Part 9 (1/2)
Arthas's eyes scanned the area as they approached the farmhouse. ”Look,” he said, pointing. ”The gate's been smashed and the livestock is gone.”
”That's not a good sign,” Jaina muttered.
”Nor has anyone come out to greet us,” Falric said. ”Or even to challenge us.”
Arthas and Jaina exchanged glances. Arthas signaled the group to halt.
”Greetings to you all!” he said in a strong voice. ”I am Arthas, prince of Lordaeron, and my men and I mean you no harm. Please, come out and speak with us-we have questions concerning your safety.”
Silence. The wind picked up, flattening the acres of gra.s.s that should have been grazing ground for cattle or sheep. The only sound was its soft sigh and the creaking of their own armor as they all s.h.i.+fted uneasily.
”No one's here,” Arthas said.
”Or maybe they're too sick to come out,” Jaina replied. ”Arthas, we must at least go and see. They could need our help!”
Arthas glanced at his men. They looked none too keen on walking into a house that might be infested with plague victims, nor in truth was he. But Jaina was right. These were his people. He had vowed to help them. And so he would, wherever that promise led, whatever it took.
”Come on,” he said, and swung down. Beside him Jaina did the same. ”No, you stay here.”
Her golden brows drew together in a frown. ”I told you, I'm not a fragile little figurine, Arthas. I was sent to investigate the plague, and if there are indeed victims here, I need to see them for myself.”
He sighed and nodded. ”All right then.”
He strode forward to the farmhouse. They were almost at the garden when the wind s.h.i.+fted.
The stench was horrific. Jaina covered her mouth and even Arthas struggled not to gag. It was the sickly sweet smell of the slaughterhouse-no, not even that fresh; it was the reek of carrion. One of his men turned and vomited. It was by sheer will that Arthas did not emulate him. The foul odor was coming from inside the house. It was by now obvious what had happened to the inhabitants.
Jaina turned to him, pale but resolute. ”I have to examine-”
Horrible, liquid-sounding cries filled the air along with the stench of death as from inside the farmhouse and behind it things things came at them with startling speed. Arthas's hammer suddenly began to glow with a light so bright he had to narrow his eyes against it. He whirled, lifting the hammer, and stared straight into the eye sockets of a walking nightmare. came at them with startling speed. Arthas's hammer suddenly began to glow with a light so bright he had to narrow his eyes against it. He whirled, lifting the hammer, and stared straight into the eye sockets of a walking nightmare.
It wore a rough s.h.i.+rt and overalls, and its weapon was a pitchfork. Once, it had been a farmer. But that had been back when it had been alive. It was obviously dead now, the gray-green flesh sloughing off its skeleton, its rotting fingers leaving smudged bits on the pitchfork handle. Black, congealed fluids oozed from pustules and its gurgling roar spat flecks of ichor on Arthas's unprotected face. So shocked was he by the apparition that he barely had time to swing the hammer before it jabbed him with the pitchfork. He got his blessed weapon up just in time, knocking the farming implement from the hands of the walking dead man and bringing the radiant hammer cras.h.i.+ng into its torso. The thing went sprawling and did not rise.
But others came to take its place. Arthas heard the fwhump fwhump and telltale crackling of Jaina's firebolts and then suddenly another smell was added to the sickly miasma-the odor of burning flesh. All around him he heard the sound of weapons clas.h.i.+ng, men screaming battle cries, the crackle of flame. One of the corpses stumbled distractedly into the house, its body and clothing ablaze. A few moments later, smoke began to billow from the open door. and telltale crackling of Jaina's firebolts and then suddenly another smell was added to the sickly miasma-the odor of burning flesh. All around him he heard the sound of weapons clas.h.i.+ng, men screaming battle cries, the crackle of flame. One of the corpses stumbled distractedly into the house, its body and clothing ablaze. A few moments later, smoke began to billow from the open door.
That was it- ”Everyone get out, now!” Arthas cried. ”Jaina! Burn the farmhouse! Burn it to the ground!”
Despite the horror and panic that was racing through his men-trained soldiers, all of them, but not trained for this this-his orders were heard. The men turned and ran from the house. Arthas looked over at Jaina. Her mouth was set in a grim line, her eyes were fastened on the house, and fire crackled as comfortably in her small hands as if the flames were innocuous as flowers.
A huge fireball as big as a man exploded into the house. It burst into flame and Arthas lifted his hand to s.h.i.+eld his face from the blast. Several of the animated corpses had been trapped inside. For a moment Arthas stared at the conflagration, unable to tear his eyes from it, then he forced himself to turn his attention to slaughtering those that had not been caught in the pyre. It was the work of a few more moments, and then all the things were dead. Really dead this time.
For a long moment, there was silence except for the crackling sound of flames consuming the burning house. With a slow sigh, the building collapsed. Arthas was glad he could not see the corpses as they were turned to ash.
He caught his breath and turned to Jaina. ”What...”
She swallowed hard. Her face was black with soot, save where streams of sweat had cleared a path. ”They-they are called undead.”
”Light preserve us,” Falric muttered, his eyes bulging and his face pale. ”I'd thought things like this were just stories to scare children.”
”No, they're real enough all right. I just-I've never seen one. Never expected to. The, ah...” She took a deep breath and calmed herself, getting her voice under control. ”The dead sometimes do linger on, if their deaths were traumatic. It's what gave rise to ghost stories.”
Her demeanor was calming after the horror. Arthas noticed his men turning to listen to her, eager for some understanding of what the h.e.l.l had just happened to them. He, too, was more grateful for her book learning than he could ever recall being before.
”The...the animation of corpses by powerful individual necromancers is not unheard of. We saw examples of this in both the First War, when the orcs were able to animate skeletal remains, and in the Second, with the appearance of what would come to be known as death knights,” Jaina went on, as if she were reciting a pa.s.sage rather than trying to explain a horror that the mind could barely grasp. ”But as I say-I've never seen any of them before.”
”Well, they're really dead now,” one of the men said. Arthas gave him an encouraging smile.
”We have your swords, the Light, and the Lady Jaina's fire to thank for that,” he told them.
”Arthas,” Jaina said. ”A moment?”
They walked away a little bit while the men began to clean themselves up and recover from the unnerving encounter. ”I think I know what you're going to say,” Arthas began. ”You were sent here to see if this plague was magical in nature. And it's starting to look like it is. Necromantic magic.”
Jaina nodded wordlessly. Arthas glanced over at his men. ”We haven't even hit the main villages yet. I have a feeling we're going to see more of these...undead.”
Jaina grimaced. ”I have a feeling you're right.”
As they departed the cl.u.s.ter of farmsteads, Jaina drew her horse up and paused.
”What are you looking at?” Arthas stepped beside her. Jaina pointed. He followed her gaze, to see a silo standing alone on a hill. ”The granary?”
She shook her head. ”No...the land around it.” She dismounted, knelt and touched the soil, scooping up a handful of dry dirt and dead gra.s.s. She examined it, poking at a small insect, its six legs curled up in death, then sifted the dirt through her fingers as the slight wind took the powdery soil and bore it away in a little puff of dust. ”It's as if the land around that granary is...dying.”
Arthas glanced from her hand to the earth. She was completely right, he realized. Several yards behind him, the gra.s.s was green and healthy, the soil presumably still rich and fertile. But beneath his feet and in the area around the granary, it was as dead as if it were the middle of winter. No-that wasn't a good a.n.a.logy-winter was when the land slept. There was still life in it, dormant, but ready to be awakened when spring came.
There was no life here.
He stared at the granary, sea-green eyes narrowing. ”What could have caused this?”
”I'm not sure. It reminds me of what happened with the Dark Portal and the Blasted Lands. When the portal was opened, the demonic energies that sapped the life from Draenor spilled through into Azeroth. And the land around the portal-”
”...died,” Arthas finished. A thought struck him. ”Jaina-could the grain itself itself be plagued? Carrying this-this demonic energy?” be plagued? Carrying this-this demonic energy?”
Her eyes widened. ”Let's hope not.” She pointed at the crates the men were hauling out of the granary. ”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 infected.”
She almost whispered the words, looking wan and sick. He stared at her hands, pale with the dust of the dead land. Fear suddenly shot through Arthas and he grabbed her hand. Closing his eyes, he murmured a prayer. Warm light filled him, spread from his hand to hers. Jaina glanced at him, confused, then down at her own hand clasped in his gloved one. Her eyes widened with horror at what she only now realized could have been a very narrow escape.
”Thank you,” she whispered.
He gave her a shaky grin, then called out to his men, ”Gloves! Every man here wears gloves in this area! No exceptions!”
His captain heard him and nodded, repeating the order. Most of the men were in full armor, and so were already wearing gauntlets. Arthas shook his head, dispelling the worry that still clung to him. He had sensed no sickness in Jaina at all.
Thank the Light.