Arthas was pushing his men too hard and he knew it, but time was a precious resource and could not be squandered. He felt a tug of guilt when he saw Jaina chewing on some dried meat as they rode. The Light refreshed him when he worked with it; magi drew on different energies, and he knew that Jaina was exhausted after the superb effort she had put forth earlier. But there was no time for rest, not when thousands of lives depended upon their actions.
He’d been sent on a mission to find out what was going on and stop it. The mystery was starting to unravel, but he was beginning to doubt his ability to halt the plague. Nothing was as easy as it had looked at first. Still, Arthas would not give up. Could not give up. He had vowed to do whatever it took to stop this, to save his people, and so he would.
They saw and smelled the smoke rising in the sky before they reached the gates of Andorhal. Arthas hoped that if the town had burned, then maybe at least the grain had been destroyed as well, and then felt a twinge of guilt at the callousness of the thought. He buried it in action, kicking his mount hard and riding through the gates, expecting to be assaulted at any moment.
Around them buildings burned, black smoke stinging his eyes and making him cough. Through tear-filled eyes he peered around. There were no villagers, but neither were there any undead. What was—
“I believe you have come looking for me, children,” came a smooth voice. The wind shifted, driving the smoke in a different direction, and Arthas could now see a black-robed figure standing only a short distance away. Arthas tensed. This, then, was the leader. The necromancer was smiling now, his face dimly glimpsed in the shadow of his hood, a smirk that Arthas burned to cut off his face. Beside him were two of his pet undead. “You’ve found me. I am Kel’Thuzad.”
Jaina gasped in recognition at the name, and her hand flew to her mouth. Arthas spared her a quick glance, then returned his full attention to the speaker. He gripped his hammer tightly.
“I’ve come to deliver a warning,” said the necromancer. “Leave well enough alone. Your curiosity will be the death of you.”
“I thought this magic taint felt familiar!” It was Jaina, her voice shaking with outrage. “You were disgraced, Kel’Thuzad, precisely for your experiments along this line! We told you it would lead to disaster. And you have learned nothing!”
“Lady Jaina Proudmoore,” Kel’Thuzad purred. “Looks like Antonidas’s little apprentice is all grown up. And quite the contrary my dear…as you can see, I have learned a great deal.”
“I saw the rats you experimented with!” Jaina cried. “That was bad enough—but now you—”
“Have furthered my research and perfected it,” Kel’Thuzad answered.
“Are you responsible for this plague, necromancer?” Arthas shouted. “Is this cult your doing?”
Kel’Thuzad turned to him, his eyes glittering in the shadow of his cowl. “I ordered the Cult of the Damned to distribute the plagued grain. But the sole credit is not mine.”
Before Arthas could speak, Jaina had burst out, “What do you mean?”
“I serve the dreadlord Mal’Ganis. He commands the Scourge that will cleanse this land and establish a paradise of eternal darkness!”
A chill swept over Arthas despite the heat of the surrounding fires at the tone of the man’s voice. He did not know what a “dreadlord” was, but the meaning of “Scourge” was clear. “And what exactly is this Scourge meant to cleanse?”
The thin-lipped mouth beneath the white mustache again curled in a cruel smile. “Why, the living, of course. His plan is already in motion. Seek him out at Stratholme if you need further proof.”
Arthas had had enough of teasing hints and taunts. He growled, gripped the haft of his hammer, and charged forward. “For the Light!” he cried.
Kel’Thuzad had not moved. He stood his ground, then, at the last minute, the air around him twisted and puckered, and he was gone. The two creatures who had stood silently at his sides now clamped their arms on Arthas, trying to wrestle him down to the earth, their fetid stench vying with the smell of smoke to choke him. He twisted free, landing a strong, clean blow to the head of one of them. Its skull shattered like a fragile piece of blown glass, brains spattering the earth as it collapsed. The second was as easily dealt with.
“The granary!” he cried, running to his horse and leaping atop it. “Come on!”
The others mounted up and they charged down the main path through the burning village. The granaries loomed up ahead of them. They were untouched by the fire that seemed to be racing through the rest of Andorhal.
Arthas drew his horse up sharply and leaped off it, running as fast as he could toward the buildings. He pulled open the door, hoping desperately to see crates piled high. Grief and rage swept through him as the only thing to meet his gaze were empty chambers—empty save for small, scattered bits of grain and the corpses of rats on the floor. He stared, sick, for a moment, then raced to the next one, and the next, yanking the doors open even though he knew exactly what he would find.
They were all empty. And had been for some time, if the layers of dust on the floor and the spiderwebs in the corners were any indication.
“The shipments have already been sent out,” he said brokenly as Jaina stepped up beside him. “We’re too late!” He slammed his gauntleted fist into the wooden door and Jaina jumped. “Dammit!”
“Arthas, we did the best we—”
He whirled on her furiously. “I’m going to find him. I’m going to find that undead-loving bastard and rip him limb from limb for this! Let him get someone to sew him back together.”
He stormed out, shaking. He’d failed. He’d had the man right there and he’d failed. The grain had been sent out, and Light alone knew how many people would die because of that.
Because of him.
No. He was not going to let that happen. He would protect his people. He would die to protect them. Arthas clenched his fists.
“North,” he said to the men who trailed behind him, unaccustomed to seeing their generally good-natured prince in the grip of such fury. “That’s the next place he’ll go. Let’s exterminate him like the vermin he is.”
He rode like a man possessed, galloping north, almost absently slaughtering the shambling wrecks of human beings who attempted to stop him. He was no longer moved by the horror of it all; his mind’s eye was filled with the vision of the man manipulating it and the disgusting cult that perpetrated it. The dead would rest soon enough; Arthas had to ensure that no more would be made.
At one point there was a huge cluster of the undead. Rotting heads lifted as one, turning toward Arthas and his men, and they moved toward him. Arthas cried out, “For the Light!”, kicked his steed, and charged in among them, swinging his hammer and crying out incoherently, venting his anger and frustration on these, the perfect targets. At one point, there was a lull, and he was able to look around.
Safe and secure away from the field of battle, overseeing everything while risking nothing, stood a tall figure in a fluttering black cloak. As if waiting for them.
Kel’Thuzad.
“There!” he cried. “He’s there!”
Jaina and his men followed him, Jaina blasting clear passage with fireball after fireball, and his men hacking the undead that did not fall in the first round of attacks. Arthas felt righteous fury singing in his veins as he drew closer and closer to the necromancer. His hammer rose and fell, seemingly effortlessly, and he didn’t even see those he struck down. His eyes were fixed on the man—if you could even call such a monster that—responsible for everything in the first place. Cut off the head, and the beast would die.
Then Arthas was there. A bellow of raw fury exploded from him and he swung, sweeping his brilliantly glowing hammer parallel to the ground, striking Kel’Thuzad at the knees and sending him flying. Others pressed in, swords slicing and hacking, the men venting their grief and outrage on the source, the cause, of the entire disaster.
For all his power and magic, it seemed as though Kel’Thuzad could indeed die like any other man. Both legs were shattered by Arthas’s sweeping blow and lay at odd angles. His robes were wet with blood, shiny black against a matte black, and red trickled from his mouth. He propped himself up on his arms and tried to speak, spitting out blood and teeth. He tried again.
“Naïve…fool,” he managed, swallowing. “My death will make little difference in the long run…for now…the scourging of this land…begins.”
His elbows buckled and, eyes closing, he fell.
The body began to rot immediately. Decomposition that should have taken days happened in mere seconds, the flesh paling, bloating, bursting open. The men gasped and started back, covering their noses and mouths. Some of them turned and vomited from the stench. Arthas stared, horrified and enraptured at the same time, unable to look away. Fluids gushed from the corpse, the flesh taking on a creamy consistency and turning black. The unnatural decomposition slowed and Arthas turned away, gasping for fresh air.
Jaina was deathly pale with dark circles around her wide, shocked eyes. Arthas went to her and turned her away from the disgusting image. “What happened to him?” he asked quietly.
Jaina swallowed, trying to calm herself. Again, she seemed to find strength in her detachment. “It is believed that, ah, if necromancers are not perfectly precise in their magical workings that, um…if they are killed they are subject to…” Her voice trailed off and suddenly she was a young woman, looking sickened and shocked. “That.”
“Come on,” Arthas said gently. “Let’s get to Hearthglen. They need to be warned—if we’re not too late already.”
They left the body where it had fallen, not granting it another glance. Arthas said a silent prayer to the Light that they were not too late. He did not know what he would do if he failed again.
Jaina was exhausted. She knew that Arthas wanted to make the best time possible, and she shared his concern. Lives were at stake. So when he asked her if she could go through the night without stopping, she nodded.
They had been riding hard for four hours when she found herself half off her mount. She was so bone-weary she’d fallen unconscious for a few seconds. Fear shot through her and she grabbed onto the horse’s mane wildly, pulling herself back up into the saddle and yanking on the reins so the horse would stop.
She sat there, the reins clutched in her hands, trembling, for several minutes before Arthas realized she’d fallen behind. Dimly she heard him calling a halt. She looked up at him mutely as he cantered up to her.
“Jaina, what’s wrong?”
“I…I’m sorry Arthas. I know you want to make good time and so do I, but—I was so tired I almost fell off. Could we stop, for just a little while?”
She saw the concern for her and frustration at the situation warring on his face, even in the dim light. “How long do you think you’ll need?”
A couple of days, she wanted to say, but instead she said, “Just long enough to eat something and rest for a bit.”
He nodded, reaching up to her and helping her off the horse. He bore her to the side of the road, where he set her down gently. Jaina fished in her pack for some cheese with hands that trembled. She expected him to head off and talk to the men, but instead he sat down beside her. Impatience radiated from him like heat from a fire.
She took a bite of cheese and looked up at him as she chewed, analyzing his profile in the starlight. One of the things she most loved about Arthas was how accessible, how human and emotional, he was to her. But now, while he was certainly in the grip of powerful emotions, he felt distant, as if he was a hundred miles away.
Impulsively she reached a hand to touch his face. He started at her touch, as if he had forgotten she was there, then smiled thinly at her. “Done?” he asked.
Jaina thought about the single bite she had eaten. “No,” she said, “but…Arthas, I’m worried about you. I don’t like what this is doing to you.”
“Doing to me?” he snapped. “What about what it’s doing to the villagers? They’re dying and then getting turned into corpses, Jaina. I have to stop it, I have to!”
“Of course we do, and I’ll do everything I can to help; you know that. But…I’ve never seen you hate anything like this.”
He laughed, a short harsh bark. “You want me to love necromancers?”
She frowned. “Arthas, don’t twist my words like that. You’re a paladin. A servant of the Light. You’re a healer as much as a warrior, but all I see in you is this desire to wipe out the enemy.”
“You’re starting to sound like Uther.”
Jaina didn’t reply. She was so weary, it was difficult to compose her thoughts. She took another bite of cheese, focusing on getting the badly needed nourishment into her body. For some reason it was hard for her to swallow.
“Jaina…I just want innocent people to stop dying. That’s all. And…I admit, I’m upset that I can’t seem to make that happen. But once this is over, you’ll see. Everything will be fine again. I promise.”
He smiled down at her, and for a moment she saw the old Arthas in his handsome face. She smiled back in what she hoped was a reassuring fashion.
“Are you done now?”
Two bites. Jaina put the rest of the cheese away. “Yes, I’m done. Let’s keep going.”
The sky was turning from black to the ashy gray of dawn when they first heard the gunfire. Arthas’s heart sank. He spurred his horse as they wound their way north up the long road that cut through the deceptively pleasant hills. Just outside the gates of Hearthglen, they saw several men and dwarves armed with rifles—all trained on them. Wafted to him on the light breeze, mixed in with the smell of gunpowder, was the incongruously pleasant, slightly sweet scent of baking bread.
“Hold your fire!” Arthas cried as his troops galloped up. He drew rein so hard his mount reared in startlement. “I am Prince Arthas! What’s going on? Why are you so armed?”
They lowered their rifles, clearly surprised to see their prince standing right in front of them. “Sir, you won’t believe what’s been going on.”
“Try me,” Arthas said.
Arthas was not surprised to hear the initial words—that the dead had risen and were attacking. What did surprise him was the term “vast army.” He glanced at Jaina. She looked utterly exhausted. The little break they had taken last night obviously hadn’t been sufficient to restore her.
“Sir,” cried one of the scouts, rushing in, “the army—it’s heading this way!”
“Dammit,” Arthas muttered. This small group of men and dwarves could handle a skirmish well enough, but not a whole damned army of the things. He made a decision. “Jaina, I’ll stay here to protect the village. Go as quickly as you can and tell Lord Uther what’s happened.”
“But—”
“Go, Jaina! Every second counts!”
She nodded. Light bless her and that level head of hers. He spared her a smile of gratitude before she stepped through the portal she created and disappeared.
“Sir,” said Falric, and something in the tone of his voice made Arthas turn. “You’d…better take a look at this.”
Arthas followed the man’s gaze and his heart sank. Empty crates…bearing the mark of Andorhal…
Hoping against hope that he was wrong, Arthas asked in a voice that shook slightly, “What did those crates contain?”
One of the Hearthglen men looked at him, puzzled. “Just a grain shipment from Andorhal. There’s no need to worry, milord. It’s already been distributed among the villagers. We’ve had plenty of bread.”
That was the smell—not the typical smell of baking bread, but slightly off, slightly too sweet—and then Arthas understood. He staggered, just a little, as the enormity of the situation, the true scope of its horror, burst over him. The grain had been distributed…and suddenly there was a vast army of the undead….
“Oh, no,” he whispered. They stared at him and he tried again to speak, his voice still shaking. But this time, not with horror, but with fury.
The plague was never meant to simply kill his people. No, no, it was much darker, much more twisted than that. It was meant to turn them into—
Even as the thought formed, the man who had answered Arthas’s question about the crate bent over double. Several others followed suit. A strange green glow limned their bodies, pulsing and growing stronger. They clutched their stomachs and fell to the earth, blood erupting from their mouths, saturating their shirts. One of them stretched out a hand to him, imploring for healing. Instead, Arthas, repulsed, recoiled in horror, staring as the man writhed in pain and died in a matter of seconds.
What had he done? The man had begged for healing, but Arthas had not even lifted a hand. But could this even be healed, Arthas wondered as he stared at the corpse. Could the Light even—
“Merciful Light!” Falric cried. “The bread—”
Arthas started at the shout, coming out of his guilty trance. Bread—the staff of life—wholesome and nourishing—had now become worse than lethal. Arthas opened his mouth to cry out, to warn his men, but his tongue was like clay in his mouth.
The plague embedded into the grain acted even before the shocked prince could find words.
The dead man’s eyes opened. He lurched upright into a seated position.
And that was how Kel’Thuzad had created an undead army in so astonishingly short a time.
Insane laughter echoed in his ears—Kel’Thuzad, laughing maniacally, triumphant even in death. Arthas wondered if he was going mad from all he had been forced to bear witness to. The undead clambered to their feet, and their movement galvanized him to action and liberated his tongue.
“Defend yourselves!” Arthas cried, swinging his hammer before the man had a chance to rise. Others were swifter, though, getting to dead feet, turning the weapons that in life they would have used to protect Arthas upon him. The only advantage he had was that the undead were not graceful with their weapons, and most of the shots they fired went wide. Arthas’s men, meanwhile, attacked with hard eyes and grim faces, bashing skulls, decapitating, smashing what had been allies just a few moments earlier into submission.
“Prince Arthas, the undead forces have arrived!”
Arthas whirled, his armor spattered with gore, and his eyes widened slightly.
So many. There were so many of them, skeletons who had been long dead, fresh corpses recently turned, more of the pale, maggoty abominations thundering down on them. He could sense the panic. They had fought handfuls, but not this—not an army of the walking dead.
Arthas thrust his hammer into the air. It flared to glowing life. “Hold your ground!” he cried, his voice no longer weak and shaking or harsh and angry. “We are the chosen of the Light! We shall not fall!”
The Light bathing his determined features, he charged.
Jaina was more exhausted than she had admitted even to herself. Drained after the days of fighting with little or no rest, she collapsed after finishing the teleportation spell. She thought she blacked out for a moment, because the next thing she knew her master was bending over her, lifting her off the floor.
“Jaina—child, what is it?”
“Uther,” Jaina managed. “Arthas—Hearthglen—” She reached up and clutched Antonidas’s robes. “Necromancers—Kel’Thuzad—raising the dead to fight—”
Antonidas’s eyes widened. Jaina gulped and continued. “Arthas and his men are fighting in Hearthglen alone. He needs reinforcements immediately!”
“I think Uther is at the palace,” Antonidas said. “I’ll send several magi there right away to open portals for as many men as he needs to bring. You did well, my dear. I’m very proud of you. Now, you get some rest.”
“No!” Jaina cried. She struggled to her feet, barely able to stand, forcing the exhaustion back by sheer will alone, holding out a shaking hand to keep Antonidas back. “I have to be with him. I’ll be all right. Come on!”
Arthas had no idea how long he had been fighting. He swung his hammer almost ceaselessly, his arms shaking from the strain, his lungs burning. It was only the power of the Light, flowing through him with quiet strength and steadiness, that kept him and his men on their feet. The undead seemed to be weakened by its power, although that seemed to be their only weakness. Only a clean kill—Arthas fleetingly wondered if you could call it a “kill” if they were already dead—stopped them in their tracks.
They just kept coming. Wave after wave of them. His subjects—his people—turned into these things. He lifted his weary arms for another blow when over the din of battle came a voice Arthas knew:
“For Lordaeron! For the king!”
The men rallied at Uther the Lightbringer’s impassioned shout, renewing their attacks. Uther had come with a solid core of knights, fresh and battle-hardened. They did not shirk from the undead—Jaina, who despite her bone-weariness had also portaled in with Uther and the knights, had apparently briefed them sufficiently so that precious seconds were not wasted in stunned reaction. The undead fell more quickly now, and each wave was met with fierce and impassioned attacks from hammer, sword, and flame.
Jaina sank down, her legs giving way beneath her, as the last of the walking dead burst into flames, stumbled about, and fell, dead in truth. She reached for a waterskin and drank deeply, shaking, and fished out some dried meat to gnaw on. The fight was over—for the moment. Arthas and Uther had both removed their helms. Sweat matted their hair. She chewed on the meat and watched as Uther looked out over the sea of undead corpses and nodded his satisfaction. Arthas was staring at something, his expression stricken. Jaina followed his gaze and frowned, not understanding. Corpses were everywhere—but Arthas was looking almost as if in a daze at the bloated, fly-riddled body of not one of his soldiers, or even a man, but of a horse.
Uther walked up to his student and clapped Arthas on the shoulder.
“I’m surprised that you kept things together as long as you did, lad.” His voice was warm with pride and a smile was on his lips. “If I hadn’t arrived just then—”
Arthas whirled. “Look, I did the best I could, Uther!” Both Uther and Jaina blinked at the harsh tone of voice. He was overreacting—Uther wasn’t censuring him; he was praising him. “If I’d had a legion of knights riding at my back, I would’ve—”
Uther’s eyes narrowed. “Now is not the time to be choking on pride! From what Jaina has told me, what we faced here was only the beginning.”
Arthas’s sea-green eyes darted to Jaina. He was still smarting from the perceived insult and for the first time since Jaina had met him, she found herself shrinking a little from that piercing gaze.
“Or did you not notice that the undead ranks are bolstered every time one of our warriors falls in battle?” Uther persisted.
“Then we should strike at their leader!” Arthas snapped. “Kel’Thuzad told me who it was and where to find him. It’s—something called a dreadlord. His name is Mal’Ganis. And he’s in Stratholme. Stratholme, Uther. The very place where you were made a paladin of the Light. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
Uther sighed wearily. “Of course it does, but—”
“I’ll go there and kill Mal’Ganis myself if I have to!” Arthas cried. Jaina stopped chewing and stared at him. She had never seen him like this.
“Easy, lad. Brave as you are, you can’t hope to defeat a man who commands the dead all by yourself.”
“Then feel free to tag along, Uther. I’m going, with or without you.” Before either Uther or Jaina could protest further, he’d leaped into the saddle, yanked his steed’s head around, and headed south.
Jaina got to her feet, stunned. He’d left without Uther—without his men…without her. Uther quietly stepped beside her. She shook her fair head.
“He feels personally responsible for all the deaths,” she told the older paladin quietly. “He thinks he should have been able to stop this.” She looked up at Uther. “Not even the magi of Dalaran—the ones who warned Kel’Thuzad in the first place—suspected what was going on. Arthas couldn’t possibly have known.”
“He’s feeling the weight of the crown for the first time,” Uther said quietly. “He’s never had to before. This is all part of it, my lady—part of learning how to rule wisely and well. I watched Terenas struggle with the same thing, when he was a young man. Both good men, both wanting to do the right things for their people. To keep them safe and happy.” His eyes were thoughtful as he watched Arthas fade into the distance. “But sometimes the only decision is which is the lesser evil. Sometimes there’s no way to fix everything. Arthas is learning that.”
“I think I understand but—I can’t let him just charge off by himself.”
“No, no, once I get the men ready for a long march, we’ll be on his trail. You should rest up too.”
Jaina shook her head. “No. He shouldn’t be alone.”
“Lady Proudmoore, if I may,” Uther said slowly. “It might be good to let him clear his head. Follow him if you must, but give him a little time to think.”
His meaning was obvious. She didn’t like it, but she agreed with him. Arthas was distraught. He was feeling angry and impotent and wasn’t in a state to be reasoned with. And it was precisely for those reasons she couldn’t let him be really alone.
“All right,” she said. She mounted up and murmured the spell. She saw Uther grin as he suddenly realized he could no longer see her. “I’ll follow him. Come as soon as your men are ready.”
She would not follow him too closely. She was invisible, but not silent. Jaina squeezed her horse with her knees into a canter to pursue the bright, brooding prince of Lordaeron.
Arthas kicked the horse hard, angry that it was not going faster, angry that it was not Invincible, angry that he had not figured out what was going on in time to stop it. It was almost overwhelming. His father had had to deal with orcs—creatures from another world, flooding into their own, brutal and violent and bent on conquest. That seemed like child’s play to Arthas now. How would his father and the Alliance have fared against this—a plague that not only killed people, but in a sick twist that only a deranged mind would find amusing animated their corpses to fight their own friends and families? Would Terenas have done any better? One moment Arthas thought he would have—that Terenas would have figured out the puzzle in time to stop it, to save the innocent—and the next he rationalized that no one could have done so. Terenas would have been as helpless as he in the face of this horror.
So deep in thought was he that he almost didn’t see the man standing in the road, and it was with a sharp, startled yank that he pulled his mount to the side just in time.
Chagrined, worried, and furious at being made so, Arthas snapped, “Fool! What are you doing? I could have run you down!”
The man was unlike any Arthas had ever seen before, and yet he struck the youth as somewhat familiar. Tall, broad-shouldered, he wore a cloak that seemed to be made entirely out of shiny black feathers. His features were shadowed by the cowl, but his eyes were bright as they peered up at Arthas. A beard streaked with gray parted, revealing a white smile.
“You would not have harmed me, and I required your attention,” he said, his voice deep and mild. “I spoke to your father, young one. He would not hear me. Now I come to you.” He bowed, and Arthas frowned. It seemed to be—mocking. “We must talk.”
Arthas snorted. Now he knew why this mysterious, dramatically clad stranger seemed so familiar. He was some kind of mystic—a self-styled prophet, Terenas had said; able to transform into a bird. He’d had the gall to come right into Terenas’s own throne room, with some kind of doomsday blather.
“I have no time for this,” Arthas growled, gathering up his horse’s reins.
“Listen to me, boy.” There was no mocking note in the stranger’s voice now. His voice cracked like a whip and despite himself Arthas listened. “This land is lost! The shadow has already fallen, and nothing you do will deter it. If you truly wish to save your people, lead them across the sea…to the west.”
Arthas almost laughed. His father had been right—this was a madman. “Flee? My place is here, and my only course is to defend my people! I will not abandon them to this hideous existence. I will find the one behind this and destroy him. You’re a fool if you think otherwise.”
“A fool, am I? I suppose I am, to think the son would be wiser than the father.” The bright eyes looked troubled. “Your choice is already made. You will not be swayed by one who sees farther than you.”
“I’ve only your word that you see farther. I know what I see, and what I have seen, and that is that my people need me here!”
The prophet smiled now, sadly. “It is not only with our eyes that we see, Prince Arthas. It is with our wisdom and our hearts. I will leave you one final prediction. Just remember, the harder you strive to slay your enemies, the faster you’ll deliver your people into their hands.”
Arthas opened his mouth for a furious retort, but at that instant the stranger’s shape shifted. The cloak seemed to close about him like a second skin. Wings, jet black and glossy, sprouted from his body even as he shrank to the size of an ordinary raven. With a final harsh caw that sounded frustrated to Arthas, the bird that had been a man leaped into the air, wheeled once, and flew off. He watched it go, vaguely troubled. The man had seemed…so certain….
“I’m sorry for concealing myself, Arthas.” Jaina’s voice coming out of nowhere. Startled, Arthas whipped his head around, trying to find her. She materialized in front of him, looking contrite. “I just wanted to—”
“Don’t say it!”
He saw her start in surprise, saw those blue eyes widen, and instantly regretted snapping at her. But she shouldn’t have sneaked up on him like this, spied on him like this.
“He came to Antonidas, too,” she said after a moment, doggedly continuing with what she had intended to say despite his reprimand. “I—I have to say that I sensed tremendous power about him, Arthas.” She rode closer to him, peering up at him. “This plague of the undead—nothing like this has ever been seen before in the history of the world. It’s not just another battle, or another war—it’s something much bigger and darker than that. And maybe you can’t use the same tactics to win. Maybe he’s right. Maybe he can see things we can’t—maybe he does know what will happen.”
He turned away from her, grinding his teeth. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s some ally of this Mal’Ganis. Or maybe he’s just some crazy hermit. Nothing he can say will make me abandon my homeland, Jaina. I don’t care if that madman has seen the future. Let’s go.”
They rode in silence for a moment. Then Jaina said quietly, “Uther will be following. He just needed some extra time to prepare the men.”
Arthas stared straight ahead, still fuming. Jaina tried again.
“Arthas, you shouldn’t—”
“I am sick of people trying to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do!” The words burst from him, startling himself as much as Jaina. “What’s going on here is beyond horrible, Jaina. I can’t even find words to describe it. And I’m doing everything I possibly can. If you’re not going to support my decisions then maybe you don’t belong here.” He eyed her, his expression softening. “You look so tired, Jaina. Maybe…maybe you should go back.”
She shook her head, staring straight ahead, not meeting his gaze. “You need me here. I can help.”
The anger bled away from him, and he reached for her hand, closing fingers encased in metal over hers gently. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that and I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re here. I’m always glad of your company.” He bent and kissed her hand. Color came to her cheeks and she smiled at him, the furrow in her brow uncreasing.
“Dear Arthas,” she said softly. He squeezed her hand and let it go.
They rode hard the rest of the day, not speaking much, and halted to make camp as the sun was going down. Both of them were too weary to hunt for any fresh meat, so they simply took out some dried meat, apples, and bread. Arthas stared at the loaf in his hand. From the ovens of the palace, baked with grain grown locally—not from Andorhal. It was wholesome fare, nourishing and delicious, smelling yeasty and good and not sickly sweet. A simple, basic food, something that everyone, anyone, should be able to eat without fear.
His throat suddenly closed up and he placed the bread down, unable to eat a bite, and he put his head in his hands. For a moment he felt overwhelmed, as if a tidal wave of despair and helplessness washed over him. Then Jaina was there, kneeling beside him, resting her head on his shoulder while he struggled to compose himself. She said nothing; she did not need to, her simple, supportive presence was all he needed. Then with a deep sigh he turned to her and took her in his arms.
She responded, kissing him deeply, needing comfort and reassurance from him as much as he did from her. Arthas ran his hands through her silky golden hair and breathed her scent. And for a few brief hours that night, they permitted themselves to be lost in each other, pushing away thoughts of death and horror and plagued grain and prophets and choices, their world narrow and tender and comprised only of the two of them.