But this time…this time he realized that he was holding a completely different sword than the simple, basic weapon he had held at that dreadful moment. This time the sword was huge, two handed, beautifully fashioned. Runes glowed along its length. Cool blue mist wafted from it, cold as the snow in which Invincible lay. And when he withdrew the sword, Arthas did not find himself staring at a slain beast. Instead Invincible whickered and leaped to his feet, completely healed, somehow stronger than before. He seemed to glow now, his coat radiant rather than merely white, and Arthas bolted upright from where he had fallen asleep over the maps, tears in his eyes and a sob of joy on his lips. Surely, this was an omen.

The morning dawned frigid and gray, and he was up before first light, eager to begin combing the land for signs of the dreadlord. He was here; Arthas knew it.

But that first day, they found nothing more than a few pockets of undead. As the days passed, with more and more territory charted, Arthas’s spirits started to sink.

Intellectually, he realized that Northrend was a vast continent, barely explored. Mal’Ganis was a dreadlord, yes, and the clusters of undead they had found thus far would likely be a good indicator of his presence. But not the only one. He could be anywhere—or nowhere. This whole revelation that he would be in Northrend could have been nothing more than an elaborate trick to get Arthas out of his way, so that the demon could move somewhere else entirely and—

No. That way lay madness. The dreadlord was arrogant, certain he would eventually best the human prince. Arthas had to believe he was here. Had to. Of course, that could also mean that Jaina had been right. That Mal’Ganis was indeed here, and had laid a trap for him. None of these thoughts was pleasant, and the more Arthas chewed on them, the more agitated he became.

It was well into the second week of searching before Arthas found anything to offer him hope. They had marched off in a different direction, after the initial pair of scouts returned bearing news of large clusters of undead. They found the reported undead—lying in pieces on the frozen earth. Before Arthas could even form a thought, he and his men had come under fire.

“Take cover!” Arthas cried, and they dove for whatever they could find—tree, rock, even snowbanks. Almost as soon as it had started, the attack ceased and a shout rang out.

“Bloody hell! Ye’re not undead! Ye’re all alive!”

It was a voice that Arthas recognized and had never thought to encounter in this desolate land. Only one person he knew could swear so enthusiastically, and for a moment, he forgot why he was here, what he was searching for, and felt only delight and fond remembrance of a time long past.

“Muradin?” Arthas cried in shock and pleasure. “Muradin Bronzebeard, is that you?”

The stout dwarf stepped out from behind the row of weapons, peering cautiously. The scowl on his face was replaced by an enormous grin. “Arthas, lad! I never imagined that ye’d be th’ one tae come tae our rescue!”

He strode forward, his face even more hidden by the bushy beard Arthas remembered from his youth, if such a thing was possible, his eyes more lined but now twinkling with pleasure. He spread his arms, marched up to Arthas, and embraced the prince about the waist. Arthas laughed—Light, it had been so long since he had laughed—and hugged his old friend and trainer back. As they drew apart, the meaning of Muradin’s words registered on Arthas.

“Rescue? Muradin, I didn’t even know you were here. I came to—” He snapped his mouth closed on the words. He didn’t know how Muradin would react yet, and so simply smiled at the dwarf. “That can all wait,” he said instead. “Come, my old friend. We’ve got a base camp set up not too far from here. Looks like you and your men could use a hot meal.”

“If ye have ale as well, that’d be a yes from me,” Muradin grinned.

There was a celebratory air as Arthas, Muradin, his second in command Baelgun, and the other dwarves marched into camp that even managed to take a slight edge off the never-ending cold of the place. Arthas knew that dwarves were used to cold climates and were a solid, strong people, but he noted the looks of relief and gratitude that flitted across the bearded faces as they were handed bowls of steaming hot stew. It was difficult, but Arthas bit his tongue against the questions that wanted to come pouring out of him until Muradin and his men were taken care of. He then beckoned Muradin to join him a ways away from the center of the camp, near where his own personal tent was set up.

“So,” he said, as his former trainer began shoveling hot food down with the regularity and seemingly unstoppable quality of a well-built gnomish machine, “what were you doing up here anyway?”

Muradin swallowed his bite of food and reached for some ale to wash it down with. “Well, lad, this isn’t necessarily something tae be sharin’ wi’ everyone.”

Arthas nodded his understanding. Only a few of the members of the fleet he’d commandeered knew the whole story of why they were in Northrend. “I appreciate your trusting me, Muradin.”

The dwarf clapped him on the shoulder. “Ye’ve grown up right bonny, ye have, lad. If ye can find yer way tae this forsaken land, ye’ve a right tae know what me and me men are doing here. I’m looking fer a legend.” His eyes twinkled as he gulped some ale, wiped his mouth and continued. “My people have always been interested in rare items, ye ken tha’.”

“Indeed.” Arthas recalled hearing something about Muradin helping to form something called the Explorer’s League. It was based in Ironforge, and its members traveled the world to gather knowledge and search for archeological treasures. “So you’re on League business here?”

“Aye, indeed. I’ve been here many times before. Oddly compelling land, this one. Doesn’t give up its secrets easily…an’ that makes it intriguin’.” He fished in his pack and came out with a leather-bound journal that looked like it had seen better days and shoved it at Arthas with a grunt. The prince took it and began to thumb through the pages. There were hundreds of sketches of creatures, landmarks, and ruins. “There’s more here than meets the eye at first glance.”

Looking at the images, Arthas was forced to agree. “Most of the time, it’s just research,” Muradin continued. “Learnin’.”

Arthas closed the book and gave it back to Muradin. “When you saw us you were surprised—not that we were undead, but that we weren’t. How long have you been here—and what is it you’ve learned?”

Muradin scraped the last bit of stew from his bowl, wiped it clean with a hunk of bread, and ate that as well. He sighed a little. “Ah, I do miss th’ pastries yer palace baker used tae make.” He fished for his pipe. “An’ in answer tae yer question, long enough to know that something is amiss here. There’s some…force growin’. It’s bad and it’s getting badder. I talked to yer father; I think this power is nae happy with just sitting here in Northrend.”

Arthas fought back a double rush of both worry and excitement, trying to appear composed. “You think it might pose a danger to my people?”

Muradin leaned back and lit the pipe. The smell of his preferred tobacco, its familiarity comforting in this alien land, teased Arthas’s nostrils. “Aye, I do. I think it’s part o’ the creation o’ these pesky undead.”

Arthas decided it was time to share what he knew. He spoke quickly but calmly, telling Muradin about the plagued grain. About Kel’Thuzad, and the Cult of the Damned, and his own first horrifying encounter with the transformed farmers. About learning that Mal’Ganis, a dreadlord in the flesh, was the one behind the plague, and about the demon’s taunting invitation to come here to Northrend.

He mentioned Stratholme obliquely. “The plague had reached even there,” he said. “I made sure that Mal’Ganis had no more corpses to use for his own sick purposes.” That was enough; it was all true, and he was not certain that Muradin would understand the awful necessity of what Arthas had been forced to do. Jaina and Uther certainly hadn’t, and they’d actually seen what Arthas had been up against.