Muradin grunted. “Bad business, that. Perhaps this certain artifact I’m lookin’ fer can be of use to you in fighting this dreadlord. As far as rare an’ magical things go, this one’s a beaut. Information about it has only recently begun to surface, but ever since we learned about it—well, we’ve been looking long and hard. Have a few special magical items tae try an’ track it down, but no luck yet.” He lifted his eyes from Arthas and looked beyond the prince, toward the wilderness that loomed. For a moment, the twinkle in his eyes abated, replaced by a somberness that the more youthful Arthas had never seen there.

Arthas waited, burning with curiosity, but not wanting to appear the impatient child Muradin no doubt remembered him as being.

Muradin refocused, regarding Arthas intently. “We’re searching for a runeblade called Frostmourne.”

Frostmourne. Arthas felt a slight shiver in his soul at the word. An ominous name, for a weapon of legend. Runeblades were not unheard of, but they were extremely rare and terribly powerful weapons. He glanced over at his hammer, sitting propped up against a tree where he’d placed it after returning from his discovery of Muradin. It was a beautiful weapon, and he had cherished it, although recently the Light seemed to shine from it sluggishly, sometimes not at all.

But a runeblade—

A sudden certainty seized him, as if fate were whispering in his ear. Northrend was a vast place. Surely it was not coincidence that he had encountered Muradin. If he had Frostmourne—surely he could slay Mal’Ganis. End this plague. Save his people. The dwarf and he had come together for a reason. It was destiny at work.

Muradin was speaking and Arthas jerked his attention back to him. “We came here tae recover Frostmourne, but the closer we come tae doin’ so, the more undead we encounter. And I’m too old tae think that mere coincidence.”

Arthas smiled softly. So Muradin, too, did not believe in coincidence. The certainty inside his gut grew. “You think Mal’Ganis doesn’t want us to find it,” Arthas murmured.

“I wouldna think that he’d be happy tae see ye charging at him wi’ that kind o’ weapon in yer fist, that’s true enough.”

“It sounds like we can help each other, then,” Arthas said. “We’ll help you and your League find Frostmourne, and you can help us against Mal’Ganis.”

“A sound plan,” Muradin agreed, the smoke writhing up about him in fragrant blue-black plumes. “Arthas, me lad…any more o’ that ale available?”

The days passed. Muradin and Arthas compared notes. They had a double quest now—Mal’Ganis and the runeblade. Eventually they decided that the wisest course of action would be to press inward and send the fleet northward, to establish a new camp there. They found themselves fighting not only undead, but famished and vicious packs of wolves, strange beings that seemed to be part wolverine and part human, and a race of trolls that seemed as at home here in the frigid north as their cousins did in the steamy jungles of Stranglethorn. Muradin was not as surprised as the human prince to find such beings; apparently small clusters of similar so-called “ice trolls” lurked near the dwarven capital of Ironforge.

Arthas learned from Muradin that the undead had bases here; strange, ziggurat-like structures, pulsing with dark magic, that had belonged to an older and presumably extinct race, since the former residents didn’t seem to object. So not only did the walking corpses themselves need to be destroyed, their refuges needed to be as well. Yet each day seemed to bring Arthas no nearer to his goal. There were plenty of traces of Mal’Ganis’s evil, but none of the dreadlord himself.

Nor was Muradin’s quest for the enticing Frostmourne more successful. The clues, arcane and mundane both, were narrowing the search area, but thus far, the runeblade remained only a legend for all the reality it held for them.

The day when things changed, Arthas was in a foul temper. He was returning to their makeshift traveling camp, hungry and tired and cold, after yet another fruitless foray. So lost in his irritation was he that it was several seconds before comprehension dawned.

The guards were not at their posts. “What the—” He turned to look at Muradin, who immediately gripped his axe. There were no bodies, of course; if the undead had attacked while he was away, the corpses would have been raised in the cruelest example of conscription the world had ever known. But there should have been blood, signs of a struggle…but there was none.

They advanced cautiously, quietly. The camp was deserted—packed up, even, save for a handful of men. They looked up as Arthas entered and saluted him. In answer to his unvoiced question, one captain, Luc Valonforth, said, “Apologies, milord. Your father had our troops recalled at Lord Uther’s request. The expedition is cancelled.”

A muscle twitched near Arthas’s eye. “My father—recalled my troops. Because Lord Uther told him to?”

The captain looked nervous and glanced sideways at Muradin, then replied, “Aye, sir. We wanted to wait for you but the emissary was quite insistent. All the men headed northwest to meet up with the fleet. Our scout informed us that the roads, such as they are, are being held by the undead, so they’re busy clearing a path through the woods. I’m sure you’ll be able to catch up with them quickly, sir.”

“Of course,” Arthas said, and forced a smile. Inwardly he was seething. “Excuse me a moment.” He dropped a hand on Muradin’s shoulder and steered the dwarf off to an area where they could speak quietly.

“Eh, I’m sorry, lad. It’s frustrating tae have tae pick up an—”

“No.”

Muradin blinked. “Come again?”

“I’m not going back. Muradin, if my warriors abandon me, I’ll never defeat Mal’Ganis! That plague won’t ever stop!” Despite himself, his voice rose at the last word and a few curious glances were thrown his way.

“Lad, it’s yer father. The king. Ye can’t countermand an order. That’s treason.”

Arthas snorted. Perhaps it is my father who is turning traitor to his own people, he thought, but did not say.

“I stripped Uther of his rank. I dissolved the order. He’s got no right to do this. Father has been deceived.”

“Well, then, ye’ll have tae’ take it up wi’ him when ye get back. Make him see reason, if it’s all as ye say it is. But ye canna disobey.”

Arthas shot the dwarf a harsh glance. If it’s all as I say it is? What, was the damned dwarf implying that Arthas was lying to him? “You’re right about one thing. My men are loyal to what they understand as the chain of command. They’d never refuse to go home if they had direct orders.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and smiled as the idea took shape. “That’s it! We’ll simply deny them the way to get home. They won’t be disobeying—they’ll simply be unable to obey.”

Muradin’s bushy brows drew together in a frown. “What are ye saying?”

For answer, Arthas gave him a wolfish grin and told him his plan.

Muradin seemed shocked. “Isn’t that a bit much, lad?” Muradin’s tone told him that he thought it was indeed a bit much, perhaps a whole hell of a lot more than a “bit.” Arthas ignored him. Muradin hadn’t seen what he had seen; hadn’t been forced to do what he had done. He would understand, soon enough. When they finally faced Mal’Ganis. Arthas knew that he would defeat the dreadlord. He had to. He would end the plague, end the threat to his people. Then the destruction of the vessels would be nothing more than an inconvenience—comparatively minor when measured against the survival of the citizens of Lordaeron.

“I know it sounds drastic, but it has to be this way. It has to.”

A few hours later, Arthas stood on the Forgotten Shore and watched his entire fleet burn.

The answer had been simple. The men could not take the ships home—could not abandon him—if there were no ships to take. And so Arthas had burned them all.