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The
skull
seemed
to
detach
itself
from
his
face,
hovering
above
it
like
another
entity,
and
the
room
changed
with
its
movement.
The
carved
sconces
that
a
moment
before
were
simple
wooden
dragons
undulated
and
rippled,
coming
to
life,
the
torches
in
their
mouths
flaring
and
casting
grotesque
dancing
shadows
as
they
shook
their
heads.
The
wind
screamed
outside
and
the
door
to
the
hall
slammed
open.
Snow
whirled
about
the
three
figures.
The
man
spread
his
arms
and
let
the
freezing
wind
wrap
about
him
like
a
cloak
The
orc
laughed,
the
skull
floating
over
his
face
issuing
its
own
manic
peals
of
mirth.
"Let
me
show
you
that
your
destiny
lies
with
me,
and
you
can
only
know
true
power
through
eliminating
him."
The
boy,
fragile
and
slight,
had
been
knocked
out
of
his
chair
by
the
violent
gusts
of
frigid
air.
Now
he
propped
himself
up
with
an
effort,
shaking,
his
breaths
coming
in
small
puffs
as
he
struggled
to
climb
back
into
his
chair.
He
threw
the
man
a
look
of
hope,
fear,
and
odd
determination.
"All
is
not
lost,"
he
whispered,
and
somehow,
despite
the
orc
and
the
skull’s
laughter,
despite
the
shrieking
of
the
wind,
the
man
heard
him.
"Hold
her
head;
that’s
it,
lad!"
The
mare,
her
normally
white
coat
gray
with
sweat,
rolled
her
eyes
and
whickered.
Prince
Arthas
Menethil,
only
son
to
King
Terenas
Menethil
II,
one
day
to
rule
the
kingdom
of
Lordaeron,
held
fast
to
the
bridle
and
murmured
soothingly.
The
horse
jerked
her
head
violently
and
almost
took
the
nine
year
old
with
her.
"Whoa,
Brightmane,"
Arthas
said.
"Easy,
girl,
it’ll
be
all
right.
Nothing
to
worry
about."
Jorum
Balnir
grunted
in
amusement.
"doubt
you’d
feel
that
way
if
something
the
size
of
this
foal
was
coming
out
of
you,
lad."
His
son
Jarim,
crouching
beside
his
father
and
the
prince,
laughed
and
so
did
Arthas,
giggling
uncontrollably
even
as
hot
and
soggy
foam
from
Brightmane’s
champing
mouth
dropped
onto
his
leg.
