He had cut through the woods, hiring mercenaries first to help them slaughter the undead and then to douse the wooden vessels liberally with oil and set them aflame. In this land of constant cold and feeble light, the heat coming off the fiery vessels was disconcertingly welcome. Arthas lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the brightness.

Beside him, Muradin sighed and shook his head. He and the other dwarves, who muttered under their breaths as they watched the conflagration, were still not certain this was the right path. Arthas folded his arms, his back cold, his face and front almost scorched with the heat, solemnly watching the flaming skeleton of one of the ships crack apart with a whumph.

“Damn Uther for making me do this!” he murmured.

He would show the paladin—the former paladin. He would show Uther, and Jaina, and his father. He had not shirked his duty, no matter how awful or brutal it was. He would return triumphant, having done what needed to be done—things that the softer-hearted had cringed from doing. And because of him, because of his willingness to shoulder the burden of responsibility, his people would survive.

So loud was the sound of flames licking at the oil-drenched wood that for a moment, it drowned out the despairing cries of the men as they emerged and beheld the sight.

“Prince Arthas! Our ships!”

“What happened? How are we getting home?”

The idea had been simmering in the back of his mind for several hours now. Arthas knew his men would be aghast at discovering that they were stranded here. They had agreed to follow him, true, but Muradin had been right. They would have seen orders from his father as superseding any order he could give them. And Mal’Ganis would have won. But they would not understand how very badly they needed to stop the threat here, now—

His eyes fell on the mercenaries he had hired.

No one would miss them.

They could be bought and sold. If someone had paid them to kill him, they would have done so as readily as helping him. So many had died—good people, noble people, innocents. Their senseless deaths cried out to be avenged. And if Arthas’s men were not with him with all their hearts, he would not triumph.

Arthas could not bear it.

“Quickly, my warriors!” he cried, lifting his hammer. It did not glow with the Light; he was starting to cease expecting it to. He pointed at the mercenaries just now dragging the small boats filled with supplies ashore from the burning ships. “These murderous creatures have burned our ships and robbed you of your way home! Slay them all in the name of Lordaeron!”

And he led the charge.

Arthas recognized the sound of Muradin’s short but heavy stride even before the dwarf yanked the tent flap back and glared at him. They stared at each other for a long moment, then Muradin jerked his head toward the outside and let the flap fall. For a moment, Arthas was hurtled back in time to when he was a child accidentally flinging a training sword across the room. He frowned and rose, following Muradin to an area far away from the men.

The dwarf didn’t mince words. “Ye lied tae yer men and betrayed the mercenaries who fought for ye!” Muradin snapped, shoving his face up to Arthas’s as best he could from his much shorter height. “That’s nae the lad I trained. That’s nae the man who was inducted into th’ order of the Silver Hand. That’s nae King Terenas’s boy.”

“I am no one’s boy,” Arthas spat, shoving Muradin away. “I did what I deemed necessary.”

He half expected Muradin to strike him, but instead the anger seemed to bleed away from his old trainer. “What’s happening tae ye, Arthas?” Muradin said quietly, his voice holding a world of pain and confusion. “Is vengeance all that’s important to ye?”

“Spare me, Muradin,” Arthas growled. “You weren’t there to see what Mal’Ganis did to my homeland. What he did to innocent men, women, and children!”

“I’ve heard what ye did,” Muradin said quietly. “Some o’ yer men have been a wee bit free wi’ their tongues when ale has loosened them. I know what I think—but I also know that I canna judge ye. Ye’re right, I wasn’t there. Thank the Light, I didn’t have tae make that kind o’ decision. But even so—something’s happening. Ye—”

Mortar fire and cries of alarm interrupted him. In a heartbeat, Muradin and Arthas had their weapons out and had turned back to the encampment. The men were still scrambling for weapons. Falric was barking orders to the humans, while Baelgun was organizing the dwarves. There came the sound of engagement from outside the encampment, and Arthas could see the press of undead closing in. His hands clenched on his hammer. This had all the earmarks of a coordinated attack, rather than a random encounter.

“The Dark Lord said you would come,” came a voice that was by now familiar to Arthas. Elation filled him. Mal’Ganis was here! It had not been a wild-goose chase after all. “This is where your journey ends, boy. Trapped and freezing at the roof of the world, with only death to sing the tale of your doom.”

Muradin scratched his beard, his sharp eyes darting about. Outside the perimeter of the camp came the sounds of battle. “This looks bad,” he admitted with characteristic dwarven understatement. “We’re completely surrounded.”

Arthas stared, agonized. “We could have done it,” he whispered. “With Frostmourne…we could have done it.”

Muradin glanced away. “There…well lad, I have been having me doubts. About th’ sword. And, tae speak truly, about ye as well.”

It took a second for Arthas to realize what Muradin was saying. “You—are you telling me you’ve figured out how to find it?”

At Muradin’s nod, Arthas seized him by the arm. “Whatever your doubts, Muradin, you can’t possibly have them now. Not with Mal’Ganis right here. If you know where it is, then take me to it. Help me claim Frostmourne! You said it yourself—you didn’t think that Mal’Ganis would like to see me with Frostmourne in my fist. Mal’Ganis has more troops than we do. Without Frostmourne, we’ll fall, you know we will!”

Muradin gave him an agonized look, then closed his eyes.

“I have a bad feeling about this, lad. It’s why I’ve nae pressed on before—something about this artifact, how the information has come—it doesnae feel right. But I promised I’d see this through. Ye go gather a few men and I’ll find ye that runeblade.”

Arthas clapped his old friend on the shoulder. This was it. I’ll get that damned runeblade, and I’ll shove it through your black heart, dreadlord. I’ll make you pay.

“Close that gap over there!” Falric was shouting. “Davan, fire!” The boom of mortar fire echoed through the camp as Arthas raced toward his second in command.

“Captain Falric!”

Falric turned to him. “Sir…we’re utterly surrounded. We can hold out for a while, but eventually they’re going to wear us down. Who—what—we lose in numbers, they’ll gain.”

“I know, Captain. Muradin and I are going to go find Frostmourne.” Falric’s eyes widened slightly in both shock and hope. Arthas had shared the knowledge of the sword—and its supposed vast power—with a few of his most trusted men. “Once we have it, victory will be certain. Can you buy us the time?”

“Aye, Your Highness.” Falric grinned, but he still looked worried even as he said, “We’ll hold these undead bastards off.”

A few moments later, Muradin, armed with a map and a strange glowing object, joined Arthas and a handful of men. His mouth was etched in a frown and his eyes were unhappy, but his body was straight. Falric gave the signal, and began to create a distraction. Most of the undead suddenly turned and concentrated their efforts on him, leaving the back area of the camp open.

“Let’s go,” Arthas said grimly.

Muradin barked out directions as he alternately peered at his map and at the glowing object that seemed to pulse erratically. They moved as quickly as possible through the deep snow where he indicated, stopping only occasionally for the briefests of breaks to reassess. The sky darkened as clouds gathered. Snow began to fall, slowing them further.