“For Lordaeron! For the king!”

The men rallied at Uther the Lightbringer’s impassioned shout, renewing their attacks. Uther had come with a solid core of knights, fresh and battle-hardened. They did not shirk from the undead—Jaina, who despite her bone-weariness had also portaled in with Uther and the knights, had apparently briefed them sufficiently so that precious seconds were not wasted in stunned reaction. The undead fell more quickly now, and each wave was met with fierce and impassioned attacks from hammer, sword, and flame.

Jaina sank down, her legs giving way beneath her, as the last of the walking dead burst into flames, stumbled about, and fell, dead in truth. She reached for a waterskin and drank deeply, shaking, and fished out some dried meat to gnaw on. The fight was over—for the moment. Arthas and Uther had both removed their helms. Sweat matted their hair. She chewed on the meat and watched as Uther looked out over the sea of undead corpses and nodded his satisfaction. Arthas was staring at something, his expression stricken. Jaina followed his gaze and frowned, not understanding. Corpses were everywhere—but Arthas was looking almost as if in a daze at the bloated, fly-riddled body of not one of his soldiers, or even a man, but of a horse.

Uther walked up to his student and clapped Arthas on the shoulder.

“I’m surprised that you kept things together as long as you did, lad.” His voice was warm with pride and a smile was on his lips. “If I hadn’t arrived just then—”

Arthas whirled. “Look, I did the best I could, Uther!” Both Uther and Jaina blinked at the harsh tone of voice. He was overreacting—Uther wasn’t censuring him; he was praising him. “If I’d had a legion of knights riding at my back, I would’ve—”

Uther’s eyes narrowed. “Now is not the time to be choking on pride! From what Jaina has told me, what we faced here was only the beginning.”

Arthas’s sea-green eyes darted to Jaina. He was still smarting from the perceived insult and for the first time since Jaina had met him, she found herself shrinking a little from that piercing gaze.

“Or did you not notice that the undead ranks are bolstered every time one of our warriors falls in battle?” Uther persisted.

“Then we should strike at their leader!” Arthas snapped. “Kel’Thuzad told me who it was and where to find him. It’s—something called a dreadlord. His name is Mal’Ganis. And he’s in Stratholme. Stratholme, Uther. The very place where you were made a paladin of the Light. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Uther sighed wearily. “Of course it does, but—”

“I’ll go there and kill Mal’Ganis myself if I have to!” Arthas cried. Jaina stopped chewing and stared at him. She had never seen him like this.

“Easy, lad. Brave as you are, you can’t hope to defeat a man who commands the dead all by yourself.”

“Then feel free to tag along, Uther. I’m going, with or without you.” Before either Uther or Jaina could protest further, he’d leaped into the saddle, yanked his steed’s head around, and headed south.

Jaina got to her feet, stunned. He’d left without Uther—without his men…without her. Uther quietly stepped beside her. She shook her fair head.

“He feels personally responsible for all the deaths,” she told the older paladin quietly. “He thinks he should have been able to stop this.” She looked up at Uther. “Not even the magi of Dalaran—the ones who warned Kel’Thuzad in the first place—suspected what was going on. Arthas couldn’t possibly have known.”

“He’s feeling the weight of the crown for the first time,” Uther said quietly. “He’s never had to before. This is all part of it, my lady—part of learning how to rule wisely and well. I watched Terenas struggle with the same thing, when he was a young man. Both good men, both wanting to do the right things for their people. To keep them safe and happy.” His eyes were thoughtful as he watched Arthas fade into the distance. “But sometimes the only decision is which is the lesser evil. Sometimes there’s no way to fix everything. Arthas is learning that.”

“I think I understand but—I can’t let him just charge off by himself.”

“No, no, once I get the men ready for a long march, we’ll be on his trail. You should rest up too.”

Jaina shook her head. “No. He shouldn’t be alone.”

“Lady Proudmoore, if I may,” Uther said slowly. “It might be good to let him clear his head. Follow him if you must, but give him a little time to think.”

His meaning was obvious. She didn’t like it, but she agreed with him. Arthas was distraught. He was feeling angry and impotent and wasn’t in a state to be reasoned with. And it was precisely for those reasons she couldn’t let him be really alone.

“All right,” she said. She mounted up and murmured the spell. She saw Uther grin as he suddenly realized he could no longer see her. “I’ll follow him. Come as soon as your men are ready.”

She would not follow him too closely. She was invisible, but not silent. Jaina squeezed her horse with her knees into a canter to pursue the bright, brooding prince of Lordaeron.

Arthas kicked the horse hard, angry that it was not going faster, angry that it was not Invincible, angry that he had not figured out what was going on in time to stop it. It was almost overwhelming. His father had had to deal with orcs—creatures from another world, flooding into their own, brutal and violent and bent on conquest. That seemed like child’s play to Arthas now. How would his father and the Alliance have fared against this—a plague that not only killed people, but in a sick twist that only a deranged mind would find amusing animated their corpses to fight their own friends and families? Would Terenas have done any better? One moment Arthas thought he would have—that Terenas would have figured out the puzzle in time to stop it, to save the innocent—and the next he rationalized that no one could have done so. Terenas would have been as helpless as he in the face of this horror.

So deep in thought was he that he almost didn’t see the man standing in the road, and it was with a sharp, startled yank that he pulled his mount to the side just in time.

Chagrined, worried, and furious at being made so, Arthas snapped, “Fool! What are you doing? I could have run you down!”

The man was unlike any Arthas had ever seen before, and yet he struck the youth as somewhat familiar. Tall, broad-shouldered, he wore a cloak that seemed to be made entirely out of shiny black feathers. His features were shadowed by the cowl, but his eyes were bright as they peered up at Arthas. A beard streaked with gray parted, revealing a white smile.

“You would not have harmed me, and I required your attention,” he said, his voice deep and mild. “I spoke to your father, young one. He would not hear me. Now I come to you.” He bowed, and Arthas frowned. It seemed to be—mocking. “We must talk.”

Arthas snorted. Now he knew why this mysterious, dramatically clad stranger seemed so familiar. He was some kind of mystic—a self-styled prophet, Terenas had said; able to transform into a bird. He’d had the gall to come right into Terenas’s own throne room, with some kind of doomsday blather.

“I have no time for this,” Arthas growled, gathering up his horse’s reins.

“Listen to me, boy.” There was no mocking note in the stranger’s voice now. His voice cracked like a whip and despite himself Arthas listened. “This land is lost! The shadow has already fallen, and nothing you do will deter it. If you truly wish to save your people, lead them across the sea…to the west.”

Arthas almost laughed. His father had been right—this was a madman. “Flee? My place is here, and my only course is to defend my people! I will not abandon them to this hideous existence. I will find the one behind this and destroy him. You’re a fool if you think otherwise.”