it was the thick beard that jogged Arthas’s memory. “Gavinrad,” he said, surprised. “It has been a long time.”
“Not long enough. Where is the hammer we gifted you with?” Gavinrad said, almost spitting the words. “The weapon of a paladin. A weapon of honor.”
Arthas remembered. It had been this man who had placed the hammer at his feet. How clean, how pure, how simple it had all seemed then.
“I have a better weapon now,” Arthas said. He lifted Frostmourne. It seemed to pulse eagerly in his hand. A whim struck him, and he obeyed it. “Stand aside, brother,” he said, an odd gentleness tingeing his voice. “I’ve come to collect some old bones. For the sake of that day, and for the order to which we both belonged, you will not come to harm if you let me pass.”
Gavinrad’s bushy brows drew together and he spat in Arthas’s direction. “I can’t believe that we ever called you brother! Why Uther ever vouched for you is beyond me. Your betrayal has broken Uther’s heart, boy. He would have given his life for yours in a second, and this is how you repay his loyalty? I knew it was a mistake to accept a spoiled prince into our order! You’ve made a mockery of the Silver Hand!”
Fury rose in Arthas, so swift and so intense he almost choked on it. How dare he! Arthas was a death knight, the hand of the Lich King. Life, death, and unlife—all fell within his purview. And Gavinrad spat upon his offer of safety. Arthas gritted his teeth.
“No, my brother,” he growled softly. “When I slay your body and raise it as my servant, and make you dance to my tune, that, Gavinrad, will be a mockery of the Silver Hand.”
Grinning, he beckoned tauntingly. The undead and the cultists who had accompanied him waited silently. Gavinrad did not rush in, but gathered himself, praying to the Light that would not save him. Arthas let him complete his prayer, let his weapon glow, as Arthas’s own hammer had once done. With Frostmourne gripped tightly in his hand and the Lich King’s powers surging through his dead-not-dead body, he knew that Gavinrad did not stand a chance.
Nor did he. The paladin fought with everything he had, but it was not enough. Arthas toyed with him a little, easing the sting that Gavinrad’s words had caused, but soon tired of the game and dispatched his erstwhile brother in arms with a single mighty sword blow. He felt Frostmourne take in and obliterate yet another soul, and shivered slightly as Gavinrad’s lifeless body fell to the earth. Despite what he had promised his now-vanquished foe, Arthas let him stay dead.
With a curt gesture he ordered his servants to begin retrieving the corpse. He had left Kel’Thuzad to rot where he had fallen, but someone, doubtless the necromancer’s devout followers, had cared enough to put the body in a small crypt. The acolytes of the Cult of the Damned now rushed forward, finding the tomb and with effort pushing aside the lid. Inside was a coffin, which was quickly lifted out. Arthas nudged it with his foot, grinning a little.
“Come along now, necromancer,” he said teasingly as the casket was borne into the back of a vehicle referred to as a “meat wagon.” “The powers that you once served have need of you again.”
“Told you my death would mean little.”
Arthas started. He had become somewhat accustomed to hearing voices; the Lich King, through Frostmourne, whispered to him almost constantly now. But this was something different. He recognized the voice; he had heard it before, but arrogant and taunting, not confidential and conspiratorial.
Kel’Thuzad.
“What the…am I hearing ghosts now?”
Not only hearing them. Seeing them. Or one specific ghost, at least. Kel’Thuzad’s shape slowly formed before his eyes, translucent and hovering, the eyes dark holes. But it was unmistakably him, and the spectral lips curved in a knowing smile.
“I was right about you, Prince Arthas.”
“It took you long enough.” The bass, angry rumble of Tichondrius seemed to come out of nowhere, and the specter—if it had indeed actually been there—disappeared. Arthas was shaken. Had he imagined it? Was he starting to lose his sanity along with his soul?
Tichondrius had not noticed anything and continued, removing the casket and peering disgustedly inside at the nearly-liquefied corpse of Kel’Thuzad. Arthas found the stench more tolerable than he had expected, though it was still horrific. It seemed like a lifetime ago he had struck at the necromancer with his hammer and watched the too-rapid decomposition of the newly dead man. “These remains are badly decomposed. They will never survive the trip to Quel’Thalas.”
Arthas seized on the distraction. “Quel’Thalas?” The golden land of the elves…
“Yes. Only the energies of the high elves’ Sunwell can bring Kel’Thuzad back to life.” The dreadlord’s frown deepened. “And with each moment, he decays further. You must steal a very special urn from the paladin’s keeping. They are bearing it here now. Place the necromancer’s remains within it, and he will be well protected for the journey.”
The dreadlord was smirking. There was more to this than at first was apparent. Arthas opened his mouth to inquire, then closed it. Tichondrius would not tell him anyway. He shrugged, mounted Invincible, and rode where he was told.
Behind him, he heard the demon’s dark laughter.
Tichondrius had been right. Moving slowly along the road, on foot, was a small funeral procession. A military funeral, or one for an important dignitary; Arthas recognized the trappings of such things. Several men in armor marched single file; one man in the center carried something in powerful arms. The faint sun glinted on his armor and upon the item he bore—the urn of which Tichondrius had spoken. And suddenly Arthas understood why Tichondrius had been amused.
The paladin’s carriage was distinctive, his armor unique, and Arthas gripped Frostmourne with hands that had suddenly become slightly unsteady. He forced the myriad, confusing, unsettling sensations down, and ordered his men to approach.
The funeral party was not large, though it was filled with fighters of distinction, and it was an easy matter to completely surround them. They drew their weapons, but did not attack, turning instead for instructions to the man who bore the urn. Uther—for it could be no one else, seemed completely in control as he regarded his former student. His face was impassive, but more lined than Arthas remembered. His eyes, however, burned with righteous fury.
“The dog returns to his vomit,” Uther said, the words cracking like a whip. “I’d prayed you’d stay away.”
Arthas twitched slightly. His voice was rough as he replied, “I’m a bad copper—I just keep turning up. I see you still call yourself a paladin, even though I dissolved your order.”
Uther actually laughed, though it was bitter laughter. “As if you could dissolve it yourself. I answer to the Light, boy. So did you, once.”
The Light. He still remembered it. His heart lurched in his chest and for a moment, just a moment, he lowered the sword. Then the whispers came, reminding him of the power he now bore, emphasizing that walking the path of the Light had not gott
en him what he craved. Arthas gripped Frostmourne firmly once more.
“I did many things, once,” he retorted. “No longer.”
“Your father ruled this land for fifty years, and you’ve ground it to dust in a matter of days. But undoing and destruction is easy, isn’t it?”
“Very dramatic, Uther. Pleasant as this is, I’ve no time to reminisce. I’ve come for the urn. Give it to me, and I’ll make sure you die quickly.” No sparing this one. Not even if he begged. Especially not if he begged. There was too much history between them. Too much—feeling.
Now Uther showed emotion other than anger. He stared at Arthas, aghast. “This urn holds your father’s ashes, Arthas! What, were you hoping to piss on them one last time before you left his kingdom to rot?”
A sudden jolt went through Arthas.
Father—
“I didn’t know what it held,” he murmured, as much to himself as to Uther. So this was the second reason the dreadlord had smirked as he had given Arthas his instructions. He, at least, had known what the urn contained. Test after test. Could Arthas fight his mentor…could he blaspheme his father’s ashes. Arthas was growing sick of it. He harnessed that anger as he spoke, dismounting and drawing Frostmourne.
“Nor does it matter. I’ll take what I came for one way or another.”
Frostmourne was almost humming now, in his mind and in his hand, eager for the battle. Arthas settled into attack position. Uther regarded him for a moment, then slowly lifted his own glowing weapon.
“I didn’t want to believe it,” he said, his voice gruff, and Arthas realized with horror that tears stood in Uther’s eyes. “When you were younger and selfish, I called it a child’s failing. When you pushed on stubbornly, I dismissed it as a youth’s need to move out from under his father’s shadow. And Stratholme—aye, Light forgive me, even that—I prayed you would find your own path to see the error of your judgment. I could not stand against my liege’s son.”
Arthas forced a smile as the two began to circle each other. “But now you do.”
“It was my last promise to your father. To my friend. I would see his remains treated with reverence, even after his own son brutally slaughtered him, unaware and unarmed.”
“You’ll die for that promise.”
“Possibly.” It didn’t seem to bother Uther much. “I’d rather die honoring that promise than live at your mercy. I’m glad he’s dead. I’m glad he doesn’t have to see what you’ve become.”
The remark…hurt. Arthas hadn’t expected it to. He paused, emotions warring within him, and Uther, ever the better in their bouts, used that brief hesitation to charge forward. “For the Light!” he cried, pulling the hammer back and swinging it at Arthas with all his strength. The gleaming weapon arced at Arthas so swiftly he could hear the sound of its movement.
He leaped aside, barely in time, and felt the air brush his face as the weapon rushed past. Uther’s expression was calm and focused…and deadly. It was his duty as he saw it to slay the betraying son, and stop the spread of evil.
Just as Arthas knew it was his duty to slay the man who had once mentored him. He needed to kill his past…all of his past. Or else it would forever reach out with the deceptively sweet hope of compassion and forgiveness. With an incoherent cry, Arthas brought Frostmourne down.
Uther’s hammer blocked it. The two men strained, their faces within inches of each other, the muscles in their arms shaking with effort, until with a grunt Uther shoved Arthas backward. The younger man stumbled. Uther pressed the attack. His face was calm, but his eyes were fierce and resolute, and he seemed to fight as if his victory was inevitable. The utter confidence shook Arthas. His own blows were powerful, but erratic. He’d never been able to best Uther before—
“It ends here, boy!” Uther cried, his voice ringing. Suddenly to Arthas’s horror the paladin was limned in a glowing, brilliant light. Not just his hammer, but his entire body, as if he himself was the true weapon of the Light that would strike Arthas down. “For the Light’s justice!”
The hammer descended. All the air in Arthas’s body was knocked out of him with a rush as the blow landed straight and true across his midsection. Only his armor saved him, and even that crumpled beneath the glowing hammer wielded by the holy, radiant paladin. Arthas went sprawling, Frostmourne flying from his grip, agony shooting through him as he struggled to breathe, struggled to rise. The Light—he had turned his back on it, had betrayed it. And now it was exacting retribution through Uther the Lightbringer, its greatest champion, infusing his old teacher with the purity of its brilliance and purpose.
The glow enveloping Uther increased, and Arthas grimaced in agony as the Light seared his eyes as well as his soul. He’d been wrong to forsake it, horribly wrong, and now its mercy and love had been transformed into this radiant, implacable being. He stared upward into the white light that was Uther’s eyes, tears filling his own as he awaited the killing blow.
Had he grasped the sword without realizing it, or had it leaped into his hands of its own volition? In the swirling mental chaos that was that moment, Arthas could not tell. All he knew was that suddenly, his hands were closing on Frostmourne’s hilt, and its voice was in his mind.
Every Light has its shadow—every day has its night—and even the brightest candle can be snuffed out.
And so can the brightest life.
He let out a gulping inhalation, sucking breath into his lungs, and for just a second, Arthas saw the Light enveloping Uther dim. Then Uther lifted the hammer again, ready to deal the killing blow.
But Arthas was not there.
If Uther was a bear, enormous and powerful, Arthas was a tiger, strong and coiled and swift. The hammer, strong and Light-blessed though it and its weilder might be, was not a fast weapon, nor was Uther’s style of fighting. Frostmourne, however, though it was an enormous two handed runeblade, seemed to almost be able to fight on its own.
He moved forward again, no hesitancy this time, and began to fight in earnest. He gave no quarter as he attacked Uther the Lightbringer; offered no moment’s breathing space for the paladin to draw back the weapon to deliver a crushing blow. Uther’s eyes widened with shock, then narrowed in determination. But the Light that had once surged so brightly from his powerful frame was diminishing with each passing second.
Diminishing before the power granted to him by the Lich King.
Again and again Frostmourne landed—here on the hammer’s glowing head, here on the shaft, here on Uther’s shoulder, in that narrow space between gorget and shoulder pauldrons, biting deep—
Uther grunted and staggered back. Blood poured from the wound. Frostmourne craved more, and Arthas wanted to give it more.
Snarling like a beast, his white hair flying, he pressed the attack. The hammer, great and glowing, fell from Uther’s nerveless fingers as Frostmourne nearly severed the arm. A blow dented Uther’s breastplate; a second in the same spot cleaved it and tore at the flesh beneath. Uther’s tabard, the blue and gold of the Alliance he had once fought for, fluttered to the snow-covered earth in pieces as Uther the Lightbringer fell heavily to his knees. He looked up. His breathing came with difficulty. Blood trickled from his mouth, seeping into his beard, but there was no hint of surrender on his face.
“I dearly hope that there’s a special place in hell waiting for you, Arthas.” He coughed, the blood bubbling up.
“We may never know, Uther,” Arthas said coldly, lifting Frostmourne for the final blow. The sword nearly sang in anticipation. “I intend to live forever.”
He brought the runeblade straight down, through Uther’s throat, silencing the defiant words, piercing the great heart. Uther died almost immediately. Arthas tugged the blade free and stepped back, shaking. Surely, it was only from the release of tension and exultation.
He knelt and picked up the urn. He held it for a long moment, then slowly broke the seal and tipped the jar over, pouring out its contents. The ashes of King Terenas fell like gray rain, like plagued flour,
drifting down onto the snow. Abruptly, the wind shifted. The gray powder that was all that was left of a king suddenly took flight, as if animated, whirling to shower the death knight. Startled, Arthas took a step backward. His hands automatically came up to shield his face, and he dropped the urn, which landed with a dull thunk on the ground. He shut his eyes and turned away, but not quickly enough, and began to cough violently, the ashes acrid and choking. Abruptly, panic seized him. His gauntleted hands came up to swipe at his face, trying to wipe off the fine powder that clogged his throat and nose and stung his eyes. He spat, and for a moment his stomach roiled.
Arthas took a deep breath and forced calm upon himself. A moment later, he rose, composed once again. If he felt anything at all, he had locked it so deep he did not know it. Stone-faced, he returned to the wagon that bore the reeking, nearly liquid remains of Kel’Thuzad and shoved it at one of the Scourge.
“Put the necromancer in here,” he ordered.
He mounted Invincible.
Quel’Thalas was not far.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
During the six days it took to reach the high elven lands, Arthas spoke with the shade of Kel’Thuzad and gathered many, many more to his side.
From Andorhal eastward he went, the meat wagons grinding along in his wake, past the little hamlets of Felstone Field, Dalson’s Orchard, and Gahrron’s Quickening, across the Thondroril River into the eastern part of Lordaeron. Risen plague victims were everywhere, and a simple mental command brought them to heel like faithful hounds. Care of them was easy—they fed on the dead. It was very…tidy.
These Arthas was expecting to come to his side; the plague victims, the abominations sewn together of many parts, the ghosts of the fallen. But a new ally joined him—one that startled, appalled, and then delighted him.
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