And that quickly, he was gone. Kel’Thuzad floated into the circle. The space was marked out by four small obelisks. In their center, a glowing circle with arcane markings had been etched. Kel’Thuzad bore the book with him, and once he fluttered into position, the lines of the circle flared to glowing purple life. At the same moment, there was a spitting, crackling sound and eight pillars of flame sprang up about him. Kel’Thuzad turned to gaze back at Arthas with glowing eyes.
“Those who yet live within Dalaran will be able to sense the power of this spell,” Kel’Thuzad warned. “I must not be interrupted or we will fail.”
“I’ll keep your bones safe, lich,” Arthas assured him.
As Kel’Thuzad had promised, it had been comparatively easy to enter Dalaran, slay those who had erected specific spells against them, and take what they had come for. Arthas had even been able to kill Archmage Antonidas, the man he had once thought so very powerful.
If Jaina had been there, he felt certain that she would have confronted him. Appealed to what they had once had, as she had done before. She would have had no better luck now than she had then, except—
He was glad he did not have to fight her.
Arthas’s attention suddenly snapped back to the present. The gates were opening, and Arthas’s gray lips curved in a grin. Previously, the Scourge had had the element of surprise on their side. Yes, many powerful magi lived in Dalaran at all times. But there was no trained militia, nor were all the magi of the Kirin Tor in Dalaran. But they had had several hours, and they had not been idle.
They had teleported in an army.
Good. A solid fight was just what he needed to drive distracting thoughts of Jaina Proudmoore and the youth he had once been to the back of his mind.
He lifted Frostmourne, feeling it tingle in his hand, hearing the soft voice of the Lich King caress his thoughts.
“Frostmourne hungers,” he told his troops, pointing the sword at the armor-clad defenders of the great mage city. “Let us sate its appetite.”
The Scourge army roared, Sylvanas’s anguished wail rising above the cacophony, causing Arthas to grin even more. Even in death, even though she obeyed his commands, she defied him, and he relished forcing her to attack those she would have preferred to defend. Invincible gathered himself beneath his rider and surged forward at a full gallop, whinnying.
Some of his ghastly troops stayed behind to defend Kel’Thuzad, but most of them accompanied their leader. Arthas recognized the livery of many of those whom the Kirin Tor had teleported in to defend the city. Friends they had once been, but that was all in the past, as irrelevant to him as yesterday’s weather. It was getting easier now, to feel nothing but satisfaction as Frostmourne, glowing and all but singing as it feasted upon souls, rose and fell, cutting through plate as easily as flesh.
After the first wave of soldiers fell, raised to serve in the Scourge or abandoned where they had fallen as of no use, a second one came. This one had magi with them, clad in the purple robes of Dalaran with an embroidered symbol of the great Eye upon them. But Arthas, too, had additional aid.
The demons, it would seem, wished to protect their own.
Giant stones screamed down from the sky, their tails streaks of fel green fire. The earth shook where they struck, and from the craters caused by their impact climbed what looked like stone golems, held together and directed by the sickly green energy.
Arthas glanced over his shoulder. Kel’Thuzad hovered, his arms spread, his horned head thrown back. Energy crackled and coursed from him, and a green orb began to form. Then, abruptly, the lich lowered his arms and stepped out of the circle.
“Come forth, Lord Archimonde!” Kel’Thuzad cried. “Enter this world and let us bask in your power!”
The green orb pulsed, expanding, growing taller and glowing yet more brightly. Suddenly a pillar of fire shot skyward, and several answering lightning bolts crackled down outside the circle. And then, where there had been nothing, a figure stood—tall, powerful, graceful in its own dark and dangerous way. Arthas returned his attention to the battlefield. A retreat sounded—clearly the magi, at least, had seen what was transpiring, and their troops wheeled their mounts and galloped back toward the safety—temporary though Arthas suspected it to be—of Dalaran. Even as they fled, a deep, resonant voice cut through the sound of battle.
“Tremble, mortals, and despair! Doom has come to this world!”
Arthas held up his hand, and with that simplest of gestures the swarm of Scourge halted and retreated as well. As he galloped back to Kel’Thuzad, eyeing the giant demon lord all the while, Tichondrius teleported in. As usual, after all the danger had passed.
The dreadlord made a deep obeisance. Arthas drew rein some distance away, preferring to observe.
“Lord Archimonde, all the preparations have been made.”
“Very well, Tichondrius,” replied Archimonde, giving the lesser demon a dismissive nod. “Since the Lich King is of no further use to me, you dreadlords will now command the Scourge.”
Arthas was suddenly very grateful for all those hours spent in disciplined meditation. It was only that that kept his shock and fury from showing. Even so, Invincible felt the change in him and pranced nervously. He yanked on the reins and the undead beast stilled. The Lich King was of no further use? Why? Who exactly was he, and what had happened to him? What would happen to Arthas?
“Soon, I will order the invasion to begin. But first, I will make an example of these paltry wizards…by crushing their city into the ashes of history.”
He strode off, his body erect and proud and commanding, his hooves landing firmly with each step, his armor gleaming in the rose and gold and lavender of the encroaching twilight. Beside him, still making obeisance, strode Tichondrius. Arthas waited until they were some distance away before he finally whirled on Kel’Thuzad and burst out, “This has got to be a joke! What happens to us now?”
“Be patient, young death knight. The Lich King foresaw this as well. You may yet have a part to play in his grand design.”
May? Arthas whirled on the necromancer, his nostrils flaring, but he tamped back his anger. If anyone—either of the demons or the Lich King himself—thought for one moment that Arthas was a tool to simply be used and then discarded, he would soon show them the error of their thinking. He had done too much—lost too much, cut out too much of himself for this to be cast aside.
It couldn’t all be for nothing.
It would not all be for nothing.
The earth rumbled. Invincible shifted uneasily, lifting his hooves as if to minimize contact with the earth. Arthas glanced up quickly at the mage city. The towers were lovely at this time of day, proud and glorious and glittering in the deepening twilight hues. But as he watched, he heard a deep cracking noise. The apex of the tallest, most beautiful tower in the city suddenly fell, slowly and inexorably, tumbling downward as if the length of the tower had been clenched by a giant, unseen hand.
The rest of the city fell quickly, shattering and crumbling, the sound of destruction loud and thrumming in Arthas’s ears. He winced at the volume, but did not tear his eyes away.
He had instigated the fall of Silvermoon. Had directed his Scourge against it. But this—there was casualness about it, an ease…Silvermoon had been a hard-won prize. Archimonde appeared to be able to shatter the greatest of human cities without even being present.
Arthas thought about Archimonde and Tichondrius. He scratched his chin thoughtfully.