CHAPTER TWO

Arthas was frustrated.

He thought when word had come about the orcs that he’d finally begin serious training, perhaps alongside his new best friend, Varian. Instead, exactly the opposite happened. The war against the Horde resulted in everyone who could swing a sword joining the armed forces, right down to the master blacksmith. Varian took pity on his younger counterpart and did what he could for a while, until at last he sighed and looked sympathetically at Arthas.

“Arthas, I don’t want to sound mean, but…”

“But I’m terrible.”

Varian grimaced. The two were in the armory hall, sparring with helms, leather chest pieces, and wooden training swords. Varian went to the rack and hung up the training sword, removing his helm as he spoke. “I’m just surprised, because you’re athletic and fast.”

Arthas sulked; he knew Varian well enough to know that the older prince was trying to soften the blow. He followed sullenly, hanging up his own sword and unfastening his protective gear.

“In Stormwind, we start training when we’re quite young. By the time I was your age I had my own set of armor specifically designed for me.”

“Don’t rub it in,” Arthas grumbled.

“Sorry.” Varian grinned at him, and Arthas reluctantly gave a small smile back. Although their first meeting had been laced with grief and awkwardness, Arthas had discovered that Varian had a strong spirit and a generally optimistic outlook. “I just wonder why your father didn’t do the same for you.”

Arthas knew. “He’s trying to protect me.”

Varian sobered as he hung up his leather chest piece. “My father tried to protect me, too. Didn’t work. The realities of life have a way of intruding.” He looked at Arthas. “I’m trained to fight. I’m not trained to teach fighting. I might hurt you.”

Arthas flushed. No suggestion that Arthas might hurt him. Varian seemed to see that he was only digging himself deeper into a hole with the younger boy and clapped him on the shoulder. “Tell you what. When the war’s over, and a proper trainer can be spared again, I’ll come with you to talk to King Terenas. I’m sure you’ll be handing me my rear in no time.”

The war eventually did end, and the Alliance was triumphant. The leader of the Horde, the once-mighty Orgrim Doomhammer, had been brought back to Capital City in chains. It had made a big impression on both Arthas and Varian, to see the powerful orc paraded through Lordaeron. Turalyon, the young paladin lieutenant who had defeated Doomhammer after the orc had slain the noble Anduin Lothar, had shown mercy in choosing to spare the beast; Terenas, who was at heart a kindly man, continued in that fashion by forbidding attacks on the creature. Jeers, boos, yes—seeing the orc who had terrorized them for so long now powerless, an object of scorn and derision, heartened morale. But Orgrim Doomhammer would not be harmed while in his care.

It was the only time Arthas had seen Varian’s face ugly with hate, and he supposed he could not blame the other boy. If orcs had murdered Terenas and Uther, he supposed he’d want to spit on the ugly green things, too. “He should be killed,” Varian growled, his eyes angry as they watched from the parapets as Doomhammer was marched toward the palace. “And I wish I could be the one to do it.”

“He’s going to the Undercity,” said Arthas. The ancient royal crypts, dungeons, sewers, and twining alleys deep below the palace had somehow gotten that nickname, as if the place was simply another destination. Dark, dank, filthy, the Undercity was intended only for prisoners or the dead, but the poorest of the poor in the land somehow always seemed to find their way in. If one was homeless, it was better than freezing in the elements, and if one needed something…not entirely legal, even Arthas understood that that was where you went to get it. Now and then the guards would go down and make a sweep of the place in a desperate and ultimately futile attempt to clean it out.

“No one ever gets out from the Undercity,” Arthas reassured his friend. “He’ll die in captivity.”

“Too good for him,” Varian said. “Turalyon should have killed him when he had the chance.”

Varian’s words were prophetic. The great orcish leader had only appeared to be humbled by the scorn and hatred heaped upon him. It turned out he was far from broken. Lured by his dispiritedness, or so Arthas gleaned by eavesdropping, the guards had grown lax in their care of him. No one was quite sure how Orgrim Doomhammer’s escape had been engineered, because no one survived to report on it—every guard he encountered had gotten his neck broken. But there was a trail of bodies, that of guards, indigents, and criminals—Doomhammer did not discriminate—leading from the wide-open cell through the Undercity to the single escape route—the foul-smelling sewers. Doomhammer was captured again shortly thereafter, and this time placed in the internment camps. When he escaped from there, too, the Alliance collectively held its breath, waiting for a renewed attack. None came. Either Doomhammer was finally dead, or they had shattered his fighting spirit after all.

Two years had come and gone, and now it looked like the Dark Portal through which the Horde had entered Azeroth the first time—the portal that the Alliance had shut down at the end of the Second War—was going to be reopened. Or had already been reopened, Arthas wasn’t sure which, because nobody apparently seemed to want to bother to tell him anything. Even though he was going to become king one day.

It was a beautiful day, sunny and clear and warm. Part of him wanted to be outside with his new horse, whom he had named Invincible—the same foal he had seen being born on that bitter winter day two years ago. Maybe he’d do that later. But for now, his footsteps took him to the armory, where he and Varian had sparred and Varian had embarrassed him. The slight was unintended, to be sure, but it stung all the same.

Two years.

Arthas walked over to the rack of wooden training swords and took one down. At eleven, he had had what his governess called a “growth spurt”—at least she’d called it that the last time he had seen her, when she wept and hugged him and declared him “a proper young man now” and no longer in need of a governess. The little sword he had trained with at nine was a child’s sword. He was indeed a proper young man, standing at five foot eight and likely to grow even taller if his heritage was any indication. He hefted the sword, swinging it this way and that, and suddenly grinned.

He advanced on one of the old suits of armor, gripping the sword firmly. “Hoy!” he called, wishing it was one of the disgusting green monsters that had been such a thorn in his father’s side for so long. He drew himself up to his full height, and lifted the tip of the sword to the suit of armor’s throat.

“Think you to pass here, vile orc? You are in Alliance lands! I will show you mercy this once. Begone and never return!”

Ah, but orcs didn’t understand surrender, or honor. They were just brutes. So it would refuse to kneel and show him respect.

“What? You will not depart? I have given you a chance, but now, we fight!”

And he lunged, as he had seen Varian do. Not directly at the armor, no, the thing was very old and very valuable, but right beside it. Strike, block, duck in under the swing, bring the sword all the way across the body, then whirl and—

He gasped as the sword seemed to take on a life of its own and flew across the room. It landed loudly on the marble floor, sliding along with a grating sound before slowly spinning to a stop.

Dammit! He looked toward the door—and right into the face of Muradin Bronzebeard.

Muradin was the dwarven ambassador to Lordaeron, brother to King Magni Bronzebeard and a great favorite at court for his jovial, no-nonsense approach to everything from fine ale and pastries to matters of state. He had a reputation as an excellent warrior as well, cunning and fierce in battle.

And he had just watched the future king of Lordaeron pretend to fight orcs and throw his sword clear across the room. Arthas felt his whole body break out in a sweat, and he knew his cheeks were pink. He tried to recover.

“Um…Ambassador…I was just…”

The dwarf coughed and looked away. “I’m lookin’ fer yer father, boy. Can ye direct me? This infernal place has too many turns.”

Arthas mutely pointed to a stairway on his left. He watched the dwarf go. No other words were exchanged.

Arthas had never been more embarrassed in his life. Tears of shame burned in his eyes, and he blinked them back hard. Without even bothering to put away the wooden sword, he fled the room.

Ten minutes later, he was free, riding out of the stables and heading east into the hills of Tirisfal Glades. He had two horses with him: a gentle, elderly dapple-gray gelding called Trueheart upon which he was mounted and, on a training lead, the two-year-old colt Invincible.

He’d felt the bond between them from the moment they had locked eyes, moments after the foal’s birth. Arthas had known then that this would be his steed, his friend, the great horse with a great heart who would be as much a part of him as—no, more than—his armor or weapons. Horses from good stock such as this one could live twenty years or more if cared for well; this was the mount who would bear Arthas elegantly in ceremony and faithfully on daily rides. He was not a warhorse. Such were a breed apart, used only for specific purposes at specific times. He’d have one when he went into battle. But Invincible would, and indeed already had, become part of his life.

The stallion’s coat, mane, and tail, gray at his birth, had turned white as the snow that had coated the ground on that day. It was a color that was rare even among the Balnir-bred horses, whose “white” coats were really mostly just light gray. Arthas had toyed with names like “Snowfall” or “Starlight,” but in the end, he followed the informal tradition of Lordaeron knights and gave his steed the name of a quality. Uther’s mount was “Steadfast,” Terenas’s “Courageous.”

His was “Invincible.”

Arthas wanted desperately to ride Invincible, but the horsemaster warned that two years old was at least a year too young. “Two’s a baby,” he’d said. “They’re still growing; their bones are still forming. Be patient, Your Highness. Another year isn’t that long to wait for a horse that’ll serve you well for two decades.”

But it was a long time to wait. Too long. Arthas glanced back over his shoulder at the horse, growing impatient with the plodding canter that seemed the most that Trueheart could summon. In contrast with the elderly gelding, the two-year-old moved almost as if floating, with hardly any effort. His ears were pricked forward, and his nostrils flared as he scented the smells of the glade. His eyes were bright and he seemed to be saying, Come on, Arthas…. It’s what I was born for.

Surely one ride couldn’t hurt. Just a little canter, and then back to the stables as if nothing had happened.

He slowed Trueheart to a walk and tied the reins to a low-slung tree branch. Invincible whickered as Arthas walked up to him. The prince grinned at the velvety softness of the muzzle brushing his palm as he fed the horse a piece of apple. Invincible was used to having a saddle; it was part of the slow and patient breaking process, to get the horse accustomed to having something on its back. But an empty saddle was much different from a live human being. Still, he’d spent a lot of time with the animal. Arthas said a short prayer and then quickly, before Invincible could sidestep out of the way, vaulted onto the horse’s back.

Invincible reared, neighing furiously. Arthas wrapped his hands in the wiry mane and clung like a burr with every inch of his long legs. The horse hopped and bucked, but Arthas held on. He yelped as Invincible tried to scrape him off by running beneath one of the branches, but did not let go.

And then Invincible was galloping.

Or rather, he was flying. Or at least so it seemed to the giddy young prince, who crouched low on the horse’s neck and grinned widely. He’d never been on an animal this fast before, and his heart pounded with excitement. He didn’t even try to control Invincible; it was all he could do to simply hang on. It was glorious, wild, beautiful, everything he’d dreamed of. They would—

Before he even realized what had happened, Arthas was hurtling through the air to land hard on the grassy earth. For a long moment he couldn’t breathe from the impact. Slowly he got to his feet. His body ached, but nothing was broken.

But Invincible was a rapidly disappearing dot in the distance. Arthas swore violently, kicking a hillock and balling his fists. He was in for it now.

Sir Uther the Lightbringer was waiting for him upon his return. Arthas grimaced as he slid off Trueheart and handed the reins to a groomsman.

“Invincible came back a short time ago by himself. He had a nasty cut on his leg, but I’m sure you’ll be glad to know the horsemaster says he’ll be fine.”

Arthas debated lying, telling Uther they’d been spooked and Invincible had fled. But it was obvious from the grass stains on his clothes that he’d fallen, and Uther would never believe that the prince couldn’t stay on gentle old Trueheart, spooked or not.

“You know you were not supposed to ride him yet,” Uther continued inexorably.

Arthas sighed. “I know.”

“Arthas, do you not understand? If you put too much pressure on him at this age he—”

“I get it, all right? I could cripple him. It was just the one time.”

“And that’s all it will be, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Arthas said, sullenly.

“You missed your lessons. Again.”

Arthas was silent and did not look up at Uther. He was angry, embarrassed, and hurting, and wanted nothing more than a hot bath and some briarthorn tea to ease the pain. His right knee was starting to swell.

“At least you are in time for the prayer session this afternoon.” Uther eyed him up and down. “Though you’ll need to wash up.” Arthas was indeed sweaty and knew he smelled like horse. It was a good smell, he thought. An honest one. “Hurry up. We’ll be assembling in the chapel.”

Arthas wasn’t even sure what the prayer session was focusing on today. He felt vaguely bad about that; the Light was important to both his father and Uther, and he knew that they badly wanted him to be as devout as they were. But while he couldn’t argue with the evidence of his own eyes—the Light was most definitely real; he’d seen priests and the new order of the paladins work true miracles with healing and protection—he’d never felt called to sit and meditate for hours as Uther did, or make frequent references in reverent tones as did his father. It was just…there.

An hour later, scrubbed and changed into an outfit that was simple yet elegant, Arthas hurried to the small family chapel in the royal wing.

It was not a large room, but it was beautiful. It was a miniature version of the traditional chapel style that could be seen in every human town, perhaps a trifle more lavish with regard to the details. The chalice that was shared was finely wrought of gold and inlaid with gems; the table upon which it lay, an antique. Even the benches had comfortable padding, while the common folk had to make do with flat wooden ones.

He realized as he entered quietly that he was the last—and winced as he recalled that several important personages were visiting his father. In addition to the regular attendees—his family, Uther, and Muradin—King Trollbane was present, though he looked even less happy than Arthas to be here. And…someone else. A girl, slender and straight with long blond hair, her back turned to him. Arthas peered at her, curious, and bumped into one of the benches.

He might as well have dropped a plate. Queen Lianne, still a beauty in her early fifties, turned at the sound, smiling affectionately at her son. Her gown was perfectly arranged, her hair pulled back in a golden coif from which no unruly tendril escaped. Calia, fourteen and looking as gawky and coltish as Invincible had been at his birth, shot him a scowl. Evidently, word of his misdeeds had gotten out—or else she was just angry with him at being late. Terenas nodded at him, then returned his eyes to the bishop giving the service. Arthas cringed inwardly at the quiet disapproval in that gaze. Trollbane paid him no mind, and Muradin, too, did not turn.

Arthas slouched down onto one of the benches against the back wall. The bishop began to speak and lifted his hands, limned with a soft, white radiance. Arthas wished the girl would turn a little so he could catch a glimpse of her face. Who was she? Obviously the daughter of a noble or someone else of high rank, else she would not be invited to attend private family services. He thought about who she might be, more interested in discovering her identity than in the words of the service.

“…and His Royal Highness, Arthas Menethil,” intoned the bishop. Arthas jerked to attention, wondering if he’d missed something important. “May the Light’s blessing be upon him in every thought, word, and deed, so that he may thrive beneath it and grow to serve it as its paladin.” Arthas felt a sudden calming warmth flow through him as the blessing was laid upon him. The stiffness and soreness vanished, leaving him refreshed and at peace. The bishop turned to the queen and the princess. “May the Light shine on Her Royal Majesty, Lianne Menethil, that she—”

Arthas grinned and waited for the bishop to complete the individual blessings. He’d name the girl then. Arthas leaned against the back room of the wall.

“And we humbly request the Light’s blessing on Lady Jaina Proudmoore. May she be blessed with its healing and wisdom, that she—”

Aha! The mystery girl was a mystery no longer. Jaina Proudmoore, a year younger than he, daughter to Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, naval war hero and ruler of Kul Tiras. What did intrigue him was why she was here and—

“—and that her studies at Dalaran go well. We ask that she become a representative of the Light, and that in the role of a mage, she will serve her people well and truly.”

That made sense. She was on her way to Dalaran, the beautiful city of magi not too far from Capital City. Knowing the rigid rules of etiquette and hospitality that were so pervasive in royal and noble circles, she’d be here for a few days before traveling on.

This, he thought, could be fun.

At the end of the service, Arthas, already located near the door, stepped out first. Muradin and Trollbane were the first out, both looking slightly relieved that the service was over. Terenas, Uther, Lianne, Calia, and Jaina followed.

Both his sister and the Proudmoore girl were fair haired and slender. But the resemblance stopped there. Calia was delicately boned, with a face right out of old paintings, pale skinned and soft. Jaina, however, had bright eyes and a lively smile, and she moved like someone who was well accustomed to riding and hiking. She obviously spent a great deal of time out of doors, as her face was tanned with a smattering of sprinkles across her nose.

This, Arthas decided, was a girl who would not mind getting a snowball in the face, or going for a swim on a hot day. Someone, unlike his sister, he could play with.

“Arthas—a word wi’ ye,” came a gruff voice. Arthas turned to see the ambassador peering up at him.

“Of course, sir,” Arthas said, his heart sinking. All he wanted to do was talk to this new friend—he was already sure they would get along famously—and Muradin probably wanted to scold him again for the embarrassing display earlier in the armory. At least the dwarf was discreet enough to walk a few paces away.

He turned to face the prince, stubby thumbs hooked into his belt, gruff face knotted in thought. “Lad,” he said, “I’ll get right tae th’ point. Yer fightin’ form is terrible.”

Again, Arthas felt the blood rush to his face. “I know,” he said, “but Father—”

“Yer father has many things on ’is mind. Dinna ye be saying a thing against ’im.”

Well, what was he supposed to say? “Well I can’t very well teach myself fighting. You saw what happened when I tried.”

“I ken tha’. I’ll teach ye if ye like.”

“You—you will?” Arthas was at first disbelieving, then delighted. The dwarves were renowned for their fighting prowess, among many things. Part of Arthas wondered if Muradin would also teach him how to hold his ale, another thing dwarves were known for, but he decided not to ask that.

“Aye, that’s what I said, wasn’t it? I’ve spoken wi’ yer father, an’ he’s all for it. Been put off long enough as it is. But let’s get one thing straight. I’ll take nae excuses. And I’ll be pushin’ ye right hard. And if at any moment I say tae mesel’, ‘Muradin, ye’re wastin’ yer time,’ I stop. D’ye agree, boy?”

Arthas fought back an incongruous giggle at the thought of someone who stood so much shorter than he calling him “boy,” but bit it back. “Yes, sir,” he said fervently. Muradin nodded and stuck out a large, calloused hand. Arthas shook it. Grinning, he glanced up at his father, who was deep in conversation with Uther. They turned as one to regard him, both pairs of eyes narrowing in speculation, and inwardly Arthas sighed. He knew that look. So much for playing with Jaina—he’d probably not have time to even see her again before she left.

He turned to watch as Calia, her arm around the younger girl’s shoulder, swept Jaina from the room. But right before she disappeared through the doorway, Admiral Proudmoore’s daughter turned her golden head, caught Arthas’s gaze with her own, and smiled.