“I—” Swallowing hard, she took one last look at the horrors wrought by the man she loved and still did love, and nodded.
“I will do as you say.”
And leave my Arthas to the destiny he has chosen. There is no other way.
“It will take time, to gather them all. To make them believe me.”
“I do not know that you have that much time left. So much of it has already been squandered.”
Jaina lifted her chin. “I cannot go without trying. If you know so much about me, then surely you must know that.”
The raven prophet seemed to relax marginally and smiled at her, squeezing her shoulder. “Do what you feel you must, but do not tarry overlong. The hourglass empties swiftly, and delay could be deadly.”
She nodded, too overcome to speak. So many to talk to—Antonidas’s chief among them. If he would listen to anyone, she thought, it would be her. She would bear witness for these dead—for the folly of not retreating to Kalimdor while the living yet walked here.
The prophet’s form dwindled and shifted, becoming once again that of the large black bird, and he flew off with a rustle of wings. And somehow as it brushed her face, the wind from those black wings did not smell of carrion, or smoke, or death. It smelled clean and fresh.
It smelled of hope.
Northrend was the name of the land, Daggercap Bay the site where the Lordaeron fleet made harbor. The water, deep and choppy with an unforgiving wind, was a cold blue-gray. Sheer cliffs were dotted with tenacious pine trees soaring upward, providing a natural defense of the small, flat area where Arthas and his men would make camp. A waterfall tumbled down, crashing in a billow of spray from a great height. It was all in all more pleasant a place than he had expected, at least for the moment; certainly not the obvious home for a demon lord.
Arthas leaped from the boat and slogged onto the shore, his eyes darting about, absorbing everything. The wind, keening like a lost child, stirred his long blond hair, caressing it with cold fingers. Beside him, one of the captains of the ships he had commandeered without consulting his father shivered and clapped his hands together, trying to warm them.
“This is a Light-forsaken land, isn’t it? You can barely even see the sun! This howling wind cuts to the bone and you’re not even shaking.”
Vaguely surprised, Arthas realized that the man was right. He felt the cold—felt it knifing into him—but he did not tremble.
“Milord, are you all right?”
“Captain, are all my forces accounted for?” Arthas didn’t bother to answer the question. It was a foolish one. Of course he wasn’t all right. He had been forced to slaughter the populace of an entire city in order to stop a worse atrocity. Jaina and Uther had both turned their backs on him. And a demon lord was awaiting his arrival.
“Nearly. There are only a few ships that—”
“Very well. Our first priority is to set up a base camp with proper defenses. There’s no telling what’s waiting for us out there in the shadows.” There, that would shut the man up and give him something to do. Arthas lent his assistance, working as hard as the men he commanded to erect basic shelter. He missed Jaina’s handiness with flames as they lit fires against the encroaching darkness and cold. Hell, he missed Jaina. But he would learn not to. She failed him when he most needed her, and he would not hold such people in his heart any longer. It needed to be strong, not soft; determined, not aching. There was no place in it for weakness, if he would defeat Mal’Ganis. There was no place in it for warmth.
The night passed without incident. Arthas stayed awake in his tent until the small hours of the morning, perusing what incomplete maps he had been able to find. When at last he fell asleep, he dreamed, and it was both joyous and nightmarish. He was again a youth, with everything in the world to look forward to, riding the glorious white horse he so loved. Again, they were one, perfectly paired, and nothing would stop them. And even as he dreamed, Arthas felt the horror descend upon him as he urged Invincible to make the fatal jump. The anguish, not in the slightest abated by the fact that this was a mere dream and he knew it as such, ripped through him yet again. And again, he drew his sword, and stabbed his devoted friend through his heart.
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.”