The bells rang again. It was noon. From above, through the circular opening in the domed ceiling, the light filtered down, the absolutely cloudless sky producing the best lighting the throne room of the mighty nation of Lordaeron had ever seen. The cheering from outside was loud, audible to the few occupants of the chamber, the royal liege, King Terenas Menethil, and his elite guards, who had served their lord valiantly through battle upon battle, including the long and bloody combat that had seen much of the city lain to waste when Doomhammer had led his forces against the gates. Now, however, they awaited the arrival of the prodigal son, the prince Arthas Menethil, who had just returned from his campaign in the far north lands of Northrend. The news had spread like wildfire through the city, and now it seemed like every citizen in the capital of northern human lands was celebrating the return of the boy.
Malachai Whitehand, however, did not share the opinions of the rest of the populace. He had seen, firsthand, the results of the slaughter at Stratholme. Fully three quarters of the capital of the eastern provinces has been razed, undead and human, both military and civilians, laying broken in the streets. The putrid smoke from the piles of corpses, burned to prevent further spread of the plague, had filled the entire city. His own entourage had arrived as that of the Silver Hand, led by the Lord Uther Lightbringer himself, had been departing. His own troops, assigned to keep the peace in the ruined city, had been assaulted by a force of undead that had clawed its way out of the ruins of the city; many more innocents had died in the sudden and unforseen assault within the city, and the knight had taken weeks to wash the blood entirely from his long white hair.
Whitehand wasn't an old man, but he had seen his share of battles. He had fought with those who stood below him, members of the elite guard now, in the Second War, but he had been a young man of sixteen when the battles started. Now, entering his fourth decade of life, he saw the new war brewing, and was ready to fight to save his people again. Not overly handsome, he had always had a certain sort of charisma, something that had led him to the position he was in now, a leader of one of the military wings under Menethil's rule. He had fought against the orcs of the Second War as a footman, slugging it out on the front lines, had led units in the routing of the Orcs who had attempted to return to Lordaeron when their foul portal reopened. He had rode a black charger through the lines of orcs that had struggled to evade the internment camps for the past ten years. And now, here he stood, apart from the rest of the commanders because he believed that Arthas was a changed man, that he would never again be the same young paladin he had left as, that he was now something different, something... tainted.
From his perch in one of the small platforms above the room, usually reserved for the ambassador from Stratholme during diplomatic meetings, Malachai watched, leaning against the cool stone, his form mostly in shadow. He could hear the loud thump as the doors into the massive chamber shot open and slammed hard against the stonework walls. Three figures, all robed in dark colours entered. Malachai raised his eyebrow as he watched; never before had the boy abandoned the blues and gold and now here he was, decked out in furs, greys and blacks. His interest fully caught now, the soldier leaned from the shadows to get a better view as the prince, hidden in the dark recesses of his hood, knelt down, his heavy broadsword making a clinking noise as the tip contacted the tiling. Funny, Malachai thought. Arthas had never wielded a sword before; he had always born a hammer like his mentor.
The king, beginning to show signs of frailty from his years of sitting on the throne and all the wars he'd conducted against the possessed orcs of Draenor, smiled to his son, an act barely visible from the eagle's eye view that Whitehand had, and rose to his feet. The old Terenas spoke with a commanding voice for his age and weariness, reminding Malachai of the final defenses against the Horde as Menethil had shouted from the heads of the columns to give not an inch without blood lost, "Ah, my son. I knew you would return when I asked you to. Lord Uther spoke of the destruction of Stratholme and the slaughter of its citizens at your hands, but I can not believe that you, my son, would be capable of such acts."
"You no longer need to bear the weight of your crown," the voice was low, quiet, barely audible in the highest reaches of the domed structure, but it was, surely, Malachai knew, the Prince Arthas. But he was different. His voice was a rasp, as if spoken from far away, through the will of some other being. Whitehand took a step from the shadows to get a better view as the prince continued, "I've taken care of everything."
There was a scraping as the blade of the sword held by the boy dragged along the surface and he rose to his feet. His gloved right hand drew the hood back from his face, revealing his long once golden hair, now tainted with a whiteness, and the gauntness that was beginning to overtake his face. And it was then that Malachai felt the chill overtake the air as Arthas begin to step forward and the two soldiers that had accompanied him into the throne room stepped off to the side, advancing menacingly on the guards. The boy gave off an aura now, something different than the Light-blessed holiness that he bore before. Malachai recognized it. It was the same aura that had before, in the Second War, sent hundreds of men scrambling in fear. Even after facing so many of them, he still couldn't quite combat the sickness that began to grow in his stomach as he murmured.
"Death knight..."
The king began to back away as his son advanced, but, finding no retreat, he fell against the throne. As Arthas began his ascent to the dias, Malachai found himself unable to turn away from the scene unfolding before him, though his heart told him to run and find his weapon, to go the side of Terenas now. Now, Terenas Menethil, King of Lordaeron, cowered as his son approached, unable to form a coherent sentence, "What is this? W-what are you doing, my son?"
Arthas grabbed hold of the old man by his shirt, dragging him aloft into the air. There was a sinister smile on his face as he drew back the blade that now gave off a fog of steam, as though the blade were made of ice, "Suceeding you... father." What followed was quick, decisive. The blade went into the old man, forced with the arm of the prince who had seen many long and fierce battles in the icy darkness of Northrend. The old man let out a gasp for life, and Arthas dropped him against the throne, the heavy sole of his boot rising against the chest of the man to give him to leverage to pull the cursed blade from the now chilling corpse.
As the body fell back, the golden crown, the spires atop it reaching skywards for the heavens, toppled from the head of the now dead king. It rolled along the man's body, gathering traces of crimson against it as it trailed through the blood, then fell onto the stone dias, constantly toppling towards the floor below. As it hit down on one of the steps, one of the spires broke free, thrown aside by the sudden freedom from the main body. And then the crown came to a stop.
The prince, the bloodied blade still in his hand, turned, facing the guards who had been herded against the walls. The soldiers who had accompanied Arthas into the room had thrown back their own hoods, revealing the twisted figures of undead abominations underneath. The guards, a mixture of fear, shock and total hatred raging through them, could do nothing as the death knight spoke loudly, hefting the sword in his hand, "This kingdom shall fall." The bells tolled, loud even at their distance. The heir to the throne began his descent away from the body, back down into the light that filled the dome. "And from the ashes shall arise a new order that will shake the very foundations of the world." The bells tolled again, and the prince pulled his hood up again to shield himself from the bright sun.
Finally finding the will in himself to move again, Malachai turned, falling back into the darkness and into the antechamber beyond. His breaths were heavy, his actions deft, but he had purpose. Arthas would not get away with this... this treason! He would pay dearly. All he had to do was get his sword, checked in with the guards below, and find his way into the throne room proper, on the same level as the king's throne. There, he would help the guards to overwhelm the abominations and -
His thoughts were cut short as he heard Arthas' voice echo again, speaking three ill words.
"Kill them all."
It was these words that drove the anger in the solitary man to the breaking point. He broke instantly into a run, headed through the shadowed chamber and down the set of spiral stairs that lead into the checkpoint below. He barely paused for more than a second to grab his blade from the rack on the wall, stunning the guards as he pushed past them and into the wide corridor beyond. Left, right, he turned his head, his mind struggling to recall the complex layout of the lower construct. After a moment of thought, a scream pierced the air, the sound clearly coming from his right. His mind indetifying it as the path out of the structure into the lesser courtyards near the one Arthas had marched through, he turned, the sword banging lightly against the stone floor as he hustled down the corridor and out into the light.
He had clearly made a mistake in his navigation, for he found himself on the walkways overlooking the path Arthas had entered along. A trio of beasts, hunched over and foaming at the mouth like a pack hound with rabies, tore through the crowds, tossing aside the people who, until moments before, had been anticipating the return of Arthas out along the same passage. The flower petals that they had been throwing down to their crowned prince were now tossed wildly into the air as the beasts, making sure their work was thorough, began to tear apart the next wave of people who hadn't been able to clear out. Malachai looked about frantically for the guards, finding their bodies, obviously the first torn apart, thrown carelessly over the edge of the wall. Across the courtyard, the same scene was being repeated across the far wall.
And between the two walls, in the narrow walkway, Arthas continued his march back to the gates of the castle as if nothing was occuring around him.
Malachai gritted his teeth. He couldn't hope to save the people on either side. Muttering a quiet prayer for the Light to guide them, he gripped the hilt of his sword and took a run at the bulwark. His free hand reached out, acting as a pivot for the rest of his body. Whitehand's entire mass vaulted over the rampart and he began to descend, accelerating, towards the stone surface more than two dozen feet below.
In his youth, Malachai Whitehand had been in peak physical form. He had leapt from the top of an orc watch tower into a swarm of berserking creatures more than thirty feet below without any more injuries than those he garnered in the vicious melee that had followed. Once, during the Battle of Dalaran, he had outrun a horde of wolf riders as they came barrelling towards him over the bridges that had, originally, been intended to evacuate civilians from the city; he had dashed into a building and brought up the alert, returning moments later with enough troops to slaughter the raiders. Yes, he'd been in fine physical form.
In his youth. There was a sickening snap as he came down hard on the stone. Try thought he might, the enraged warrior could not choke down the cry of pain, but he masked it well, for it merged with the next words to escape his mouth.
"Traitor!"
Arthas turned, the heavy fur cape he wore swinging in a wide circle as he came to face the new distraction, a look of sheer perplexity crossing his face. Then, it changed, becoming a look of pure amusement. Almost as if willed by the fallen prince, the clouds began to cover the sun as he pulled back the hood, once again revealing the beginnings of the corrupted visage, "Ah... one of my father's satraps from Stratholme..." Arthas seemed to grin as the first drops of rain began to drizzle from the sky. "Whitehand, wasn't it? Come to thank me for saving your city from that son of a troll, Mal'Ganis, have you?"
Malachai sneered, trying to hide the pain that was creeping up his body. He gathered his voice, yelling loud enough for the populace who, in their paniced state, was now rallying behind the guards who were arriving from within the castle to deal with the ghouls that had terrorized the walls. "Prince Arthas Menethil, you are hereby under arrest for the assassination of the king... and for the slaughter of the people of Stratholme. With my authority granted to me by your father, the one and true King of Lordaeron, I command you to stand down now and undergo the Trial of Justice, overseen by the Silver Hand." He tightened his grip on the blade, one of the enchanted swords crafted by order of the dwarf king, Magni Bronzeboard, as a sign of good faith to the northern kingdoms.
Arthas laughed, but not the same laugh that he had only short months before when he had come to the Stratholme defense forces to rally troops against Mal'Ganis. For a brief second, Malachai wondered at the fate of those who had followed the damned prince, but didn't have time to dwell on the thought as the fallen man drew his sword back into a defensive stance, "I am your king now. Lordaeron and all the Northlands are mine. Would you stand against me and die, or bow before me and live?"
"None would bow before you!" the white haired man shouted, the pain in his body being replaced by the rage brewing within him. "You have killed your father and brought those unholy abominations into our city to feed! Stratholme lies in ruins, completely obliterated by your mad desires! Damned be the men who followed you into that wretched hell Northrend... You're lucky I don't cut you down where you stand for these crimes."
"Would but you could, whelp," Arthas sneered. He raised his free hand, clenched in a fist, and began to chant in the now increasing rain. A haze of green came into existence around his fist, the unholy energies of some dark power flowing through him. The young prince finished with one last, strong arcane syllable, one that Malachai recognized all too well from his fights with the death knights of the Second War.
The unholy powers tore through his body, the death coil spell of the former paladin confirming the worst fears of Whitehand; the boy had fallen, further than any before him had fallen. Only the bodies of the former knights of the Alliance, infused with the essences of corrupted orc warlocks, had ever unleashed such spells before, but yet here was the prince of Lordaeron, once a paladin of the Light, unleashing the chaotic necromantic energies of the death coil. And how it pained the already injured knight.
It felt to Malachai as if the life were being drained from his body by the second, his arms growing heavier and his already pained legs struggling to keep him up. And then, as the spells effects began to wear off, his body gave in, forcing him to collapse to his knees, the sword cutting into the ground between stones to hold himself from dropping entirely. Fatigued, he looked up at the dark prince as the initial pain of the spell began to fade. The dark shapes of the guards who had accompanied Arthas into the throne room were passing him now, their features again cloaked. The rain was beginning to pool into puddles now, the sounds of the soldiers on the bulwarks fighting against the ghouls still evident over the growing patter of the rain. Whitehand, though tired and weak, still found the energy to smile, "Is that all you're capable of, Arthas? A paladin of the Light would've been far more capable of destroying me..."
However, the taunt didn't even shake Arthas. The man sneered, his hair matting to his face under the rain, "I don't care to destroy you. If I were to destroy everyone who stood against me, how would my armies grow?" He raised his hand, signalling to the abomination beside him who, without any sign of acknowledgement or questioning, brought the staff it carried up from the ground and released it into one hand. There was a blinding flash of light as the beast summoned a ball of fire and sent it spiralling towards the wounded knight.
Whitehand pushed himself to the side at the last moment, driving him directly out of the blast of the small ball of fire, but the sizzling heat still ate the flesh at the side of his face, burning away a portion of his hair and instantly searing the side of his face and ear into a blackened mass. All the pain in his body was too much for the fatigued warrior, and he cried out in pain, rolling to the ground where he found himself staring up at the sky as the rain continued to pound down on him. His every breath laboured, the tortured man writhed in agony from the multitude of injuries and pains crawling across his body.
From somewhere off behind him, Malachai could hear the sound of footsteps thumping against the dull ground. He strained, trying to see the source, then recoiled in pain. A moment later, there was a chuckle and the shadowed face of Arthas looked down upon him, "Perhaps this is for the best Whitehand. I will let you live this day to see my reign as king. But a day will come when you and I will meet again, and you will not be so lucky." The tip of Frostmourne came down, burrowing slowly into the right shoulder of the already battered man. Arthas smiled in glee at the torment Malachai was facing. But Malachai hardly noticed for the icy chill of the blade began to overtake him, racing down his arm and across his chest. Then suddenly Arthas lifted the blade and brought it plummeting down.
The rain was pounding hard on the canvas surface of the tent as Malachai shot awake, the pain from the wound in his months old shoulder wound slowly creeping back again. The thin grey light of morning was struggling to pierce the rain clouds, and he groaned wearily, tossing aside the linen blanket he had used every night for the past tenday. Groggily, he pulled himself from the tent and into the downpour. There was much to do today. The Scourge were coming. Hillsbrad had to be prepared.