“You recognize this blade, do you not?”
Arthas did. He knew the sword’s name and its lineage—Flamestrike, Felo’melorn, once wielded by Kael’thas’s ancestor, Dath’Remar Sunstrider, the founder of the dynasty. The sword was almost unspeakably old. It had seen the War of the Ancients, the birth of the Highborne. Arthas returned the smirk. Flamestrike would have another significant event to bear witness to; it would now see the end of the last Sunstrider.
“Oh, I do. I saw it snap in two beneath Frostmourne, an instant before I slew your father.”
Arthas was physically stronger, and the energy of the Lich King surged through him. With a ragged grunt, he shoved Kael’thas backward, thinking to knock him off balance. The mage recovered quickly and almost danced into another position, brandishing Felo’melorn, his eyes never leaving Arthas.
“And so I found it, and I had it reforged.”
“Broken swords are weak where they are mended, elf.” Arthas began to circle, watching for the instant where Kael would be vulnerable.
Kael’thas laughed. “Human swords, perhaps. Not elven. Not when they are reforged with magic, and hatred, and a burning need for revenge. No, Arthas. Felo’melorn is stronger than ever—as am I. As are the sin’dorei. We are the stronger for having been broken—stronger and filled with purpose. And that purpose is to see you fall!”
The attack came suddenly. One moment Kael was standing, ranting, and the next Arthas was fighting for his very life. Frostmourne clanged against Flamestrike, and damned if the elf wasn’t right—the blade held. Arthas darted back, feinted, and then brought Frostmourne across in a mighty sweep. Kael lunged out of its path and whirled to counterattack with a violence and intensity that surprised Arthas. He was forced back, one step, then two, and then suddenly he slipped and fell. Snarling, Kael lunged in, thinking to deal the deathblow. But Arthas remembered training with Muradin, long ago, and the dwarf’s favorite trick suddenly filled his mind. He pulled his legs in tightly and kicked Kael’thas with all his strength. The mage let out a grunt and was hurtled backward into the snow. Gasping, the death knight flipped to his feet, hefted Frostmourne with both hands and plunged it down.
Somehow Flamestrike was there. The blades again strained against each other. Kael’thas’s eyes burned with hatred.
But Arthas was the stronger in armed combat; stronger, with the stronger sword, despite Kael’s gloating about how Felo’melorn was reforged. Slowly, inexorably, as Arthas knew must happen, Frostmourne descended toward Kael’thas’s bare throat.
“…she hates you,” Kael whispered.
Arthas cried out, fury blurring his vision for a moment, and shoved down with all his strength.
Into the snow and frozen earth.
Kael’thas was gone.
“Coward!” Arthas cried, although he knew the prince would not hear him. The bastard had again teleported away at the last second. Fury raged in him, threatening to cloud his judgment, and he pushed it aside. He’d been foolish to let Kael’thas rile him so.
Curse you, Jaina. Even now, you haunt me.
“Invincible, to me!” he cried, and realized his voice was shaking. Kael’thas was not dead, but he was out of the way, and that was all that mattered. He wheeled the head of his skeletal horse around, and charged again toward the fray and the throne chamber of his master.
He moved through the milling crowd of enemies as if they were so many insects. As they fell, he reanimated them and sent them against their fellows. The tide of the undead was unstoppable and implacable. The snow around the base of the spire was churned up and drenched with blood. Arthas looked about him, at the last few knots of fighting going on. Blood elves—but no sign of their master.
Where was Illidan?
A flurry of quick motion caught his eye and he turned. He growled beneath his breath. Another dreadlord. This one’s back was toward him, black wings outstretched, cloven hooves melting into the snow.
Arthas lifted Frostmourne. “I’ve defeated your kind before, dreadlord,” he snarled. “Turn and face me, if you dare, or flee into the Nether like the coward you demons are.”
The figure turned, slowly. Massive horns crowned its head. Its lips curved back in a smile. And over its eyes was a ragged black blindfold. Two green, glowing spots appeared where eyes should have been.
“Hello, Arthas.”
Deep and sinister, the voice had changed, but not as much as the kaldorei’s body. It was still the same pale lavender hue, etched with the same tattoos and scarifications. But the legs, the wings, the horns…Arthas immediately understood what must have happened. So that was why Illidan had become so powerful.
“You look different, Illidan. I guess the Skull of Gul’dan didn’t agree with you.”
Illidan threw back his horned head. Dark, rich laughter rumbled from him. “On the contrary, I have never felt better. In a way, I suppose I should thank you for my present state, Arthas.”
“Show your appreciation by stepping out of the way, then.” Arthas’s voice was suddenly cold, and there was no trace of humor in it. “The Frozen Throne is mine, demon. Step aside. Leave this world and never return. If you do, I’ll be waiting.”
“We both have our masters, boy. Mine demands the destruction of the Frozen Throne. It would seem we are at odds,” Illidan replied, and lifted the weapon Arthas had fought once before. His powerful hands with their sharp black nails closed on the weapon’s center and he whirled it with grace and a deceptive casualness. Arthas knew a ripple of uncertainty at the display. He had just finished a fight with Kael’thas, and while he would have been the victor had not the elf, coward that he was, teleported out at the last instant, he had been taxed by the battle. There was no hint of weariness in Illidan’s bearing.
Illidan’s smile grew as he noticed his enemy’s discomfiture. He allowed himself a moment more of uncannily masterful handling of the unusual, demonic weapon, then struck a position, settling in, preparing for combat. “It must be done!”
“Your troops are either in pieces or part of my army.” Arthas drew Frostmourne. Its runes glowed brightly, and mist curled up from its hilt. Behind the blindfold, Illidan’s eyes—much brighter and more intensely green than he remembered—narrowed at the sight of the runeblade. If the demonically-changed kaldorei had a powerful weapon, so too did Arthas. “You’ll end up one or the other.”
“Doubtful,” Illidan sneered. “I am stronger than you know, and my master created yours! Come, pawn. I’ll dispatch the servant before I dispatch your pathetic—”
Arthas charged. Frostmourne glowed and hummed in his hands, as eager for Illidan’s death as he was. The elf did not seem at all startled by the sudden rush, and with the utmost ease lifted his double-bladed weapon to parry. Frostmourne had broken ancient and powerful swords before, but this time, it simply clanged and grated against the glowing green metal.
Illidan gave him a smirk as he held his ground. Arthas again felt unease flicker through him. Illidan was indeed changed by absorbing the power of the Skull of Gul’dan; for one thing, he was physically much stronger than he had been. Illidan chuckled, a deep and ugly sound, then shoved forcefully. It was Arthas who was forced to fall back, dropping to one knee to defend himself as the demon bore down on him.
“It is sweet to turn the tables thus,” Illidan growled. “I might just kill you quickly, death knight, if you give me a good fight.”
Arthas didn’t waste breath on insults. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on battling back the blows that were being rained upon him. The weapon was a swirl of glowing green. He could feel the power of demonic energy radiating from it, just as he knew that Illidan could sense Frostmourne’s grim darkness.