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.
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.”