It's my folly. My price. Please- And then, like a familiar caress from a loved friend, he felt it. The Light raced through him, comforting and warm, and he bit back a sob as he saw the glow again begin to embrace his hand. He had fallen so far, but it wasn't too late. The Light had not abandoned him. All he needed to do was drink it in, open his heart to it. Muradin would not die. He could heal him, and together they- Something stirred at the back of his neck. No, no, not the back of his neck...the back of his mind. He looked up quickly- And stared in wonder.
It had flung itself free to imbed itself in front of him, its blue-white runes enveloping it in a cold and glorious light. His own Light faded from his hands as he rose to his feet, almost hypnotized. Frostmourne was waiting for him, a lover needing the touch of the desired one to waken to full glory.
The whispering in the back of his mind continued. This This was the path. It was foolish to trust in the Light. It had failed him, repeatedly. It had not been there to save Invincible, had not been enough to stop the inexorable march of this plague that was on its way to wiping out the population of his kingdom. The power, the strength of Frostmourne- was the path. It was foolish to trust in the Light. It had failed him, repeatedly. It had not been there to save Invincible, had not been enough to stop the inexorable march of this plague that was on its way to wiping out the population of his kingdom. The power, the strength of Frostmourne-that was the only thing that could stand against the might of a dreadlord. was the only thing that could stand against the might of a dreadlord.
Muradin was a casualty of this awful war. But hopefully, his sacrifice would be the last. Arthas got to his feet and took unsteady steps toward the radiant weapon, his hand, still wet with the blood of his friend, outstretched and trembling. It closed on the shaft and his fingers curled around it, fitting it perfectly, as if the one was made for the other.
Cold shot through him, shivering up his arms, spreading over his body and into his heart. It was painful for a moment and he knew a hint of alarm, and then suddenly it was all right. It was all all right; Frostmourne was his and he was its, and its voice was speaking, whispering, caressing inside his mind as if it had always been there.
With a cry of joy, he lifted the weapon, gazing at it in wonder and fierce pride. He would make things right-he, Arthas Menethil, and the glorious Frostmourne that was now as much a part of him as his mind or his heart or his breath, and he listened intently to the secrets it revealed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Arthas and his men ran toward the encampment to discover that the battle had not abated in his absence. The numbers of his men had dwindled, but there were no corpses. He did not expect to see any-those who fell rose as adversaries, under the command of the dreadlord.
Falric, his armor spattered with gore, cried out to him. "Prince Arthas! We've done what we could and-Where is Muradin? We can't hold out any longer!"
"Muradin is dead," Arthas said. The cold but comforting essence of the sword seemed to abate a little, and pain swelled in his heart. Muradin had paid the price-but it was worth it, if it would fell Mal'Ganis. The dwarf would have agreed, had he known everything, understood as Arthas understood. Muradin's men looked stricken even as they continued to fire round after round into the waves of undead that continued to pound against them. "His death was not in vain. Take heart, Captain. The enemy will not stand long against the might of Frostmourne!"
As they watched, disbelief washing over their faces, Arthas charged into the fray.
He had thought he fought well with his blessed hammer, now lying discarded and forgotten in the icy vault where Frostmourne had once been imprisoned, but it was nothing to the damage he dealt now. Frostmourne felt more like an extension of himself rather than a weapon. He quickly found a rhythm and began to slice the undead down as if they were so many stalks of grain falling before the harvesting scythe. How balanced and perfect a weapon it was in his hands. One arcing blow severed the head from the shoulders of a ghoul. He swept Frostmourne around, scattering the bones of a skelton. Another rhythmic stroke downed a third foe. They fell all around him, the rotting bodies beginning to pile up, as he cut a path through them. At one point, looking for his next enemy, he caught sight of Falric staring at him. There was awe on the familiar face, but also shock and-horror? Only at the carnage he was wreaking, surely. Frostmourne was all but singing in his hands.
The wind picked up and the snow began to fall, thick and fast. Frostmourne seemed to approve, for the increased snowfall did not seem to hamper Arthas in the slightest. Again and again the blade found its mark, and more and more undead things fell. At last, the minions had been dealt with. It was time for their master.
"Mal'Ganis, you coward!" Arthas cried, even his voice sounding different in his own ears now, as it carried easily over the howling wind. "Come show yourself! You taunted me into coming here, now stand and face me!"
And then the demon lord was there, bigger than Arthas remembered, smirking down at the prince. He straightened to his full imposing height, his wing beating the air, his tail lashing. The undead warriors at his command stilled as he casually flicked a finger.
Arthas was prepared for the dreadlord's frightening appearance this time. It did not rattle him. Staring at his enemy, he wordlessly lifted Frostmourne, and the runes etched along its length gleamed. Mal'Ganis recognized the weapon and a hint of a frown curved his blue lips.
"So, you've taken up Frostmourne at the expense of your comrades' lives, just as the Dark Lord said you would. You're stronger than I thought."
The words were heard, but there were other words, whispering silkily in his brain. Arthas listened, and then grinned fiercely.
"You waste your breath, Mal'Ganis. I heed only the voice of Frostmourne now."
The dreadlord threw back his horned head and laughed. "You hear the voice of the Dark Lord," Mal'Ganis retorted. He pointed a sharp, black-nailed finger at the mighty runeblade. "He whispers to you through the blade you wield!"
Arthas felt the blood drain from his face. The dreadlord's master...spoke to him through Frostmourne? But...how could that be? Was this the final trick? Had he been gulled and delivered directly into Mal'Ganis's taloned hands? to him through Frostmourne? But...how could that be? Was this the final trick? Had he been gulled and delivered directly into Mal'Ganis's taloned hands?
"What does he say, young human?" The smirk came again, the expression of one who knows something another does not. The dreadlord was gloating, reveling in this twist. "What does the Dark Lord of the Dead tell you now?"
The whispers came again, but this time it was Arthas who smirked, a mirror image of the same expression the dreadlord bore. Now it was he who knew something Mal'Ganis did not.
Arthas whirled Frostmourne over his head, the enormous blade light and graceful in his hands, and then he eased into an attack position. "He tells me that the time for my vengeance has come."
The green, glowing eyes widened. "What? He can't possibly mean to-"
Arthas charged.
The mighty runeblade lifted, descended. The dreadlord was taken by surprise, but only for an instant, and managed to get his staff up in time to deflect the blow. He leaped aside, great bat wings creating a quick gust of wind that blew Arthas's golden hair about wildly but did not affect his balance or speed. He came in again and again, coldly in control but swift and deadly as a viper, the blade glowing with eagerness. A brief thought crossed his mind: Frostmourne hungers. Frostmourne hungers.
And a part of him responded with a frisson of fear: Hungers for what? Hungers for what?
It did not matter. He, Arthas, hungered for revenge, and he was going to have it. Every time Mal'Ganis tried to cast a spell, Frostmourne was there, knocking him aside, slicing his flesh, harrying him until the moment came when the deathblow would be dealt. He felt Frostmourne's anticipation, its craving, and he cried out as he swung the runeblade in a shimmering blue arc to neatly carve a deadly furrow across Mal'Ganis's midsection.
Dark blood spurted in an arc, pattering on the snow, as the dreadlord fell. There was astonishment on his face; even at the end, he had not believed he could be defeated.
For a moment Arthas stood, the wind and snow writhing about him, the glow of the runes on Frostmourne's blade, partially obscured by dark demonic blood, illuminating the glorious scene.
"It is finished," he said softly.
This part of your journey, yes, young prince, Frostmourne whispered-or was it truly the Dark Lord Mal'Ganis had spoken of? He did not know or care. Carefully he bent and wiped the blade clean in the snow. Frostmourne whispered-or was it truly the Dark Lord Mal'Ganis had spoken of? He did not know or care. Carefully he bent and wiped the blade clean in the snow. But there is more. So much more. So much power that could be yours. So much knowledge and control. But there is more. So much more. So much power that could be yours. So much knowledge and control.
Arthas remembered Muradin's reading of the inscription. His hand went to his heart without his immediately realizing it. The blade was part of him now, and he was part of it.
The snowstorm was becoming worse. He realized with dawning surprise that he was not at all cold. He straightened, holding Frostmourne, and looked about him. The demon lay stiffening at his feet. The voice-Frostmourne's, or the mysterious Dark Lord's-was right.
There was more. So much more.
And the winter would teach it.
Arthas Menethil clutched the runeblade, gazed out into the snowstorm, and ran to embrace it all.
Arthas knew he would remember the bells all his life. They were rung only on occasions of great state import-a royal wedding, the birth of an heir, the funeral of a king, all the things that marked passages in the life of a kingdom. But today, they were being rung in celebration. He, Arthas Menethil, had returned home.
He had sent word ahead of his triumph. Of discovering who had been behind the plague. Of searching him out. Of slaying him, and of this day, his glorious return to his place of birth. As he strode along the road toward Capital City, on foot, he was greeted with cheers and applause, the grateful outpouring of thanks of a nation saved from disaster by their beloved prince. He accepted this as his due, but his mind was on seeing his father after so long.
"I would speak with you in private, Father, and tell you of the things I have learned and seen," he had written into his letter, delivered a few days earlier by a swift courier. "You have, I am certain, spoken with Jaina and Uther. I can imagine what they have said-tried to turn you against me. I assure you I have only done what I believe to be the greatest good for the citizens of Lordaeron. In the end, I have destroyed the one who began this plague upon our people, and I return home victorious, eager to begin a new era for our kingdom."
Those who marched behind him were as silent as he, their faces as cowled. The crowd did not seem to require their response to wildly celebrate their return. The mighty drawbridge was lowered and Arthas strode across it. The cheering throngs were here, too, no longer comprised of commoners, but of diplomats, lesser nobility, visiting dignitaries from the elves, dwarves, and gnomes. They stood not just in the courtyard but also above it in viewing boxes. Rose petals, pink and white and red, rained down upon the land's returning hero.
Arthas remembered that once, he had thought to see Jaina standing before him on their wedding day, the petals falling upon a face lit with a smile, turned up to kiss him.
Jaina...
Moved by the image, he caught one of the red petals in a gloved hand. He thumbed it thoughtfully, and then frowned as a stain appeared. It grew before his eyes, desiccating and destroying the petal, until it was more brown than red in his palm. With a quick, dismissive gesture, he tossed the dead thing away and continued.
He pushed open the huge doors to the throne room he knew so well, strode forward, glanced at Terenas briefly, and threw his father a smile that was mostly hidden by the cowl. Arthas knelt in obeisance, Frostmourne held before him, its tip touching the seal carved into the stone floor.
"Ah, my son. Glad I am to see you safely home," Terenas said, rising somewhat unsteadily.
Terenas looked unwell, Arthas thought. The incidents of the last several months had aged the monarch. His hair was grayer now, his eyes tired.
But it was all going to be all right now.
You no longer need to sacrifice for your people. You no longer need to bear the weight of your crown. I've taken care of everything.
Arthas rose, his armor clattering with the movement. He lifted a hand and drew back the hood from his face, watching for his father's reaction. Terenas's eyes widened as he took in the change that had come over his only son.
Arthas's hair, once golden as the wheat that had given sustenance to his people, was now bone-white. He knew his face was pale as well, as if the blood had been drained from it.
It is time, Frostmourne whispered in his mind. Arthas moved toward his father, who had halted on the dais, staring, uncertain. There were several guards positioned about the room, but they would be no match against him, Frostmourne, and the two who had accompanied him. Arthas strode boldly up the carpeted steps and seized his father by the arm. Frostmourne whispered in his mind. Arthas moved toward his father, who had halted on the dais, staring, uncertain. There were several guards positioned about the room, but they would be no match against him, Frostmourne, and the two who had accompanied him. Arthas strode boldly up the carpeted steps and seized his father by the arm.
Arthas drew back his blade. Frostmourne's runes brightened in anticipation. And then a whisper, not from the runeblade, but a memory- -the voice of a dark-haired prince, seemingly from another lifetime ago- "He was assassinated. A trusted friend...she killed him. Stabbed him right in the heart..."
Arthas shook his head and the voice was silenced.
"What is this? What are you doing, my son?"
"Succeeding you...Father."
And Frostmourne's hunger was sated-for the moment.
Arthas turned them loose then-his new, unquestioning, obedient subjects. Dispatching the guards who charged him upon the death of his father was a simple matter, and he stormed with cold purpose back out into the courtyard.
It was madness.
What had once been revelry had now become frenzy. What had once been celebration had now become a frantic flight for life. Few escaped. Most of those who had waited for hours in line to welcome their prince back now lay dead, blood congealing from hideous wounds, limbs ripped off, bodies broken. Ambassadors now lay with commoners, men and women with children, all hideously equal in death.
Arthas did not care what their eventual fate was-carrion for the crows, or new subjects to follow his rule. He would leave that to his captains, Falric and Marwyn, as bone-white as he and twice as merciless. Arthas marched through the way he had come, focused and intent upon one single thing.
Once clear of the courtyard and the corpses, animated or still, he broke into a run. No horse would bear him now; the beasts grew frantic at the smell of him and those who followed him. But he had found that he did not tire; not when Frostmourne, or the Lich King who spoke to him through the runeblade, was whispering to him. And so he ran swiftly, his legs carrying him to a place he had not been in years.
Voices swirled in his head, memories, snippets of conversations: "You know you were not supposed to ride him yet."
"You missed your lessons. Again..."
Invincible's horrible screams of agony, echoing in his mind. The Light, pausing for that awful moment, as if deciding whether or not he was worthy of its grace. Jaina's face as he ended their relationship.
"Listen to me, boy.... The shadow has already fallen, and nothing you do will deter it.... The harder you strive to slay your enemies, the faster you'll deliver your people into their hands...."
"...This isn't a blighted apple crop; this is a city full of human beings!..."
"...We know so little-we can't just slaughter them like animals out of our own fear!"
"Ye lied tae yer men and betrayed the mercenaries who fought for ye!...That's nae King Terenas's boy."
But they were the ones who could not see, could not grasp. Jaina-Uther-Terenas-Muradin. All of them, at some point, by word or look, had told him he had been wrong.
He slowed his pace as he came to the farmstead. His subjects had been here before him, and now there were only corpses lying, stiffening in the earth. Arthas steeled himself against the pain that recognition brought with it even now; they had been the lucky ones, to simply die. A man, a woman, a youth his own age.
And the snapdragons...blooming like mad this year, it would seem. Arthas stepped close and extended a hand to touch one of the beautiful, tall, lavender-blue flowers, then hesitated, remembering the rose petal.
He had not come here for flowers.
He turned and strode to a grave, nearly seven years old now. Grass had overtaken it, but the marker was still readable. He did not need to read it to know what lay here.
For a moment he stood, more moved by the death of the one in this grave than by that of his own father, by his own hand.
The power is yours, came the whispers. came the whispers. Do as you will. Do as you will.
Arthas extended one hand, Frostmourne firmly gripped in the other. Dark light began to swirl around the outstretched hand, increasing in speed. It moved from his fingers like a serpent, undulating and writhing of its own accord, and then it speared down into the earth.
Arthas felt it connect with the skeleton below. Joy flooded him, and tears stung his eyes. He lifted his hand, pulling the no-longer-dead thing from its seven-year slumber in the cool dark earth.
"Arise!" he commanded, the word bursting from his throat.
The grave erupted, showering bits of earth. Bony legs pawed, hooves seeking purchase on the shifting soil, and a skull thrust upward, breaking the surface. Arthas watched breathlessly, a smile on his too-pale face.
I saw you being born, he thought, remembering a membrane enshrouding a wriggling, wet, new little life. he thought, remembering a membrane enshrouding a wriggling, wet, new little life. I helped you come into this world, and I helped you leave it...and now by my hand, you are reborn. I helped you come into this world, and I helped you leave it...and now by my hand, you are reborn.
The skeletal steed struggled through the earth and finally emerged, planting its forelegs firmly and hoisting itself up. Red fire burned in its empty eye sockets. It tossed its head, pranced and somehow whinnied, though its soft tissue had long since rotted away.
Trembling, Arthas extended a hand to the undead creature, who whickered and nuzzled his hand with its bony muzzle. Seven years ago, he had ridden this horse to its death. Seven years ago, he had wept tears that had frozen on his face as he lifted his sword and stabbed the beloved beast straight through its gallant heart.
He had carried the guilt of that act alone all this time. But now he realized-it was all part of his destiny. If he had not slain his steed, he could not now bring it back. Alive, the horse would have feared him. Undead as it was, with fire for eyes, its bones held together by the necromantic magic that Arthas now could wield thanks to the gift of the mysterious Lich King, horse and rider could at last be reunited, as they had always been meant to be. It hadn't been a mistake, seven years ago; he hadn't been wrong. Not then, not now.
Not ever.
And this was proof.
Throughout the land that he now ruled, his father's blood still slick and crimson on Frostmourne, death was coming. The change.
"This kingdom shall fall," he promised his beloved steed as he threw his cloak over its bony back and mounted. "And from the ashes shall arise a new order that will shake the very foundation of the world!"
The horse whickered.
Invincible.