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"One
more
push,
girl,"
Balnir
said,
moving
slowly
along
the
horse’s
body
to
where
the
foal,
encased
in
a
shiny
shroudlike
membrane,
was
halfway
through
its
journey
into
the
world.
Arthas
wasn’t
really
supposed
to
be
here.
But
when
he
had
no
lessons,
he
often
sneaked
away
to
the
Balnir
farmstead
to
admire
the
horses
Balnir
was
known
for
breeding
and
to
play
with
his
friend
Jarim.
Both
youths
were
well
aware
that
a
horsebreeder’s
son,
even
one
whose
animals
were
regularly
bought
as
mounts
for
the
royal
household,
was
not
a
"proper"
companion
for
a
prince.
Neither
cared
much,
and
thus
far
none
of
the
adults
had
put
a
halt
to
the
friendship.
And
so
it
was
that
he
had
been
here,
building
forts,
throwing
snowballs,
and
playing
Guards
and
Bandits
with
Jarim,
when
Jorum
had
called
to
the
boys
to
come
watch
the
miracle
of
birth.
The
"miracle
of
birth"
was
actually
pretty
disgusting,
Arthas
thought.
He
hadn’t
realized
there’d
be
so
much
goo
involved.
Brightmane
grunted
and
heaved
again,
her
legs
held
stiff
and
straight
out,
and
with
a
sloshy
wet
sound
her
baby
entered
the
world.
Her
heavy
head
thumped
down
into
Arthas’s
lap,
and
she
closed
her
eyes
for
a
moment.
Her
sides
heaved
as
she
caught
her
breath.
The
boy
smiled,
stroking
the
damp
neck
and
thick,
rough
mane,
and
looked
over
to
where
Jarim
and
his
father
were
attending
to
the
foal.
It
was
chilly
in
the
stables
at
this
time
of
year,
and
steam
rose
faintly
from
its
warm,
wet
body.
With
a
towel
and
dry
hay,
father
and
son
rubbed
off
the
last
of
the
foal’s
unsettling
shroudlike
covering,
and
Arthas
felt
his
face
stretching
in
a
grin.
Damp,
gray,
all
long
tangled
legs
and
big
eyes,
the
foal
looked
around,
blinking
in
the
dim
lantern
light.
Those
large
brown
eyes
locked
with
Arthas’s.
You’re
beautiful,
Arthas
thought,
his
breath
stopping
for
a
moment,
and
realized
that
the
much
touted
"miracle
of
birth"
really
was
pretty
miraculous.
Brightmane
began
to
struggle
to
her
feet.
Arthas
leaped
to
his
own
and
pressed
back
against
the
wooden
walls
of
the
stable
so
the
great
animal
could
turn
around
without
crushing
him.
Mother
and
newborn
sniffed
each
other,
then
Brightmane
grunted
and
began
to
bathe
her
son
with
her
long
tongue.
"Eh,
lad,
you’re
a
bit
worse
for
wear,"