"Lady Jaina Proudmoore," Kel'Thuzad purred. "Looks like Antonidas's little apprentice is all grown up. And quite the contrary my dear...as you can see, I have learned a great deal."
"I saw the rats you experimented with!" Jaina cried. "That was bad enough-but now you-"
"Have furthered my research and perfected it," Kel'Thuzad answered.
"Are you responsible for this plague, necromancer?" Arthas shouted. "Is this cult your doing?"
Kel'Thuzad turned to him, his eyes glittering in the shadow of his cowl. "I ordered the Cult of the Damned to distribute the plagued grain. But the sole credit is not mine."
Before Arthas could speak, Jaina had burst out, "What do you mean?"
"I serve the dreadlord Mal'Ganis. He commands the Scourge that will cleanse this land and establish a paradise of eternal darkness!"
A chill swept over Arthas despite the heat of the surrounding fires at the tone of the man's voice. He did not know what a "dreadlord" was, but the meaning of "Scourge" was clear. "And what exactly is this Scourge meant to cleanse?"
The thin-lipped mouth beneath the white mustache again curled in a cruel smile. "Why, the living, of course. His plan is already in motion. Seek him out at Stratholme if you need further proof."
Arthas had had enough of teasing hints and taunts. He growled, gripped the haft of his hammer, and charged forward. "For the Light!" he cried.
Kel'Thuzad had not moved. He stood his ground, then, at the last minute, the air around him twisted and puckered, and he was gone. The two creatures who had stood silently at his sides now clamped their arms on Arthas, trying to wrestle him down to the earth, their fetid stench vying with the smell of smoke to choke him. He twisted free, landing a strong, clean blow to the head of one of them. Its skull shattered like a fragile piece of blown glass, brains spattering the earth as it collapsed. The second was as easily dealt with.
"The granary!" he cried, running to his horse and leaping atop it. "Come on!"
The others mounted up and they charged down the main path through the burning village. The granaries loomed up ahead of them. They were untouched by the fire that seemed to be racing through the rest of Andorhal.
Arthas drew his horse up sharply and leaped off it, running as fast as he could toward the buildings. He pulled open the door, hoping desperately to see crates piled high. Grief and rage swept through him as the only thing to meet his gaze were empty chambers-empty save for small, scattered bits of grain and the corpses of rats on the floor. He stared, sick, for a moment, then raced to the next one, and the next, yanking the doors open even though he knew exactly what he would find.
They were all empty. And had been for some time, if the layers of dust on the floor and the spiderwebs in the corners were any indication.
"The shipments have already been sent out," he said brokenly as Jaina stepped up beside him. "We're too late!" He slammed his gauntleted fist into the wooden door and Jaina jumped. "Dammit!"
"Arthas, we did the best we-"
He whirled on her furiously. "I'm going to find him. I'm going to find that undead-loving bastard and rip him limb from limb for this! Let him him get someone to sew him back together." get someone to sew him back together."
He stormed out, shaking. He'd failed. He'd had the man right there and he'd failed. The grain had been sent out, and Light alone knew how many people would die because of that.
Because of him. him.
No. He was not going to let that happen. He would protect his people. He would die to protect them. Arthas clenched his fists.
"North," he said to the men who trailed behind him, unaccustomed to seeing their generally good-natured prince in the grip of such fury. "That's the next place he'll go. Let's exterminate him like the vermin he is."
He rode like a man possessed, galloping north, almost absently slaughtering the shambling wrecks of human beings who attempted to stop him. He was no longer moved by the horror of it all; his mind's eye was filled with the vision of the man manipulating it and the disgusting cult that perpetrated it. The dead would rest soon enough; Arthas had to ensure that no more would be made.
At one point there was a huge cluster of the undead. Rotting heads lifted as one, turning toward Arthas and his men, and they moved toward him. Arthas cried out, "For the Light!", kicked his steed, and charged in among them, swinging his hammer and crying out incoherently, venting his anger and frustration on these, the perfect targets. At one point, there was a lull, and he was able to look around.
Safe and secure away from the field of battle, overseeing everything while risking nothing, stood a tall figure in a fluttering black cloak. As if waiting for them.
Kel'Thuzad.
"There!" he cried. "He's there!"
Jaina and his men followed him, Jaina blasting clear passage with fireball after fireball, and his men hacking the undead that did not fall in the first round of attacks. Arthas felt righteous fury singing in his veins as he drew closer and closer to the necromancer. His hammer rose and fell, seemingly effortlessly, and he didn't even see those he struck down. His eyes were fixed on the man-if you could even call such a monster that-responsible for everything in the first place. Cut off the head, and the beast would die.
Then Arthas was there. A bellow of raw fury exploded from him and he swung, sweeping his brilliantly glowing hammer parallel to the ground, striking Kel'Thuzad at the knees and sending him flying. Others pressed in, swords slicing and hacking, the men venting their grief and outrage on the source, the cause, of the entire disaster.
For all his power and magic, it seemed as though Kel'Thuzad could indeed die like any other man. Both legs were shattered by Arthas's sweeping blow and lay at odd angles. His robes were wet with blood, shiny black against a matte black, and red trickled from his mouth. He propped himself up on his arms and tried to speak, spitting out blood and teeth. He tried again.
"Naive...fool," he managed, swallowing. "My death will make little difference in the long run...for now...the scourging of this land...begins."
His elbows buckled and, eyes closing, he fell.
The body began to rot immediately. Decomposition that should have taken days happened in mere seconds, the flesh paling, bloating, bursting open. The men gasped and started back, covering their noses and mouths. Some of them turned and vomited from the stench. Arthas stared, horrified and enraptured at the same time, unable to look away. Fluids gushed from the corpse, the flesh taking on a creamy consistency and turning black. The unnatural decomposition slowed and Arthas turned away, gasping for fresh air.
Jaina was deathly pale with dark circles around her wide, shocked eyes. Arthas went to her and turned her away from the disgusting image. "What happened to him?" he asked quietly.
Jaina swallowed, trying to calm herself. Again, she seemed to find strength in her detachment. "It is believed that, ah, if necromancers are not perfectly precise in their magical workings that, um...if they are killed they are subject to..." Her voice trailed off and suddenly she was a young woman, looking sickened and shocked. "That."
"Come on," Arthas said gently. "Let's get to Hearthglen. They need to be warned-if we're not too late already."
They left the body where it had fallen, not granting it another glance. Arthas said a silent prayer to the Light that they were not too late. He did not know what he would do if he failed again.
Jaina was exhausted. She knew that Arthas wanted to make the best time possible, and she shared his concern. Lives were at stake. So when he asked her if she could go through the night without stopping, she nodded.
They had been riding hard for four hours when she found herself half off her mount. She was so bone-weary she'd fallen unconscious for a few seconds. Fear shot through her and she grabbed onto the horse's mane wildly, pulling herself back up into the saddle and yanking on the reins so the horse would stop.
She sat there, the reins clutched in her hands, trembling, for several minutes before Arthas realized she'd fallen behind. Dimly she heard him calling a halt. She looked up at him mutely as he cantered up to her.
"Jaina, what's wrong?"
"I...I'm sorry Arthas. I know you want to make good time and so do I, but-I was so tired I almost fell off. Could we stop, for just a little while?"
She saw the concern for her and frustration at the situation warring on his face, even in the dim light. "How long do you think you'll need?"
A couple of days, she wanted to say, but instead she said, "Just long enough to eat something and rest for a bit." she wanted to say, but instead she said, "Just long enough to eat something and rest for a bit."
He nodded, reaching up to her and helping her off the horse. He bore her to the side of the road, where he set her down gently. Jaina fished in her pack for some cheese with hands that trembled. She expected him to head off and talk to the men, but instead he sat down beside her. Impatience radiated from him like heat from a fire.
She took a bite of cheese and looked up at him as she chewed, analyzing his profile in the starlight. One of the things she most loved about Arthas was how accessible, how human and emotional, he was to her. But now, while he was certainly in the grip of powerful emotions, he felt distant, as if he was a hundred miles away.
Impulsively she reached a hand to touch his face. He started at her touch, as if he had forgotten she was there, then smiled thinly at her. "Done?" he asked.
Jaina thought about the single bite she had eaten. "No," she said, "but...Arthas, I'm worried about you. I don't like what this is doing to you."
"Doing to me me?" he snapped. "What about what it's doing to the villagers? They're dying and then getting turned into corpses, Jaina. I have to stop it, I have have to!" to!"
"Of course we do, and I'll do everything I can to help; you know that. But...I've never seen you hate anything like this."
He laughed, a short harsh bark. "You want me to love necromancers?"
She frowned. "Arthas, don't twist my words like that. You're a paladin. A servant of the Light. You're a healer as much as a warrior, but all I see in you is this desire to wipe out the enemy."
"You're starting to sound like Uther."
Jaina didn't reply. She was so weary, it was difficult to compose her thoughts. She took another bite of cheese, focusing on getting the badly needed nourishment into her body. For some reason it was hard for her to swallow.
"Jaina...I just want innocent people to stop dying. That's all. And...I admit, I'm upset that I can't seem to make that happen. But once this is over, you'll see. Everything will be fine again. I promise."
He smiled down at her, and for a moment she saw the old Arthas in his handsome face. She smiled back in what she hoped was a reassuring fashion.
"Are you done now?"
Two bites. Jaina put the rest of the cheese away. "Yes, I'm done. Let's keep going."
The sky was turning from black to the ashy gray of dawn when they first heard the gunfire. Arthas's heart sank. He spurred his horse as they wound their way north up the long road that cut through the deceptively pleasant hills. Just outside the gates of Hearthglen, they saw several men and dwarves armed with rifles-all trained on them. Wafted to him on the light breeze, mixed in with the smell of gunpowder, was the incongruously pleasant, slightly sweet scent of baking bread.
"Hold your fire!" Arthas cried as his troops galloped up. He drew rein so hard his mount reared in startlement. "I am Prince Arthas! What's going on? Why are you so armed?"
They lowered their rifles, clearly surprised to see their prince standing right in front of them. "Sir, you won't believe what's been going on."
"Try me," Arthas said.
Arthas was not surprised to hear the initial words-that the dead had risen and were attacking. What did surprise him was the term "vast army." He glanced at Jaina. She looked utterly exhausted. The little break they had taken last night obviously hadn't been sufficient to restore her.
"Sir," cried one of the scouts, rushing in, "the army-it's heading this way!"
"Dammit," Arthas muttered. This small group of men and dwarves could handle a skirmish well enough, but not a whole damned army of the things. He made a decision. "Jaina, I'll stay here to protect the village. Go as quickly as you can and tell Lord Uther what's happened."
"But-"
"Go, Jaina! Every second counts!"
She nodded. Light bless her and that level head of hers. He spared her a smile of gratitude before she stepped through the portal she created and disappeared.
"Sir," said Falric, and something in the tone of his voice made Arthas turn. "You'd...better take a look at this."
Arthas followed the man's gaze and his heart sank. Empty crates...bearing the mark of Andorhal...
Hoping against hope that he was wrong, Arthas asked in a voice that shook slightly, "What did those crates contain?"
One of the Hearthglen men looked at him, puzzled. "Just a grain shipment from Andorhal. There's no need to worry, milord. It's already been distributed among the villagers. We've had plenty of bread."
That was the smell-not the typical smell of baking bread, but slightly off, slightly too sweet-and then Arthas understood. He staggered, just a little, as the enormity of the situation, the true scope of its horror, burst over him. The grain had been distributed...and suddenly there was a vast army of the undead.... was the smell-not the typical smell of baking bread, but slightly off, slightly too sweet-and then Arthas understood. He staggered, just a little, as the enormity of the situation, the true scope of its horror, burst over him. The grain had been distributed...and suddenly there was a vast army of the undead....
"Oh, no," he whispered. They stared at him and he tried again to speak, his voice still shaking. But this time, not with horror, but with fury.
The plague was never meant to simply kill his people. No, no, it was much darker, much more twisted than that. It was meant to turn them into- Even as the thought formed, the man who had answered Arthas's question about the crate bent over double. Several others followed suit. A strange green glow limned their bodies, pulsing and growing stronger. They clutched their stomachs and fell to the earth, blood erupting from their mouths, saturating their shirts. One of them stretched out a hand to him, imploring for healing. Instead, Arthas, repulsed, recoiled in horror, staring as the man writhed in pain and died in a matter of seconds.
What had he done? The man had begged for healing, but Arthas had not even lifted a hand. But could this even be be healed, Arthas wondered as he stared at the corpse. Could the Light even- healed, Arthas wondered as he stared at the corpse. Could the Light even- "Merciful Light!" Falric cried. "The bread-"
Arthas started at the shout, coming out of his guilty trance. Bread-the staff of life-wholesome and nourishing-had now become worse than lethal. Arthas opened his mouth to cry out, to warn his men, but his tongue was like clay in his mouth.
The plague embedded into the grain acted even before the shocked prince could find words.
The dead man's eyes opened. He lurched upright into a seated position.
And that that was how Kel'Thuzad had created an undead army in so astonishingly short a time. was how Kel'Thuzad had created an undead army in so astonishingly short a time.
Insane laughter echoed in his ears-Kel'Thuzad, laughing maniacally, triumphant even in death. Arthas wondered if he was going mad from all he had been forced to bear witness to. The undead clambered to their feet, and their movement galvanized him to action and liberated his tongue.
"Defend yourselves!" Arthas cried, swinging his hammer before the man had a chance to rise. Others were swifter, though, getting to dead feet, turning the weapons that in life they would have used to protect Arthas upon him. The only advantage he had was that the undead were not graceful with their weapons, and most of the shots they fired went wide. Arthas's men, meanwhile, attacked with hard eyes and grim faces, bashing skulls, decapitating, smashing what had been allies just a few moments earlier into submission.
"Prince Arthas, the undead forces have arrived!"
Arthas whirled, his armor spattered with gore, and his eyes widened slightly.
So many. There were so many of them, skeletons who had been long dead, fresh corpses recently turned, more of the pale, maggoty abominations thundering down on them. He could sense the panic. They had fought handfuls, but not this-not an army of the walking dead.
Arthas thrust his hammer into the air. It flared to glowing life. "Hold your ground!" he cried, his voice no longer weak and shaking or harsh and angry. "We are the chosen of the Light! We shall not fall! We shall not fall!"
The Light bathing his determined features, he charged.
Jaina was more exhausted than she had admitted even to herself. Drained after the days of fighting with little or no rest, she collapsed after finishing the teleportation spell. She thought she blacked out for a moment, because the next thing she knew her master was bending over her, lifting her off the floor.
"Jaina-child, what is it?"
"Uther," Jaina managed. "Arthas-Hearthglen-" She reached up and clutched Antonidas's robes. "Necromancers-Kel'Thuzad-raising the dead to fight-"
Antonidas's eyes widened. Jaina gulped and continued. "Arthas and his men are fighting in Hearthglen alone. He needs reinforcements immediately!"
"I think Uther is at the palace," Antonidas said. "I'll send several magi there right away to open portals for as many men as he needs to bring. You did well, my dear. I'm very proud of you. Now, you get some rest."
"No!" Jaina cried. She struggled to her feet, barely able to stand, forcing the exhaustion back by sheer will alone, holding out a shaking hand to keep Antonidas back. "I have to be with him. I'll be all right. Come on!"