Ravages of the Plague, Part 1
Back in his quarters, the heavy oak door closed behind him with a thud, muffling the sounds of the castle. The room was dimly lit, with only a single candle flickering on the desk, casting a warm glow across the large map spread out before him. Arthas approached the map, his eyes scanning the familiar landmarks of Lordaeron with a furrowed brow. His hand hovered over the chart, tracing the path to Stratholme—a place that now haunted his dreams and his waking moments. The name Kel'thuzad was etched in crimson ink, a stark contrast against the aged parchment. The necromancer had been his 'friend' as a Death Knight, his confidant, and ultimately, an architect of his downfall.
"Kel'thuzad," he murmured, the name a curse on his lips. "The betrayer of humanity." His hand tightened into a fist, the memory of the Lich King's whispers echoing in his mind, urging him to seek him out and crush him beneath his boot. But he needed to be careful. As rash decisions would mean greater consequences.
He paced the room, his boots thudding against the cold stone floor. "Should I slay him where he stands, as I would a beast?" Arthas spoke aloud to the shadows, his voice a mix of anger and contemplation. "Or should I bring him before the Silver Hand or the Kirin Tor to make him talk of what they're planning?"
If he killed Kel'thuzad and destroyed his corpse, then they would be sure that the Legion would not be summoned, but then he wasn't acting alone in this scheme. But if he captured him, they would be able could extract the knowledge needed to prevent another catastrophe.
He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving the crimson insignia on the map. "I will bring him here if necessary."
With a renewed sense of determination, Arthas turned to the parchment, his hand shaking slightly as he reached for the quill. He scribbled a note beside Kel'thuzad's name: "Kill or Capture and Interrogate." His mind was made up. The whispers of his past would not dictate his future.
The candlelight danced across the map as he continued to plot out his next moves, each stroke of the quill a declaration of his newfound resolve. He had to find the Prophet, to understand the true extent of the plague and the shadow that had been cast upon their world. Only then could he hope to prevent the same fate from befalling Azeroth once more.
The name Baron Rivendare sent a shiver down Arthas' spine, a specter of his past rising from the ashes of his memories. He had served alongside Kel'thuzad during the darkest times of his reign, and the necromancer and later Lich had often spoken of Rivendare with a twisted sense of admiration. The baron was a man of wealth and influence, a figure of respect in the once-thriving city of Stratholme, and yet, he had been corrupted by the necromancer's teachings. Arthas knew that without the baron's influence and resources, the spread of the plague would have been significantly slower.
The candle flame flickered as he dipped the quill into the inkwell, his hand steadying with the weight of his decision. He wrote the name "Baron Rivendare" with a heavy hand, his mind racing with the implications. The baron was a snake in the grass, a hidden enemy that had to be dealt with delicately. Arresting him without evidence would only serve to alert Kel'thuzad and risk their mission.
Arthas paused, his gaze lingering on the parchment as he considered his options. "I must tread carefully," he murmured to himself. "To expose him, I need proof of his treachery." His eyes narrowed as he thought back to the days of his service to the Lich King. He knew that Rivendare had been instrumental in the Cult of the Damned, a clandestine group that had worked tirelessly to spread the plague. But the whispers that had once been his guiding force now only brought him doubt and confusion.
The prince leaned heavily on the desk, the candle's warmth doing little to ease the chill that gripped his heart. "How many others are there?" he wondered aloud. "How deep does Kel'thuzad's influence run?" The thought of him reach made him feel ill. But he pushed aside his anger, focusing instead on the task at hand.
"For now," he decided, his voice a low growl, "I need to keep an eye on him and learn what I could." The words hung in the air like a solemn vow. The promise of making things right, of saving the lives that had been lost because of his own actions, fueled his determination.
The whispers grew distant as he folded the map, tucking it away into a hidden compartment of his wall. He knew he could not face Jaina, his father or Uther with half-truths and suspicions. No, he would need solid evidence, a clear understanding of Rivendare's role in the impending doom that threatened Lordaeron.
Arthas paused, the tip of his quill hovering over the map as he etched the name "Mal'Ganis" in the corner of the page. The foul memory of the Dreadlord's treacherous smile surfaced, a specter from his darkest hours. The demon had been the architect of his fall, a deceitful guide that had led him straight to the Lich King's icy embrace. If he could prevent the same fate from befalling his people, perhaps he could find a semblance of peace. "If I can ensure Mal'Ganis's demise in Stratholme," he murmured, the candlelight casting eerie shadows across his contemplative features, "It would stem the tide of the plague before it can spread further." The whispers grew more insistent, urging him to seek out the demon and crush him with Light's Vengeance. But Arthas knew better than to act on impulse. He needed a plan, a way to intercept Mal'Ganis without alerting Kel'thuzad to his intentions.
His thoughts drifted to the broader picture, the grand chessboard of Azeroth's fate. If Mal'Ganis was indeed dead, then they would likely send another in his stead—Tichondrius, perhaps, the cunning Dreadlord who had served as the Burning Legion's liaison during the Third War. The very thought of facing the demonic puppet master again sent a shiver down his spine. He had seen firsthand the horrors Tichondrius had wrought, turning the living into mindless servants of the Scourge with a mere flick of his wrist.
"No," Arthas said aloud, his voice firm. "I cannot allow that to happen. I must find a way to cut off the head of the snake before it grows new fangs." He stared at the map, his eyes tracing the path from Lordaeron to the plague-ridden city. "But how?"
With a trembling hand, Arthas scribbled the name "Stratholme" onto the map, his heart heavy with the burden of his past. The very thought of the city brought back the cacophony of screams and the acrid smell of burning flesh that had filled the air on that fateful day. The haunting image of his civilians, once loyal to the bone, now twisted into mindless abominations under the influence of the very plague he had sought to contain. He had been a prince of the Alliance then, a beacon of hope, but his desperation had led him to make the ultimate sacrifice—his own humanity.
He knew that the fate of Stratholme was intertwined with the fate of Lordaeron. If he could not find a way to stop the spread of the plague without resorting to the extreme measures he had taken before, the very heart of the kingdom would be lost. The thought of his people starving, suffering the same fate as those in Stratholme, was almost too much to bear. But he steeled himself, pushing aside the whispers that sought to consume him once more.
"The grain," he said aloud, his eyes narrowing as he considered the logistics. "It must be intercepted before it reaches the city." His mind raced with the complexities of such an endeavor. The shipments were heavily guarded, and the plague had a way of twisting the minds of those it touched, making them fiercely protective of their cursed cargo.
Arthas' thoughts raced as he contemplated the gravity of the situation. He knew that time was of the essence, and that every second that passed brought Stratholme closer to the same fate that had befallen so many others. His gaze fell upon the map, his finger tracing the path from the city to the capital. "An evacuation," he murmured to the shadows, the candlelight flickering in his eyes. "We must get the people out before it is too late." The idea of ordering the evacuation of an entire city was daunting, but it was a measure he knew he could not overlook.
He imagined the chaos that would ensue, the desperate cries of the innocents as they were torn from their homes, and the fierce resistance from those who had already fallen to the whispers of the Lich King. Yet, amidst the turmoil, there was a glimmer of hope. With the assistance of the esteemed Kirin Tor mages, they could potentially detect the early stages of the plague's corruption, allowing for a more targeted approach to containment. The thought of separating families, of isolating the infected from the untouched, was a bitter pill to swallow, one that tasted of his own past transgressions.
He slammed his fist onto the desk, the quill jumping in its inkwell. "But it is not the same," he said aloud, the sound of his own voice echoing in the silence. "This time, it is not about purging the city with fire. It is about saving lives."
Turning to the map, Arthas began to plot out the logistics of such an endeavor. He would need to enlist the help of the Silver Hand, but trying to explain this to Uther would be challenging. But between the choice of purging the city and burning it to the ground or having its civilians safe and properly checked, he might be swayed to help.
With a trembling hand, Arthas picked up the quill once more and, in a fit of anger, scribbled the name "Frostmourne" in bold, angry letters across the map, at the North. The very mention of the cursed runeblade made his hand clench into a fist around the quill, the ink smearing slightly on the parchment. "That accursed weapon," he growled, his eyes ablaze with a fury that had not been seen in them for a very long time. "It must be destroyed. It is the root of all this suffering."
The whispers grew agitated at the mention of Frostmourne, the Lich King's presence in his thoughts becoming more pronounced. "No," Arthas spat, slamming his hand down on the desk. "You will not sway me. I am not your pawn anymore."
The room grew eerily silent as he stared at the name he had just written. The memories of the day he claimed the blade flooded back to him, the moment that had set him on the path to damnation. The cold touch of the sword, the seductive whispers of power, his betrayal to his comrades—it all weighed heavily upon his soul.
He took a deep, steadying breath and continued to plan. Frostmourne's destruction was paramount, but he knew he could not leave it to fate. He had to be proactive, to ensure that the weapon that had once held the power of the Lich King could never be used again to corrupt another soul. His thoughts turned to Muradin Bronzebeard, the dwarf he had encountered in Northrend, whose fate was intertwined with his own.
"Muradin," he murmured, his gaze distant. "I need to find him, and together, we will destroy that wretched sword." The idea of working alongside the very heroes he had once sought to conquer filled him with a strange mix of hope and trepidation. Would they see through his ruse? Would they trust a man who had once been the very embodiment of evil?
Of course, he brushed those aside for a moment. Because he wasn't the Death Knight nor Lich King yet. He was still the Crown Prince. He needs to focus what's happening now. But that's easier said than done.
He added a few more notes to the map, detailing the potential locations where Muradin, his Lieutenant Baelgun Flamebeard, and his company might be found at Northrend. The dwarf was a shrewd tactician, and his knowledge of the frozen continent would be invaluable.
The whispers grew fainter as Arthas focused on the task ahead. The thought of atonement, of saving lives rather than destroying them, was a potent force that began to overshadow the dark whispers that had haunted him for so long. He knew that the destruction of Frostmourne would not erase his past, but it was a start, for a better future for the Kingdom he swore to protect.
Arthas stood before the map of Lordaeron, his eyes scanning the various notes and lines he had meticulously drawn, each one a thread in the tapestry of his newfound purpose. His heart was a whirlwind of emotions: the fear of failure, the determination to prevent what happens next, and the doubt and regret lingering within. "These plans are fragile," he murmured, "like a house of cards built on shifting sands."
He knew that the path ahead was fraught with danger and that the slightest misstep could lead to the downfall of all he hoped to achieve. The whispers grew stronger, reminding him of his past failures, of the countless lives lost under his rule as the Lich King. He clenched his fists, his gauntlets creaking with the force of his grip, and took a deep breath. "I cannot let that happen again," he vowed, his voice echoing in the quiet chamber.
He knew that the fate of Lordaeron was balanced on a knife's edge, and the weight of his decisions bore down upon him like the heaviest of armor. He had to be strategic, anticipate every move, and be ready to adapt at a moment's notice. The thought of facing Kel'thuzad, Rivendare, and the legions of the undead sent a chill down his spine, but he pushed aside the fear, focusing instead on the warmth of the human connections he had lost and the hope of reclaiming them.
Arthas leaned heavily on the edge of the desk, his gaze intense as he scrutinized the map of Lordaeron. The knowledge of his former life as a Death Knight and the Lich King was a double-edged sword, for it allowed him to anticipate the cunning strategies of his former comrades in the Scourge, yet it also filled him with dread. The leadership of the undead hordes, though often seen as mindless, were shrewd and ruthless in their execution of war, especially when guided by the insidious whispers of the Burning Legion. Kel'thuzad, the Necromancer and future Arch Lich, and the shadowy Dreadlords like Tichondrius and Mal'Ganis would not be easily outwitted. He knew that should he fail in his quest to intercept the plague-laden grain or destroy Frostmourne, they would not rest until they had claimed victory.
The whispers grew more insistent, reminding him of the countless times he had seen the undead rise again, even when all seemed lost. The thought of facing an enemy that could rebuild their forces with the very lives he sought to protect was a sobering one. Yet, Arthas was not without his own tactical acumen. He had learned much from his battles against the Legion and the Lich King's own machinations. The key would be to strike swiftly and decisively, to dismantle the Scourge's operations before they could regroup and adapt.
He traced a finger along the route to Stratholme, his mind racing with the memories of his past battles. "They will have anticipated this," he murmured to himself, the candlelight casting long shadows across the parchment. "But perhaps... perhaps there is a weakness I have overlooked, a chink in the armor of their endless conquest."
With this revelation, Arthas knew that his best course of action was to play into their hands, allowing them to believe that he was still the prince they know, driven by his unwavering belief in justice. It was a risky gambit, but one that might just grant him the opportunity to strike where they least expected it. He had to tread carefully, lest he reveal his true intentions and alert the cunning minds of Kel'thuzad and the Dreadlords to his scheme.
He sat back down in his chair, stroking his chin in contemplation. "They will expect me to seek out the grain shipments, to try and prevent the spread of the plague," he murmured to the silent room. "But what if...what if I instead make it appear as though I am embracing my former role?"
He knew that the undead would not be fooled easily. They would be watching him closely, waiting for the moment he slipped up. But he was determined to use their expectations against them.
The sudden knock at the door startled Arthas, and he hastily concealed the map within the compartment, placing a nearby banner over it. He had no time for introspection now; there was a grave task at hand.
"Enter," he called out, his voice a command that brooked no argument. The heavy wooden door creaked open, revealing Captain Falric, his gleaming plate armor a stark contrast to the shadowy chamber. The stoic knight stepped inside, his eyes immediately seeking out his prince.
"Your Highness," Falric began, his voice formal despite the urgency in his stance. "The men are assembled and ready to proceed with the investigation of the plague's source as you ordered."
Arthas took a moment to compose himself, his hand resting on the cold, polished wood of the desk. "Good," he responded, his voice measured. "I will join you shortly. Ensure that all precautions are taken. We must be prepared for the worst."
Falric nodded, the candlelight reflecting off his silver hair. "As you wish, my prince. I have informed them of your instructions—discretion and vigilance are of the utmost importance." His gaze lingered for a moment, searching Arthas' face for any sign of weakness or hesitation.
"I trust in your leadership," Arthas said, his eyes meeting Falric's unwaveringly. "We will uncover the truth together and put an end to this menace."
The captain hesitated, a question lingering on the tip of his tongue, but he thought better of it. He knew better than to pry into the thoughts of the man who had once been the Lich King. With a nod, he turned and left the room, the door closing with a soft thud.
Alone once more, Arthas let out a slow breath, his hand lingering on the hidden compartment. He knew he could not let his past dictate his future, nor could he allow the whispers of doubt to sway him from his path. With renewed purpose, he stood from the desk and picked up his weapon.
The time for contemplation was over. They need to move. And quickly. "Falric," he murmured, "I will not lead you astray. We will find the source of this corruption and purge it from our lands." The whispers grew faint, drowned out by the pounding of his heart.
Striding to the door, Arthas opened it with a resolve that had not been seen in him for a very long time. The castle's corridors stretched before him, a labyrinth of shadows and secrets waiting to be unraveled. The light of the torches flickered against the stone walls, casting an orange glow that seemed to pulse with the urgency of their mission.
As he walked through the hallowed halls of Lordaeron, the weight of his past felt almost tangible. Yet, he pushed onward, driven by the hope of saving his people from the fate he had once brought upon them. The whispers grew quieter with each step, replaced by the steady rhythm of his footfalls and the echo of his own voice, speaking words of determination and conviction.
"This ends now," he vowed, his eyes burning with a newfound resolve. "The cycle of death and despair will not continue under my watch."
Arthas then called for Captain Marwyn, his voice carrying down the corridor with an urgency that sent a shiver down the spine of the castle's inhabitants. The seasoned knight arrived swiftly, his boots echoing against the cold stone as he approached the prince's chamber. "Your Highness," he said with a firm salute, his eyes searching Arthas' for any clue as to what had brought such an uncommon sense of urgency to the prince's demeanor.
Arthas nodded curtly, gesturing for the captain to enter. "Marwyn," he began, his tone serious and focused. "I have received disturbing reports of suspicious activity in Stratholme. I need you to take command of the garrison there immediately and investigate these matters with the utmost discretion."
Marwyn's brow furrowed in confusion. "But, my prince, the city is secure under Baron Rivendare's watch. What could be amiss?"
"I cannot say for certain," Arthas replied, his gaze unwavering. "But I have reason to believe that Rivendare may be involved in dealings with...outside forces. Forces that threaten the very stability of our kingdom." He paused, the gravity of his words hanging in the air. "You must be vigilant, my friend. The fate of Lordaeron may well rest upon your shoulders."
Marwyn, though puzzled by the vagueness of Arthas' instructions, knew better than to question his prince in matters of strategy. "As you wish," he said solemnly. "I will depart at once and keep a watchful eye on the baron."
"Good," Arthas said, his hand resting on the Captain's shoulder. "But do not engage him unless absolutely necessary. I suspect there is more at play here than we can fathom, and I would not have us act rashly."
Marwyn nodded, his hand on the pommel of his own weapon. "Understood, Your Highness. But what if the situation worsens?"
Arthas took a deep breath, the whispers of doubt trying to worm their way into his mind. "Prepare for an evacuation of Stratholme," he said finally, the words heavy on his tongue. "I will let you know when you are to evacuate the people of Stratholme and secure the city."
Marwyn's eyes widened at the severity of the order, but he did not waver. "Your will be done," he said firmly.
As the captain turned to leave, Arthas called out to him, his voice barely a whisper. "Marwyn, should the worst come to pass...tell them, I'm sorry. Tell them their prince did all he could to save them."
Marwyn paused, looking back at Arthas, the unspoken burden of his prince's words etched upon his face. He offered a solemn nod. "Rest assured, my Prince," he swore, "I will not fail you or our people."
With that, Captain Marwyn left, and Arthas stared at the now-empty space, the whispers in his mind growing faint as the weight of his decision settled upon him. He knew he had not revealed everything to his trusted captain, but the truth was too great a risk. The Lich King's influence stretched far and wide, and the fewer who knew of his true identity, the better.
The early morning sun cast a soft glow upon the cobblestone of King's Road, the dew glistening as it kissed the ground. Arthas, clad in his uniform, his eyes a mix of hope and trepidation, stood alongside Captain Falric and the contingent of knights he had mustered. They were enough for the investigation, and should be able to handle what lies ahead.
Still, he felt uneased. Because this is the very day when he first encountered the plague. And him crossing paths with that Necromancer.
Falric, noticing Arthas' introspection, broke the silence. "My prince, it's odd that the Syndicate hasn't made a move against us yet. They're not known for their patience or their hospitality to the Alliance." His words were spoken in a hushed tone, as if afraid to disturb the ghosts of battles yet to come.
Arthas nodded solemnly, his gaze never leaving the horizon. "Indeed, it is," he murmured, his thoughts racing through the labyrinth of his memories. "But perhaps their inaction is a strategic choice. If they had attacked us, it would have brought swift retribution from the Alliance." His voice was laced with the wisdom of a leader who had witnessed the folly of underestimating one's enemies.
Feeling they have waited for too long, Falric asked. "Prince Arthas, we've been waiting here for hours. Are you sure this friend of yours is coming?"
Arthas only gave him an assuring nod with confidence. "I'm sure. Jaina usually runs a little late."
It felt strange for Arthas in that moment. Because that is how he remembered how their conversation went the last time.
The sound of approaching footsteps grew louder, interrupting the tension-filled silence. Falric's grip tightened on his sword hilt as he spotted the figure approaching. "Prince Arthas, it seems we have company," he said, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.
The figure grew closer, and the early morning light revealed Jaina Proudmoore with her staff at the ready. But she wasn't alone. Two hulking ogres lumbered towards her, their brutish forms casting long shadows across the cobblestone. Arthas' heart leaped as he watched Jaina, her eyes alight with the arcane, summon a shimmering Water Elemental from the very air. It was a sight to behold, reminding him how it played out.
The elemental surged forward, its liquid form coalescing into a powerful fist that slammed into the first ogre with the force of a tempest. The creature staggered back, roaring in fury, but Jaina was unfazed. Her eyes locked onto Arthas, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. "Looks like I don't need saving after all," she called out, her voice filled with mischief.
Arthas couldn't help but smile at her bravado. "I wouldn't want to keep a lady waiting," he quipped, charging towards the second ogre with Light's Vengeance aloft. The warhammer sang a hymn of retribution as it arced through the air, striking the ogre with such force that it was sent sprawling to the ground.
With the ogre threat dispatched, Falric and the knights approached Jaina, their eyes filled with a mix of awe and suspicion. Arthas stepped aside, watching the interaction with a sense of pride. "Falric, this is Jaina Proudmoore," he introduced, his voice steady despite the whispers that grew with each passing moment. "A member of the Kirin Tor and one of their most talented sorcereresses."
Falric's gaze took in the mage's slender frame and the power that radiated from her, his awe palpable. He bent his head in a respectful nod. "It is an honor, Lady Proudmoore," he said, his voice gruff with the weight of his armor. "Your reputation precedes you, and we are in your debt for aiding us in this critical mission."
Jaina's smirk grew, and she gave a small curtsy, her robes fluttering around her. "The honor is all mine," she said, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "But I must insist, Arthas, that your gratitude can wait until we've seen this through." Her gaze flicked to the map Arthas had shown her earlier, a silent understanding passing between them.
"The plague," Jaina began as they rode through the verdant countryside, her eyes scanning the horizon with a sense of urgency. "Our sources have traced its origins to the lands north of here. It seems to be moving swiftly along the King's Road, ravaging every village it touches."
Arthas nodded gravely, his thoughts racing as he tried to piece together the puzzle that lay before them. "The pattern of its spread suggests a deliberate and calculated effort," he said, his voice tight with tension. "But what could be the motive?"
Jaina gaze was thoughtful as she considered the implications. "The only lead we have is the name of the one who is rumored to be orchestrating this horror," she said, her voice tinged with anger.
"Kel'thuzad.", Arthas stated and he felt a cold shiver run down his spine at the mention of the name, and Jaina nodded in confirmation.
Memories of the Lich King's whispered confessions filled his mind, and he knew all too well the depth of the mage's treachery. But he dared not reveal his true knowledge of the man who had once been his ally and mentor. "I heard of him. He once a member of the Kirin Tor, was he not?"
Jaina's eyes widened with surprise. "How do you come by such information, Arthas?" she asked, her curiosity piqued. Because no one outside the Kirin Tor knew about it.
Caught off guard by his own slip, Arthas quickly recovered. "Rumors," he said with a shrug. "They are as plentiful as the grains of sand on a beach. One hears many things in the halls of power."
Jaina studied him for a moment, her gaze piercing. Then she nodded, accepting his explanation. "Indeed, Kel'thuzad was one of the Council of Six," she said, her voice heavy with disgust. "But he was expelled for his dark dealings. To think he would bring such destruction upon the lands he once called home..."
The group fell into a tense silence as they rode, the only sounds the steady clop of their horses' hooves and the distant cawing of crows. Arthas' mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and memories, each one a shard of ice in the storm. He knew all too well the extent of Kel'thuzad's power and the depths to which the necromancer would sink to achieve his goals. The very mention of the mage's name brought with it the stench of decay and the chill of the grave.
"What kind of mage was Kel'thuzad?" Arthas asked, his curiosity piqued despite the trepidation in his heart. He knew the answer all too well, but hearing it from Jaina's perspective might shed new light on the situation.
Jaina's expression grew darker as she spoke of the man who had once been a revered member of her order. "He was once among the most talented and respected," she began, her voice carrying the weight of a thousand lost tomes. "Even our great leader, Antonidas, esteemed him highly. But Kel'thuzad's thirst for knowledge was insatiable, and it led him down a path of darkness. His spells... they were of a foul nature," she continued, her voice trailing off as if the mere memory of them left a sour taste in her mouth. "They drew power from the very fabric of life itself, twisting it into something else that it shouldn't be."
Arthas felt a cold shiver run through him, remembering all too clearly the feel of Kel'thuzad's dark magic coursing through his veins. The whispers grew louder in his mind, reminding him of the mage's influence in his own tragic descent. Yet he remained silent, his eyes fixed on the horizon, as if by focusing on the path ahead, he could banish the shadows of his past.
The group passed through the village, the cobblestone streets lined with cheering citizens, their faces a tapestry of hope and relief. Children waved makeshift banners crafted from strips of cloth, and the elderly offered silent nods of gratitude to the knights who rode by. The smiles and well wishes were a stark contrast to the somber mood that had settled upon Arthas and Jaina, their eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of the plague's insidious grip. Yet, as they ventured deeper into the heart of the village, it became increasingly clear that the residents were untouched by the horrors that had plagued their neighbors.
"It seems your arrival has brought more than just military might," Jaina observed, her gaze softening slightly. "The people here look...healthy. Hale even."
Arthas nodded, his eyes lingering on a mother cradling her child, her smile a beacon of normalcy in the shadow of the looming crisis. "Yes," he said, his voice carrying a hint of wonder. "It's almost as if...as if the very air here is untouched by the corruption that spreads."
Falric, ever the pragmatic warrior, kept his eyes peeled for any signs of trouble. "Perhaps we've arrived in time," he suggested, though the doubt in his tone was palpable. "Maybe the plague hasn't reached these lands yet."
But Arthas knew better. This was merely a ploy to give a sense of relief. His thoughts grew darker as he pondered the fate of these innocents if the Necromancer had his way.
"We must be vigilant," he murmured, his eyes never leaving the villagers. "The plague can be a fickle beast, lying dormant before it strikes without warning."
Jaina nodded solemnly, her eyes meeting Arthas' in a silent agreement. The group moved along the other side of the river, the sun casting long shadows across the uneven terrain. The air grew thick with anticipation as the whispers in his mind grew more persistent, a silent symphony of his past battles echoing through the canyon. Recognizing the scenario before him, he called out to Captain Falric, "Raise your shields! We're walking into an ambush!"
Falric and his knights, baffled by the sudden command, obeyed without question, raising their gleaming shields in unison. Just as the metal met the air, a hail of arrows rained down upon them from the cliffs above, the sound of their impact a cacophony of war. The knights braced themselves, their shields shuddering under the relentless assault. Meanwhile, Jaina's eyes widened with surprise as she quickly conjured a barrier of shimmering ice around her and Arthas. The projectiles shattered against the magical wall, the shards of ice glinting in the sunlight like a thousand tiny stars.
"Your intuition is uncanny, Prince Arthas," Jaina exclaimed, her voice strained with the effort of maintaining the barrier. "How did you know?"
Arthas, his gaze unfaltering as he assessed the situation, replied with a grim set to his jaw. "Because I've seen this before," he said, the weight of his words heavier than the arrows that had just barely missed them. "We must proceed with caution. We're out of horseback range, but we're not safe yet."
One of the Footmen called out. "Undead archers in front of us!"
Jaina, her eyes flashing with determination, raised her staff skyward and invoked the ancient incantations of her people. The very air grew colder as she channeled the power of the frost, her fingertips crackling with icy energy. With a flick of her wrist, a tempestuous maelstrom of hail erupted from the clear blue sky, raining down upon the skeletal archers with the fury of a vengeful winter. The clatter of bone and the shatter of brittle limbs filled the ravine as the undead assailants were torn apart by the relentless onslaught of ice and stone.
Arthas, seeing an opportunity, took a mighty leap from the safety of their position, soaring over the heads of his companions. He brought Light's Vengeance down upon the nearest skeletal archer, the hammer's holy might shattering the creature into a hundred frostbitten fragments. Each step he took sent shockwaves through the earth, his power and purpose unmistakable. He moved with the grace of a dancer, yet the force of his blows was that of an enraged titan.
Falric, ever the tactician, took stock of the situation and bellowed orders to his men. "For Lordaeron!" he roared, and the knights surged forward, their shields held high, forming an impenetrable wall of steel. As the storm of ice pummeled the archers from above, Falric and his knights crashed into the remaining undead, their swords and warhammers ringing out with the rhythmic symphony of battle. Each blow resonated with the fury of a thousand souls seeking vengeance against the unholy scourge.
The archers, now in disarray, tried to regroup, but the combined might of the living and the power of the frost mage was too much. Jaina continued to weave her spells, a blizzard of frost enveloping the cliffside, sending more skeletons to their final rest. Arthas, his heart pounding with the exhilaration of combat, tore through the undead ranks, his warhammer leaving a trail of shattered bone and frost in its wake.
"Keep pressing!" he called out to his allies, his voice a clarion call that seemed to resonate within the very hearts of his men. "We cannot let them regroup!"
Falric, his own battle cry joining Arthas' command, spurred forward, his men in tow. They charged into the fray with the ferocity of a stampede, their boors thundering like the approach of doom itself. The remaining archers, now surrounded and outmatched, fell swiftly to the gleaming swords of Lordaeron.
The battle was short, brutal, and decisive. As the last skeletal archer crumbled into dust, the hailstorm abated, and the air grew eerily still. The group took a moment to catch their breaths, the only sound the clank of armor and the fading echoes of battle. Falric's knights looked to Arthas, their eyes filled with a mix of admiration and awe, whispering among themselves of the prince's uncanny foresight and unyielding valor.
Jaina, her breath steaming in the cold air, turned to Arthas, a hint of suspicion in her gaze. "How did you know, Arthas?" she asked, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hand. "How could you anticipate such an ambush?"
Arthas looked at her, his eyes filled with the shadows of his past. "I just have a feeling," he said simply, keeping his first hand experience with it a secret. "And that the enemy are bound to be waiting for us."
The group reassembled, the whispers in Arthas' mind growing fainter as they moved away from the site of their victory. As the group approached the grainery, the stench of decay and disease grew stronger, permeating the air like a miasma of despair. Jaina's eyes narrowed as she dismounted from her horse, her staff crackling with the power of the frost. She approached the crates with a cautious stride, her heart heavy with the knowledge of what they might contain. Falric and his knights followed suit, their expressions a mix of confusion and concern as they observed the mage.
"This grain...it's infected," Jaina said, her voice tight with anger. "The very essence of life has been corrupted, twisted by the vile magics of the Scourge." She turned to Arthas, her gaze intense. "Those crates bear the regional seal of Andorhal, the distribution center for the northern boroughs. If this grain can spread the plague, there's no telling how many villages might be affected.
Arthas saw it as well, his eyes scanning the area with the precision of a seasoned commander. He knew the gravity of the situation all too well—the hunger of his own people turning against them, the fear and chaos that would spread like wildfire. "We need to act now," he said, his voice firm, and he turned to his Captain. "Falric, have your men set fire to the grain."
Falric, ever loyal, nodded and began to relay the order. However, his curiosity got the better of him. "But, my prince," he began, "why burn the food? Surely, we can find a way to purify it, to save it for our people?"
Arthas' jaw clenched as he watched the knights begin to pile the crates into a bonfire. "The taint is not easily cleansed," he replied, his tone carrying the weight of a dark memory. "Burning it is the surest way to prevent its spread."
Jaina, her eyes never leaving Arthas, stepped closer. "You speak with a certainty that suggests...you've encountered this before," she said, her voice low and measured. "What aren't you telling us, Prince Arthas?"
Hearing that statement narrowed his eyes a bit, and he remained steadfast in his deception. "It is merely a precaution," he assured her, his eyes never leaving hers. "No one would be able to use it for any purpose that would bring harm to my people."
The first flame licked the wood, catching the dry timber with a fierce hunger. The fire spread rapidly, illuminating the grim faces of the knights as they worked. Falric looked to Arthas, his gaze questioning. "Is there anything else we should know?"
Arthas' expression was stoic as he turned to the burning grain. "Only that there are others infected," he said, his voice carrying over the crackle of the flames. "And we must ensure that what happened to these fields does not happen to our people."
The fire grew into an inferno, a beacon of destruction against the backdrop of the once-verdant countryside. Arthas felt a pang of regret, knowing that the very lands he had sworn to protect were now marred by the very scourge he had once led. Yet he pushed the whispers aside, focusing on the task at hand. "We move on," he said, his eyes never leaving the flames. "The source of this plague must be found and eradicated."
I didn't mention the Barov family in his plans, but we'll see in the future chapters.