We got lost. I'm not surprised; the Magister's map is detailed, but it was drawn before the Orc invasion. And the Orcs, they changed the geometry of the forests, the locations of settlements, fields, and so on quite a bit. Orcs, Ogres, and Trolls burned them, chopped them down, slaughtered villages. And after the war, Humans resettled this territory, often not the same way as before. So it's no wonder the map is somewhat outdated.
And let's not forget that a well-aimed shot punched a hole in the map. Six, to be precise; the arrow went through the rolled-up map. Clearly a Magical Arrow, judging by the traces of acid. In short, we have to guess where we are and where we need to go.
Naturally, the crow and the Rogue found a reason to argue. And they're doing it right on the bridge. Which is intensely annoying, because it's impossible to concentrate or sleep, and throwing spells at the Magister is impolite—what if he stops helping? I have to endure it, suppressing the urge to just tell everyone to get lost.
The view outside the window helps with that. Since there are panoramic windows, we can navigate visually. With our eyes. And the view—my respect. Forests and mountains, fields and rare villages. I don't think I could have seen anything like this in my old world other than in a photo. What beauty, what splendor. Everything is so lush and wild. I want to go fishing. Or have a barbecue. Let's put that on the to-do list for the future.
Actually, I should make proper sensors... eventually. Simply because navigating by eye is quite difficult. But if I make something like a magical hemisphere with target markers and at least an approximate direction, piloting will be much easier. Well, like in strategy games. I might be a decent inventor, but turning my head three hundred and sixty degrees without rear windows is a bit much. There are long-range vision glasses, but frankly, there aren't enough of them.
The noise on the bridge became frankly irritating, and I listened in. They were arguing.
"Magister, I don't doubt your magical skills, but reading maps—especially in this form—is not your forte. Perhaps it's a quirk of avian vision, but your coordinates are wrong. We need to go right here."
The crow cawed indignantly, but then switched to human speech and replied irritably:
"I was exploring the world before you were even born, Venidan. And I am far better informed on exactly how a map should be read. My map, for a second. Especially from the air; if you've forgotten, I possess a magical flying Tower. And I have used it more than once to travel through the nearby lands. The last two times were when I delivered you to the Troll ruins and traveled to Stormwind. Only three decades ago, quite recently. The map is accurate; it is you who are offering an incorrect interpretation."
Venidan snorted.
"I believe you. That's exactly why the point you indicated doesn't match anything at all that we see through the windows. Face it, your map is long outdated. Maybe you can direct it to Troll ruins or the Human capital, which haven't moved in hundreds of years, but we are talking about settlements, some of which suffered during the war. And their locations don't match at all!"
Again, and again, and again. I'm fed up. I honestly tried to help, looking for landmarks through the window, but eventually, I got tired of it. If they want to, let them entertain themselves, and I'll go do some tech work. I need to prepare for the arrival in Stratholme. The engine noise is already a bit annoying, and then there's these two. So I said:
"Alright, Veni, watch the course since you're the ones plotting the route," and I prepared to leave.
I took off the helmet, leaving it on the chair, and headed for the hatch at the back of the room. The Rogue looked at me suspiciously:
"And you? Besides, I don't know how to pilot this thing. DaVi, what the hell are you doing?"
I spread my hands easily. I had an answer for that.
"I don't know how either; there was no time to practice. The main thing is that acceleration is smooth. Altitude is provided by magic, but flipping us over by maneuvering incorrectly is quite easy. So use the engines one by one, smoothly, and everything will work out. I believe in you. Good luck!"
Venidan immediately waved her hands in protest, and the crow, I'm sure, fully supported her. But that wasn't going to stop me; these arguments are frankly irritating—I can't hear my own thoughts!
"No-no-no-no-no, DaVi, stop. And anyway, where are you going? We're deciding an important issue, no walking away from the collective. Wait, let's discuss it," she tried to block the passage.
I'm going to sleep. You're not deciding, you're bickering. I. Am. Fed. Up!
"No, Venidan, scream here yourselves, I have things to do. I'm going to the workshop; it's quiet and peaceful there. I can think, plan, prepare, and no one is screaming in my ear. And also, while we're arguing here, I'm not doing something important. I'm almost certain that in Stratholme, no one even tried to evacuate the uninfected. I intend to fix that. And for that, I need to make some preparations."
The Elf stepped aside but still asked:
"And the piloting? I still don't have enough experience."
The crow nodded.
"It would be undesirable if we crashed due to the pilot's incompetence."
I wagged a finger at the crow.
"You won't crash. In the worst case, you'll flip the ship; altitude is maintained by a spell and a very good thing called a gyroscope."
One of the largest mechanisms on this ship, by the way. I first thought about replacing the gyroscope with magic, but then I said to hell with it and did it together, not instead. Since altitude is maintained by magic, rotation around the axis could cause... let's call them undesirable side effects. And now, no matter how much the Pepelats tosses, the altitude will be stable. Who's a good girl? I'm a good girl.
So we'll most likely survive in any case. With a warm (yeah, right) smile, I patted the Rogue on the shoulder:
"And as for the piloting, Veni, you'll manage, I believe in you, have no doubt. Maneuver with one engine, keep the others vertical. Once you figure it out—engage the rest. Smoothly, carefully. Nothing complicated, I believe in you."
I tried to leave, but Venidan grabbed my hand.
"Wait, stop. We'd like to hear the plan. What to expect, what we're going to do. I think it's a bit late to keep it a secret. We're already in this up to our necks. The crow and I are helping you, and we deserve to know everything."
Well, that's reasonable. The crow nodded in agreement, and I gave in.
"I want to do in Stratholme what Miss Proudmoore didn't do, even though she was the one who found the infected grain, if I remember correctly. Tune the mines and the 'wheel' golems to necro-energy and set them on the Infected. And those the golems don't touch—evacuate them as clean. Put them in a camp; if anything, let the Paladins deal with it, maybe they can cure the disease. It should work; Arthas's soldiers didn't get infected during the purge; likely those who ate the grain or were killed by the Undead were the ones hit. His Highness ordered everyone slaughtered, and I'm going to dispute that by offering an alternative. He'll save people, be a hero, and it'll be easier to accept if part of the city's population survives. That's the minimum plan. In the best-case scenario, we'll try to intercept the grain before it reaches the city. The disease is magical and turns people into Undead; it simply must reek of necromancy. We can work with that. If the Prince and the Human Mage managed, then so can we."
The Magister cawed in agreement.
"There is sense in this, my apprentice. We can try. Go, Davilinia, we will look after everything here. Don't worry, retuning the golems will indeed take some time. And you could use some rest yourself."
Venidan gave in to the majority opinion, though I had to explain to her once more how and what to control. It's precisely for such cases that I keep manual controls, though I could have tied everything to strings or a helmet and glove.
In short, I left them and headed down into the bowels of the ship. Generally, when I designed the interior spaces of the Pepelats, I based them on the interior designs of modern (for Earth) ships. Rounded airlock doors, all that. Wood instead of metal, I won't deny it, but reinforcing materials with magic works wonders. Though it's not enough. It's still not ready.
The ship will have to be significantly upgraded from the inside. Nothing is painted; bare wooden walls with glowing light spheres on the ceiling. The doors are stylistically correct but also wooden, with plaques. This place doesn't look lived-in, finished, and it doesn't feel that way. Not a room, but a placeholder for one, just like the whole Pepelats.
The stairs, by the way, are ordinary, though quite steep. I thought about an elevator, but for three floors it would take up more space and make less sense than an ordinary staircase. Though perhaps I'll redo it in the future. If there are five floors instead of three, an elevator will make much more sense. Again, the staircase is made to look like metal, rounded tubular railings, high steps to be more compact. I don't want to remember how many comments I had to hear about this. They see, whoever sees, I really didn't want to argue about it. But there simply wasn't time, alas.
The door to the workshop opened easily and slid aside, letting me into a small but densely packed room. What do we have here? On the floor—a magic circle and materials for creating golems stacked along the walls. Clay, wooden rings for my wheel-golems. Metal parts and blanks. For the future—think about combining a wheel-golem and a mine.
The wheel-golem itself is surprisingly simple but effective. Take a wooden round of a given diameter, carve out everything unnecessary from the inside, insert a scroll, a gyroscope, and parts that will allow it to fold and unfold. Roughly like a Dwarven sphere. Carve limbs, a head, all that from less successful wood. Assemble it like a mechanism, give it a crossbow with a supply of bolts. I thought about giving them melee weapons too, but remember how bad golems are at that. Standing and shooting from a distance is better. And if the enemy doesn't realize the scroll is in the wheel rather than the torso, the golem will also withstand some damage and can even be repaired if only the upper part is destroyed. In short, I was surprised myself at how well it works.
For interest's sake, I even arranged a sparring match with the Magister's golems. Mine are still worse, but progress is noticeable; acid bolts can damage melee golems, and the ability to curl up and roll away allows them to keep their distance and continue the fight. In short, a promising direction for research.
Alright, enough admiring. The glove flashed green and unfurled a keyboard. I could work directly with the strings, but I'm developing fine motor skills in my left hand. It'll be useful in the future for quickly typing commands for technology.
And yes, I realized what my glove is missing. The Da Vinci Code. And I'm not joking right now. The Uomo Universale Phantasm is distinguished not only by an ultimate magical attack but also by an analytical module that literally studies the enemy on all levels and allows for an attack that cannot be blocked by anything at all. In the context of Warcraft, this means a Holy or Chaos damage type, which is respectable.
Do I really need to explain why I want to write such magical code? It would be useful in the glove and in the Pepelats's turrets. There's only one problem—I have no idea where to start. This isn't a simple "shoot there" algorithm; it's specifically an analysis that tunes a magical attack to counter a specific target, taking everything into account. All resistances, shields, capabilities. An ultimate unblockable magical attack. Clearly high-level, which for now I can only drool over. Alas and alack. Alright, I'm not here to whine; I came to the workshop for business.
"Alright. Stop. Begin disassembly," the mechanism obeyed, and the half-assembled golem began to unfold back into elements.
The scroll isn't extracted that easily; you either have to break it or take it apart. Naturally, this is done for security, so that people like Venidan can't break my Dolls just by stealthily sneaking up on them. But that means redoing all my golems won't be fast, alas. Space is limited; I'll have to disassemble and adjust the "wheels" one by one. And while the disassembly is happening, I have some free time. I can go look out the window.
There are windows on the Pepelats, but not many. In total, excluding the bridge, there are only four windows for three floors. There are no windows in the corridors; you have to go to the living quarters. Naturally, there's no one inside; this chamber is still empty and resembles a prison more than a living space. They haven't had time to settle into this barrack yet; bags are lying right where they were dropped. In the passage (Venidan, you're annoying). Fortunately, I levitate and can avoid tripping over them.
At least they put the food in the cooling cabinet, thank goodness for that. Ruining that much good food would be extremely shameful. By the way, another problem: the refrigerator is located right in the living block, which constricts the available space even more. That's why I placed a window here, to somehow combat the claustrophobia.
I flew up and looked out the window. The ship is leisurely flying over forests and fields. In the future, these will be the Plaguelands, but for now—not even close. Green forests, yellow fields, and the roofs of small houses with smoke coming from their chimneys. Human settlements in all their glory from a bird's-eye view. Mountains on the horizon. This place isn't Earth, I know, but right now Azeroth is almost indistinguishable from it. And that's very pleasant.
The yellow crystal on the glove lit up, announcing that the disassembly was complete. Time to deal with the scrolls. The procedure isn't difficult, but it's long and tedious. Extract the scroll, rewrite it, insert it, assemble the golem, remove it from the rack, disassemble a new one, repeat. Fun to the point of madness.
The process is quite meditative. Around the fourth golem (I have six of them now; there will be seven or eight upon arrival), I felt us descending, followed by the shudder of contact and footsteps passing by. We've arrived, but where?
"Veni, what is it?" I asked loudly enough for her to hear.
The Rogue peered inside. It seemed she had decided to look as neutral as possible. No cloaks and daggers, no Ranger emblems. Pants, boots, a shirt, and a traveling cloak, a light sword at her belt. Nothing that would give her away as a Ranger, a Rogue, or anyone else. Just an Elf traveler arriving on the Pepelats, yeah. She looked at the disassembled golem, whose parts were floating in all corners of the room, and replied:
"I want to ask the locals for directions. We figured out the map, but decided to ask those who live here anyway."
I snorted, expressing mockery.
"So you reached a consensus?"
Venidan spread her hands.
"One can argue for a long time. So yes, we decided to ask," and added more quietly, "we bet a gold coin on who was right."
I couldn't hold back a laugh; the idea of an Elf and a crow betting money is something very amusing. After thinking for a moment, I decided:
"Alright, that's sensible. Let's go, we'll talk to them together."
Venidan looked me over and clarified:
"Do you have anything to change into? Don't get me wrong, the clothes are good. But there's a village out there, and they clearly won't understand. Remember how that cook reacted to you? We need information, not bowing and scraping."
That makes sense. I do remember how the cook reacted to my appearance. Here, in the most literal sense, they "meet you by your clothes and see you off by your title." And if in the city good clothes are a good thing, then in a village... Well, it's not a given that the locals will answer honestly. And I ended up with both the looks and some decent clothes Enchanted for cleaning. A problem I simply hadn't thought about.
In the end, while we were looking for the coarsest and simplest cloak for me, by the time we descended, the locals had managed to gather and even arm themselves a bit. I stepped out and was stunned. This is literally an Alliance base from Warcraft III! There stands a three-story town hall with a tiled roof, a decorative fence, and a turret housing a ringing bell. Around it are peasant houses with farmyards, thatched roofs, and smoking chimneys. And women and children are peeking out of the windows, and I can see from here how curious they are. Further out are fields, pens with sheep and cows. A bit further still—a smithy and a sawmill. You can see the village is quite large, several hundred people. Yes, by local standards, that's a lot. Maybe even a regional center, in Earth terms.
There are no barracks or anything like that, but still, it's literally exactly like in the game. Except it's real; you can walk up and touch it. I froze, taking in the views, and ignored the crow perched on my shoulder.
"Shit on the cloak and I'll strangle you," I decided to inform him for preventative purposes.
Ah, and the locals. In what looked like leather breastplates, with shields and spears. Militia, then, essentially the same peasants but having grabbed the Armor kept in the town hall. All of them are Humans, broad, powerful, straight out of "the wider our faces, the tighter our ranks." A hellish combination of biceps and fat, topped off with broad faces, low foreheads, and wide jaws. They're watching with small eyes, weapons leveled. As if that would help them.
"Who be ye? What be ye wantin'?" one of the villagers asked.
The second answered staidly, with an air of expertise:
"That be an Elf witch. Can't ye see how that witchy crow be lookin' at us?"
Here, the third chimed in weightily:
"And where'd that flyin' house come from?"
The second replied:
"Balda! It flew here!" The man threw a disparaging look at these idiots. "It's a flyin' house! It's obviously the Witch's, ye gotta think..." Then he added decisively: "See the crow?"
I looked questioningly at the Magister's familiar. This undoubtedly intellectual discussion was entertaining me quite well. I'm even managing not to laugh so far. But I have to react somehow!
"I see you're having fun..." the Teacher commented dryly.
"That's a man," I tried to somehow correct the misunderstanding.
The bird cawed mockingly:
"Enjoy yourself."
The first clarified:
"What d'ye mean, a man?!" the first exclaimed. "That can't be. That's a crow!"
"So it's a crow? What man? There ain't no man." The second didn't understand.
"There's the man!" the third proclaimed, pointing a finger at the Elf. "The wise bird say—"
"Quiet!" the village elder barked, having suddenly approached, shooing away the three windbags. "Clear off, ye shameful lot! Why ain't ye in the fields?"
"But there's a man..." the first said.
"She's a man! Can ye believe it!" the second supported.
"The wise bird was speakin'," the third continued.
"To work, ye loafers!" the old man roared, sending the three idiots packing. "My apologies, milady. And what business brings ye here?"
"We need to get to Stratholme." Venidan smirked with obvious superiority, watching her partner's extremely inspired face and didn't miss a chance to needle me: "Told you, Midget, you won't get anything from simple villagers..."
"Hold it right there!" the village head hollered. "Do any of you idiots know what a 'Stratholme' is?"
Holding back laughter became about three times harder. The men thought about it. The first said:
"That way," he pointed north and was immediately swatted on the arm by the second.
The second showed the first a fist in a leather glove. A big one, almost the size of my head. Those are some paws he's got, for sure.
"I'll clobber ye. What north? Ye gotta go east, that way!" and pointed in another direction, not very much like east, "ye fool!"
The first punched him in the face, and a fight broke out. The elder, sighing, tried to separate them, saying that "it's unseemly to cause trouble in front of important guests." The third, ignoring the swearing and huffing, added:
"That's all rubbish, witches. Ye need to go west. Over thar!" he pointed to the left, which was definitely not west. Fortunately, we have a compass.
The first, breaking away from the second, yelled:
"Ye lie, ye dog! There ain't naught there! No 'Stratholme'! Ye lie!"
The second, spitting blood and wiping his lip, countered:
"That's 'cause ye gotta go east. Don't listen to 'em, witch," and turning to the first, "stay back, ye dog!"
"What?" the first roared, throwing himself back into the fray, accidentally knocking over the elder in the process.
The elderly man fell into the road dust, cast a short glance at us, and barked:
"Ye've both gone mad! I'll—" the elder joined the proceedings with visible enthusiasm. We were immediately forgotten.
A brawl ensued. The men quickly shed their extra gear and went to beating each other's faces. And with such enthusiasm, as if they'd been holding back for a year and just hadn't had an excuse to fight. Venidan and I looked at each other. It seemed we had learned all we could. Venidan sighed.
"Let's get out of here. This is useless. At least none of us bet on this."
A smile crept out on its own. Gamblers, honestly.
"Agreed, let's go. We'll fly along the road; maybe we'll find someone else."
By the way, when we started the engines, we scared the brawlers quite a bit. Not that it mattered much, but it was a fact. Yes, I'm a bit petty. No, I'm not ashamed.
In the end, it was decided to follow the second man's directions. He seemed the smartest of the three. Venidan lifted the Pepelats into the air quite confidently, with almost no prompts, and flew along the road, while I returned to the workshop. After the "wheel" golems, I still had to change the scrolls for the mines. Then cast magical vision on them so they would detect necro-energy. Again, a bunch of small things that should have been done.
Should I be surprised that I wasn't allowed to finish again? Venidan came down and asked:
"DaVi, look out the window, there's something interesting outside. You're our Mage; the Magister says they used necromancy there. I can't see anything, and he's a crow, you understand."
Okay, okay. If I must, I must. So, leaving the workshop again, I went to the living block. And looking out the window, I shuddered. The green fields and forests had changed. Gray filth covered the dead, grassless earth; the trees had withered; the animals were dead. Everywhere you looked, nothing was alive. Except for crows; crows were fine. A bit grim. Alright, this is indeed a problem.
"Magical vision. Arcane Brilliance."
I reached for the strings below, then pulled my metaphorical "hand" back in disgust. For the first time, the strings felt cold and slimy, repulsive. I remember the hard, unyielding strings of Natural Magic in plants, the strings of my own power that obey with a half-thought. Neutral strings and foreign ones belonging to Mom's creations and the Magister. But I've never seen anything like this. Filth, one word—filth.
"So that's what you look like, necro-energy," and I added louder, "I think this is Cursed Land. The Cult's handiwork."
A nastiness you don't even want to touch. And yet, want to or not, I have to. I reached for the strings again, trying to see as much as possible. I don't know what this magic is or what it does, but the strings clearly have an epicenter in the village ahead. And I don't see any movement there. Not good.
It seems we've stumbled upon a settlement overrun by the Cult of the Damned. They had serious influence in the region; even the purge arranged by the Knights didn't help. The Cult continued to exist, and when Arthas returned as a Death Knight, he very quickly built up his forces precisely at the expense of the surviving cultists.
I went up to the bridge to find Venidan examining the territory ahead through the window. The Pepelats hovered ten meters above the road, at a safe distance from the trees, offering a view of the infected territories. It looks very dead, Abandoned. It's just missing a misty haze for a full match of the atmosphere. At the sound of the opening door, Venidan and the crow turned around.
"Cursed Land. The strings lead into the village. I suggest checking it from the air," I informed them.
The crow cawed affirmatively.
"Sensible. And we'll test your golems on new targets."
Venidan, peering ahead, confirmed:
"I see movement in the windows. Someone is there."
Shit. Obviously, it'll be Undead or cultists. Nothing to be happy about, but the idea of taking a look seems really good. Send the "wheels" into battle, conduct tests, adjust their aim. And just clearing out the dead will be useful. Who knows when the Knights will show up, and this way we'll secure this territory for the residents of nearby villages. Maybe they'll survive.
I jumped into the pilot's seat, putting on the helmet:
"I'll take the lead. I think this will be a very informative reconnaissance. The bird is out."
In any case, we deployed the turrets (and yes, I need to adjust those golems to attack the Undead too), then continued our way. If this is the road to Stratholme, we'll just fly over it.
The scout bird flew over the road, confirming: this place is dead. At first glance, the village isn't much different from the previous one. Smaller, but the building style is the same. But at a second glance, you can see the difference: nothing and no one is alive. There are no people; the gardens and vegetable patches are dead; dead dogs and other animals lie around, as if they died of hunger and exhaustion.
And in the middle of the village stands a large cauldron with green sludge, from which a greenish haze rises, and a man in a purple cloak is steadily stirring this brew. A cultist of the Scourge. How lovely.
The crow also descended, but returned almost immediately.
"The earth is Poisoned. Don't drink the water; don't linger. Better not to touch or step on it at all."
I, in turn, reported the cultist. Venidan suggested:
"We can capture and interrogate him. So far we only had your words, DaVi—don't be offended," I'm not offended, "but if there's evidence, that's another matter."
I'm all for it, but...
"He might not know anything. Cultists are the bottom layer. Peasants who wanted more. I don't mind trying; I'm just not sure it'll work."
Here the crow objected.
"It's still worth a try, apprentice. The mere fact of a cultist's presence is more than we had before."
Well, I'm all for it. After that, we flew three times more cautiously; while the bird watched the cultist, we needed him alive for now. Silence in the cockpit; everyone became serious and very quiet; the landscape outside is quite depressing. Dead earth, in its pure form. Sometimes dead animals are encountered. And un-dead ones too. A pack of four wolves jumped out of the forest, and while the alpha let out a guttural howl, they tried to reach the Pepelats. About eight seconds later, they were swept away by volleys of Magical Arrows. Unlike in our village, I didn't hold back the power of the shot, and a Zombie is vaporized by one or two hits of magic. The distance helps a lot, as does the fact that we don't have to look closely at the corpses; I think that would be a very demoralizing experience.
Venidan noted:
"You know, it seems these Undead aren't much smarter than your golems. They charge head-on, don't dodge. They have no brains to speak of. So your Dolls are actually smarter."
The Magister gave a cackling laugh.
"Unsurprising, young lady. Creating a complex golem requires a proper control structure, a mass of knowledge upon which the golem's actions are based. If they are the spawn of poison, the structure will be universal, one for all. In such conditions, getting something combat-capable is difficult. Quantity, not quality."
I nodded, trying not to move my head too much in the helmet. Control of the Pepelats is entirely on me now. And the bird, and a bit of the turrets.
"Quantity instead of quality, agreed. We're approaching; ready to offload the 'wheels'."
"M-mother..." Venidan cursed quietly, and I understand her.
This place doesn't look Abandoned. Deserted—yes. But at the same time, the houses are intact, the windows are open, nothing is overgrown. The fences are whole, the doors are open. People just up and... died. At the exit of the village stand a couple of wagons with dead horses hitched to them, but not a trace of people. The cultist simply ignored us; despite the noise, he continues to stir the brew in the cauldron. Suicidal. Though, they're all like that in the Cult; death is like a reward for them, apparently. Or rather, un-life as a reward.
I stopped the Pepelats, making it hover at the edge of the village, from where the Zombies crawling out of the houses at the noise and the cultist are perfectly visible. Venidan asked cautiously:
"What are you going to do?"
"Tests," I answered easily, "I have scrolls and golems that need to be tested on the locals. Will you cover me from below, at the hatch? I'm going to drop four 'wheels' and cover them with mines. Let's see what works and how."
Naturally, we didn't run to check immediately. Venidan prepared poison, which we applied to the golems' bolts; the turrets mowed down the first Zombies, which allowed for a bit of target correction. By sheer logic, you either hit a corpse with acid or something with blunt-force impact. Some have tools sticking out of their heads, like a spear in the chest. It seems they were resurrected haphazardly. But this also confirms that piercing weapons are useless against them. This should be taken into account, and a manual beam-emitter should be made for Venidan.
We didn't land the ship; we just hovered over the road.
It's enough that more and more Zombies are coming out of the houses at the hum of the engines. They look like ordinary peasants. But if you look closely, traces of decomposition are noticeable, an irregular gait, vacant stares, and deformed teeth. In total, there are about twenty of the dead. They trudge toward the Pepelats, putting themselves under the turrets' fire. The turrets tear the Zombies apart, but the Undead keep getting up until almost completely destroyed. I shuddered.
"How disgusting."
But I can't stop looking. It feels as if the moment you turn away, they'll pounce on you. It's hard to describe this feeling of wrongness, of apprehension. The uncanny valley. Even if my mind understands that there are no Ghouls among the creatures. Only the most primitive Zombies. Slow and stupid.
To conduct the test, I lowered the machine almost to the ground, and four "wheels" rolled out, hitting the road with a thud. Venidan, bow at the ready, remained on the hatch ramp, looking at the approaching Undead.
"Start, I'm ready!" she shouted, but her voice clearly wavered. And I won't joke about it; I completely understand you. They are terrifying.
"Deployment. Perimeter," the gauntlet flashed green, transmitting commands down through the strings.
Obeying their programming, the golems spotted the zombies and pivoted with a mechanical click. Four spindly "wheel" figures made of "sticks," or rather, planks. Humanoid, but just wrong enough to look more like dolls than living beings. Unlike those they were about to fight. They deployed well, then leveled their crossbows at the crowd. Bowstrings twanged.
The zombies jerked slightly, but not a single one fell. Even the one with an arrow lodged in its eye socket.
"Right, let's note that down. Accuracy against non-mobile targets is adequate. Arrows without poison coating—ineffective."
We had specifically given the golems a couple of regular arrows first, followed by poison-coated ones. Regular ones stuck into the zombies just fine, but the dead didn't care one way or the other. They just trudged on, ignoring the damage. Poison, however, was a different story.
"Hits to the skull—ineffective. Unless it's the eye. Better to aim for the torso."
The poison burned through flesh, but the zombie skulls were clearly quite durable and held the arrows. Yes, the outer layer burned away, but the damage was insufficient. In other parts of the body, though, it was a different story. The instant poison did its job.
"These are finished, moving on."
Naturally, I didn't jump into the fray myself, watching the events from the cockpit alongside the crow. I liked how the golems were briskly thinning the crowd of ordinary zombies with poisonous volleys. I think even those militiamen could have handled this if they'd greased their weapons with the right poison. These zombies were mediocre opponents, essentially just extras for the more dangerous Undead. Yet, not a single ghoul in sight, only one cultist who still wasn't trying to flee. Hmm.
The golems fired a few more volleys, reducing the zombie population, and only then did the cultist attempt to escape. I admit, he had been so passive that I almost missed the moment, caught up in controlling the "wheels" and Havoc-ing the zombies.
"He's running! He's running!" the crow squawked indignantly, drawing my attention.
The scoundrel knocked over a cauldron, causing the ground to literally foam with green sludge, and bolted. Noooo, you're not leaving. Seizing control of the turret, I fired a couple of shots at the small houses he was about to run past. A wooden hut buckled and collapsed right onto the cultist's head.
"There. No need to rush."
Reality decided otherwise. A hand in a purple cloak emerged from under the planks. I was thinking of adding another shot when a club smashed down onto the structure. Eh? Who are you?
A Troll stood at the edge of the settlement. Wait, no. You're not a Troll, you're a statue. A golem? What is it doing here? Fortunately, the statue itself was in no hurry to cause harm or do anything else. It just stood and watched. Suspicious. The Archmage noticed it too.
"Keep an eye on him. We'll deal with it once we're finished with the Undead."
And again, reality decided otherwise. A log came whistling in from somewhere behind the village.
"Look out!"
I managed to raise a Mana shield just as a ballista bolt (I realized what it was only after the impact) pierced the windshield, which flared with magic and sent me flying along with my chair. The world spun, treating me to "pleasant" sensations and flashbacks of the fight with the snake. When she was dragging me, it felt much the same.
Even worse, the impact finally broke my helmet. The image cracked as a pair of lenses failed under the stress, and I ripped it off my head.
"Motherf—"
"Agreed," the crow remarked, surveying the damage. "Are you alright, apprentice?"
I exhaled, rising from the wreckage.
"Yes. And whoever did this won't be alright for long," I cursed, running to the glass. "He's gone, the bastard."
I don't know who that jerk was, but it was as if he knew exactly where and how to aim. The ballista bolt was unusual; I could see unfamiliar strings that had pierced the defense. And it didn't just hit the bridge; it hit my station, partially destroying the manual controls and the pilot's seat, throwing me back. It wouldn't stop the Pepelats—the gauntlet was still with me—but I'd have to spend some time on repairs. Rotten luck.
What was even more unpleasant was that searching for the golem yielded nothing. We found the ballista, but it had simply been set up there in advance. Whoever did it seemed to know they would only have one shot and made it with the most inconvenient result for me.
On the bright side, the test of the wheels was a success. Arrows and bolts with instant poison were as good as expected. The zombies weren't particularly mobile, and the dolls were gunning them down; the main thing was to ensure they weren't overwhelmed by numbers. All in all—a success.
Venidan whistled upon her return.
"Who hates you this much?"
I shrugged, continuing to clear the debris. I needed to know what was broken and what needed replacing.
"He vanished immediately after the shot. I don't know who it was, but when I have the time, I'm going to find him and take terrible Vengeance-class light cruiser. The creep trashed the bridge and tried to kill me. I won't forget that."
Venidan giggled.
"I don't doubt it. I heard stories about how you drowned a village in shit over a single joke."
That... was painful. Venidan clearly saw it.
"Alright, sorry, I went too far."
I waved her off. We had work to do, and we were running late. I'd be angry later.
"Doesn't matter. I need to get the machine back in service as soon as possible. I already don't know how much time we've wasted here."
A couple of hours later, the Pepelats headed toward Stratholme. We visited one more village and this time received proper directions. Very soon, the city would appear on the horizon. We had almost arrived.
***
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