Warcraft: Old Guard

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 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 his former 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 make. The figure, its presumed wielder, who revealed himself shortly thereafter, was certainly no elf, though.