World of Warcraft: Arthas - Rise of the Lich King.
by Christie Golden.
PROLOGUE: THE DREAMING
The wind shrieked like a child in pain.
The herd of shoveltusk huddled together for warmth, their thick, shaggy coats protecting them from the worst of the storm. They formed a circle, with the calves shivering and bleating in the center. Their heads, each crowned with a massive antler, drooped toward the snow-covered earth, eyes shut against the whirling snow. Their own breath frosted their muzzles as they planted themselves and endured.
...In their various dens, the wolves and bears waited out the storms, one with the comfort of their pack, the other solitary and resigned. Whatever their hunger, nothing would drive them forth until after the keening wind had ceased its weeping and the blinding snow had worn itself out.
The wind, roaring in from the ocean to beat at the village of Kamagua, tore at the hides that stretched over frames made of the bones of great sea creatures. When the storm passed, the tuskarr whose home this had been for years uncounted knew they would need to repair or replace nets and traps. Their dwellings, sturdy though they were, were always harmed when this this storm descended. They had all gathered inside the large group dwelling that had been dug deep into the earth, lacing the flaps tight against the storm and lighting smoky oil lamps. storm descended. They had all gathered inside the large group dwelling that had been dug deep into the earth, lacing the flaps tight against the storm and lighting smoky oil lamps.
Elder Atuik waited in stoic silence. He had seen many of these storms over the last seven years. Long had he lived, the length and yellowness of his tusks and the wrinkles on his brown skin testament to the fact. But these storms were more than storms, were more than natural. He glanced at the young ones, shivering not with cold, not the tuskarr, but with fear.
"He dreams," one of them murmured, eyes bright, whiskers bristling.
"Silence," snapped Atuik, more gruffly than he had intended. The child, startled, fell silent, and once again the only sound was the aching sob of the snow and wind.
It rose like the smoke, the deep bellowing noise, wordless but full of meaning; a chant, carried by a dozen voices. The sounds of drums and rattles and bone striking bone formed a fierce undercurrent to the wordless call. The worst of the wind's anger was deflected from the taunka village by the circle of posts and hides, and the lodges, their curving roofs arching over a large interior space in defiance of the hardships of this land, were strong.
Over the sound of deep and ancient ritual, the wind's cry could still be heard. The dancer, a shaman by the name of Kamiku, missed a step and his hoof struck awkwardly. He recovered and continued. Focus. It was all about focus. It was how one harnessed the elements and wrung from them obedience; it was how his people survived in a land that was harsh and unforgiving.
Sweat dampened and darkened his fur as he danced. His large brown eyes were closed in concentration, his hooves again finding their powerful rhythm. He tossed his head, short horns stabbing the air, tail twitching. Others danced beside him. Their body heat and that of the fire, burning brightly despite the flakes and wind drifting down from the smoke hole in the roof, kept the lodge warm and comfortable.
They all knew what was transpiring outside. They could not control these winds and snow, as they could ordinary such things. No, this was his his doing. But they could dance and feast and laugh in defiance of the onslaught. They were taunka; they would endure. doing. But they could dance and feast and laugh in defiance of the onslaught. They were taunka; they would endure.
The world was blue and white and raging outside, but inside the Great Hall the air was warm and still. A fireplace tall enough for a man to stand in was filled with thick logs, the crackling of their burning the only noise. Over the ornately decorated mantel, carved with images of fantastical creatures, the giant antler of a shoveltusk was mounted. Carved dragon heads served as sconces, holding torches with flames burning bright. Heavy beams supported the feast hall that could have housed dozens, the warm orange hue of the fires chasing away the shadows to hide on the corners. The cold stone of the floor was softened and warmed by thick pelts of polar bears, shoveltusk, and other creatures.
A table, long and heavy and carved, occupied most of the space in the room. It could have hosted three dozen easily. Only three figures sat at the table now: a man, an orc, and a boy.
None of it was real, of course. The man who sat at the place of honor at the table, slightly elevated before the other two in a mammoth carved chair that was not quite a throne, understood this. He was dreaming; he had been dreaming for a long, long time. The hall, the shoveltusk trophies, the fire, the table-the orc and the boy-all were simply a part of his dreaming.
The orc, on his left, was elderly, but still powerful. The orange fire-and torchlight flickered off the ghastly image he bore on his heavy-jawed face-that of a skull, painted on. He had been a shaman, able to direct and wield vast powers, and even now, even just as a figment of the man's imagination, he was intimidating.
The boy was not. Once, he might have been a handsome child, with wide sea-green eyes, fair features, and golden hair. But once was not now.
The boy was sick.
He was thin, so emaciated that his bones seemed to threaten to slice through the skin. The once-bright eyes were dimmed and sunken, a thin film covering them. Pustules marked his skin, bursting and oozing forth a green fluid. Breathing seemed difficult and the child's chest hitched in little panting gasps. The man thought he could almost see the labored thumping of a heart that should have faltered long ago, but persisted in continuing to beat.
"He is still here," the orc said, stabbing a finger in the boy's direction.
"He will not last," the man said.
As if to confirm the words, the boy began to cough. Blood and mucus spattered the table in front of him, and he wiped a thin arm clad in rotting finery across his pale mouth. He drew breath to speak in a halting voice, the effort obviously taxing him.
"You have not-yet won him. And I will-prove it to you."
"You are as foolish as you are stubborn," the orc growled. "That battle was won long ago."
The man's hands tightened on the arms of his chair as he listened to both of them. This had been a recurring dream over the last few years; he found it now more tiresome than entertaining. "I grow weary of the struggle. Let us end this once and for all."
The orc leered at the boy, his skull-face grinning hideously. The boy coughed again, but did not quail from the orc's regard. Slowly, with dignity, he straightened, his milky eyes darting from the orc to the man.
"Yes," the orc said, "this serves nothing. Soon it will be time to awaken. Awaken, and move forward into this world once more." He turned to the man, his eyes gleaming. "Walk again the path you have taken."
The skull seemed to detach itself from his face, hovering above it like another entity, and the room changed with its movement. The carved sconces that a moment before were simple wooden dragons undulated and rippled, coming to life, the torches in their mouths flaring and casting grotesque dancing shadows as they shook their heads. The wind screamed outside and the door to the hall slammed open. Snow whirled about the three figures. The man spread his arms and let the freezing wind wrap about him like a cloak. The orc laughed, the skull floating over his face issuing its own manic peals of mirth.
"Let me show you that your destiny lies with me, and you can only know true power through eliminating him him."
The boy, fragile and slight, had been knocked out of his chair by the violent gusts of frigid air. Now he propped himself up with an effort, shaking, his breaths coming in small puffs as he struggled to climb back into his chair. He threw the man a look-of hope, fear, and odd determination.
"All is not lost," he whispered, and somehow, despite the orc and the skull's laughter, despite the shrieking of the wind, the man heard him.
PART ONE
THE GOLDEN BOY
CHAPTER ONE
"Hold her head; that's it, lad!"
The mare, her normally white coat gray with sweat, rolled her eyes and whickered. Prince Arthas Menethil, only son to King Terenas Menethil II, one day to rule the kingdom of Lordaeron, held fast to the bridle and murmured soothingly.
The horse jerked her head violently and almost took the nine-year-old with her. "Whoa, Brightmane," Arthas said. "Easy, girl, it'll be all right. Nothing to worry about."
Jorum Balnir grunted in amusement. "doubt you'd feel that way if something the size of this foal was coming out of you, lad."
His son Jarim, crouching beside his father and the prince, laughed and so did Arthas, giggling uncontrollably even as hot and soggy foam from Brightmane's champing mouth dropped onto his leg.
"One more push, girl," Balnir said, moving slowly along the horse's body to where the foal, encased in a shiny shroudlike membrane, was halfway through its journey into the world.
Arthas wasn't really supposed to be here. But when he had no lessons, he often sneaked away to the Balnir farmstead to admire the horses Balnir was known for breeding and to play with his friend Jarim. Both youths were well aware that a horsebreeder's son, even one whose animals were regularly bought as mounts for the royal household, was not a "proper" companion for a prince. Neither cared much, and thus far none of the adults had put a halt to the friendship. And so it was that he had been here, building forts, throwing snowballs, and playing Guards and Bandits with Jarim, when Jorum had called to the boys to come watch the miracle of birth.
The "miracle of birth" was actually pretty disgusting, Arthas thought. He hadn't realized there'd be so much...goo involved. Brightmane grunted and heaved again, her legs held stiff and straight out, and with a sloshy wet sound her baby entered the world. involved. Brightmane grunted and heaved again, her legs held stiff and straight out, and with a sloshy wet sound her baby entered the world.
Her heavy head thumped down into Arthas's lap, and she closed her eyes for a moment. Her sides heaved as she caught her breath. The boy smiled, stroking the damp neck and thick, rough mane, and looked over to where Jarim and his father were attending to the foal. It was chilly in the stables at this time of year, and steam rose faintly from its warm, wet body. With a towel and dry hay, father and son rubbed off the last of the foal's unsettling shroudlike covering, and Arthas felt his face stretching in a grin.
Damp, gray, all long tangled legs and big eyes, the foal looked around, blinking in the dim lantern light. Those large brown eyes locked with Arthas's. You're beautiful, You're beautiful, Arthas thought, his breath stopping for a moment, and realized that the much touted "miracle of birth" really Arthas thought, his breath stopping for a moment, and realized that the much touted "miracle of birth" really was was pretty miraculous. pretty miraculous.
Brightmane began to struggle to her feet. Arthas leaped to his own and pressed back against the wooden walls of the stable so the great animal could turn around without crushing him. Mother and newborn sniffed each other, then Brightmane grunted and began to bathe her son with her long tongue.
"Eh, lad, you're a bit worse for wear," said Jorum.
Arthas looked down at himself and his heart sank. He was covered in straw and horse spittle. Arthas shrugged. "Maybe I should jump into a snowbank on my way back to the palace," he offered, grinning. Sobering slightly, he said, "Don't worry. I'm nine years old now. I'm no longer a baby. I can go where I-"
There was a squawking of chickens and the sound of a man's booming voice, and Arthas's face fell. He squared his small shoulders, made an intense but ultimately ineffectual attempt at brushing off the straw, and strode out of the barn.
"Sir Uther," he said in his best I am the prince and you had best remember it I am the prince and you had best remember it voice. "These people have been kind to me. I pray you, don't go trampling their poultry." voice. "These people have been kind to me. I pray you, don't go trampling their poultry."
Or their snapdragon beds, he thought, glancing over at the snow-covered piles of raised earth where the beautiful blooming flowers that were Vara Balnir's pride and joy would burst forth in a few short months. He heard Jorum and Jarim follow him out from the barn, but did not glance behind him, instead regarding the mounted knight, fully clad in- he thought, glancing over at the snow-covered piles of raised earth where the beautiful blooming flowers that were Vara Balnir's pride and joy would burst forth in a few short months. He heard Jorum and Jarim follow him out from the barn, but did not glance behind him, instead regarding the mounted knight, fully clad in- "Armor!" Arthas gasped. "What's happened?"
"I'll explain on the way," Uther said grimly. "I'll send someone back for your horse, Prince Arthas. Steadfast can travel faster even with two." He reached down, a large hand closing on Arthas's arm, and swung the boy up in front of him as if he weighed nothing at all. Vara had come out of the house at the sound of a horse approaching at full gallop. She was wiping her hands off on a towel, and had a smudge of flour on her nose. Her blue eyes were wide, and she looked over at her husband worriedly. Uther nodded politely to her.
"We'll discuss this later," Uther said. "Ma'am." He touched his forehead with a mailed hand in courteous salute, then kicked his horse Steadfast-armored as his rider was-and the beast leaped into action.
Uther's arm was like a band of steel around Arthas's midsection. Fear bubbled up inside the boy but he pushed it down even as he pushed on Uther's arm. "I know how to ride," he said, his petulance covering up his worry. "Tell me what is going on."
"A rider from Southshore has come and gone. He brings ill news. A few days ago, hundreds of small boats filled with refugees from Stormwind landed on our shores," Uther said. He did not remove his arm. Arthas gave up that particular struggle and craned his neck, listening intently, his sea-green eyes wide and fastened on Uther's grim face. "Stormwind has fallen."
"What? Stormwind? Stormwind? How? To who? What-" How? To who? What-"
"We'll find all that out shortly. The survivors, including Prince Varian, are being led by Stormwind's onetime Champion, Lord Anduin Lothar. He, Prince Varian, and others will be coming to Capital City in a few days. Lothar has warned us he bears alarming news-obvious enough if something has destroyed Stormwind. I was sent to find you and bring you back. You've no business playing with the common folk at this moment."
Stunned, Arthas turned and faced forward again, his hands gripping Steadfast's mane. Stormwind! He had never been there, but had heard tales about it. It was a mighty place, with great stone walls and beautiful buildings. It had been built with sturdiness in mind, to withstand the buffeting of the fierce winds from which it had taken its name. To think that it had fallen-who or what could be strong enough to take such a city?
"How many people came with them?" he asked, pitching his voice louder than he really wished to in order to be heard over the drumming of the horse's hooves as they headed back toward the city.
"Unknown. Not a small number, that much is certain. The messenger said it was everyone who had survived."
Survived what?
"And Prince Varian?" He'd heard of Varian all his life, of course, just as he knew all the names of the neighboring kings, queens, princes, and princesses. Suddenly his eyes widened. Uther had mentioned Varian-but not the prince's father, King Llane- "Will soon become King Varian. King Llane fell with Stormwind."
This news of a single tragedy hit Arthas harder somehow than the thought of thousands of people suddenly rendered homeless. Arthas's own family was close-knit-he, his sister, Calia, his mother, Queen Lianne, and of course King Terenas. He'd seen how some rulers behaved with their families, and knew that his was remarkable in the degree of closeness. To have lost your city, your way of life, and your father- "Poor Varian," he said, quick tears of sympathy coming to his eyes.
Uther patted his shoulder awkwardly. "Aye," he said. "It is a dark day for the boy."
Arthas shivered suddenly, and not from the cold of a bright winter's day. The beautiful afternoon, with its blue sky and softly curving snow-draped landscape, had suddenly darkened for him.
A few days later, Arthas was standing up on the castle's ramparts, keeping Falric, one of the guards, company and handing him a steaming hot mug of tea. Such a visit, like the ones Arthas paid to the Balnir family and the castle's scullery maids and valets and blacksmiths and indeed nearly every underling on the royal grounds, was not unusual. Terenas always sighed, but Arthas knew that no one was ever punished for speaking with him, and indeed he sometimes wondered if his father secretly approved.
Falric smiled gratefully and bowed deeply in genuine respect, pulling off his gauntlets so the mug would warm his cold hands. Snow threatened, and the sky was a pale gray, but thus far the weather was clear. Arthas leaned against the wall, resting his chin on his folded arms. He looked out over the rolling white hills of Tirisfal, down the road that led through Silverpine Forest to Southshore. The road along which Anduin Lothar, the mage Khadgar, and Prince Varian would be traveling.
"Any sign of them?"
"Nay, Your Highness," Falric answered, sipping the hot beverage. "It could be today, tomorrow, or the day after. If you're hoping to catch a glimpse, sir, you may be waiting awhile."
Arthas shot him a grin, his eyes crinkling with mirth. "Better than lessons," he said.
"Well, sir, you'd know that better than I would," Falric said diplomatically, clearly fighting the impulse to grin back.
While the guard finished the tea, Arthas sighed and looked back down the road as he had a dozen times before. This had been exciting at first, but now he was becoming bored. He wanted to go back and find out how Brightmane's foal was, and began wondering how difficult it would be to slip away for a few hours and not be missed. Falric was right. Lothar and Varian might still be a few days away if- Arthas blinked. He slowly lifted his chin from his hands and narrowed his eyes.
"They're coming!" he cried, pointing.
Falric was at his side immediately, the mug forgotten. He nodded.
"Sharp eyes, Prince Arthas! Marwyn!" he called. Another soldier snapped to attention. "Go tell the king that Lothar and Varian are on their way. They should be here within the hour."
"Aye, captain," the younger man said, saluting.
"I'll do it! I'll go!" said Arthas, already moving as he spoke. Marwyn hesitated, glancing back at his superior officer, but Arthas was determined to beat him. He raced down the steps, slipping on the ice and having to jump the rest of the way, and ran through the courtyard, skidding to a halt as he approached the throne room and barely remembering to compose himself. Today was when Terenas met with representatives of the populace, to listen to their concerns and do what he could to assist them.
Arthas flipped back the hood of his beautifully embroidered red runecloth cape. He took a deep breath, letting it escape his lips as soft mist, and nodded as he approached the two guards, who saluted sharply and turned to push open the doors for him.
The throne room was significantly warmer than the outside courtyard, even though it was a large chamber formed of marble and stone with a high domed ceiling. Even on overcast days such as this one, the octagonal window at the apex of the dome let in plenty of natural light. Torches in their sconces burned steadily on the walls, adding both warmth and an orange tint to the room. An intricate design of circles enclosing the seal of Lordaeron graced the floor, hidden now by the gathering of people respectfully awaiting their turn to address their liege.
Seated in the jeweled throne on a tiered dais was King Terenas II. His fair hair was touched with gray only at the temples, and his face was slightly lined, with more smile lines than the creased frowns that etched their marks on souls as well as visages. He wore a beautifully tailored robe in hues of blue and purple, wrought with gleaming gold embroidery that caught the torchlight and glinted off his crown. Terenas leaned forward slightly, engrossed in what the man who stood before him-a lesser noble whose name Arthas couldn't recall at the moment-was saying. His eyes, blue-green and intent, were focused on the man.
For a moment, knowing whose coming he was about to announce, Arthas simply stood looking at his father. He, like Varian, was the son of a king, a prince of the blood. But Varian had no father, not anymore, and Arthas felt a lump rise in his throat at the thought of seeing that throne empty, of hearing the ancient song of coronation sung for him.