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?
“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.
And a part of him responded with a frisson of fear: 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. 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.