“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 protégé.” 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.
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.”
“They have been invited to a repast with the other servants,” Taretha explained. She still didn’t look up.
“I see. Well, that’s kind of the lieutenant general; I’m sure the men appreciate it.”
She didn’t move.
“Is there anything else, Taretha?”
The pink in her cheeks deepened, and she lifted her eyes to him. They were calm, resigned. “My lord Blackmoore sent me with this offering of things to tempt you,” she repeated. “Things you might enjoy.”
Understanding burst upon him then. Understanding, and embarrassment, and irritation, and anger. He composed himself with an effort—it was hardly the girl’s fault, indeed, she was the one being ill used.
“Taretha,” he said, “I’ll take the food, with thanks. I need nothing else.”
“Your Highness, I’m afraid he will insist.”
“Tell him I said it’s fine.”
“Sir, you don’t understand. If I come back he—”
He glanced down at the hands holding the tray, at the long hair draped just so. Arthas stepped forward and lifted her trailing hair out of the way, frowning at the brownish-blue fading marks on her wrists and throat.
“I see,” he said. “Come inside, then.” Once she had entered, he closed the door and turned to her.
“Stay for as long as you feel comfortable, then go back to him. In the meantime, I can’t possibly eat all this.” He gestured for her to sit and took a chair opposite her, snagging a small pastry and grinning.
Taretha blinked at him. It took a moment for her to understand what he was saying, and then cautious relief and gratitude spread over her face as she poured the wine. After a little while, she began to respond to his questions with more than a few polite words, and they spent the next few hours talking before they agreed it was time for her to return. As she picked up the tray, she turned to him.
“Your Highness—it pleases me so much to know that the man who will be our next king has such a kind heart. The lady you choose to make your queen will be a very lucky woman.”
He smiled and closed the door behind her, leaning on it for a moment.
The lady he would choose to make his queen. He recalled his conversation with Calia; fortunately for his sister, Terenas had started to have some suspicions about Prestor—nothing that could be proven, but enough for second thoughts.
Arthas was almost of age—a year older than Calia had been when their father had nearly betrothed her to Prestor. He supposed he’d have to start thinking about finding a queen sooner or later.
Tomorrow he would be leaving, and not a minute too soon.
The winter chill was in the air. Autumn’s last glorious days were gone, and the trees, once shades of gold and red and orange, were now bare skeletons against a gray sky. In a few more months, Arthas would reach his nineteenth year and be inducted into the Order of the Silver Hand, and he was more than ready. His training with Muradin had ended a few months ago, and he had now begun sparring with Uther. It was different, but similar. What Muradin had taught was attentiveness and a willingness to win the battle no matter what. The paladins had a more ritualistic way of looking at battle, and focused more on the attitude one brought into the fight than the actual mechanics of swordplay. Arthas found both methods valid, although he was beginning to wonder if he’d ever have the chance to use what he had learned in a true battle.
Normally, he’d be in prayer session now, but his father was off on a diplomatic visit to Stromgarde, and Uther had accompanied him. Which meant that now Arthas had afternoons free for a few days, and he was not about to waste them, even if the weather was less than perfect. He clung easily and familiarly to Invincible as they galloped over the glade, the animal’s stride only slightly slowed by a few inches of snow on the ground. He could see his breath and that of the great white horse as Invincible tossed his head and snorted.
It was starting to snow again now, not the soft fat flakes that drifted lazily down but small, hard crystals that stung. Arthas frowned and pressed on. A little farther, then he would turn back, he told himself. He might even stop at the Balnir farm. It had been a while since he had been there; Jorum and Jarim would likely be interested to see the magnificent horse that the gawky little colt had grown into.
The impulse, having struck, now demanded to be obeyed, and Arthas turned Invincible with a subtle pressure from his left leg. The horse wheeled, obedient and completely in tune with his master’s desires. The snow was picking up, tiny needles digging into his exposed skin, and Arthas pulled the cape up over his head for a little more protection. Invincible shook his head, his skin twitching as it did when he was being annoyed by insects in the summer. He galloped down the path, stretching his neck forward, enjoying the exertion every bit as much as Arthas.
They were coming up on the jump soon, and shortly after that, a warm stable for the steed and a hot mug of tea for his rider before they headed back to the palace. Arthas’s face was starting to become numb with the cold, and his hands in their fine leather gloves weren’t much better. He tightened his chilled hands over the reins, forcing his fingers to bend, and gathered himself as Invincible leaped—no, he reminded himself, flew, they flew over this jump like—
—except they didn’t fly. At the last minute, Arthas felt the hideous sensation of Invincible’s rear hooves slipping on the icy stone, and the horse flailed, neighing, his legs frantically trying to get a secure footing on thin air. Arthas’s throat was suddenly raw, and he realized he was screaming as jagged stone, not smooth snow-encrusted grass, rushed up to meet them with lethal speed. He pulled hard on the reins, as if that could do something, as if anything could do something—
The sound cut through his stupor, and he blinked his way back to consciousness with the bone-chilling shriek of a beast in agony clawing at his brain. He couldn’t move at first, though his body spasmed of its own accord, trying to move toward the awful cries. Finally he was able to sit up. Pain shot through him and he added his own gasp of agony to the hideous cacophony, and he realized he’d probably broken at least one rib, probably more.
The snow had picked up and was coming down hard and heavy now. He could barely see three feet in front of him. He shut out the pain, craning his neck, trying to find—
Invincible. His eye was drawn to movement and the widening pool of crimson that melted the snow, that steamed in the cold.
“No,” Arthas whispered, and struggled to his feet. The world went black around the edges and he almost lost consciousness again, but through sheer will hung on. Slowly, he made his way to the panicked animal, struggling against the pain and the driving wind and snow that threatened to knock him over.
Invincible was churning up the bloodied snow with two powerful, unharmed rear legs and two shattered forelegs. Arthas felt his stomach heave at the sight of the limbs, once so long and straight and clean and powerful, hanging at odd angles as Invincible kept trying and failing to stand. Then the image was mercifully blurred by the snow and the rush of hot tears that spilled down his cheeks.
He slogged toward his horse, sobbing, dropping to his knees beside the maddened animal and trying to do—what? This was no scratch, to be quickly bound so that Invincible could be led to a warm stable and hot mash. Arthas reached for the animal’s head, wanting to touch him, to calm him somehow, but Invincible was manic with agony. And he kept screaming.
Help. There were priests and Sir Uther—maybe they could heal—
Pain greater than physical shot through the youth. The bishop had gone with his father to Stromgarde, as had Uther. There might be a priest in another village, but Arthas didn’t know where, and with the storm—
He shrank back from the animal, covering his ears and closing his eyes, sobbing so that his whole body shook. With the storm, he could never find a healer before Invincible either died of his injuries or froze to death. Arthas wasn’t even sure he could find the Balnir homestead, even though it could not be far. The world was white, everywhere save where the dying horse, who had trusted him enough to leap off an icy embankment, lay churning up a steaming crimson pool.
Arthas knew what he had to do, and he couldn’t do it.
He would never know how long he sat there, weeping, trying to shut out the sight and sound of his beloved horse in agony, until finally Invincible’s struggles slowed. He lay in the snow, his sides heaving, his eyes rolling in torment.
Arthas couldn’t feel his face or limbs, but somehow he managed to move toward the beast. Every breath was agony, and he welcomed the pain. This was his fault. His fault. He took the great head in his lap, and for a brief, merciful moment he wasn’t sitting in the snow with a wounded beast, but sitting in a stable while a broodmare gave birth. For that moment, everything was all just beginning, and not coming to this shocking, sickening, avoidable end.
His tears fell on the horse’s broad cheek. Invincible trembled, his brown eyes wide with now-silent pain. Arthas removed his gloves and ran his hand along the pink-gray muzzle, feeling the warmth of Invincible’s breath against his hands. Then, slowly, he eased the horse’s head from his lap, got to his feet, and fumbled with his warmed hand for his sword. His feet sank in the red puddle of melted snow as he stood over the fallen animal.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
Invincible regarded him calmly, trustingly, as if he somehow understood what was about to happen, and the need for it. It was more than Arthas could bear, and for a moment tears again clouded his vision. He blinked them back hard.
Arthas lifted the sword and brought it straight down.
He did this right, at least; pierced Invincible’s great heart with a single strong blow from arms that should have been too chilled to do so. He felt the sword pierce skin, flesh, scrape against bone, and impale itself into the earth below. Invincible arched once, then shuddered and lay still.
Jorum and Jarim found him there some time later, after the snow had tapered off, curled up tightly against the cooling corpse of a once-glorious animal brimming with life and energy. As the elder man bent to pick him up, Arthas cried out with pain.
“Sorry, lad,” Jorum said, his voice almost unbearably kind. “For hurting you, and for the accident.”
“Yes,” Arthas said weakly, “the accident. He lost his footing…”
“And no wonder in this weather. That storm came on quickly. You’re lucky you’re alive. Come on—we’ll get you inside and send someone to the palace.”
As he shifted in the farmer’s strong grip, Arthas said, “Bury him…here? So I can come visit?”
Balnir exchanged glances with his son, then nodded. “Aye, of course. He was a noble steed.”
Arthas craned his neck to look at the body of the horse he had named Invincible. He would let them all think it was an accident, because he could not bear to tell anyone what he had done.
And he made a vow then and there that if anyone else ever needed protection—that if sacrifices had to be made for the welfare of others—he would do it.
Whatever it takes, he thought.