“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.
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.”