Arthas began to move automatically. The snow made it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. He no longer noticed or cared in which direction he went, simply moving his legs as he followed Muradin’s lead. Time seemed to have no meaning. He could have been moving for minutes or days.

His mind was consumed with thoughts of Frostmourne. Their salvation. Arthas knew it would be. But could they reach it before his men at the camp fell to the undead and their demonic master? Falric had said they could hold—for a time. How much longer? To finally know that Mal’Ganis was here—at his own base camp—and to not be able to attack was—

“There,” Muradin said, almost reverently, pointing. “It’s inside there.”

Arthas halted, blinking eyes that were narrowed to slits against the driving snow, their lashes crusted with ice. They stood before the mouth of a cavern, stark and ominous-seeming in the snow-swirled darkness of the gray day. There was some kind of illumination inside, a soft, blue-green radiance he could just barely glimpse. Bone-weary, frozen as he was, excitement shot through him. He forced his numbed mouth to form words.

“Frostmourne…and the end of Mal’Ganis. The end of the plague. Come on!”

A second wind seemed to take him and he hastened forward, forcing his legs to obey.

“Lad!” Muradin’s voice brought him up sharply. “So precious a treasure won’t be just left sitting around for anyone tae find. We must proceed wi’ a bit o’ caution.”

Arthas chafed, but Muradin had more experience in these matters. So he nodded, gripped his hammer firmly, and entered warily. The immediate relief from the wind and driving snow heartened him, and they moved deeper into the heart of the cavern. The illumination he had glimpsed from outside proved to be coming from softly glowing turquoise crystals and veins of ore, embedded in the rock walls, floors, and ceilings themselves. He had heard of such luminescent crystals and was now grateful for the light they provided. His men would be able to concentrate on holding their weapons, not torches. Once, his hammer would have glowed with enough radiance to guide them. He frowned at the thought, then pushed it down. It did not matter where light to see by came from, only that it was present.

It was then that they heard the voices. Muradin had been right—they were expected.

The voices were deep, hollow, and cold-sounding, and their words were dire as they floated to Arthas’s ears. “Turn back, mortals. Death and darkness are all that await you in this forsaken vault. You shall not pass.”

Muradin halted. “Lad,” he said, his voice soft, though in this place it seemed to echo endlessly, “perhaps we should listen.”

“Listen to what?” Arthas cried. “A pathetic last effort to turn me from my path to save my people? It’s going to take more than ominous words to do that.”

Gripping his hammer he hastened forward, rounded a corner—and stopped in his tracks, trying to take in everything at once.

They had found the owners of the icy voices. For a moment, Arthas was reminded of Jaina’s obedient water elemental, who had helped her fight off the ogres on that long-ago day before everything had taken such grim and horrific turns. The beings hovered over the cold stone floor of the cavern, made of ice and unnatural essence instead of water, wearing armor that looked as if it had grown of and from them. They had helms, but no faces; gauntlets, weapons and shields, but no arms.

Alarming though they were, Arthas gave these fearsome elemental spirits no more than a passing glance as his eye was drawn to the reason they had come here.

Frostmourne.

It was caught in a hovering, jagged chunk of ice, the runes that ran the length of its blade glowing a cool blue. Below it was a dais of some sort, standing on a large gently raised mound that was covered in a dusting of snow. A soft light, coming from somewhere high above where the cavern was open to daylight, shone down on the runeblade. The icy prison hid some details of the sword’s shape and form, exaggerated others. It was revealed and concealed at the same time, and all the more tempting, like a new lover imperfectly glimpsed through a gauzy curtain. Arthas knew the blade—it was the selfsame sword he had seen in his dream when he first arrived. The sword that had not killed Invincible, but that had brought him back healed and healthy. He’d thought it a good omen then, but now he knew it was a true sign. This was what he had come to find. This sword would change everything. Arthas stared raptly at it, his hands almost physically aching to grasp it, his fingers to wrap themselves around the hilt, his arms to feel the weapon swinging smoothly in the blow that would end Mal’Ganis, end the torment he had visited upon the people of Lordaeron, end this lust for revenge. Drawn, he stepped forward.

The uncanny elemental spirit drew its icy sword.

“Turn away, before it is too late,” it intoned.

“Still trying to protect the sword, are you?” Arthas snarled, angry and embarrassed at his reaction.

“No.” The being’s voice rumbled the word. “Trying to protect you from it.”

For a second, Arthas stared in surprise. Then he shook his head, eyes narrowing in determination. This was nothing more than a trick. He could never turn away from Frostmourne—turn away from saving his people. He would not fall for the lie. He charged and his men followed. The entities converged on them, attacking with their unnatural weapons, but Arthas focused his attention on the leader, the one assigned to guard Frostmourne. All his pent-up hope, worry, fear, and frustration, he unleashed on the strange protector. His men did likewise, turning to attack the other elemental guardians of the sword. His hammer rose and fell, rose and fell, shattering the icy armor as cries of anger were ripped from his throat. How dare this thing stand between him and Frostmourne? How dare it—

With a final agonized sound, like that of the rattle coming from a dying man’s throat, the spirit flung up what passed for hands and disappeared.

Arthas stood staring, panting, the breath coming from his chilled lips in white puffs. Then he turned to the hard-won prize. All misgivings disappeared as he again laid eyes on the sword.

“Behold, Muradin,” he breathed, aware that his voice was shaking, “our salvation, Frostmourne.”

“Hold, lad.” Muradin’s blunt words, almost an order, were like cold water doused on Arthas. He blinked, startled out of his trancelike rapture, and turned to look at the dwarf.

“What? Why?” he demanded.

Muradin was staring, eyes narrowed, at the hovering sword and the dais below it. “Something’s not right here.” He pointed a stubby finger at the runeblade. “This has been too easy. And look at it, sitting here wi’ light coming from who knows where, like a flower waiting tae be plucked.”

“Too easy?” Arthas shot him a disbelieving glance. “It’s taken you long enough to find it. And we had to fight these things to get to it.”

“Bah,” snorted Muradin. “Everything I ken about artifacts is telling me that there’s something as fishy here as the Booty Bay docks.” He sighed, his brow still furrowed. “Wait…there’s an inscription on the dais. Let me see if I can read this. It might tell us something.”

Both of them advanced, Muradin to kneel and peer at the writing, Arthas to draw closer to the beckoning sword. Arthas gave the inscription that so intrigued Muradin a cursory glance. It was not written in any language he knew, but the dwarf seemed to be able to read it, judging by how his eyes flickered across the letters.

Arthas lifted a hand and stroked the ice that separated them—smooth, slick, deathly cold—ice, yes, but there was something unusual about it. It wasn’t simply frozen water. He didn’t know how he could tell, but he could. There was something very powerful, almost unearthly about it.