“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.
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.