Arthas: Rise of the Lich King (17 page)

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.

A
rthas 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.”

“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.”

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.

Frostmourne…

“Aye, I thought I recognized this. It’s written in Kalimag—the elemental language,” Muradin continued. He frowned as he read. “It’s…a warning.”

“Warning? Warning of what?” Perhaps shattering the ice would damage the sword somehow, Arthas thought. The unnatural ice block itself, though, seemed to have been—almost cut from another, larger piece of ice. Muradin translated slowly. Arthas listened with half an ear, his eyes on the sword.

“Whosoever takes up this blade shall wield power eternal. Just as th’ blade rends flesh, so must power scar th’ spirit.” The dwarf leaped to his feet, looking more agitated than Arthas had ever seen him. “Och, I should’ve known. Th’ blade is cursed! Let’s get the hell out of here!”

Arthas’s heart gave a strange wrench at Muradin’s exclamation. Leave? Leave this sword behind, hovering in its frozen prison, untouched, unused, with such vast power to offer him? “Power eternal,” the inscription had promised, along with the threat of scarring the spirit.

“My spirit is already scarred,” Arthas said. And so it was. It had been scarred by the needless death of a beloved steed, by the horror of watching the dead rise, by the betrayal of one he loved—yes, he had loved Jaina Proudmoore, he could say it now in this moment where his soul seemed to lie naked in front of the sword’s judgment. It had been scarred by being forced to slaughter hundreds, by the need to lie to his men and forever silence those who would question and disobey him. It had been scarred by so very much. Surely the marks left by the power to right a horrible wrong could not be greater than these.