"Sure," he said, smiling on her behalf. She was drinking this in like one who had been given water after a week in the desert, but he felt...unwanted. He clearly did not have the affinity for wielding magic as she did.
"I'm told that outsiders aren't usually welcome," she said. "I think that's a shame. It would be nice to see you again."
She blushed, and for a moment, Arthas forgot about the intimidation the city emanated, and heartily agreed that it would be nice to see Lady Jaina Proudmoore again, too.
Very nice indeed.
"Again, ye little gnome girl! I'll pull yer pigtails, ye-Ooof!"
The shield caught the taunting dwarf full in the helmed face, and he actually stumbled back a step or two. Arthas slashed with the sword, grinning beneath his own helm as it connected solidly. Then suddenly, he was sailing through the air to land hard on his back. His vision was filled with the image of a looming head with a long beard, and he was barely able to lift his blade in time to parry. With a grunt, he pulled his legs in to his chest and then extended them hard, catching Muradin in the gut. This time it was the dwarf who went hurtling backward. Arthas brought his legs down swiftly and leaped up in a single smooth motion, charging his teacher who was still on the ground, coming at him with blow after blow until Muradin spoke the words that Arthas honestly never thought he'd hear: "I yield!"
It took everything Arthas had to halt the strike, pulling up and back so abruptly he lost his balance and stumbled. Muradin lay where he was, his chest rising and falling.
Fear squeezed Arthas's heart. "Muradin? Muradin!"
A hearty chuckle escaped from the thick, bronze beard. "Well done, lad, well done indeed!" He struggled to sit up and Arthas was there, reaching out a hand to help haul the dwarf to his feet. Muradin pumped the hand happily. "So, ye were payin' attention after all when I taught ye my special trick."
Relieved and pleased with the praise, Arthas grinned. Some of what Muradin taught him would be repeated, honed, and reinforced in his paladin training. But other things-well, he didn't think Uther the Lightbringer would know about feet planted firmly in the belly, or the rather handy trick regarding the efficacy of a broken wine bottle. There was fighting and there was fighting, fighting, and Muradin Bronzebeard seemed determined that Arthas Menethil would understand all aspects of it. and Muradin Bronzebeard seemed determined that Arthas Menethil would understand all aspects of it.
Arthas was fourteen now, and had been training with Muradin several times a week, save for when the dwarf was away on diplomatic errands. At first, it had gone as both parties had expected-badly. Arthas left the first dozen or so sessions bruised, bloodied, and limping. He had stubbornly refused any offers of healing, insisting that the pain was part of the process. Muradin had approved, and he had shown it by pressing Arthas all the harder. Arthas never complained, not even when he wanted to, not even when Muradin scolded him or pressed the attack long after Arthas was too exhausted to even hold up a shield.
And for that stubborn refusal to whine or to quit, he was rewarded twofold: he learned and learned well, and he won the respect of Muradin Bronzebeard.
"Oh yes, sir, I was paying attention." Arthas chuckled.
"Good lad, good lad." Muradin reached up to clap him on the shoulder. "Now, off wi' ye. Ye've taken quite the beating today; ye deserve a bit o' rest."
His eyes twinkled as he spoke and Arthas nodded as if agreeing. Today, it was Muradin who had taken the beating. And he seemed as happy as Arthas at the fact. The prince's heart suddenly swelled with affection toward the dwarf. Though a strict taskmaster, Muradin was someone of whom Arthas had grown terribly fond.
He whistled a little as he strode toward his quarters, but then a sudden outburst froze him in his tracks.
"No, Father! I will not!"
"Calia, I grow tired of this conversation. You have no say in this matter."
"Papa, please, no!"
Arthas edged a little closer to Calia's chambers. The door was ajar and he listened, slightly worried. Terenas doted on Calia. What in the world was he asking of her to make her beg with him and use the term of endearment that both she and Arthas had dropped as they grew toward adulthood?
Calia sobbed brokenly. Arthas could take it no longer. He opened the door. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help but overhear, but-what is wrong?"
Terenas had recently seemed to be acting strangely, and now he looked furious with his sixteen-year-old daughter. "It is no business of yours, Arthas," Terenas rumbled. "I have told Calia something I wish her to do. She will obey me."
Calia collapsed on the bed, sobbing. Arthas stared from his father to his sister in utter astonishment. Terenas muttered something and stormed out. Arthas glanced back at Calia, then followed his father.
"Father, please, what's going on?"
"Do not question me. Calia's duty is to obey her father." Terenas marched through a door and into a receiving room. Arthas recognized Lord Daval Prestor, a young noble whom Terenas seemed to hold in very high regard, and a pair of visiting Dalaran wizards he did not know.
"Run along back to your sister, Arthas, and try to calm her. I'll be with you as soon as I can, I promise."
With a final glance at the three visitors, Arthas nodded and went back to Calia's rooms. His older sister had not moved, although her sobs had quieted somewhat. At a total loss, Arthas simply sat beside her on the bed, feeling awkward.
Calia sat up on the bed, her face wet. "I'm sorry you h-had to see that, Arthas, but m-maybe it's for the best."
"What did Father want you to do?"
"He wishes me to marry against my will."
Arthas blinked. "Calie, you're only sixteen, you're not even old old enough to get married." enough to get married."
She reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at her swollen eyes. "That's what I said. But Father said it didn't matter; we'd formalize the betrothal and on my birthday I'd marry Lord Prestor."
Arthas's sea-green eyes widened in comprehension. So that was why Prestor was here....
"Well," he began awkwardly, "he's very well connected, and-I guess he's handsome. Everyone says so. At least he's not some old man."
"You don't understand, Arthas. I don't care how well connected or handsome or even kind he is. It's that I don't have any choice in the matter. I'm-I'm like your horse. I'm a thing, not a person. To be given away as Father sees fit-to seal a political bargain."
"You-you don't love Prestor?"
"Love him?" Her blue, bloodshot eyes narrowed in anger. "I barely know him! He's never taken the slightest...oh, what's the use? I know that this is common practice among royalty and nobility. That we are pawns. But I just never expected Father-"
Nor had Arthas. He'd honestly never given much thought to marriage for himself or his sister. He was much more interested in training with Muradin and riding Invincible. But Calia was right. It was common among the nobility to make good marriages to ensure their political status.
He'd just never thought his father would sell his daughter like-like a broodmare.
"Calie, I'm really sorry," he said, and meant it. "Is there someone else? Maybe you could convince Father that there's a better match-one that makes you happy as well."
Calia shook her head bitterly. "It's no use. You heard him. He didn't ask me, didn't suggest Lord Prestor-he ordered me." She looked at him pleadingly. "Arthas, when you are king, promise me-promise me you won't do that to your children."
Children? Arthas was in no way ready to think about that. There weren't even any-well, there was, was, but he hadn't thought about her in- but he hadn't thought about her in- "And when you marry-Papa cannot order you as he orders me. Make sure you care for this girl and-and that she cares for you. Or is at least asked asked about whom she wants to share her life and her b-bed with." about whom she wants to share her life and her b-bed with."
She started to weep afresh, but Arthas was too shaken by the revelation that burst upon him. He was only fourteen now, but in four short years, he'd be of age to wed. He suddenly recalled snatches of conversation he'd heard here and there about the future of the Menethil line. His wife would be the mother of kings. He'd have to choose carefully, but also, as Calia had asked, kindly. His parents obviously cared greatly for each other. It was reflected in their smiles and gestures, despite many years of marriage. Arthas wanted that. He wanted a companion, a friend, a- He frowned. But what if he couldn't have that? "I'm sorry, Calie, but maybe you're the lucky one. It might be worse to have the freedom to choose, and know that you couldn't have what you wanted."
"I would trade that for being a-a piece of meat in a heartbeat."
"We each have our duties, I guess," Arthas said quietly, somberly. "You to marry whomever Father wants, and me to marry well for the kingdom." He rose abruptly. "I'm sorry, Calie."
"Arthas-where are you going?"
He didn't answer, but practically raced through the palace to the stables and, without waiting for a groom, quickly saddled Invincible himself. Arthas knew it was only a temporary solution, but he was fourteen, and a temporary solution was still a solution.
He bent low over Invincible's back, the white mane whipping his face as the horse galloped, all sleekly coiled muscle and grace. Arthas's face stretched in a grin. He was never happier than when he rode like this, the two of them merging into one glorious whole. He had waited, his patience sorely tested, for so long to be able to ride the animal he had watched coming into the world, but it had been worth it. They were the perfect team. Invincible wanted nothing from him, asked nothing of him, only seemed to wish to be allowed to escape the confines of the stables as Arthas longed to escape the confines of his royalty. They did so together.
They were coming up on the jump Arthas loved now. To the east of Capital City and close to the Balnir farmstead was a small cluster of hills. Invincible surged, the earth devoured by his pounding hooves, pulling himself upward toward the precipice almost as fast as if they were on level ground. He wheeled and turned along the narrow pathways, sending stones scattering with his hooves, his heart and Arthas's both racing in excitement. Then Arthas guided the stallion to the left, over an embankment-a shortcut to the Balnir property. Invincible did not hesitate, had not hesitated even the first time that Arthas had asked him to leap. He gathered himself and launched forward, and for a glorious, heart-stopping moment, horse and rider were airborne. Then they landed securely on soft, springy grass, and were off again.
Invincible.
CHAPTER FOUR
"As you can see, Your Highness," said Lieutenant General Aedelas Blackmoore, "the taxes have been put to good use. Every precaution has been taken in the operation of this facility. In fact, security is so tight we've been able to stage gladiatorial combat here."
"So I've heard," said Arthas, as he walked with the commander of the internment camps on a tour of the grounds. Durnholde, not an internment camp itself, but the nerve center of all of the others, was huge, and indeed had almost a festival air about it. It was a crisp but bright autumn day, and the breeze caused the blue and white banners that flew over the keep to snap energetically. The wind stirred Blackmoore's long raven hair and tugged at Arthas's cloak as they strolled along the ramparts.
"And so you shall also see," Blackmoore promised, giving his prince an ingratiating grin.
It had been Arthas's idea for a surprise inspection. Terenas had praised Arthas for his initiative and compassion. "It's only right, Father," Arthas had said, and by and large he meant it, although his primary reason for the suggestion was to satisfy his curiosity about the pet orc the lieutenant general kept. "We should make sure the money is going into the camps and not Blackmoore's pocket. We can ascertain if he is taking proper care of the gladiatorial participants-and also, make sure he is not walking the path of his father."
Blackmoore's father, General Aedelyn Blackmoore, had been a notorious traitor, tried and convicted of selling state secrets. While his crimes had taken place long ago, when his son had been but a child, the stain had dogged Aedelas throughout his military career. It was only his record of victory in battles, and particular ferocity in fighting the orcs, that had enabled the current Blackmoore to rise in the ranks. Still, Arthas could detect the smell of liquor on the man's breath, even at this hour of the morning. He suspected that particular piece of information would not be news to Terenas, but he'd make sure he told his father anyway.
Arthas looked down, feigning interest in watching the dozens of guards who stood at rigid attention. He wondered if they were that attentive when their future king wasn't watching them.
"I look forward to the bout today," he said. "Will I be able to watch your Thrall in action? I've heard quite a bit about him."
Blackmoore grinned, his neatly trimmed goatee parting to reveal white teeth. "He was not scheduled to fight today, but for you, Your Highness, I shall pair him up against the worthiest foes available."
Two hours later, the tour was complete, and Arthas shared a delicious meal with Blackmoore and a younger man named Lord Karramyn Langston, whom Blackmoore introduced as "my protege." Arthas took an instinctive dislike to Langston, noting the man's soft hands and languid demeanor. At least Blackmoore had fought in battle for his title; this boy-Arthas thought of him as a boy, although in truth Langston was older than Arthas's seventeen years-had been handed everything on a platter.
Well, so have I, he thought, but he also knew what sacrifices a king would be expected to make. Langston looked like he'd never denied himself a thing in his life. Nor did he deny himself now, helping himself to the choicest cuts of meat, the most lavish pastries, and more than one glass of wine to wash it down with. Blackmoore, in contrast, ate sparingly, though he had more alcohol than Langston. he thought, but he also knew what sacrifices a king would be expected to make. Langston looked like he'd never denied himself a thing in his life. Nor did he deny himself now, helping himself to the choicest cuts of meat, the most lavish pastries, and more than one glass of wine to wash it down with. Blackmoore, in contrast, ate sparingly, though he had more alcohol than Langston.
Arthas's dislike of the pair was completed when their serving girl entered and Blackmoore reached to touch her in a proprietary manner. The girl, golden-haired and simply clad, with a face that needed no artifice to be beautiful, smiled as if she enjoyed it, but Arthas caught a quick flash of unhappiness in her blue eyes.
"This is Taretha Foxton," Blackmoore said, one hand still caressing the girl's arm as she gathered the plates. "Daughter of my personal servant, Tammis, whom I'm sure you'll see later."
Arthas gave the girl his most winning smile. She reminded him a bit of Jaina-her hair brightened by the sun, her skin tanned. She returned the smile fleetingly, then demurely looked away as she gathered the plates, dropping a quick curtsey before leaving.
"You'll have one like that soon enough, lad," Blackmoore said, laughing. It took Arthas a second to grasp the meaning and then he blinked, startled. The two men laughed harder, and Blackmoore raised his goblet in a toast.
"To fair-haired girls," he said, in a purring voice. Arthas looked back at Taretha, thought of Jaina, and forced himself to raise his glass.
An hour later Arthas had forgotten all about Taretha Foxton and his indignation on her behalf. His voice was raw from screaming, his hands hurt from clapping, and he was having the time of his life.
At first, he'd felt a little uncomfortable. The first few combatants in the ring were simple beasts pitted against one another, fighting to the death for no reason other than the enjoyment of the onlookers. "How are they treated prior to this?" Arthas had asked. He was fond of animals; it unsettled him to see them used so.
Langston had opened his mouth, but Blackmoore shushed him with a quick gesture. He had smiled, leaning back in his chaise lounge and snagging a bunch of grapes. "Well of course we want them at their fighting peak," he said. "So they are captured and treated quite well. And as you can see, the bouts go quickly. If an animal survives and is not able to continue fighting again, we put him down at once, mercifully."
Arthas hoped the man was not lying to him. A sick feeling in his gut told him Blackmoore probably was, but he ignored it. The feeling vanished when the fighting involved men against the beasts. As he watched, riveted, Blackmoore said, "The men are paid well. They in fact become minor celebrities."
Not the orc, though. And Arthas knew it, and approved. That's what he was waiting for-the chance to see Blackmoore's pet orc, found as an infant and raised to be a fighter in these rings, in combat.
He was not disappointed. Apparently, everything up until now had been a warm-up for the crowd. When the doors creaked open and a huge green shape strode forward, everyone stood, roaring. Somehow Arthas found himself among them.
Thrall was enormous, appearing even larger because he was obviously so much healthier and alert than the other specimens Arthas had seen in the camps. He wore little armor and no helm, and green skin stretched tightly over powerful muscle. Too, he stood straighter than others. The cheering was deafening, and Thrall walked a circle around the ring, lifting his fists, turning his ugly face up to be showered with rose petals usually reserved for holidays.
"I taught him to do that," Blackmoore said with pride. "It's an odd thing, really. The crowd cheers for him, yet they come hoping every time he'll get beaten."
"Has he ever lost a bout?"
"Never, Your Highness. Nor will he. Yet people keep hoping, and the money keeps flowing."
Arthas eyed him. "As long as the royal coffers see their proper percentage of your earnings, Lieutenant General, you'll be permitted to continue the games." He turned again to the orc, watching him as he completed his circuit. "He...is completely under control, isn't he?"
"Absolutely," Blackmoore said immediately. "He was raised by humans and taught to fear and respect us."
As if he had heard the comment, though he could not possibly have done so over the thundering cries of the crowd, Thrall turned to where Arthas, Blackmoore, and Langston sat watching. He thumped his chest in a salute and then bowed deeply.
"You see? Utterly my creature," Blackmoore purred. He rose and lifted a flag, waving it, and across the ring a solidly built red-haired man waved another flag. Thrall turned toward the door, gripping the massive battle axe that was his weapon in this bout.
The guards began to raise the door, and before it had even opened fully, a bear the size of Invincible surged forward. Its hackles had risen and it barreled straight for Thrall as if it had been launched from a cannon, its snarl audible even over the roar of the crowd.
Thrall held his ground, stepping aside at the absolute last minute and bringing the huge axe around as if it weighed nothing at all. It tore a great rent in the bear's side, and the animal roared in maddened pain, whirling and sending blood spattering. Again, the orc stood his ground, resting on the balls of his bare feet until he moved with a speed that belied his size. He met the bear head-on, shouting taunts in a guttural voice in perfect Common, and brought the axe crunching down. The bear's head was nearly severed from its neck, but it kept running for a few moments before toppling into a quivering heap.
Thrall threw back his head and cried out his victory. The crowd went mad. Arthas stared.
There wasn't a scratch on the orc, and as far as Arthas could tell, the brute wasn't even particularly winded.
"That's just the opener," Blackmoore said, smiling at Arthas's reaction. "Next will be three humans attacking him. He's also hampered by the fact that he's not to kill them, just defeat them. More a strategic battle than one of brute force, but I confess, there's something about watching him decapitate a bear in a single blow that always makes me proud."
Three human gladiators, all large, powerfully muscled men, entered the arena and saluted their opponent and the crowd. Arthas watched as Thrall sized them up and wondered just how smart it was of Blackmoore to make his pet orc so damn good at fighting. If Thrall ever escaped, he could teach those skills to other orcs.
It was possible, despite the increased security. After all, if Orgrim Doomhammer could escape from the Undercity, in the very heart of the palace, Thrall could escape from Durnholde.
The state visit lasted five days. During one of those days, late in the evening, Taretha Foxton came to visit the prince in his private quarters. He was puzzled that his servants did not answer the tentative knock on the door and was even more startled to see the pretty blond girl standing there carrying a tray of delicacies. Her eyes were downcast, but her dress was revealing enough that he didn't speak immediately.
She dropped a curtsey. "My lord Blackmoore sent me with this offering of things to tempt you," she said. Color suffused her cheeks. Arthas was confused.
"I-tell your master thank you, although I am not hungry. And I'm wondering what he's done with my servants."