PART THREE
THE DARK LADY
INTERLUDE Sylvanas Windrunner, former ranger-general of Quel'Thalas, banshee, and Dark Lady of the Forsaken, strode from the royal quarters with the same quick, lithe stride she had had in life. She preferred her corporeal form for ordinary, everyday activities. Her leather boots made no sound on the stone floor of the Undercity, but all heads turned to watch their lady. She was unique and unmistakable.
Once, her hair had been golden, her eyes blue, her skin the color of a fresh peach. Once, she had been alive. Now her hair, often covered by a blue-black cowl, was black as midnight with white streaks and her formerly peach-hued skin a faint, pearly blue-gray. She'd chosen to don the armor she had worn in life, well-tooled leather that revealed most of her slender but muscular torso. Her ears twitched at the murmurings; she did not often venture forth from her chambers. She was ruler of this city, and the world came to her.
Beside her hurried Master Apothecary Faranell, head of the Royal Apothecary Society, who was talking animatedly and simpering. "I am most grateful you agreed to come, my lady," he said, trying to bow and walk and speak at the same time. "You did say you wished to be informed when the experiments were successful, and you wanted to see them yourself once we-"
"I am well aware of my own orders, Doctor," Sylvanas snapped as they began to descend a winding corridor into the bowels of the Undercity.
"Of course, of course. Here we are." They emerged into a room that to one with weaker sensibilities would seem like a house of horrors. On a large table, a stooped undead was busily sewing together pieces of different corpses, humming a little under his breath. Sylvanas smiled slightly.
"It is good to see someone who enjoys his work so," she replied a trifle archly. The apprentice started slightly, and then bowed deeply.
There was a low buzz of some kind of energy crackling. Other alchemists bustled about, mixing potions, weighing ingredients, jotting notes. The smell was a combination of putrefaction, chemicals, and, incongruously, the clean sweet smell of certain herbs. Sylvanas was startled by her reaction. The scent of the herbs made her oddly...homesick. Fortunately, the softer emotion did not last long. Such emotions never did.
"Show me," she demanded. Faranell bowed and ushered her through the main area, past pieces of bodies hanging on hooks, into a side room.
The faint sound of sobbing reached her ears. As she entered, Sylvanas saw several cages on the floor or swinging slowly from chains, all of them filled with test subjects. Some were human. Some were Forsaken. All were dull-eyed with fear that had pierced so deep and had gone on so long that they were almost numb.
They would not be so for much longer.
"As you can imagine, my lady," Faranell was saying, "it is difficult to transport Scourge as test subjects. Of course for experimental purposes, Forsaken are identical to Scourge. But I am delighted to report that our tests in the field have been well documented and quite successful."
Excitement began to stir in Sylvanas, and she graced the apothecary with a rare and still beautiful smile. "That pleases me greatly," she said. The undead doctor fairly quivered in delight. He beckoned to his assistant Keever, a Forsaken whose brain had obviously been damaged by his first death and who muttered to himself in the third person as he removed two test subjects. One was a human woman, who was apparently not so lost in fear and despair as not to start weeping silently when Keever dragged her from her cage. The Forsaken male, however, was utterly impassive and stood quietly. Sylvanas eyed him.
"Criminal?"
"Of course, my lady." She wondered if it were true. But in the end, it didn't matter. He would serve the Forsaken, even so. The human girl was on her knees. Keever stooped down, yanked her head up by her hair, and when she opened her mouth to cry out in pain, he poured a cup of something down her throat and covered her mouth, forcing her to swallow.
Sylvanas watched while she struggled. Beside her, the Forsaken male accepted the cup that Faranell offered without protest, draining it dry.
It happened quickly. The human girl soon stopped struggling, her body tensing, and then going into paroxysms. Keever let her go, watching almost curiously as blood began to stream from her mouth, nose, eyes, and ears. Sylvanas turned her gaze to the Forsaken. He still regarded her steadily, silently. She began to frown.
"Perhaps this is not as effective as your-"
The Forsaken shuddered. He struggled to stand erect for a moment longer, but his rapidly weakening body betrayed him and he stumbled, falling hard. Everyone stepped back. Sylvanas watched raptly, her lips parted in excitement.
"The same strain?" she asked Faranell. The human female whimpered once and then was still, her eyes open. The alchemist nodded happily.
"Indeed it is," he said. "As you can imagine, we are quite-"
The undead spasmed, his skin breaking open in spots and weeping black ichor, and then he, too, was still.
"-pleased with the results."
"Indeed," Sylvanas said. She was hard put to conceal her own elation; "pleased" was a pale word indeed. "A plague that kills both humans and Scourge. And, obviously, affects my own people as well, as they, too, are undead."
She gave him a look from glowing silver eyes. "We must take care that this never falls into the wrong hands. The results could be...devastating."
He gulped. "Indeed, my lady, indeed they could."
She forced a neutral expression as she returned to the royal quarters. Her mind was racing with a thousand things, but foremost among them, burning as brightly and wildly as the wicker man she lit every Hallow's End, was a single thought: At last, Arthas, you will pay for what you have done. The humans who spawned such as you shall be slaughtered. Your Scourge shall be stopped in their tracks. You will no longer be able to hide behind your armies of mindless undead puppets. And we will grace you with the same mercy and compassion you showed us.
Despite her great control, she found herself smiling.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was, Arthas mused as he rode upon the back of the skeletal, faithful Invincible toward Andorhal, a truly great irony that he who had slain the necromancer Kel'Thuzad was now charged with resurrecting him.
Frostmourne whispered to him, although he did not need the voice of the sword-the voice of the Lich King, as he desired to be known-to reassure him. There was no going back. Nor did he wish to.
After the fall of Capital City, Arthas had retreated into a dark version of a paladin's pilgrimage. He had ridden the length and breadth of his land, bringing his new subjects to town after town and unleashing them upon the populace. He thought the Scourge, which Kel'Thuzad had called them, a fitting name. The instrument of self-flagellation of the same name, sometimes used by some of the more fringe elements of the priesthood, was meant to cleanse impurities. His Scourge would cleanse the land of the living. He stood straddling the worlds; he was alive after a fashion, but the Lich King's soft whispers were calling him death knight, death knight, and the leeching of color from his hair and skin and eyes seemed to indicate that it was more than a title. He did not know; he did not care. He was the Lich King's favored, and the Scourge was his to command, and in a strange, twisted way, he found that he cared for them. and the leeching of color from his hair and skin and eyes seemed to indicate that it was more than a title. He did not know; he did not care. He was the Lich King's favored, and the Scourge was his to command, and in a strange, twisted way, he found that he cared for them.
Arthas now served the Lich King through one of his sergeants, a dreadlord, almost identical in form to Mal'Ganis. This, too, was irony; this, too, did not distress him.
"Like Mal'Ganis, I am a dreadlord. But I am not your enemy," Tichondrius had reassured him. The lips twisted in a smile that was more of a sneer. "In truth, I've come to congratulate you. By killing your own father and delivering this land to the Scourge, you have passed your first test. The Lich King is pleased with your...enthusiasm."
Arthas felt buffeted by twin emotions-pain and exultation.
"Yes," he said, keeping his voice steady in front of the demon, "I've damned everyone and everything I've ever loved in his name, and I still feel no remorse. No pity. No shame."
And in his heart of hearts, there came another whisper, but not from Frostmourne: Liar. Liar.
He forced the sentiment down. That voice would be silenced, somehow. He could not afford to permit the softness to grow. It was like gangrene; it would eat him, if he let it.
Tichondrius seemed not to notice. He pointed to Frostmourne. "The runeblade you carry was forged by my kind, long ago. The Lich King has empowered it to steal souls. Yours was the first one it claimed."
Emotions warred within Arthas. He stared at the blade. Tichondrius's word choice had not escaped him. Stolen. Stolen. Had the Lich King asked for his soul in exchange for saving his people, Arthas would have given it. But the Lich King had asked no such thing; he had simply taken it. And now it was there, locked inside the glowing weapon, so close to Arthas that the prince-the king-could almost, but not quite, touch it. And had Arthas even gotten what he had set out to get? Had his people been saved? Had the Lich King asked for his soul in exchange for saving his people, Arthas would have given it. But the Lich King had asked no such thing; he had simply taken it. And now it was there, locked inside the glowing weapon, so close to Arthas that the prince-the king-could almost, but not quite, touch it. And had Arthas even gotten what he had set out to get? Had his people been saved?
Did it matter?
Tichondrius watched him closely. "Then I'll make do without one," Arthas said lightly. "What is the Lich King's will?"
It had been, it turned out, to rally what was left of the Cult of the Damned in order to have aid for a greater undertaking-the recovery of Kel'Thuzad's remains.
They lay, he had been told, in Andorhal, where Arthas himself had left them, a puddle of reeking, decaying flesh. Andorhal, where the shipments of plagued grain had come from. He recalled his fury as he had attacked the necromancer, but felt it no longer. A smile curved his pale lips. Irony.
The buildings that had once been a conflagration were now charred timbers. No one save the undead should be here now...and yet...Arthas frowned, drawing rein. Invincible halted, as obedient in death as he had been in life. Arthas could glimpse figures moving about. What little light there was on this dim day glinted off- "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 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. 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, brother," he growled softly. "When I slay your body and raise it as my servant, and make you dance to my tune, that, that, Gavinrad, will be a mockery of the Silver Hand." 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 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. 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 gotten 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, ashes, Arthas! What, were you hoping to piss on them one last time before you left his kingdom to rot?" 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."