Uther the Lightbringer (Part 1)

"You are not my king yet, boy. Nor would I obey that command even if you were!"

Arthas clenched his jaw. His mentor's word had cut deeper than he was willing to admit, even to himself. Especially to himself, for acknowledging such inadequacies may quell the righteous anger burning within him. He needed that flame alive and strong for what he intended on doing.

"Then I must consider this an act of treason."

"Treason!?" Exclaimed the older paladin. "Have you lost your mind, Arthas?"

"Have I? Lord Uther, by my right of succession and the sovereignty of my crown, I hereby relieve you of your command and suspend your paladins from service."

"Arthas! You can't just—" The young sorceress attempted to interject, but was swiftly met with the glare of her once-beloved.

"It's done! Those of you who have the will to save this land, follow me! The rest of you... get out of my sight."

All present, from the most decorated knight to the lowest footman, exchanged glances. Uncertain eyes sought assurance from one another, for none dared to be the first to take a stance. Who could blame them? Perhaps the prince was right; one must amputate the infected limb and cauterize the stump so that the rest of the body may endure. And yet, had they truly exhausted all remaining options? Was there no recourse left but to butcher their fellow men like diseased cattle?

In the background, the gates of Stratholme loomed. Its towers reached toward the oppressive sky, rain cascading off the battlements and down its ivory walls. It was as if the city itself were awaiting its judgment with bated breath. Uther, with furrowed brows marked by the patina of age, appeared intent on standing his ground. His grip on his warhammer tightened, and for a brief moment, it seemed as though he might strike against his student, prepared to drag him back to Capital City by his neck if necessary. The young lion wasn't ready. He still dealt in absolutes, believing that they must be as ruthless as the enemy in order to prevail against them. Yet, if mercy had now become a liability, what made their side any better?

Before he could decide whether it was worth overstepping his station or not, however, someone else had made the decision for him. The sound of an arrow whistling through the air was briefly heard, and moments later, Arthas was reeling backward, clutching at his chest. A shaft now protruded from his breastplate. The blood followed shortly thereafter, pouring from the breach in the prince's armor.

"Ambush! Men, protect your liege!" roared Uther, gripping his hammer with both hands and firmly planting his feet.

A small contingent of warriors promptly established a human barricade around the wounded Arthas. Shields were raised and swords were unsheathed, confused heads swiveling in all directions as they tried to ascertain the origin of the attack. Those that had arrived on horseback leapt off their steeds and relinquished their heavy lances, readying themselves for close-quarters combat. Yet, the woods surrounding them remained undisturbed. No horde nor army came charging toward them from the fog.

"Eyes open." spoke Jaina.

One of her slender hands was encased in a shimmering layer of arcane frost, poised to unleash a barrage of crystalline shards upon the first enemy that dared to approach. Her lips were set in a grim line, her gaze flitting about with caution, scanning her periphery.

"Reveal yourselves, you cowards!" again shouted Uther, only to be met with more silence.

Suddenly, he heard something splat against wet soil beside him. He directed his eyes downward. It was a bow—remarkably ornate in its craftsmanship, with limbs adorned with engravings of silver and turquoise, and a pointed guard, shaped like an eagle's beak, positioned above the center grip. Even to the untrained eye, it was clear that the weapon was of elven design. The figure, its presumed wielder, who revealed himself shortly thereafter, was certainly no elf, though.

The tan-hooded stranger approached slowly with his arms raised. His face was shrouded, with only the lower half of a stubbled chin remaining visible. Curiously, he was clad in ranger attire, not too dissimilar to that worn by the Farstriders of Quel'Thalas. Based on that description alone, the paladin could already make an informed assumption regarding the identity of their assailant.

"I know you. You are—"

"Lord Uther! The Prince, he's not responding!" yelled out an anxious guardsman.

"Damn it all."

Uther turned away from the hooded man, signaling to the nearest soldiers to apprehend him, before retreating back to Arthas. The distressed guardsman had been correct; the boy was entirely unresponsive. He had sunk to a knee and remained thus, eyes wide and mouth agape—completely frozen, as though he had been transformed into a statue. Only the occasional blink indicated that he was still aware. In his haste, the older paladin nearly tore his Libram of Justice from the chain securing it to his belt. He swung open the pages of the hefty tome and hovered his calloused palm above the letters until it began radiating with healing light, then placed said palm upon the prince's chest. A bubble of comforting warmth enveloped the area around them. Once the bleeding was under control, he removed the arrow with a single, rehearsed motion, then concentrated one final surge of power into closing the resulting wound. As he had anticipated, however, Arthas remained paralyzed, unable to move, save for a few fleeting spasms.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Jaina, hurrying to Uther's side. Her voice brimmed with concern.

"Poison." Responded the paladin grimly.

His chestnut locks, interlaced with strands of white, draped heavily beyond the peripheries of his sight, burdened as they were by the incessant deluge. The distant clamor of thunder reverberated like the rumblings of an ancient wyrm rousing from its eons-long slumber. Given the current state of their world, such notions may not have been entirely metaphorical.

"The Prince will live." Interjected Nathanos, loudly enough so that the pair could hear him whilst he was being unceremoniously shoved ahead, arms now bound behind his back. "Woundwood mixed with troll poison. He'll be stuck like this for another day or two. The effect should start to wear off after that."

Jaina was the first to turn around. Her once delicate features had contorted into a cold, glacial mask of pure contempt—enough to send a shiver down the spine of even the bravest man.

"I ought to incinerate you where you stand, traitor."

"Your anger is... understandable." confessed the imprisoned ranger lord. "But I assure you, things are not as they seem."

"Oh, aren't they? So which part am I misinterpreting?

"There are greater forces at play here, my lady. I promise that all will be revealed in due course."

Behind the sorceress, a contemplative Uther rose back to his full height. He pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to organize his thoughts.

As if on cue, a horrifying sight abruptly captured everyone's attention. A young girl, her apron smeared with blood, came frantically rushing down the stone bridge that led into Stratholme. She was shrieking like a banshee, her skinny arms flailing, desperately hailing the unexpected host of Alliance soldiers that had congregated before the city's gates. In her wake, a pack of grotesque abominations, no longer recognizable as human beings, pursued her closely. Their flesh was melting off their bones, shedding more with each awkward step they took, as if it served no purpose other than to hinder their advance. Their fingers had ossified into claws, and their jaws hung loosely, perpetually agape and oozing with thick, pus-colored bile.

Just as one of them was about to make a lunge for the girl, its skull suddenly exploded into fragments. Dark blood sprayed like a fountain.

"Shoot to kill!" bellowed a rifleman at the top of his lungs.

This was promptly followed by a volley of additional gunshots. The peasant girl dropped to her knees and clutched her head, although her screams were soon drowned out. A murder of crows that had sought refuge in the branches of a nearby tree scattered in panic. When it was all over, there remained nothing of the ghouls except for heaps of lifeless, rotting meat tarnishing the stonework. The scent of gunpowder permeated the air. A footman was about to go and retrieve the girl, but the firm grip of Uther held him back. It was the paladin who took the initiative instead. The poor child remained kneeling at the center of the crossover, shielding her ears and drawing rapid breaths. As he moved closer, Uther thought that he saw her mouth "mommy" several times amidst her sobbing.

Now he understood how Arthas must have felt: confronted with the choice between the certain annihilation of a select few and the potential widespread loss of life should this plague be permitted to fester unchecked for too long. It's all too easy to admonish when you aren't the one expected to decide. For all he knew, the frightened child cowering before him could have been mere moments away from becoming one of those vile creatures.

His features softened. No, there had to be another way. A better way. He offered his hand to the girl, who initially shrank back, but ultimately acquiesced when she lifted her trembling eyes to meet those of the paladin. He nodded, almost in silent agreement, as if acknowledging a promise she need not speak aloud.

"Brothers and sisters!" he proclaimed, pivoting to face the small army now awaiting the Lightbringer's orders, however unofficial they may have technically been. The child clung to his side—a symbol of innocence and a reminder of the solemn oath each of them had pledged to uphold.

"I trust I need not spell out the peril we face. Many of you have witnessed it firsthand in Brill, in Andorhal, in Hearthglen, and now, this accursed blight has befallen Stratholme as well. I don't know about you, but I will be damned before I surrender any more of our land to these abominations."

Urther then singled out the tall individual who stood closest to the petrified prince's side, shielding him from the downpour. It was not solely his stature that set him apart; the gold motifs of his armor and the decorative wings adorning his helmet certainly distinguished him from the others in his regiment. He was clearly of higher rank than the average soldier.

"Captain Falric, I am assigning you the task of transporting Prince Arthas and the prisoner safely back to Capital City. You are also to ensure that King Terenas receives a full report. Omit nothing."

"Aye, sir." Nodded the Captain.

"Good. Jaina..."

The young sorceress straightened. She was finally forced to break the steady glare she had been maintaining on Nathanos, who was being dragged into a nearby tent. How she yearned to be the one to conduct the bastard's interrogation personally.

"You will travel to Dalaran and bring Archmage Antonidas up to speed. Until we discover a cure for this plague, if one indeed exists, we require a more effective method of containing it."

Jaina dipped her head in contemplation, her fair brows knitting together.

"I... suppose that if we had more mages, we could conjure a magical dome around Stratholme."

"Excellent. Make haste then. The rest of you will establish a defensive perimeter around the city. Let no undead slip through."

"What of the survivors, my lord?" A grizzled knight spoke up.

"Good question. Erect a separate camp away from our main one. Should any survivors reach the gate, keep them segregated for the time being. I trust you know what to do should you spot any signs of corruption."

The knight nodded somberly.

"As for myself, I will be leading a small contingent of warriors into Stratholme. If this 'Mal'Ganis' that the Prince spoke of is at the heart of this madness, I will find him and bring him to justice. Now, has everyone understood their assignments?"

"Yes, Lord Uther! For Lordaeron! For the Alliance!" the men answered in a resounding chorus.

"Then may Light protect us all..."