In his lap, Frostmourne glowed.
Kel’Thuzad, Arthas mused as he waited atop the verdant hill for the one he had been assured would come, was a useful lich to have around.
He was utterly loyal to the Lich King, even to the point of convincingly playing the lapdog to Archimonde and Tichondrius while in their presence, if that was what was required to secretly serve. Arthas had opted for silence; he did not trust himself to lie as convincingly as Kel’Thuzad. The two demons had deemed them nonessential. They would soon see how wrong they were. Carelessly they had left the Book of Medivh in the lich’s bony hands. In that mind, too, were spells and magic so powerful that Arthas knew he would never be able to fully grasp their scope.
“The third part of the plan,” Kel’Thuzad had said once the demons were gone, as idly as if he were conversing about the weather, “was the true heart of the Legion’s plot.”
Arthas remembered what Kel’Thuzad had told him earlier. First had been the creation of the Scourge, then the summoning of Archimonde. He listened now with intense interest as Kel’Thuzad continued. “The Legion is after nothing less than the taking of all magic and the devouring of all life upon this world. And to that end, they plan to consume the concentrated, powerful energies contained within the elves’ Well of Eternity. In order to accomplish this, they must destroy the single thing that contains within it the truest, purest essence of life energy on Azeroth. The Well of Eternity lies across the ocean, on the continent of Kalimdor. And the thing that would thwart the Legion is called Nordrassil…the World Tree. It grants the kaldorei immortality, and they are bound to it.”
“Kaldorei?” Arthas was confused. “I know of quel’dorei. Are they another race of elves?”
“The original race,” Kel’Thuzad corrected. He waved a hand dismissively. “But those details are of no consequence. What matters is that we must stop the Legion from achieving this goal. And there is one among the kaldorei who would aid us.”
And so it was that using his magics, Kel’Thuzad had teleported Arthas to this distant continent and this hill that afforded an expansive view. The forests here were lush, healthy, but Arthas could already see what the Legion had wrought in the distance. Where the land, trees, beasts were not dead, they had been corrupted. Devour all life, indeed.
A figure crested another hill below him, and Arthas smiled to himself. This was the one whose arrival he had been awaiting.
They were certainly different, these “night elves.” This one’s skin was pale lavender, etched with swirling tattoos and scars cut into the skin in ritualistic patterns. A black cloth was tied around his eyes, but he appeared to have no difficulty in navigating the terrain. He carried a weapon that resembled nothing Arthas had ever seen. Instead of a traditional sword, which would be grasped by a hilt with a blade extending from it, this weapon had two jagged blades that glowed the sick green hue of something tainted with demonic energies.
So, this one had trafficked with demons before.
Arthas waited a while, observing. The night elf—Illidan Stormrage, Kel’Thuzad had said his name was—raged to himself. Apparently the list of wrongs piled against him was a lengthy one, and he ached for vengeance and power as much as Kel’Thuzad had said he would.
Arthas smiled.
“I am free after ten thousand years, yet still my own brother thinks I am a villain!” Illidan ranted. “I’ll show him my true power. I’ll show him the demons have no hold over me!”
“Are you certain of that, demon hunter?” Arthas said, his voice carrying. The night elf whirled, brandishing his weapon. “Are you certain your will is your own?”
The elf might have been blind in the traditional sense, but Arthas felt seen regardless. Illidan sniffed and growled. “You reek of death, human. You’ll regret approaching me.”
Arthas grinned. He was itching for a good one-on-one fight. “Come then,” he invited. “You’ll find that we’re evenly matched.” Invincible reared and galloped down the hill, as eager for action as his master was. Illidan growled and ran to meet him.
It was almost like a dance, Arthas mused as the two warriors faced each other. Illidan was strong and graceful, his skills demonically enhanced. But Arthas, too, was no mere soldier, nor was Frostmourne an ordinary blade. The fight was fierce and swift; Arthas had been right. They were indeed evenly matched. After too short a time, both combatants fell back, breathing heavily.
“We could go on fighting like this forever,” Illidan said. “What is it you truly want?”
Arthas lowered Frostmourne. “From your muttering earlier, I hear that you and your allies are beset by the undead. The dreadlord who commands this undead army is called Tichondrius. He controls a powerful warlock artifact called the Skull of Gul’dan. It is responsible for corrupting these forests.”
Illidan cocked his head. “And you wish for me to steal it? Why?”
Arthas’s white brows lifted. This one was indeed quick. He deserved a semi-truthful answer, Arthas decided. “Let’s just say that I have no love for Tichondrius, and the lord I serve would…benefit from the Legion’s downfall.”
“Why should I believe anything you say, little human?”
Arthas shrugged. “A fair question. Let me answer. My master sees all, demon hunter. He knows that you’ve sought power your whole life. Now it lies within your grasp!” His gauntleted hand clenched into a fist in front of Illidan’s blindfolded face and, as he expected, the night elf’s head turned toward the gesture. “Seize it, and your enemies will be undone.”
Illidan lifted his head slowly and turned his face to Arthas. He was unsettling, this blind man who could so obviously see. The elf stepped back, nodding thoughtfully. Without another word Arthas turned Invincible’s head around and galloped off.
Kel’Thuzad would summon him back shortly. All had gone according to the Lich King’s plan. He only hoped that Illidan had been as fully obedient as he had seemed. If not…there could be complications.
She was nothing of the living. Nor did she have the power to resist the commands of the one who had brought her screaming into this new existence.
But Sylvanas Windrunner had will. Somehow, Arthas had not broken that. He had done so with others; why was she, seemingly, the only one who had not caved utterly to him? Was it her own strength, or was it because he enjoyed tormenting her? The banshee that she was now would likely never know. But if her will was her own because Arthas found it amusing, she would have the last laugh.
So she had vowed to herself, and Sylvanas always kept her promises.
Time had passed in the world of the living since Arthas Menethil and the Scourge had swept through her beloved homeland. And much had occurred.
Her so-called “master” had objected to being used as a pawn. Together with that arrogant, floating sack of bones, Kel’Thuzad—the one responsible for corrupting the glorious Sunwell—Arthas had conspired against both the dreadlord Tichondrius and the demon lord Archimonde, whom Kel’Thuzad himself had helped usher into Azeroth. Sylvanas had paid keen attention; anything Arthas had to reveal about the way he thought and the way he battled was useful to her.
He had not attempted to slay Tichondrius himself, as he had Mal’Ganis. Oh no, the wily once-human prince had tricked another into doing his dirty work for him. Illidan, the luckless being had been named. Arthas had been able to smell Illidan’s hunger for power and used that against him, goading him into stealing the Skull of Gul’dan, a legendary orcish warlock. To do so, Illidan would have to kill Tichondrius. Arthas would be rid of the demon lord, and Illidan would be rewarded with an artifact to sate his lust for power. Presumably all had gone according to plan. Arthas—and therefore Sylvanas—had heard nothing of Illidan since.