His army was halfway to Quel’Thalas when he first saw them. Far in the distance, it first appeared as if the earth itself was moving. No, that wasn’t right. These were beasts, of a sort. Cattle or sheep, that had broken out of their pens when their owners turned into the walking dead? Bears or wolves, foraging and feasting on corpses? And then Arthas gasped and grasped Frostmourne tightly, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief.
They did not move like four-legged creatures. They scuttled, scurried, moving over the hills and grasses like—
“Spiders,” he murmured.
Now they poured down the slopes, purple and black and dangerous-looking, multiple legs scurrying quickly to bear them to Arthas. They were coming for him—they—
“These are the new warriors the Lich King sends to his favored one,” came Kel’Thuzad’s voice. The ghost apparently could be heard and seen only by Arthas, and he had been doing a great deal of talking in the last few days. He had recently focused on sowing the seeds of suspicion in the death knight’s mind. Not of himself—of Tichondrius and the other demons. “The dreadlords cannot be trusted,” he had said. “They are the Lich King’s jailors. I will tell you all…when I walk this world again.”
They had had enough time; Arthas wondered if Kel’Thuzad was dangling the information in front of him like bait, to ensure that Arthas completed the task.
Now Arthas asked, “He sent these…to me? What are they?”
“They once were nerubians,” Kel’Thuzad said. “Descendants of an ancient and proud race called the aqir. In life, they were fiercly intelligent, their will dedicated to wiping out any who were not like themselves.”
Arthas eyed the arachnid creatures with a shiver of disgust. “Lovely. And now?”
“Now, these are those who fell battling the one we serve. He has raised them and their lord, Anub’arak, into undeath, and now they come to aid you, Prince Arthas. To serve his glory and yours.”
“Undead spiders,” Arthas mused. They were huge, hideous, deadly. They came chittering and scuttling, merging into step with the corpses, specters, and abominations. “To fight the elves of Quel’Thalas.”
This Lich King, whomever he was, had a flair for the dramatic.
Arthas’s coming, of course, was witnessed. The elves bred notoriously fine scouts. Chances were by the time Arthas himself noticed them, word had already gone ahead. It didn’t matter. The force he had assembled had grown to a truly impressive size, and he had no doubt, despite Kel’Thuzad’s fretful warnings, that he would be able to gain entry into the wondrous, eternal land, move through it swiftly, and reach the Sunwell.
They had captured a prisoner, a young priest who in an act of defiance had inadvertently revealed some important information. Arthas would use the information wisely and well. Too, there was another, one who, unlike the priest, would willingly betray his people and their land for the power that Arthas and the Lich King had promised him.
It surprised the death knight how readily this elven mage had turned. Surprised, and unsettled him. Arthas had once been loved by his people, as his father before him had been. He had enjoyed basking in the warm approval from those who served under him. He had taken time to learn their names, to listen to stories of their families. He had wanted them to love him. And they had, following him loyally, as Captain Falric had done.
But Arthas had to assume that the elven leaders, too, loved their people. Assumed, as Arthas assumed, that they would stay loyal. And yet this mage had betrayed his people for nothing more than the mere promise of power, the simple, glittering allure of it.
Mortals could be corrupted. Mortals could be swayed, or bought.
He looked over his current army and smiled. Yes…this was better. There was no question of loyalty when those he led could do nothing but obey.
“It is true,” the scout gasped. “All of it.”
Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of Silvermoon, knew this elf well. Kelmarin’s information was always accurate and detailed. She listened, wanting to disbelieve, knowing she did not dare.
They had all heard the rumors, of course. That some sort of plague had begun to creep across the human lands. But the quel’dorei had thought themselves safe here in their homeland. It had withstood attacks from dragons, orcs, and trolls over the centuries. Surely, what was occurring in the human lands would not touch them.
Except it had.
“You are sure it is Arthas Menethil? The prince?”
Kelmarin nodded, still catching his breath. “Aye, my lady. I heard him called so by those who served him. I do not think the rumors painting him as the slayer of his father and the instigator of the troubles in Lordaeron are exaggerations, from what I have seen.”
Sylvanas listened, her blue eyes widening, as the scout spun a tale that sounded too fantastical to be believed. Risen corpses, both fresh and desiccated. Enormous, mindless patchwork creations of various body parts; strange beasts who could fly and looked like stone creations come to life; giant spiderlike beings that reminded her of tales of the thought-vanished aqir. And the smell—Kelmarin, who was not given to exaggeration, spoke in halting tones about the reek that preceded the army. The forests, the first bastion of defense of the land, were falling beneath the strange engines of war he had brought with him. Sylvanas thought back to the red dragons, which had set the woods aflame not so very long ago. Silvermoon had endured, of course, but the woodlands had suffered terribly. As they were suffering now….
“My lady,” Kelmarin finished, lifting his head and giving her a stricken gaze. “If he breaks through—I do not think we have the numbers to defeat him.”
The bitter statement gave her the anger she needed. “We are quel’dorei,” she snapped, straightening. “Our land is impregnable. He will not enter. Do not fear. He must first know how to break the enchantments that protect Quel’Thalas. Then he must be able to do so. Better and wiser foes than he have tried to take our realm ere now. Have faith, my friend. In the Sunwell’s strength…and in the strength and will of our people.”
As Kelmarin was led off to where he could drink and eat and recover before returning to his post, Sylvanas turned to her rangers. “I would see this human prince for myself. Summon the first battle units. If Kelmarin is correct…we should prepare for a preemptive strike.”
Sylvanas lay atop the great gate that, along with the jagged ring of mountains, helped protect her land. She wore full but comfortable leather armor, and her bow was slung across her back. She and Sheldaris and Vor’athil, the other two scouts who had gone on ahead and had waited for her to come with the bulk of the rangers, stared, aghast. As Kelmarin had warned, they had smelled the reek of the decaying army long before they had seen them.
Prince Arthas rode atop a skeletal horse with fiery eyes, a huge sword that she recognized at once as a runeblade strapped to his back. Humans in dark clothing scurried to obey his commands. So did the dead. Sylvanas choked back bile as her gaze roved over the collection of various rotting corpses, and she was silently thankful that the wind had shifted and was now blowing the stench away from her.
She signaled her plan, long fingers moving quickly, and the scouts nodded. They slipped back, silent as shadows, and Sylvanas turned her eyes toward Arthas. He did not seem to have noticed anything. He looked human, still, though pale, and his hair was white instead of golden, as she recalled it had been described to her. How then, could he stand this? Being surrounded by the dead—the horrible stench, the grotesque images…
She shuddered and instructed herself to focus. The undead who obeyed him simply stood, awaiting orders. The humans—necromancers, Sylvanas thought, a wave of loathing rushing through her—were too busy creating new monstrosities to post lookouts. They could not conceive of defeat.
Their arrogance would be their undoing.
She waited, watching, until her archers were in position. Forewarned by Kelmarin, she had summoned fully two thirds of her rangers. She believed firmly that Arthas could not breech the magical elfga
tes that protected Quel’Thalas. There was too much he could not possibly know about them to do so. Still…she had also not believed things that her eyes now told her was truth. Better to wipe out the threat here and now.
She glanced at Sheldaris and Vor’athil. They caught her gaze and nodded. They were ready. Sylvanas yearned to simply strike, to take the enemy unawares, but honor forbade it. There would be no tales sung of how Ranger-General Sylvanas Windrunner defended her homeland by underhanded means.
“For Quel’Thalas,” she whispered underneath her breath, and then stood.
“You are not welcome here!” she cried, her voice clear and musical and strong. Arthas turned his skeletal steed—Sylvanas spared a moment to pity the poor beast—and faced her, peering at her intently. The necromancers fell silent, turning to their lord, awaiting instructions.
“I am Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of Silvermoon. I advise you to turn back now.”
Arthas’s lips—gray, she noticed, gray in a white face, although she knew somehow he yet lived—curled back in a smile. He was amused.
“It is you who should turn back, Sylvanas,” he said, deliberately omitting her title. His voice would have been a pleasant baritone had it not been underscored by…something. Something that made even her fierce heart stop for a moment as she heard it. She forced herself not to shiver. “Death itself has come to your land.”
Her blue eyes narrowed. “Do your worst,” she challenged. “The elfgate to the inner kingdom is protected by our most powerful enchantments. You shall not pass.”
She nocked her bow—the signal for the attack. An instant later, the air was filled with the sudden hum of dozens of arrows in flight. Sylvanas had taken aim for the human—or once-human—prince, and her aim was as true as ever. The arrow sang as it sped toward Arthas’s unprotected head. But an instant before it struck, she saw a flash of blue-white.
Sylvanas stared. More swiftly than she could fathom, Arthas had brought up his sword, the runes in it emitting that cold blue-white glow, and sliced the arrow in two. He grinned at her and winked.
“To battle, my troops—slay them all, that they may serve me and my lord!” Arthas cried. His voice echoed with that strange thrum of power. She growled deep in her throat and took aim again. But he was in motion now, the dead horse bearing him with unnatural swiftness, and she realized that his horrific troops were on the offensive now.
She thought of a swarm of insects as they converged, perfect in their mindless unity, upon her rangers. The archers had their instructions—cut down the living first, and then dispatch the dead with arrows set aflame. The first volley of arrows dropped nearly every single one of the cultists. The second saw dozens of blazing arrows embedded in the walking corpses. But even as they stumbled about, some of them almost tinder-dry, others moist and rotting, the sheer number of them began to turn the tide.
They somehow managed to scramble up the nearly-vertical walls of earth and stone where her rangers were positioned. Some of them, mercifully, were too decayed to get far, their rotting limbs ripping from their bodies and causing them to fall. But the fall did not halt them. They pressed onward, upward, toward her rangers who now had to wield swords instead of arrows. They were trained warriors, of course, and could fight in close quarters. Fight against foes who could be slowed by the loss of blood, or limbs. But against these—
Dead hands, more like claws than fingers, reached out to Sheldaris. Grim faced, the red-haired ranger fought fiercely, her lips moving in cries of defiance that Sylvanas could not hear. But they were closing in on her, ringing her, and Sylvanas felt a deep pain as she watched Sheldaris fall beneath them.
She drew and fired, drew and fired, almost quicker than thought, focusing on her duty. Out of the corner of her eye she saw one of the grotesque winged creatures, its skin gray and appearing as hard as stone, swoop down within ten feet of her. Its batlike face snarled in glee as it reached down and, as easily as she might pluck ripe fruit from the tree, snatched Vor’athil and bore him aloft. Its fingers dug deeply into the scout’s shoulders, and blood spattered on Sylvanas as the thing swooped upward with its prize.
Vor’athil struggled in the creature’s grasp, his fingers finding and freeing a dagger. Sylvanas turned her aim from the groaning undead below her to the monstrosity above. She fired, right at the creature’s neck.
The arrow glanced off harmlessly. The creature tossed its head and snarled, tiring of toying with Vor’athil. It lifted one hand and raked its claws across the scout’s throat, then dropped him carelessly and circled back for more.
Grieving silently, Sylvanas watched her friend fall lifeless to the earth, his body striking the pile of dead cultists her rangers had slain moments earlier.
And then she gasped.
The cultists were moving.
Arrows protruding from their bodies, sometimes over a dozen brightly fletched missiles in a single corpse, and yet they stirred.
“No,” she whispered, sickened. Her horrified gaze went to Arthas.
The prince was looking straight at her, grinning that damnable grin. One powerful, gauntleted hand grasped the runeblade. The other was lifted in a beckoning gesture, and as she watched, yet another slain human stirred and shambled to its feet, pulling out the arrow from its eye as if it were plucking a burr from its clothing. Her attack had cost Arthas nothing. Any who fell would be raised by his dark magic. He saw the realization and the anger in her eyes, and the grin turned into a laugh.
“I did try to tell you,” he cried, his voice rising above the din of battle. “And still you provide me with new recruits….”
He gestured again, and another body twitched as it was hauled upward and forced to stand on its feet. A body that had been slender but muscular, with long black hair swept back in a ponytail, with tanned skin and pointed ears. Blood still ran in red rivulets from the four scores in its throat, and the head bobbed erratically, as if the neck had been too badly damaged to support it much longer. Dead eyes that had once been blue as summer skies sought out Sylvanas. And then, slowly at first, it began to move toward her.
Vor’athil.
At that moment she felt the gate beneath her shudder, ever so slightly. So distracted had she been by the slaughter and reanimation of things that ought to stay dead that she had not noticed his siege engines maneuvering into position. The ogre-sized things that appeared to be comprised of various different corpses were battering away at the gate as well. So were the enormous, spiderlike creatures.
Then something hit the wall with a soft, plopping sound. Wetness spattered Sylvanas. For a fraction of a second, her mind refused to accept what she had just witnessed, and then clarity broke upon her.
Arthas was not only raising the corpses of the fallen elves. He was hurling their bodies—or pieces of them—back at Sylvanas as ammunition.
Sylvanas swallowed hard, then issued the order that a few moments ago she never would have dreamed she would utter.
“Shindu fallah na! Fall back to the second gate! Fall back!”
Those who were left—ai, piteous few there were still, at least still alive and fighting under her command—obeyed at once, gathering up the wounded and slinging them over their shoulders, their faces pale and sweat-streaked and reflecting the same forcibly contained terror that raced through her. They fled. There was no other word for it. This was no orderly, synchronized, martial retreat, but an all-out flight. Sylvanas ran with the rest of them, bearing the wounded as best she could, and her mind was racing.
Behind her she heard the once-inconceivable sound of the gate cracking and the roar of the undead as they howled their triumph. Her own heart seemed to crack in agony.
He had done it—but how? How?
His voice, strong, resonant, with that undercurrent of something dark and terrible, rose over the noise. “The elfgate has fallen! Onward, my warriors! Onward to victory!”
Somehow, to Sylvanas, the worst, most awful thing about that gleeful, gloating cry was the…affection�
��that laced through it.
She seized the sleeve of a young man racing beside her. “Tel’kor,” Sylvanas cried. “Make for the Sunwell Plateau. Tell them what we have seen here. Tell them—to be prepared.”
Tel’kor was young enough to let disappointment flicker over his handsome features at the thought of not standing to fight, but he nodded his golden head in comprehension. Sylvanas hesitated.
“My lady?”
“Tell them—we may have been betrayed.”
Tel’kor blanched at that, but nodded. Like an arrow shot from a bow, he raced away. He was a good archer, but Sylvanas did not suffer any illusion that one more bow would make a difference in the battle that was to come. But if the magi who controlled and directed the Sunwell’s energies knew what they faced—that might.
They were racing northward now, and as her troops crossed a bridge she suddenly stopped in mid-run, whirled on her heel, and looked back.
Sylvanas gasped. That Arthas and his dark army were coming, she expected to see. That would have been a horrific enough sight; the undead, the abominations, the flying batlike things, the grotesque spidery beings—hundreds, bearing down with implacable determination. What she did not expect to see was what they left in their wake.
Like a trail left by a slug, like a furrow left by a plow, the land where the undead feet had trod was blackened and barren. Worse; Sylvanas remembered the burned woods the orcs had left behind, knew that nature would eventually reclaim it. This—it was a horrible dark line of death, as if the unnatural energies that were used to propel the corpses forward were killing the very earth upon which they shambled. Poison, they were poison, it was dark magic of the foulest kind.
And it had to be stopped.
She had paused only an instant, although to her it felt as though she had been frozen in place for a lifetime. “Hold!” she cried, her voice clear and strong and purposeful. “We will make our stand here.”
They were puzzled only briefly, then they understood. Quickly she spoke instructions, and they leaped to obey. Many of them paused, shocked, as they caught their first stunned glimpse of the grievous wound to the land that had so horrified their ranger-general, but they recovered quickly. Time enough to worry about healing the brutalized earth later. For now, they had to stop that dreadful scar from spreading.
Arthas: Rise of the Lich King wow-6 Page 21