Chapter Three: The Sword of the Privy Council

"Your Highness?"

Baron Rivendare’s voice pulled Arthas back from his thoughts. He offered an apologetic smile. "My apologies, Baron. I was just lost in thought for a moment."

"No matter. I understand that the expectations of His Majesty the King carry a heavy burden," the Baron replied, unbothered. He raised his goblet toward Arthas. "But for now, one might as well relax."

"A toast to you, Baron," Arthas said, clinking his cup against the Baron's.

They downed their large mugs of dwarven ale in one go. Rivendare, disregarding noble etiquette, wiped his mouth with his sleeve and immediately refilled their cups. "Ha! That’s the way to drink! Come, Your Highness! Rivendare of the Silver Hand toasts to your lifelong courage and fearlessness!"

Beside them, the high knight Gavinrad also raised his cup. "Gavinrad of the Silver Hand toasts to my brother’s future military glory!"

"To my proudest student, may you always walk with Light and justice!" Uther clapped a hand on Arthas’s shoulder and raised his own cup.

Across the table, Saidan Dathrohan, the founding paladin whose muscular frame stood as solid as a fortress, raised his glass. "To our brother Arthas, may you never be harmed by evil!"

Tirion Fordring, ever gentle and kind, offered his own blessing. "To our brother Arthas, may you always remain kind and honest!"

Looking at the founding paladins gathered before him, Arthas felt a surge of deep emotion. He clinked his cup against theirs and joined in the shout, "To the eternal prosperity of Lordaeron, and to the eternal light of the Silver Hand!"

It was a simple, rustic feast, attended only by the knights of the Silver Hand—the very pillars of the Order and the backbone of Lordaeron. Who could have imagined that mere years later, these prosperous cities would be reduced to ruins, and these powerful heroes would be turned to dust or suffer a tragic fall?

But at least this time, they would not be met with individual elegies of sorrow. The fate of Lordaeron, the fate of humanity, and the fate of Azeroth would be vastly different. Mortals might appear small in the face of catastrophe and destiny, but when danger descends, they fight for the fate of their world without fear. That is the eternal, unchanging theme of Azeroth.

***

The next morning, when Arthas climbed out of the guest bed in the Lord’s manor, his head was still throbbing.

Those hulking men, who treated beer barrels like water buckets, had taken turns toasting him. It was only because of Arthas’s extraordinary constitution that he wasn't still sleeping until the next morning.

Yet, his own "combat effectiveness" at the table had been top-tier. Every single person who dared to challenge him had been laid low. The worst offenders were the two shameless old men, Gavinrad and Rivendare, who used every excuse—from "young people have better stamina" to "I’ll drink one if you drink two"—to goad him.

Rivendare clearly held a grudge because Arthas had told his wife, Lady Anastari, about his embarrassing childhood stories. It was one thing for the Baron to try and drown him in ale, but that blockhead Gavinrad had joined in too. Arthas reckoned those two would be bedridden for at least two days; the amount of alcohol they had consumed yesterday would have burst an ordinary man’s stomach twice over.

"Almost met my end before the journey even began, killed by those two old fools," Arthas muttered, splashing cold water on his face in the washroom. He stared at the handsome face in the mirror and couldn't help but sigh. "I don't know how many times I've looked at it, but it really is too handsome..."

He wondered if the Menethil bloodline was just too superior. His sister Calia was a renowned beauty, and he himself was devastatingly handsome. Look at this face—a blend of resolve and elegance, with a touch of cold sharpness...

Ahem, he was drifting.

After washing up and dressing, Arthas prepared to head out. He happened to run into the attendant who had come to knock on his door. The servant stepped aside, bowing respectfully. "Your Highness, Lord Uther is here to see you."

"Teacher? Where is he?" Arthas was surprised. Uther hadn't really drank much yesterday—just a single cup when he toasted him. It was natural that he was up, but why was he here so early?

"Returning to Your Highness, Lord Uther is waiting in the parlor."

Arthas figured that if Uther had come to find him personally, it must be urgent; otherwise, he could have waited until Arthas arrived at the cathedral.

Led by the attendant, he entered the parlor to find Uther already wearing his custom-made armor, with his Libram buckled at his waist.

A Libram was a sacred tool of the paladins—a heavy, specialized tome containing methods for channeling the Light, as well as holy doctrines and knightly virtues. It was standard equipment for every paladin and a weapon against evil. Why a weapon? Well, have you ever seen a book bound in metal, reinforced with steel corners, weighing several dozen pounds, and chained to a belt so it could be unhooked and swung like a flail?

When a paladin carried a Libram while armored, it usually meant they were under orders and preparing for battle.

"Teacher, what has happened?" Arthas’s brow furrowed. If Uther was fully armed, the situation was likely severe.

"I received an urgent order from the capital this morning. Our allies have been attacked, and they require our military support," Uther stated briefly.

Allies?

Arthas’s mind raced. The Eastweald region where Stratholme was located was on the eastern edge of the kingdom and bordered no other human realms. The only reason Uther would need to mobilize and find him was if the High Elves to the north had been attacked.

"Are the Forest Trolls encroaching on the Elven lands again?" Arthas asked.

"Indeed," Uther replied, not surprised that Arthas had deduced it. "This time, their numbers are far greater than before. The elves likely feel that defending alone is too difficult."

"That doesn't sound like the haughty elves," Arthas mused, intrigued. "Don't they usually believe their magic can solve everything? Now they want us to block the Forest Trolls’ axes for them?"

"The call for aid was sent from Dalaran to the court mages," Uther added.

Arthas sighed. "Kael'thas is always worrying about something. If you ask me, their Council of Six is too pedantic. Kael'thas should have taken action long ago."

Kael'thas was the prince of the High Elves and a former friend and romantic rival of Arthas. As for why he was a "former" rival, it was because the person Kael'thas liked was already Arthas’s girlfriend.

"His Majesty the King has ordered us to lead troops to Quel'Thalas to provide support." Uther didn't delve into the topic of Kael'thas and instead began detailing the forces available to them. "We can immediately mobilize about five hundred elite infantry, one hundred elite cavalry, one hundred musketeers, thirty priests, ten paladins, and two archmagi."

"That many? And two mages?" Arthas was surprised. This was a formidable force, and the "elites" Uther spoke of were all veterans of the Second War.

"Because we are heading into the forests, the cavalry's effectiveness will be limited; otherwise, we could have brought another hundred," Uther explained.

Arthas understood perfectly. His father’s intent was clear: there was no shortage of troops, but the only requirement was that Arthas must win this campaign brilliantly.

"I understand," Arthas nodded. "I will bring twenty of the 'Swords of the Privy Council' along."

Uther was uncharacteristically stunned. Arthas was actually willing to use such a force for a support mission?

The [Swords of the Privy Council] were one of the primary combat units of the [Privy Council] established by Arthas. The sole purpose of their existence was to efficiently bring eternal slumber to all of Lordaeron's—and Arthas’s—enemies.