Whathad once been revelry had now become frenzy. What had once beencelebration had now become a frantic flight for life. Few escaped. Mostof those who had waited for hours in line to welcome their prince backnow lay dead, blood congealing from hideous wounds, limbs ripped off,bodies broken. Ambassadors now lay with commoners, men and women withchildren, all hideously equal in death.
Arthas did not care whattheir eventual fate was—carrion for the crows, or new subjects tofollow his rule. He would leave that to his captains, Falric andMarwyn, as bone-white as he and twice as merciless. Arthas marchedthrough the way he had come, focused and intent upon one single thing.
He stood straddling the worlds; he was alive after a fashion,but the Lich King’s soft whispers were calling him death knight, andthe leeching of color from his hair and skin and eyes seemed toindicate that it was more than a title. He did not know; he did notcare.
……
Gavinrad did not rush in, but gathered himself,praying to the Light that would not save him. Arthas let him completehis prayer, let his weapon glow, as Arthas’s own hammer had once done.With Frostmourne gripped tightly in his hand and the Lich King’s powerssurging through his dead-not-dead body, he knew that Gavinrad did not stand a chance.