It was the third day since they'd left the beach, and the fourth since they
had run aground, and they were by now high in the mountains. Snow was
falling, and paths once traversable became closed to them as new ones
opened up. Everywhere was cold and white. Everywhere was silent, but for
the crunch of their own boots upon the rocky ground and the occasional boom
of thunder as lightning flashed about in the skies above.
They were following a narrow path around the edge of one of the icy mountains. Presently, they came to a place where the path ended, continued only through a tiny crevasse in the rocky mountainside. The hole was very slim indeed, narrow enough that one could just make it - it appeared - if one slid sideways through and ducked his head. Nevertheless, the hole beckoned amiably, offering solace from the snow and wind, and a place to catch one's breath in peace.
"Well," said Frederick, "we've come too far up here to turn back without a look," and he slid through the opening without so much as a look back. After a moment or two, Lawdron and Morte followed, and Perenolde had no choice but to follow.
The chamber within was much larger than one would have guessed from the entrance, and there was ample room to move about. Lightning lit the chamber through the opening, and Lawdron gasped.
"It goes on!" he said excitedly. "There's another opening at the far end, almost like a doorway! The passage goes on through there!" He got up from where he had been leaning on the wall and began making his way towards the portal in question.
"I don't think it's the best idea to go stumbling about in some dark cave," Perenolde began but Frederick interrupted.
"Then don't come with us," he snapped. He and Morte went after Lawdron toward the hole, and Perenolde, sighing, followed them.
The passage beyond the hole was more visible - perhaps their eyes had already begun to adjust, or perhaps light entered from some unseen corner - and they could see that it extended quite a ways, veering off to the left ahead. The three sword-bearing knights continued quite quickly down the passage, Perenolde reluctantly stumbling along behind them. After the first turn, the passage turned again, this time to the right. It continued to twist and weave at sharp angles - not at all as a cave should, Perenolde thought - all the while growing lighter and lighter.
It had grown light enough to see almost as well as outside - barring the walls of falling snow - when Morte exclaimed, "I do believe that's torchlight ahead!" The drew nearer and saw he was correct; torches had indeed been set and lit in little nooks and crannies along the walls, just far apart to span the length of the light. The passage, thus, was quite bright, and they could see it ended two yards down in what was unmistakably a door.
"Now we've done it," Frederick muttered. "We've come up in someone's basement. Probably another ogre - don't reckon they'll be very happy to see us."
"Maybe it's Arthas," Lawdron said.
"He wouldn't have reached the shore yet," Perenolde asserted, "let alone built all this."
"Well, someone did!" Morte said.
"Yes," said Frederick, "but that doesn't mean there's anyone here now."
"No, but someone had to light the torches," Perenolde maintained.
"Oh, hang it all," said Lawdron. "They're just as likely to be friendly as not. I'm trying the door." He grabbed the knob, and it turned. He swung it wide.
A pair of arrows landed in the wood of the door with a soft 'thunk' directly above his head. He slammed the door shut again quickly.
"Well," said Frederick, "at least we know they're friendly."
"Alright," Perenolde said, his mind at work. "They know we're here now. They might have even been expecting us. We can't go back, they probably know the caves much better than we do. We've got to move forward."
He looked at Lawdron. "How much did you see? What's in there?"
"It's a large room, with a dais at the far end," he answered. "I didn't se where the shots came from."
"Alright. Alright." Perenolde thought for a moment. "We make for the dais - at least we can take cover behind it. Try not to get shot, I guess."
"Why, thank you, Perenolde," said Morte. "That was very helpful."
"Shut up and move," said Perenolde. They crowded around the door, ready to rush in. Perenolde raised his hammer, and the others drew their swords.
"Ready?" Perenolde asked. "1, 2, 3!" They charged in, swinging the weapons, ready to dodge any arrows that came their way.
None did.
Any icy voice came to them from somewhere they could not see. "Why, gentlemen, how rude of you to barge in like that. I should think such holy men as yourselves would have better manners." Perenolde shuddered. It was the voice from his dreams.
"Relax, dear Perenolde. You've little to fear." Perenolde looked around for the source of the voice, but as in the dreams, he could not locate it.
"Please, my guests, come closer. Approach the dais so I can get a look at you." No one moved.
"Must I send escorts for you?" From unseen doorways on either side of the room, long lines of creatures filed into view. Each was constructed from what appeared to be bone, and each held a long, black bow fitted tightly with an arrow. Perenolde narrowed his eyes. He had seen these creatures at Hearthglen. They were the undead, the townsfolk who'd been corrupted by the plague. They were doubtlessly also the source of the bolts that had narrowly missed Lawdron moments before.
The companions remained still. "I asked you to relax," the voice cackled. "They won't hurt you if you cooperate. The shots before hit the door on purpose; if I wanted them to kill you, they would have. I assure you, your corpses are not what I desire. Now, APPROACH." A chill wind was blowing suddenly from the doorway they had entered. It blew hard and pushed the men all the way to the dais.
"Better," said the voice. "Now, if I might have your attention. UP HERE." Perenolde looked up at the ceiling and gasped. Above the dais floated a massive block of ice, and within in it appeared the image of a great skull.
"Who are you?" Perenolde said.
"I am your destiny," the skull said. "I sought you out and brought you here. I called you here from the faraway shores of your birth, and you have come." The skull smiled, if it was possible to smile, and looked at Morte, Lawdron and Frederick. "I see you have brought back my Runeblades, as well. How nice of you."
It looked at Perenolde, and the smile evaporated. "You, however, have not brought back the Runeblade I left for you."
"You left them?" Perenolde gasped.
"Yes. But you have not brought it back to me."
"I thought... I did not wish to steal."
"You lie, Perenolde. You lie! You feared it, and feared what it could do. You feared its power, and you fled."
"No," he began, but the skull interrupted.
"Be silent. You have nothing to fear from that blade, nor it from you. You may still rectify your mistake... A grave mistake though it was." The skull closed its eyes and roared. The winds whipped through the cavern, stinging Perenolde and freezing him. The roar grew louder and louder, and he was forced to cover his ears and squeeze his eyes shut. Then quite suddenly, the roar fell silent.
Perenolde opened his eyes and gasped again. The skull was directly in front of him now, and it had shrunk to the size of his fist. That, however, was not what had mad him gasp; for springing from the top of the skull was a sword hilt, and from the skulls jaws sprung an icy blade, anchoring it to the ground.
The skull in the blade spoke. "I am Frostmourne." All the sounds of the winds, of the creaking of the undead's bones, even of the men breathing fell silent.
"I will give you untold power," the skull continued. "All the world will be at your feet. All will know your name and speak it only with fear. None will stand against the might of Lord Perenolde." A vision appeared in Perenolde's mind of himself seated on the throne of Lordaeron. People were bowing to him, children showering him in rose petals, and someone was placing a crown upon his head.
And there, at his feet, the bodies of Uther and King Terenas lay, motionless...
No, Perenolde thought. He shook his head, and the image vanished.
"You resist," the skull said. "You fear you will betray your people. But you will be leading them to victory..." A new image appeared, this time of a great battle. Humans were fighting orcs, meeting him blade for blade. Perenolde sat atop a mighty beast and raised his hands in the air. Lightning flashed. The orcs began to scream. They were turning to dust, decaying where they stood... No, Perenolde thought, and again he shook his head. The image remained. No. No. No, no, no...
"No, no, NO!!" he yelled, whipping his head violently from side to side. The image dissipated.
"Fool," the skull spat. "I am offering you endless power; eternal reign of this pitiful world. And still you fear I will destroy you?"
"I will not betray my people," Perenolde said.
"Aha," the skull sneered. "You do not wish to betray your people. Ironic, coming from such as you, Perenolde." A new image appeared in his mind, this time clearer than ever, because it showed not the future, but the past. A great orc in black armor stood over him as humans groveled at its feet. Perenolde was extending a blade to the orc, hilt first, in surrender. Children were crying...
Perenolde wiped the tears from his eyes. "No, demon. You will not do this to me."
"But what will you do to yourself, Perenolde? What have you done already?"
"I surrendered my powers, my sovereignty, once, so that my people might live. You would have me do the opposite. I will have no part of this wickedness." He stood and turned towards the door, intent on leaving. His hammer lay forgotten at his feet.
"No," the skull's icy voice reluctantly assented. "Perhaps not."
At once a searing pain erupted through him. He bent in agony, and looked at his hand. The wound the blade had made, days before, had opened, and his blood was pouring from it. He screamed in anguish, but forced himself to watch. He bled, and bled, and bled, until all of his blood had run from his body into a pool at his feet, drenching his hammer. But the horror was yet far from over.
The wound turned black then, and the blackness began to spread to the tips of his fingers and up his arm. It spread over his chest and back, up his neck and over his head, down his torso and around his legs. It covered him completely, freezing him in place; for wherever the black touched, he found he could not move.
"Perhaps you are right," the skull rasped. "Perhaps this blade is not for you after all." In his mind, he saw a ship beached on the eastern part of the icy shore, far from his own vessel. A man was wading ashore, a man in paladin's armor, with long, flowing, blonde hair...
Arthas...
No, Perenolde tried to say, but his mouth was sealed shut. Not the boy, anyone but the boy...
The skull laughed.
***
Ner'zhul turned then his gaze on the three who had sat patiently through the scene. They were bowed in attention, their blades drawn and planted in the ground in salute.
"You shall be the first," he rasped, grinning, "though others will surely come to me in time..."
***
Perenolde blinked. The boy was standing in front of him, frowning. Perenolde extended his arm in greeting, but stopped as he realized it was covered in plates of metal the color of dusk. He looked down, and his whole body was armored in the drab metal pieces. Arthas stepped forward, swinging his hammer and knocking Perenolde to the ground. Perenolde raised a gauntleted hand to shield himself.
"Still trying to protect the sword?" Arthas sneered.
"No," Perenolde found himself saying. "Trying to protect you... from it..."
***
They were following a narrow path around the edge of one of the icy mountains. Presently, they came to a place where the path ended, continued only through a tiny crevasse in the rocky mountainside. The hole was very slim indeed, narrow enough that one could just make it - it appeared - if one slid sideways through and ducked his head. Nevertheless, the hole beckoned amiably, offering solace from the snow and wind, and a place to catch one's breath in peace.
"Well," said Frederick, "we've come too far up here to turn back without a look," and he slid through the opening without so much as a look back. After a moment or two, Lawdron and Morte followed, and Perenolde had no choice but to follow.
The chamber within was much larger than one would have guessed from the entrance, and there was ample room to move about. Lightning lit the chamber through the opening, and Lawdron gasped.
"It goes on!" he said excitedly. "There's another opening at the far end, almost like a doorway! The passage goes on through there!" He got up from where he had been leaning on the wall and began making his way towards the portal in question.
"I don't think it's the best idea to go stumbling about in some dark cave," Perenolde began but Frederick interrupted.
"Then don't come with us," he snapped. He and Morte went after Lawdron toward the hole, and Perenolde, sighing, followed them.
The passage beyond the hole was more visible - perhaps their eyes had already begun to adjust, or perhaps light entered from some unseen corner - and they could see that it extended quite a ways, veering off to the left ahead. The three sword-bearing knights continued quite quickly down the passage, Perenolde reluctantly stumbling along behind them. After the first turn, the passage turned again, this time to the right. It continued to twist and weave at sharp angles - not at all as a cave should, Perenolde thought - all the while growing lighter and lighter.
It had grown light enough to see almost as well as outside - barring the walls of falling snow - when Morte exclaimed, "I do believe that's torchlight ahead!" The drew nearer and saw he was correct; torches had indeed been set and lit in little nooks and crannies along the walls, just far apart to span the length of the light. The passage, thus, was quite bright, and they could see it ended two yards down in what was unmistakably a door.
"Now we've done it," Frederick muttered. "We've come up in someone's basement. Probably another ogre - don't reckon they'll be very happy to see us."
"Maybe it's Arthas," Lawdron said.
"He wouldn't have reached the shore yet," Perenolde asserted, "let alone built all this."
"Well, someone did!" Morte said.
"Yes," said Frederick, "but that doesn't mean there's anyone here now."
"No, but someone had to light the torches," Perenolde maintained.
"Oh, hang it all," said Lawdron. "They're just as likely to be friendly as not. I'm trying the door." He grabbed the knob, and it turned. He swung it wide.
A pair of arrows landed in the wood of the door with a soft 'thunk' directly above his head. He slammed the door shut again quickly.
"Well," said Frederick, "at least we know they're friendly."
"Alright," Perenolde said, his mind at work. "They know we're here now. They might have even been expecting us. We can't go back, they probably know the caves much better than we do. We've got to move forward."
He looked at Lawdron. "How much did you see? What's in there?"
"It's a large room, with a dais at the far end," he answered. "I didn't se where the shots came from."
"Alright. Alright." Perenolde thought for a moment. "We make for the dais - at least we can take cover behind it. Try not to get shot, I guess."
"Why, thank you, Perenolde," said Morte. "That was very helpful."
"Shut up and move," said Perenolde. They crowded around the door, ready to rush in. Perenolde raised his hammer, and the others drew their swords.
"Ready?" Perenolde asked. "1, 2, 3!" They charged in, swinging the weapons, ready to dodge any arrows that came their way.
None did.
Any icy voice came to them from somewhere they could not see. "Why, gentlemen, how rude of you to barge in like that. I should think such holy men as yourselves would have better manners." Perenolde shuddered. It was the voice from his dreams.
"Relax, dear Perenolde. You've little to fear." Perenolde looked around for the source of the voice, but as in the dreams, he could not locate it.
"Please, my guests, come closer. Approach the dais so I can get a look at you." No one moved.
"Must I send escorts for you?" From unseen doorways on either side of the room, long lines of creatures filed into view. Each was constructed from what appeared to be bone, and each held a long, black bow fitted tightly with an arrow. Perenolde narrowed his eyes. He had seen these creatures at Hearthglen. They were the undead, the townsfolk who'd been corrupted by the plague. They were doubtlessly also the source of the bolts that had narrowly missed Lawdron moments before.
The companions remained still. "I asked you to relax," the voice cackled. "They won't hurt you if you cooperate. The shots before hit the door on purpose; if I wanted them to kill you, they would have. I assure you, your corpses are not what I desire. Now, APPROACH." A chill wind was blowing suddenly from the doorway they had entered. It blew hard and pushed the men all the way to the dais.
"Better," said the voice. "Now, if I might have your attention. UP HERE." Perenolde looked up at the ceiling and gasped. Above the dais floated a massive block of ice, and within in it appeared the image of a great skull.
"Who are you?" Perenolde said.
"I am your destiny," the skull said. "I sought you out and brought you here. I called you here from the faraway shores of your birth, and you have come." The skull smiled, if it was possible to smile, and looked at Morte, Lawdron and Frederick. "I see you have brought back my Runeblades, as well. How nice of you."
It looked at Perenolde, and the smile evaporated. "You, however, have not brought back the Runeblade I left for you."
"You left them?" Perenolde gasped.
"Yes. But you have not brought it back to me."
"I thought... I did not wish to steal."
"You lie, Perenolde. You lie! You feared it, and feared what it could do. You feared its power, and you fled."
"No," he began, but the skull interrupted.
"Be silent. You have nothing to fear from that blade, nor it from you. You may still rectify your mistake... A grave mistake though it was." The skull closed its eyes and roared. The winds whipped through the cavern, stinging Perenolde and freezing him. The roar grew louder and louder, and he was forced to cover his ears and squeeze his eyes shut. Then quite suddenly, the roar fell silent.
Perenolde opened his eyes and gasped again. The skull was directly in front of him now, and it had shrunk to the size of his fist. That, however, was not what had mad him gasp; for springing from the top of the skull was a sword hilt, and from the skulls jaws sprung an icy blade, anchoring it to the ground.
The skull in the blade spoke. "I am Frostmourne." All the sounds of the winds, of the creaking of the undead's bones, even of the men breathing fell silent.
"I will give you untold power," the skull continued. "All the world will be at your feet. All will know your name and speak it only with fear. None will stand against the might of Lord Perenolde." A vision appeared in Perenolde's mind of himself seated on the throne of Lordaeron. People were bowing to him, children showering him in rose petals, and someone was placing a crown upon his head.
And there, at his feet, the bodies of Uther and King Terenas lay, motionless...
No, Perenolde thought. He shook his head, and the image vanished.
"You resist," the skull said. "You fear you will betray your people. But you will be leading them to victory..." A new image appeared, this time of a great battle. Humans were fighting orcs, meeting him blade for blade. Perenolde sat atop a mighty beast and raised his hands in the air. Lightning flashed. The orcs began to scream. They were turning to dust, decaying where they stood... No, Perenolde thought, and again he shook his head. The image remained. No. No. No, no, no...
"No, no, NO!!" he yelled, whipping his head violently from side to side. The image dissipated.
"Fool," the skull spat. "I am offering you endless power; eternal reign of this pitiful world. And still you fear I will destroy you?"
"I will not betray my people," Perenolde said.
"Aha," the skull sneered. "You do not wish to betray your people. Ironic, coming from such as you, Perenolde." A new image appeared in his mind, this time clearer than ever, because it showed not the future, but the past. A great orc in black armor stood over him as humans groveled at its feet. Perenolde was extending a blade to the orc, hilt first, in surrender. Children were crying...
Perenolde wiped the tears from his eyes. "No, demon. You will not do this to me."
"But what will you do to yourself, Perenolde? What have you done already?"
"I surrendered my powers, my sovereignty, once, so that my people might live. You would have me do the opposite. I will have no part of this wickedness." He stood and turned towards the door, intent on leaving. His hammer lay forgotten at his feet.
"No," the skull's icy voice reluctantly assented. "Perhaps not."
At once a searing pain erupted through him. He bent in agony, and looked at his hand. The wound the blade had made, days before, had opened, and his blood was pouring from it. He screamed in anguish, but forced himself to watch. He bled, and bled, and bled, until all of his blood had run from his body into a pool at his feet, drenching his hammer. But the horror was yet far from over.
The wound turned black then, and the blackness began to spread to the tips of his fingers and up his arm. It spread over his chest and back, up his neck and over his head, down his torso and around his legs. It covered him completely, freezing him in place; for wherever the black touched, he found he could not move.
"Perhaps you are right," the skull rasped. "Perhaps this blade is not for you after all." In his mind, he saw a ship beached on the eastern part of the icy shore, far from his own vessel. A man was wading ashore, a man in paladin's armor, with long, flowing, blonde hair...
Arthas...
No, Perenolde tried to say, but his mouth was sealed shut. Not the boy, anyone but the boy...
The skull laughed.
***
Ner'zhul turned then his gaze on the three who had sat patiently through the scene. They were bowed in attention, their blades drawn and planted in the ground in salute.
"You shall be the first," he rasped, grinning, "though others will surely come to me in time..."
***
Perenolde blinked. The boy was standing in front of him, frowning. Perenolde extended his arm in greeting, but stopped as he realized it was covered in plates of metal the color of dusk. He looked down, and his whole body was armored in the drab metal pieces. Arthas stepped forward, swinging his hammer and knocking Perenolde to the ground. Perenolde raised a gauntleted hand to shield himself.
"Still trying to protect the sword?" Arthas sneered.
"No," Perenolde found himself saying. "Trying to protect you... from it..."
***