Emotions warred within Arthas. He stared at the blade. Tichondrius’s word choice had not escaped him. 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?
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 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,” he growled softly. “When I slay your body and raise it as my servant, and make you dance to my tune, that, 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 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.