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.

Suddenly Illidan was not there and Arthas lurched forward, his momentum taking him off balance. He heard a flapping sound and whirled to see Illidan overhead, his great, leathery wings creating a strong wind as he hovered out of reach.

They eyed each other, Arthas catching his breath. He could see Illidan was not unaffected by the battle either. Sweat gleamed on the ma.s.sive, lavender-hued torso. Arthas settled himself, Frostmourne at the ready for when Illidan would swoop in for a renewed a.s.sault.

Then Illidan did something utterly unexpected. He laughed, shifted the weapon in his hands-and in a flurry of motion seemingly snapped it in two. Each powerful hand now held a single blade.

"Behold the Twin Blades of Azzinoth," Illidan gloated. He flew up higher, whirling the blades in his left and right hands, and Arthas realized that he favored neither one. "Two magnificent warglaives. They can be wielded as a single devastating weapon...or, as you see, as two. It was the favored weapon of a doomguard-a powerful demon captain whom I slew. Ten thousand years ago. How long have you fought with your pretty blade, human? How well do you know it?"

The words were intended to unsettle the death knight. Instead, they invigorated him. Illidan might have had this admittedly powerful weapon for longer-but Frostmourne was bound to Arthas, and he to it. It was not a sword as much as an extension of himself. He had known it when he first had the vision of it, when he had just arrived in Northrend. He had been certain of the connection when he laid eyes upon it, waiting for him. And now he felt it surge in his hand, confirming their unity.

The demon blades gleamed. Illidan dropped down on Arthas like a stone. Arthas cried out and countered, more certain of this blow than of any he had dealt with the runeblade before, swinging Frostmourne up underneath the descending demon. And as he knew must happen, he felt the sword bite deep into flesh. He pulled, drawing the gash across Illidan's torso, and felt a deep satisfaction as the former kaldorei screamed in agony.

And yet the b.a.s.t.a.r.d would not fall. Illidan's wings beat erratically, still somehow keeping him aloft, and then before Arthas's shocked gaze his body seemed to shift and darken...almost as if it was made of writhing black, purple, and green smoke.

"This is what you have given me," Illidan cried. His voice, ba.s.s to begin with, had somehow grown even deeper. Arthas felt it shiver along his bones. The demon's eyes glowed fiercely in the swirling darkness that was his face. "This gift-this power. And it will destroy you!"

A scream was torn from Arthas's throat, and he fell again to his knees. Blazing green fire chased itself along his armor, seared his flesh, even dulled Frostmourne's blue glow for a moment. Over the raw cry of his own torment he heard Illidan laughing. Again the fel fire cascaded over him and Arthas fell forward, gasping. But as the fire faded and he saw Illidan swooping in for the kill, he felt the ancient runeblade he still managed to grasp urge him to rally.

Frostmourne was his, and he its, and so united, they were invincible.

Just as Illidan lifted his blades for the kill, Arthas raised Frostmourne, thrusting upward with all his strength. He felt the blade connect, pierce flesh, strike deep.

Illidan fell hard to the ground. Blood gushed from his bare torso, melting the snow around it with a slow hissing sound. His chest rose and fell in gasps. His vaunted twin blades were of no use now. One had been knocked from his grasp, the other lay in a hand that could not even curl around its hilt. Arthas got to his feet, his body still tingling with the remnants of the fel fire Illidan had hurled at him. He stared at him for a long moment, branding the sight into his mind. He thought about dealing the killing blow, but decided to let the merciless cold of the place do it for him. A greater need burned in him now, and he turned, lifting his eyes to the spire that towered above him.

He swallowed hard and simply stood for a moment, knowing, without knowing how he knew it, that something was about to fundamentally change. Then he took a deep breath and entered the cavern.

Arthas moved almost as if in a daze, down the lengths of twining tunnels that led ever deeper into the bowels of the earth. His feet seemed guided, and while there was no noise, certainly no one to challenge his right to be here, he felt, rather than heard, a deep thrum of power. He continued to descend, feeling that call of power drawing him ever closer to his destiny.

Up ahead was a cold, blue-white light. Arthas moved toward it, almost breaking into a run, and the tunnel opened up into what Arthas could only think of as a throne chamber. For just ahead was a structure that made Arthas's breath catch in his throat.

The Lich King's prison sat atop of this twining tower, this spire of blue-green, shimmering ice-that-was-not-ice that rose up as if to pierce the very roof of the cavern. A narrow walkway wound, serpentine, about the spire, leading him upward. Still filled with the energy granted to him by the Lich King, Arthas did not tire, but unwelcome memories seemed to dart at him like flies as he ascended, putting one booted foot in front of the other. Words, phrases, images came back to him.

"Remember, Arthas. We are paladins. Vengeance cannot be a part of what we must do. If we allow our pa.s.sions to turn to bloodl.u.s.t, then we will become as vile as the orcs."

Jaina...oh, Jaina..."No one can seem to deny you anything, least of all me."

"Don't deny me, Jaina. Don't ever deny me. Please."

"I never would, Arthas. Never."

He kept going, relentlessly moving upward.

"We know so little-we can't just slaughter them like animals out of our own fear!"

"This is bad business, lad. Leave it be. Let it stay here, lost and forgotten.... We'll find another way tae save yer people. Let's leave now, go back, and find that way."

One foot followed the other. Upward, ever upward. An image of black wings brushed his memory.

"I will leave you one final prediction. Just remember, the harder you strive to slay your enemies, the faster you'll deliver your people into their hands."

Even as these memories tugged at him, clutched at his heart, there was one image, one voice, that was stronger and more compelling than all the others, whispering, encouraging him: "Closer you draw, my champion. My moment of freedom comes...and with it, your ascension to true power."

Upward he climbed, his gaze ever on the peak. On the huge chunk of deep blue ice that imprisoned the one who had first set Arthas's feet on this path. Closer it drew, until Arthas came to a halt a few feet away. For a long moment, he regarded the figure trapped within, imperfectly glimpsed. Mist rolled off the huge chunk of ice, further obscuring the image.

Frostmourne glowed in his hand. From deep inside, Arthas saw the barest hint of an answering flare of two points of glowing blue light.

"RETURN THE BLADE," came the deep, rasping voice in Arthas's mind, almost unbearably loud. "COMPLETE THE CIRCLE. RELEASE ME FROM THIS PRISON!"

Arthas took a step forward, then another, lifting Frostmourne as he moved until he was running. This was the moment it had all been leading to, and without realizing it, a roar built in his throat and tore free as he swung the blade down with all of his strength.

A ma.s.sive cracking resounded through the chamber as Frostmourne slammed down. The ice shattered, huge chunks flying in every direction. Arthas lifted his arms to shield himself, but the shards flew past him harmlessly. Pieces fell from the imprisoned body, and the Lich King cried out, lifting his armored arms to the sky. More groaning, cracking sounds came from the cavern and from the being himself, so loud that Arthas winced and covered his ears. It was as if the very world was tearing itself apart. Suddenly the armored figure that was the Lich King seemed to shatter as his prison did, falling apart before Arthas's stunned gaze.

There was nothing-no one-inside.

Only the armor, icy black, clattering to lie in pieces. The helm, empty of its owner's head, slid to a halt to lie at Arthas's feet. He stared down at it for a long moment, a deep shiver pa.s.sing through him.

All this time...he had been chasing a ghost. Had the Lich King ever really been here? If not-who had thrust Frostmourne from the ice? Who had demanded to be freed? Was he, Arthas Menethil, supposed to have been the one encased in the Frozen Throne all along?

Had this ghost he'd been chasing...been himself?

Questions that would likely never have answers. But one thing was clear to him. As Frostmourne had been for him, so was the armor. Gauntleted fingers closed over the spiked helm and he lifted it slowly, reverently, and then, closing his eyes, he lowered it onto his white head.

He was suddenly galvanized, his body tensing as he felt the essence of the Lich King enter him. It pierced his heart, stopped his breath, shivered along his veins, icy, powerful, crashing through him like a tidal wave. His eyes were closed, but he saw, he saw so much-all that Ner'zhul, the orc shaman, had known, all he had seen, had done. For a moment, Arthas feared he would be overwhelmed by it all, that in the end, the Lich King had tricked him into coming here so that he could place his essence in a fresh new body. He braced himself for a battle for control, with his body as the prize.

But there was no struggle. Only a blending, a melding. All around him, the cavern continued to collapse. Arthas was only barely aware of it. His eyes darted rapidly back and forth beneath his closed lids.

His lips moved. He spoke.

They...spoke.

"Now...we are one."

EPILOGUE: THE LICH KING

The blue and white world blurred in Arthas's dream vision. The cold, pure colors shifted, changed to the warm hues of wood and fire-and torchlight. He had done as he said he would; he had remembered his life, all that had gone before, had again walked the path that had taken him to the seat of the Frozen Throne and this deep, deep dreaming state.

But the dream was not over, it would seem. He again sat at the head of the long, beautifully carved table that took up most of this illusionary Great Hall.

And the two who had such an interest in his dream were still there, watching him.

The orc on his left, elderly but still powerful, searched his face, and then began to smile, the gesture stretching the image of the white skull painted on his face. And on his right, the boy-the emaciated, sickly boy-looked even worse than Arthas remembered him looking when he had entered the dream of remembrance.

The boy licked cracked, pale lips and drew breath as if to speak, but it was the orc whose words shattered the stillness first.

"There is so much more," he promised.

Images crowded Arthas's mind, interweaving and lying atop one another into glimpses of the future and past entangled. An army of humans on horseback, carrying the flag of Stormwind...fighting alongside, not against, a Horde raiding party mounted atop snarling wolves. They were allies, attacking the Scourge together. The scene shifted, changed. Now the humans and orcs were attacking one another-and the undead, some crying out orders and fighting with minds that were clearly their own-were standing shoulder to shoulder with the orcs, strange-looking bull-men, and trolls.

Quel'Thalas-undamaged? No, no, there was the scar he and his army had left-but the city was being rebuilt....

Faster now the images poured into his mind, dizzying, chaotic, disordered. It was impossible to tell the past from the future now. Another image, that of skeletal dragons raining destruction down on a city Arthas had never seen before-a hot, dry place crowded with orcs. And-yes, yes it was Stormwind itself that was now coming under attack from the undead dragons- Nerubians-no, no, not nerubians, not Anub'arak's people, but kin to them, yes. A desert race, these were. Their servants were mammoth creatures with the heads of dogs, golems made of obsidian, who strode across the shining yellow stands.

A symbol appeared, one Arthas knew-the L L of Lordaeron, impaled by a sword, but depicted in red, not blue. The symbol changed, became a red flame on a white background. The flame seemed to spark to a life of its own and engulfed the background, burning it away to reveal the silvery waters of a vast expanse of water...a sea... of Lordaeron, impaled by a sword, but depicted in red, not blue. The symbol changed, became a red flame on a white background. The flame seemed to spark to a life of its own and engulfed the background, burning it away to reveal the silvery waters of a vast expanse of water...a sea...

...Something was roiling just beneath the ocean's surface. The hitherto-smooth surface began to churn wildly, seething, as if from a storm, although the day was clear. A horrible sound that Arthas only dimly recognized as laughter a.s.saulted his ears, along with the screaming of a world wrenched from its proper place, hauled upward to face the light of day it had not seen in uncounted centuries....

Green-all was green, shadowy and nightmarish, grotesque images dancing at the corner of Arthas's mind only to dart away before they could be firmly grasped. There was a brief glimpse, gone now-antlers? A deer? A man? It was hard to tell. Hope hung about the figure, but there were forces bent on destroying it....

The mountains themselves came to life, taking giant strides, crushing everything luckless enough to cross their paths. With each mammoth footfall, the world seemed to tremble and shake.

Frostmourne. This at least he knew, and intimately. The sword whirled end over end, as if Arthas has tossed it into the air. A second sword rose to meet it-long, inelegant but powerful, with the symbol of a skull embedded in its fearsome blade. A name-"Ashbringer," a sword and yet more than a sword, as was Frostmourne. The two clashed- Arthas blinked and shook his head. The visions, tumbled, chaotic, heartening, and disturbing-were gone.

The orc chuckled, the painted skull on his face stretching with the gesture. He had once been named Ner'zhul, had once had the gift of true visioning. Arthas did not doubt that all he had seen, though imperfectly understood, would indeed come to pa.s.s.

"So much more," the orc repeated, "but only if you continue to walk this path fully."

Slowly, the death knight turned his white head to the boy. The ill child met him with a gaze that was astonishingly clear, and for a moment, Arthas felt something inside him stir. Despite everything-the boy would not die.

And that meant...

The boy smiled a little, and some of the sickness dissipated as Arthas struggled for words. "You...are me. You are both...me. But you..." His voice was soft, tinged with wonder and disbelief. "You are the little flame that burns inside me still, that resists the ice. You are the last vestiges of humanity-of compa.s.sion, of my ability to love, to grieve...to care. You are my love for Jaina, my love for my father...for all the things that made me what I once was. Somehow Frostmourne didn't take it all. I tried to turn away from you...and I couldn't. I-can't."

The boy's sea-green eyes brightened and he gave his other self a tremulous smile. His color improved, and before Arthas's eyes, some of the pustules on his skin disappeared.

"You understand, now. Despite all, Arthas, you have not abandoned me." Tears of hope stood in those eyes and his voice, though stronger now than it had been, quavered with emotion. "There must be a reason. Arthas Menethil...much harm have you done, but there is goodness in you yet. If there was none...I would not exist, not even in your dreams."

He slipped off the chair and slowly walked toward the death knight. Arthas stood as he approached. For a moment, they regarded each other, the child and the man he had become.

The boy extended his arms, as if he were a living, breathing child asking to be picked up and held by a loving father. "It doesn't have to be too late," he said quietly.

"No," Arthas said quietly, staring raptly at the boy. "It doesn't."

He touched the curve of the boy's cheek, slipped a hand beneath the small chin and tilted up the shining face. He smiled into his own eyes.

"But it is."

Frostmourne descended. The boy cried out, his shocked, betrayed, anguished cry-that of the wind raging outside-and for a moment Arthas saw him standing there, the blade buried in his chest almost as big as he was, and felt one final tremor of remorse as he met his own eyes.

Then the boy was gone. All that remained of him was the bitter keening of the wind scouring the tormented land.

It felt...marvelous. It was only with the boy's pa.s.sing that Arthas truly realized how dreadful a burden this last struggling sc.r.a.p of humanity had been. He felt light, powerful, purged. Scoured clean, as Azeroth would soon be. All his weakness, his softness, everything that had ever made him hesitate or second-guess himself-it was all gone, now.

There was only Arthas, Frostmourne, all but singing at having claimed the final piece of Arthas's soul, and the orc, whose skull-face was split with triumphant laughter.

"Yes!" the orc exhilarated, laughing almost maniacally. "I knew you would make this choice. For so long you have wrestled with the last dregs of goodness, of humanity in you, but no longer. The boy held you back, and now you are free." He now got to his feet, his body still that of an old orc, but moving with the ease and fluidity of the young.

"We are one, Arthas. Together, we are the Lich King. No more Ner'zhul, no more Arthas-only this one glorious being. With my knowledge, we can-"

His eyes bulged as the sword impaled him.

Arthas stepped forward, plunging the glittering, hungering Frostmourne ever deeper into the dream-being that had once been Ner'zhul, then the Lich King, and was soon to be nothing, nothing at all. He slipped his other arm around the body, pressing his lips so close to the green ear that the gesture was almost intimate, as intimate as the act of taking a life always was and always would be.

"No," Arthas whispered. "No we we. No one tells me what to do. I've got everything I need from you-now the power is mine and mine alone. Now there is only I. I am the Lich King. And I am ready."

The orc shuddered in his arms, stunned by the betrayal, and vanished.

The teacup shattered as it fell from Jaina's suddenly nerveless hands. She gasped, momentarily unable to breathe, the cold of the damp, gray day knifing through her. Aegwynn was there, her gnarled hands closing on Jaina's.

"Aegwynn-I-what happened?" Her voice was thick, anguished, and tears suddenly filled her eyes as if she was grieving terribly for the loss of...something....

"It's not your imagination," Aegwynn said grimly. "I felt it, too. As for what-well, I'm sure we'll find out."

Sylvanas started as if the mammoth demon in front of her had struck her. Which, of course, he would never dare do. Varimathras narrowed his glowing eyes.

"My lady? What is it?"

Him.

It was always always him. him.

Sylvanas's gloved hands clenched and unclenched. "Something has happened. Something to do with the Lich King. I-felt it." There was no longer a link between them, at least not one in which she was under his control. But perhaps something lingered. Something that warned her.

"We need to step up our plans," she told Varimathras. "I believe that time has suddenly become a precious commodity."