“Jaina…I just want innocent people to stop dying. That’s all. And…I admit, I’m upset that I can’t seem to make that happen. But once this is over, you’ll see. Everything will be fine again. I promise.”

He smiled down at her, and for a moment she saw the old Arthas in his handsome face. She smiled back in what she hoped was a reassuring fashion.

“Are you done now?”

Two bites. Jaina put the rest of the cheese away. “Yes, I’m done. Let’s keep going.”

The sky was turning from black to the ashy gray of dawn when they first heard the gunfire. Arthas’s heart sank. He spurred his horse as they wound their way north up the long road that cut through the deceptively pleasant hills. Just outside the gates of Hearthglen, they saw several men and dwarves armed with rifles—all trained on them. Wafted to him on the light breeze, mixed in with the smell of gunpowder, was the incongruously pleasant, slightly sweet scent of baking bread.

“Hold your fire!” Arthas cried as his troops galloped up. He drew rein so hard his mount reared in startlement. “I am Prince Arthas! What’s going on? Why are you so armed?”

They lowered their rifles, clearly surprised to see their prince standing right in front of them. “Sir, you won’t believe what’s been going on.”

“Try me,” Arthas said.

Arthas was not surprised to hear the initial words—that the dead had risen and were attacking. What did surprise him was the term “vast army.” He glanced at Jaina. She looked utterly exhausted. The little break they had taken last night obviously hadn’t been sufficient to restore her.

“Sir,” cried one of the scouts, rushing in, “the army—it’s heading this way!”

“Dammit,” Arthas muttered. This small group of men and dwarves could handle a skirmish well enough, but not a whole damned army of the things. He made a decision. “Jaina, I’ll stay here to protect the village. Go as quickly as you can and tell Lord Uther what’s happened.”

“But—”

“Go, Jaina! Every second counts!”

She nodded. Light bless her and that level head of hers. He spared her a smile of gratitude before she stepped through the portal she created and disappeared.

“Sir,” said Falric, and something in the tone of his voice made Arthas turn. “You’d…better take a look at this.”

Arthas followed the man’s gaze and his heart sank. Empty crates…bearing the mark of Andorhal…

Hoping against hope that he was wrong, Arthas asked in a voice that shook slightly, “What did those crates contain?”

One of the Hearthglen men looked at him, puzzled. “Just a grain shipment from Andorhal. There’s no need to worry, milord. It’s already been distributed among the villagers. We’ve had plenty of bread.”

That was the smell—not the typical smell of baking bread, but slightly off, slightly too sweet—and then Arthas understood. He staggered, just a little, as the enormity of the situation, the true scope of its horror, burst over him. The grain had been distributed…and suddenly there was a vast army of the undead….

“Oh, no,” he whispered. They stared at him and he tried again to speak, his voice still shaking. But this time, not with horror, but with fury.

The plague was never meant to simply kill his people. No, no, it was much darker, much more twisted than that. It was meant to turn them into—

Even as the thought formed, the man who had answered Arthas’s question about the crate bent over double. Several others followed suit. A strange green glow limned their bodies, pulsing and growing stronger. They clutched their stomachs and fell to the earth, blood erupting from their mouths, saturating their shirts. One of them stretched out a hand to him, imploring for healing. Instead, Arthas, repulsed, recoiled in horror, staring as the man writhed in pain and died in a matter of seconds.

What had he done? The man had begged for healing, but Arthas had not even lifted a hand. But could this even be healed, Arthas wondered as he stared at the corpse. Could the Light even—

“Merciful Light!” Falric cried. “The bread—”

Arthas started at the shout, coming out of his guilty trance. Bread—the staff of life—wholesome and nourishing—had now become worse than lethal. Arthas opened his mouth to cry out, to warn his men, but his tongue was like clay in his mouth.

The plague embedded into the grain acted even before the shocked prince could find words.

The dead man’s eyes opened. He lurched upright into a seated position.

And that was how Kel’Thuzad had created an undead army in so astonishingly short a time.

Insane laughter echoed in his ears—Kel’Thuzad, laughing maniacally, triumphant even in death. Arthas wondered if he was going mad from all he had been forced to bear witness to. The undead clambered to their feet, and their movement galvanized him to action and liberated his tongue.

“Defend yourselves!” Arthas cried, swinging his hammer before the man had a chance to rise. Others were swifter, though, getting to dead feet, turning the weapons that in life they would have used to protect Arthas upon him. The only advantage he had was that the undead were not graceful with their weapons, and most of the shots they fired went wide. Arthas’s men, meanwhile, attacked with hard eyes and grim faces, bashing skulls, decapitating, smashing what had been allies just a few moments earlier into submission.

“Prince Arthas, the undead forces have arrived!”

Arthas whirled, his armor spattered with gore, and his eyes widened slightly.

So many. There were so many of them, skeletons who had been long dead, fresh corpses recently turned, more of the pale, maggoty abominations thundering down on them. He could sense the panic. They had fought handfuls, but not this—not an army of the walking dead.

Arthas thrust his hammer into the air. It flared to glowing life. “Hold your ground!” he cried, his voice no longer weak and shaking or harsh and angry. “We are the chosen of the Light! We shall not fall!”

The Light bathing his determined features, he charged.

Jaina was more exhausted than she had admitted even to herself. Drained after the days of fighting with little or no rest, she collapsed after finishing the teleportation spell. She thought she blacked out for a moment, because the next thing she knew her master was bending over her, lifting her off the floor.

“Jaina—child, what is it?”

“Uther,” Jaina managed. “Arthas—Hearthglen—” She reached up and clutched Antonidas’s robes. “Necromancers—Kel’Thuzad—raising the dead to fight—”

Antonidas’s eyes widened. Jaina gulped and continued. “Arthas and his men are fighting in Hearthglen alone. He needs reinforcements immediately!”

“I think Uther is at the palace,” Antonidas said. “I’ll send several magi there right away to open portals for as many men as he needs to bring. You did well, my dear. I’m very proud of you. Now, you get some rest.”

“No!” Jaina cried. She struggled to her feet, barely able to stand, forcing the exhaustion back by sheer will alone, holding out a shaking hand to keep Antonidas back. “I have to be with him. I’ll be all right. Come on!”

Arthas had no idea how long he had been fighting. He swung his hammer almost ceaselessly, his arms shaking from the strain, his lungs burning. It was only the power of the Light, flowing through him with quiet strength and steadiness, that kept him and his men on their feet. The undead seemed to be weakened by its power, although that seemed to be their only weakness. Only a clean kill—Arthas fleetingly wondered if you could call it a “kill” if they were already dead—stopped them in their tracks.

They just kept coming. Wave after wave of them. His subjects—his people—turned into these things. He lifted his weary arms for another blow when over the din of battle came a voice Arthas knew: