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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 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 assaulted 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 pass.
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 compassion, 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 passing that Arthas truly realized how dreadful a
burden this last struggling scrap 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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
