Early the next morning, I was woken by Venidan. Actually, she had laid down to rest herself, no matter how much we were hurrying.
The reason? We finished repairing the Pepelats well after midnight, exhausted; I had also cast myself into light exhaustion (repairing the bridge and charging the turrets), and it's better not to go into battle in such a state. Plus, meditating on my own memory, I recalled that Arthas's troops began the purging of Stratholme in the morning. As much as I wanted to push on, we needed to be fresh upon arrival. The crow—the Archmage—agreed and promised to watch the course. After his staged escape, the Archmage was under house arrest; he was bored anyway, so he was hanging out with us.
The ship's controls had been crushed to dust; the bastard seemed to know exactly where to strike. Though why "seemed"—those slouching voodoo-practitioners sometimes possess abilities beyond any logic, especially if they have a powerful Loa (Spirit Guardian). If I hadn't had a shield of my level, the pilot would have been skewered along with the chair; they'd be scraping me off the wall.
Veni also noted:
"You know, maybe we should keep the shutters closed after all? If I had been sitting there..."
I agreed, but it's hard to predict what might come flying at you. It was, damn it, completely sudden!
"I didn't close the shutters because I was sure the Undead had nothing long-range. And I was right—the Undead in the village had nothing long-range! I already hate these damn prophets or lucky bastards, whoever this specific one was."
There was no arguing with that; there really were no catapults or anything of the sort in the human village; the ballista stood separately in the bushes, camouflaged. Whoever set up that ambush taught me an important lesson. Never underestimate the enemy. If the foe wants to, they can deliver an unpleasant surprise in the most ordinary situation. Especially if you've relaxed while looking at pathetic zombies.
And yes, we were sure it was a Troll. Because that ballista log, upon closer inspection, was covered in very characteristic runes that allowed it to inflict such damage. This thing, among other things, was also Cursed, so it was better not to touch it with bare hands. Great, right?
Unfortunately, the repairs were far from complete; the helmet couldn't be fixed that quickly. New lenses, new enchantments—all of it needed to be manufactured and assembled. And all of that would take a couple of days, which we might not have. So for now, I'd have to make do with what I had. And what I had were binocular lenses and the control for my scout bird to see "through its eyes." And thank all the gods, it would have been much harder without it.
I thought about all this while hauling parts and fixing the destroyed mechanism. I thought about it again, getting angry at such a dirty trick. And again, when I crashed for sleep. I even had to ask Venidan for some sedative and a sleeping pill. I really needed to rest before the operation. Fortunately, the remedy worked; I slept through the night until they started shaking me.
"DaVi! Wake up, we've got problems! Rise and shine, you'll sleep through the war! We're approaching!"
Veni jerked my shoulder hard, and I bolted up, nearly hitting my head on the upper bunk. And no, the bunks are high enough; I just really jumped. Luckily, Veni caught me. Naturally, sleep vanished from my mind instantly.
"What is it? Are we there?"
Instead of answering, she pointed to the window. I flew toward it just as I was, in my pajamas. And there...
"There's a military camp outside the city. Looks like it's under siege," the Rogue said, clearly lost in thought.
Right, gauntlet on hand, scout bird—launch. I'd definitely need it in the very near future.
"I hope we're not too late. Otherwise, we'll have to use Plan B."
Venidan clarified with interest:
"And what is Plan B?"
"Wreck the port. The Prince needs something to sail to Northrend after the Demon. So why not do it on ships whose crews you recently slaughtered? And I still hope to save someone."
Veni quietly placed a hand on my head.
"We'll save them. Definitely."
I snorted.
"Thanks. Но it's better not to let it come to that. There are a lot of people; we just can't be everywhere."
Stratholme is a big city, really big, with thousands of residents. I don't know the exact population, but it's a lot. It's enclosed by a high stone wall with a moat and drawbridges; a huge statue of someone-or-other towers before the southern gates. The city, just like last time, looks monumental. This is generally characteristic of Systems Alliance architecture: heavy stone foundations, wooden superstructures, and tiled roofs. And none of it is made of thin bricks. No, no, no—an especially strong Orc would smash that with enough desire, especially under the Spell Amplify of demonic Fel.
And the people... have you seen the local humans? I have. They're either bodybuilders or just about one and a half to two times wider than the humans of my old world. So building a house with half-meter-thick walls is normal for them. Thus, the typical representative of human architecture—the city of Stratholme—is heavy, squat, and monumental, surrounded by equally monumental walls and towers.
"Bird is in position. Right, let's see. I see a blockade. Soldiers, knights, mages, and artillery. There's a whole army here; you really could lay a siege. But I'm not sure it'll be enough if they spread their forces across three gates and the port."
Lordaeron's soldiers had blocked all exits. The traffic we saw last time had stopped. Numerous wagons had halted further back, forming a traffic jam that wasn't moving, waiting for permission to enter. Also, at all the city gates, numerous blue and white tents could be seen, with people running around them.
"Right, taking her to the port. Lots of ships, combat and transport. I don't see any activity."
Stratholme, after all, isn't just Lordaeron's second-largest city by population; it's also a major seaport. And that means a fairly large port zone with warehouses and piers. When it starts, it'll be interesting. On one hand, sailors on leave might catch and bring the plague on board; on the other, the port is significantly better protected and armed than the rest of the city. Which means they have the best chance of surviving the zombie apocalypse. There's also the castle and barracks in the city center, the monastery to the north, and that's about it. Presumably, when it starts, those will be the centers of resistance against the Undead. And whoever manages to survive, the Prince will finish off if we can't do anything.
Lordaeron's forces were represented by Humans (Warriors and knights), Dwarves (riflemen and mortarmen), and Elves (Mages and Priests). Everyone was preparing for battle. We're late. The Human soldiers are in plate, but the question is: who is stronger—Humans in iron Armor and Dwarves with rifles, or hundreds and thousands of dead? If Arthas's actions fail, we'll find out firsthand. God, I'm taking forever to get dressed!
I gave up and pulled the gauntlet onto my hand to give the order for acceleration. I still don't quite trust the crow at the controls, and the Archmage needs to sleep too, so I set it to slow ahead. The green keyboard, becoming familiar, the command given, and the moment of pressure. Now we were accelerating and would be there in a matter of minutes. Just enough time to get dressed and run to the bridge. No time for breakfast, alas.
"The city is under Quarantine, not a siege," I explained to my friend's questioning look. "The soldiers aren't letting anyone into the city, not storming it. These are specifically quarantine forces. I'm looking for Arthas and the others, but I don't see anything yet. They could be in the tents or already in the city. I don't know yet. I see several points of resistance in the city; let's see what can be done."
Venidan relaxed slightly but still stood beside me, looking into the distance at the approaching city. She asked quietly:
"Do you think we can stop this?"
I wished I could say yes. I wished I could assure her that we could outplay everyone and cancel everything. But let's be honest. Azeroth has plenty of powerful players. Not just the Bronze Dragonflight, but all the other flights, Antonidas himself, Khadgar, and later Jaina. The Night Elves have their leaders—Illidan Stormrage, Tyrande, Malfurion. The demons have more than enough powerful personalities. Ner'zhul is also on their side before the rebellion.
What's my point? The objective reality is that, at least for now, I'm not on their level. I'm not at the level where I can independently determine reality. That will change with time, but for now, my ceiling is: using meta-knowledge to plug the holes left by these most powerful players.
It might not look very impressive, but it's an important and effective role. Many events in Azeroth happened because something very important wasn't done at the right time and in the right place. For example, Stratholme. It seems to me that Jaina was so shocked by the idea of purging the city that she didn't even think of alternatives. After all, at this moment, she isn't yet the warrior who lost her own city and went through the crucible of war. She's a young woman who hates violence and eavesdrops on the conversation between Medivh and Antonidas. The very idea of such a massacre must cause her sharp rejection.
I surprise myself, but I think and speak about the "Purge" quite calmly. But that's likely because I saw it in the game and perceive the coming events not as an occurrence involving real people, but as the death of NPCs. And that will likely change soon. The young Mage and I are about to see some shit very soon. Terrific.
If you think about it, Jaina is currently only a few years (I have no soul-searching clue how old she is now) older than my level of development. She's older than me, since she has a relationship with Arthas and Kael'thas was courting her, but based on her behavior in my memory, I wouldn't even give her twenty. Though I might be wrong here.
Devil, we could have been friends! I don't know, maybe something like that will still happen. If another "unforeseen accident" doesn't interfere again. Anyway, that's all in the realm of fantasy. Time will tell what comes of it. For now, Venidan is waiting for me to speak.
So my answer was this:
"No, we can't. The slaughter will still happen, if it hasn't started already. We have no influence over such things; we don't have the authority to make the Crown Prince and a senior Paladin not just listen, but obey. I can't do that right now. But! What we can do is fix the mistakes they make, and then rub these 'saviors'' noses in their incompetence. Then there's a chance they'll listen to us next time."
Venidan winced, looking out the window and not hindering my dressing. Finally, we ran to the bridge; time was short.
"Reputation, right," the Elf exhaled. "Well, I hope it works. I don't want this city to burn. It's all so complicated."
Complicated. But I still insist that this is important work. No less, and perhaps more important, than annihilating armies with powerful spells as an Archmage. One can act more subtly and not fear for one's reputation.
"It might work, Veni. We're here for exactly that. Now, let's do this!" I sat carefully on the pilot's stool—the chair was toast. The control mechanisms fit under my hands, the gauntlet projected the keyboard for quick commands, helmet on head. I was ready.
All this time, I had been peering into the city from a height of about thirty meters through the eyes of the circling bird. The city hadn't changed since last time. Heavy buildings of wood and stone, made of thick logs, monumental. There was movement in the streets; the influence of the Undead wasn't yet noticeable. Morning—people were waking up, having breakfast, and going to work. Some were having breakfast with Infected grain.
Actually, I wondered: how does Infected grain look? Why did none of the townspeople notice anything wrong, but Arthas did? I'd guess that a Paladin, simply by virtue of the antagonism of Death energy, could feel this dissonance. And Jaina—see it through magical vision, as I can. How poorly timed Jaina's departure was... I'll have to find everything out myself. I already got preliminary results in that village, and now we'll consolidate the success, so to speak.
Switching to magical vision, a different picture opened up to my mechanical bird. The slimy dissonance of wrong strings was visible in about a quarter of the city's population. The very traces of necromancy we had seen before. A disgusting sensation, like touching greasy snot with your hands, ugh! And how quickly it had covered them; apparently, after buying the grain, people immediately started cooking something from it and eating it with their whole families. There must be an incubation period, a day or two, so the infection isn't so noticeable. In any case:
"Infection confirmed. We're late; we won't be able to intercept the grain before it arrives in the city. We'll have to purge."
Venidan nodded silently, tensing up. I understand; I don't want to be here doing this either.
"Veni? Veni?"
She turned around.
"Hm? What is it?"
I was going to get a little high.
"Any of that sedative left? The one you gave me yesterday. I need to stay rational until we're finished."
The Rogue silently uncorked a small bottle and poured it into glasses. The Archmage made no comment on our actions. And in this case, if he had protested, I would have been sharply against it. Because at my age, this sort of thing is wrong. At Venidan's age too, for the sake of fairness. So we both clinked glasses, and I said:
"To peace, and to this being over."
"Yes."
We drank the bitter remedy. It was magical; I almost immediately felt a creeping indifference. I thought about the dying. There, that's better.
"I'm ready to continue."
The Archmage, perched on the back of my chair, croaked with clear disappointment.
"I'm even a little sorry I'm not with you and can't assess the scale of the problem, help with its solution. The second city of the Kingdom of Lordaeron, hm. If nothing is done, in a matter of days, there will be a massive Army of Undead here. I'm not sure it's possible to stop it without powerful area-of-effect magic. I regret to say, I don't have a good solution either."
Fact: Stratholme is both a city and a major trading port. And a lot of people live in it. Material for both zombies and something larger, like Abominations. Wait, stop.
"I see Arthas. At the southern gates, he has thirty soldiers with him. Veni, get ready to head out; we need to act fast. I'll drop us off at the market stalls, we'll clear that area, then I'll fly north to the warehouses and the port. We'll have to improvise."
She nodded and ran off the bridge, while I continued to peer at the city ahead. Arthas's squads entered the city through all available gates, lined up at the entrance in two ranks, and opened fire on the people. Not immediately, not very steadily. They were all clearly hesitating; to them, these were people, ordinary civilians, residents of the city. Only Mages or Paladins could see the Darkness within them. There was exactly one Paladin with the soldiers—Arthas—but there were Mages. And they were the ones who started firing most actively.
I couldn't see the soldiers' faces, but I saw how Arthas, before attacking the approaching people, waited a few more seconds and only then smashed a civilian with his hammer. How the soldiers raised their rifles but only began firing after an officer's hand signal. We needed to be there as quickly as possible. The crow dug its claws into my shoulder, drawing attention:
"We will do what is necessary, apprentice. In the first war, many residents of Alterac were slaughtered by order of the Systems Alliance leadership. It is a hard path, but an important one."
I winced, continuing to watch and give commands to the ship's mechanisms.
"If I remember history correctly, Archmage, they sided with Blackhand's Horde, which was just slaughtering everyone. These people, however, were just unlucky to be in this city today."
"And all the more reason to save those who can still be saved," the crow reminded me. "Make no mistake, the enemy will use this against you. We will mourn after the victory."
"No time for faint-heartedness," I exhaled, deploying the turrets.
Two magic crystals slid out of the Pepelats's hull and glowed blue. Just like on the magic towers. They were Ready for Combat, good.
"No time, indeed, apprentice. Today these people must die for the sake of our future. And for the sake of the future of those we intend to save."
I know. And even if I'm not ready, I don't think any of us are ready for war crimes. The soldiers below were also still hesitating. And the quarters closest to the gates were beginning to be gripped by panic, gradually flooding the city. People were running, locking themselves in their homes, trying to get as far as possible from the soldiers. Seeking salvation that wouldn't come.
Movement began in the port; apparently, officers had given the order for everyone to return to the ships. We'll see what happens next. I'm actually thinking of sending spider-mines to carefully damage the ships at the waterline, so they can't be repaired without the help of magic for two days. I don't want to give the Undead a chance to take the grain away, nor Arthas the chance to sail those ships to Northrend, requisitioning them using his prince status.
Also, the warehouses are full of resources, which will allow me to start producing golems. I'll detach the workshop to churn out golems while I fly around firing the turrets. Not the worst plan, given the time limit. Anyway, that's for later. The drama at the southern gates continues.
Mal'Ganis appeared before Arthas, or rather, his illusion. A roughly six-meter-tall Nathrezim, a Demon in angular Armor, with horns and large purple wings. No Doomslayer for you, you Giant Bat. What's worst is that killing him is pointless; he'll just fly back to his domain, the Twisting Nether, where he'll resurrect, recover in a couple of months, and return just as chipper and snide.
I recall the Wardens, an order of Night Elves who chased Illidan, having more or less reliable sealing technologies. They stuffed Fel-carriers into special crystals. Unfortunately, I don't know exactly where they live; I can't quickly fly over and swipe a cage for a Nathrezim. I'll have to improvise.
The Demon, meanwhile, spoke to the Prince, ignoring the soldiers aiming at him. I couldn't hear them, but I roughly remembered the dialogue. Arthas says these killings are just the beginning of the purge. The Demon agrees and adds that Arthas's subjects are becoming his subjects. The Prince replies that it's better they die by his hand than become mindless Undead in the service of demons. And I'm quite in agreement with him there.
One minute. Golems—transfer the sheep. We'll drop her at the western gates. I don't need extra weight on board; if she wants to help, let her fight the Undead. A few commands through the gauntlet, Venidan will do the rest as we agreed. I imagined Venidan kicking the little sheep right out to the stunned Systems Alliance soldiers, and then the sheep turning into a furious Paladin-recruit. It immediately made me feel warmer inside.
Mal'Ganis meanwhile waved his hands, and the people around him began to fall. Correction: the city residents. The soldiers weren't infected; they weren't affected.
Maybe to ordinary people it just looked terrifying, but for Mages, it was much worse. I saw how, from the sprawling Mal'Ganis, the same foul strings of demonic magic surged outward, how they bit into the bodies of the Infected. How the previously dull strings bloomed, rapidly growing like a black parasite within their bodies. People fell, writhing, only to begin rising. But there were no longer any "living" strings in them, only foul, distorted ones.
The Nathrezim dissolved, leaving only the dead behind. I continued to watch, trying to understand as much as possible.
"Foul efficiency," I hissed, then explained, "The Demon turned the residents into zombies right before the soldiers' eyes. It seems he can activate the dark magic embedded in them."
The Archmage understood perfectly.
"A demonstration that these are no longer people. So that the Prince's soldiers attack everyone indiscriminately, without mercy. Vile, but effective."
And the situation changed. The squads of Lordaeron soldiers who had entered the city no longer hesitated. Flashes of gunfire, soldiers hacking zombies to pieces. Footmen charged into the fray alongside knights, frantically crushing both the living and the dead. Arthas, smashing skulls and crushing bodies with his massive hammer, ignoring the screams and pleas. I felt disgusted even through Venidan's remedy; I saw not people, but panicking animals driven by terror. I felt almost nothing for the victims, though sympathy flickered. But these soldiers... I saw the frenzy with which they acted. And it disgusted me.
The city quickly filled with panic, especially when zombies and ghouls began crawling out of buildings in neighboring quarters. Distorted dead, with long claws and wide jaws, running clumsily at people and tearing into the crowd of panicking civilians. And they had nowhere to run.
A slaughter began in the port. As I thought, many crew members had been on leave and managed to get infected. Even worse, from the direction of the warehouses, Scourge troops emerged: not just pathetic naked zombies, but Nerubian Crypt Fiends (ant-spider hybrids the size of a cow) and meat golems assembled from bodies—Abominations. Armed with hooks, anchors, and other makeshift iron, these waddling giants burst into the soldiers' ranks, simply tossing them aside. And yes, swords striking their flesh just got stuck, and piercing blows dealt no damage.
The fortress had its own atmosphere: another Scourge squad went into battle—ghouls. Clumsy, long-clawed Undead soldiers (who use those claws to hack through wood without effort) with large maws. Not particularly durable, but fast and strong against an unprepared foe. While the port's defense was still holding due to those who retreated to the ships, a massacre had simply begun at the barracks.
The same was happening in the streets. Mal'Ganis walked with a Scourge squad, black magic tentacles striking more and more people, provoking transformation and attacks on those not yet infected. The Nathrezim killed the most resilient and armed himself. I wasn't going to engage him; I didn't think I could stop him, and I needed the Pepelats intact.
However, we could intervene. The gauntlet flared, accepting orders.
IDDT—execute.
"Turrets to battle."
The ship descended lower, so it was noticed. Or maybe it was the deafening howl of the engines. In any case, we drew attention. Both humans and the dead stopped, peering into the sky, but it didn't matter. And the fact that I hovered over the western gates, where a sheep was tossed right into the soldiers' arms, didn't bother me either. Yes, the whole city heard and saw us. Dwarves leveled their rifles and mortars; soldiers without long-range weapons drew their blades. I giggled, imagining Venidan's actions and her comment:
"No time to explain, here's a sheep, have fun with it."
The Pepelats was already flying further into the city, continuing to fill the area with the roar of jet engines and flashes of magical turrets. Magical arrows mowed down zombies much better than other missile weapons; the only problem wasn't the quality, but the quantity of targets. There was no clear front, only chaos and death. If not for the Rogue's potion, I would probably be panicking. I was almost certain that when it wore off, I'd have nightmares. Right now, I watched this through magical vision and felt only revulsion. By the way, the black strings made it hard to see the physical aspect of what was happening, which also helped.
A slaughter was taking place in the streets of Stratholme. Zombies bit, and ghouls tore apart helpless people trying to run and hide; blood and abandoned belongings lay here and there. The situation was complicated by the fact that new dead appeared haphazardly, even among those the Undead had just killed. They simply rose and threw themselves at the still-living. It was unclear where to run. There was no way to organize a defense. It was hard to say what was happening elsewhere. In the port, the fight was still going, but at the town hall, it was clearly already ending. Arthas wouldn't even have to fight humans.
Mal'Ganis manifested on one of the roofs and fired a Salvo at the Pepelats.
"Hold it right there, you mistake! He's gone."
Firing a sphere of Darkness that shattered against the shield, the Demon simply dissolved into a flock of bats, avoiding the counterattack. Extremely slippery bastard.
Still, for now, there were more living than dead. I saw sporadic resistance. But the panic and Arthas's troops were rapidly reducing their numbers, almost faster than the Undead. The previously cautious soldiers were charging into the survivors more and more vigorously. I can't say I blame them, even if it looks bad from the outside.
Even worse, cultists in purple emerged onto the streets, armed with whatever they could find. Knives, sticks. The Undead didn't touch them, and they helped the dead herd the living, wounding them and knocking them down. And yes, people here were trying to fight back too, but it was happening sporadically, chaotically. In the narrow city streets, the Undead could drop on your head from the second or third floors of buildings. Near the warehouses, I noticed a man with a skull on his head, clearly casting something.
"I see a Necromancer in the city. Sending skeletons to the port."
The port, in general, showed the best resistance to the sudden zombie apocalypse. Several ships had pulled away from the shore; others were unmooring as fast as they could. And those who succeeded were firing at the Undead with cannons. Apparently, the sailors managed to repel the first wave, and the Abominations can't swim and couldn't reach the ships that had moved away from the shore. On one hand, that was good; it would be easier to take control of the warehouses. On the other—not so much; I still needed to do something about the ships.
I noted all this while controlling the turret targeting, their blue crystals continuing to flash, incinerating the dead. And through my scout bird, circling over the city. Mines began pouring from the belly of the Pepelats, immediately starting to scurry around, seeking targets. I'll leave a dozen for the ships.
But behind the mines, down toward the market, eight golems and Venidan landed with her bow at the ready. Lining up, they finally established a perimeter that halted the advance of the dead. Naturally, the civilians, seeing "safety," rushed toward them, ignoring everything around them. Naturally, they shielded the Undead that had given chase, thereby closing the distance. And of course, the golems, obeying the altered code, opened fire on the crowd, causing an outright pile-up of panicking humans and Undead. This needs to stop, immediately. Let's see how my makeshift speakers work.
The voice came out a bit raspy and not always clear, but I simply hadn't had time to calibrate it all. Well, let's begin. This day will be either our victory or our defeat. And I began to speak, broadcasting my magic-amplified voice across the area, shouting over the howl of the engines, which I even had to shut off, leaving just the levitation. They were just too noisy.
And yes, the voice amplification trick was something we pulled off literally at the last minute. I'm often surprised by the versatility of magic. In games, they show us combat spells, but that's far from everything. There are a mass of domestic and purely technical things that exist, but which no one remembers because they aren't needed within the framework of games. But this is magic; it can do almost anything for which a Biotics user has enough Mana, imagination, and willpower. I cleared my throat, causing a deafening crackle and once again drawing the attention of absolutely everyone:
"Attention, citizens of Stratholme. An epidemic of magical plague is raging in your city, turning those who eat infected grain into Undead. Your neighbors, friends, and loved ones who have fallen ill will likely try, or are already trying, to kill and devour you. I offer you a chance at salvation. Only a chance, but it is all you have. The golems you see at the western gates and the market are set to attack... um, one second."
A glob of webbing flew into the Pepelats, clearly aimed at the engine, but the shield worked as it should, and the white sludge flared up in blue flame. Then a second and a third followed, meeting the same fate as the first. A quick search for the culprit identified a Necroarachnid: a massive, four-meter-long insect with six legs and a massive maw. Something between a spider and an ant. It and five of its brethren had climbed onto the roofs, from where they were spitting webbing, trying to reach the ship.
"Don't even hope for it."
Purple Magical Arrows knocked the huge insect off the roof, roasting it. The others continued the attack, clearly not intending to flee. Fine then; the skirmish took some time, but eventually, the insectoids were defeated. And the best part is that I feel no remorse at all—more like "Hans! Get the flamethrower!" Dead filth, and now they've become laid-to-rest dead filth.
So that's what you look like, a Nerubian. Even from this distance, it looks so non-human that the thought of its destruction causes no resistance at all. I wonder what Anub'arak will be like. Actually, I have absolutely no desire to cross paths with him. Right, need to support the landing force with fire.
There are many zombies at the market. A lot. It seems they were attracted by the howl of the engines and my voice. Right, the speech!
"Alright, citizens of Stratholme, let's continue. You may try to approach the golems. If you are not infected, they will not attack you and will allow you to proceed to shelter. I do not promise that you will survive. That you will live through today. I am giving you a chance at salvation. Whether to take it or not is for you to decide. Arm yourselves, use whatever you can as protection and a shield, organize, and move toward the western gates. This is your only chance."
Hardly had I finished speaking when a wall exploded, and from there, slapping its huge feet and swinging an anchor on a chain, an Abomination ran out.
Which hurled the anchor straight at my ship. You have got to be kidding me!
***
Arthas frowned when the unknown woman fell silent. The voice stopped echoing over the city, giving him a chance to reflect during a brief respite. The living and the dead were tearing out of the city, and all he could do was grant them a swift death.
The soldiers stood in a line, taking the claws of Ghouls on their shields, stabbing and hacking them with swords while the Dwarves hammered bullets into howling, bared maws. The wail of the Ghouls made many shudder, but the Prince merely took a step forward, bringing his hammer down on a creature's head and burning a second with Holy light.
"They shall have their due! Hold the line! Kill them all!"
The Prince was angry. At Mal'Ganis, who had started all this. At Uther, who had fled like a coward. At Jaina, who had turned away from him. At all the cowards and fools who didn't understand that there was no other way. The Undead had to be exterminated immediately.
There was no more room for doubt. The Demon, in his mocking manner, had shown what would happen to the city's inhabitants. To all the infected. They could not be saved, and the only possible mercy was to end their suffering. The soldiers saw this too and acted without restraint. And when the epidemic was stopped, it would be the Demon's turn to answer for everything. As a Paladin, he would carry out the sentence with great pleasure. And the souls of those who died today would be avenged.
And yet... No. He must not let grief interfere. He must not. He had to do this, for the sake of Lordaeron. And yet, hope. No. There was none. Not for these people. Even if they looked healthy, it... Hm. No.
Naturally, he heard the arrival of the strange flying machine. Everyone heard that howl—the living, the dead, and even the Demon surely heard it. Arthas turned to his warriors, covered in the blood of the living and the rotten ichor of the dead. The most loyal, those who had not betrayed him. Those who stayed and carried out the order. And yet, he saw doubt on their faces. The very same doubt he himself was trying to stifle while thinking of the Demon's actions.
It was clear why. This voice offered not just to destroy the city, but to save those who were not infected. A few, and yet these people were innocent. A tempting offer, but one that raised a mass of questions. Unreliable. After a second's hesitation, Arthas said:
"Continue the purge, move toward the market row. I want to know who those liars are that promise salvation. We will cleanse this city, for Lordaeron. And then we will go straight to the Demon and finish him. For all who died today. To protect the people and bring peace."
The Prince wanted to believe in the best, in possible salvation. Truly, he did. But with every second, more zombies—formerly residents—ran out of the houses. Still quite fresh, their new nature betrayed by a crooked gait, a vacant stare, and total indifference. They were not human, not anymore. Spawn of Darkness, hating the living and greedy for flesh. And this thought allowed the Prince to maintain his sanity, directing righteous fury at the dead, present and future. The Demon's boasting had played against him. He would not break, and he would continue to do what must be done. He would protect Lordaeron. And yet... No.
For his soldiers, the dead were not a problem if there weren't too many of them. The Holy light allowed for healing and perfectly burned away any Darkness these fallen were made of. Sharp blades hacked limbs that had no protection. And the marksmen handled the dead insects. There were many Undead, but they would grind them down step by step.
"Abomination!" a woman's cry rang out ahead. "Scatter!"
"Let's play!" roared another voice, low and raspy. "Want to plaaaay!"
The dead and the residents in the path became fewer, and those that were there were not rushing at Arthas and his squad, but into the city. This was a chance. Especially since he had already heard such a creature when he was chasing the Necromancer, the leader of the Cult. That creature had been just as loud and roared like a child wanting to play. At this thought, at the stinking, crudely stitched-together-from-bodies filth, Arthas again had to try hard not to lose his composure. He had to hurry; this creature could deal a mass of damage to those ahead.
"Missed! Again! Stop!"
Arthas raised his hammer. If he hoped to get answers, the monster should be finished as soon as possible.
"Everyone get ready. Forward! In the name of the Holy light!" the Prince ordered, trying to hide his doubts.
And the squad rushed toward the sounds of battle, hacking zombies on the move. Arthas was ahead of everyone, bringing his sledgehammer down on enemies with Force. A huge insect jumped out from an alley, spitting webbing at a soldier and trying to sink its fangs into him through the slits of his helmet. The comrades of the bound man immediately attacked the insect. One hacked off the creature's front legs, the second drove a blade into its maw. The insect shrieked, twitched, and went still.
The Prince did not wait for the soldier to be freed; those behind would manage. Now the guttural roar and the crashing were more important.
"Kill youuuu!"
Jumping out from around a corner onto the market street, the Prince nonetheless recoiled in disgust. He had already encountered Abominations—flesh golems of the Scourge assembled from the bodies of the dead. This did not make this huge, bloated, fat creature with a ship's anchor in its fat hand any less disgusting, stinking, and vile. From its poorly stitched belly hung purple intestines and ribs protruded, and a cloud of greenish gas pursued the monster. Arthas began to feel nauseous at the mere thought of being close enough to the Scourge monstrosity.
But more importantly, the creature was being fought. The monster howled:
"Plaaaay!" and brought the anchor down on the wall of a house. The awning along with the porch was simply scattered, throwing debris, splinters, and stone chips from the pavement in all directions.
A girl sitting on the awning of a house, wearing a forest camouflage cloak and carrying a strange bow, evaded the blow with a graceful jump, continuing to shoot at the monster in flight. In passing, the Prince noted the long, pointed ears. An Elf. Dressed in a green cloak, she drove arrow after arrow into the creature's face, from which meat began to literally peel off. After another arrow, the monster howled:
"I can't seeeeee!" and began to swing its hook in all directions.
Every hit brought destruction. A market stall flew into splinters along with the goods. A cart broke with a loud crunch, and grain stinking of Darkness scattered from the sacks. Stone chips from the pavement flew so fast that Arthas's soldiers raised their shields, protecting themselves from the shrapnel. One of them voiced the obvious:
"She blinded it. Do we attack, Your Highness?"
The Prince looked again. Besides the Elf, the giant filth was being shot at by a flying mechanism hovering over the street, resembling a tower of boxes with a rounded glass room on top, drenching the monster in Magical Arrows, each the size of a sack. The damage was serious; every hit tore off chunks of the flesh golem's meat, but the monster was too large to die quickly.
Besides the machine hovering in the air, several strange golems were present on the street, rolling on a large wheel instead of legs and shooting at zombies and the rare still-living people with crossbows. It seemed they could support their mistress, but Arthas noted that they were fending off zombies and Ghouls, giving the Elf room to maneuver. She herself was clearly weaker, but much faster and more agile than the monster, leaping over awnings and porches, bouncing off walls, evading blows and wide swings, continuing to shoot.
When the giant approached, the golems rolled further away to avoid being hit, turning the battle into a duel. And some distance away stood a crowd of civilians. Some were armed with whatever they could find, others just with stools and sticks. And they were fending off the rare zombies as best they could, the latter being more focused on the combatants.
The Prince didn't even hesitate on what order to give:
"Attack the monster! We will deal with the survivors later. For honor and valor! For Lordaeron! Forward!"
His subordinates attacked this enemy with enthusiasm. Moreover, the wounded monster, blind and clumsy, proved to be a large and convenient target for blades, which was good. But also quite tough, which was bad. It was good that Arthas had something the dead very much disliked. He raised his hand, concentrated, and directed Holy light into the giant. It staggered, burning from within and bringing a smile to the Prince's face. After all, cutting down monsters was much easier and more pleasant than exterminating townspeople, however much it was dictated by duty. Now there was not even a shadow of doubt about the correctness of his action. For there is only you and your enemy, who denies all life. Insane and hungry.
The monster, even being blind, resisted fiercely, attacking with the anchor at any sound. But under focused fire, strikes of blades, arrows, bullets, magic, and hammers, the creature was fairly quickly defeated, emitting a cloud of greenish gas at the end.
"I... play more..." and the monster went still.
Importantly, the dead were also almost finished, giving the people and golems a respite. The moment of truth.
Arthas's soldiers lined up in a row behind their Prince; the Elf and her golems stood opposite, also in a line. Arthas noted in passing the mechanical insects, suspiciously resembling Goblin bombs, sitting on the walls of nearby buildings. Well, it was time to find out who he had encountered. And to point out their foolishness. He addressed the Elf as politely as possible, as if they were at an official reception and not in the middle of a ruined street full of corpses and Undead.
"Greetings, Lady. I am Arthas Menethil, Crown Prince of the Kingdom of Lordaeron. Who are you and what are you doing in my city?"
The Elf bowed quite politely, within the framework of a combat greeting. It seemed she also caught the irony. Even the flying tower stopped making noise and didn't spoil the moment.
"Greetings, Your Highness. I am Venidan, a warrior of Quel'Thalas. My commander heard that you were having trouble with a magical plague here. And came to offer help," the Elf pointed to the numerous destroyed dead and the giant lying among the debris and potholes.
Arthas nodded. A perfectly acceptable explanation. The plague had been moving through these lands for more than a month, and only the inaction of the Lordaeron nobility had long prevented any reaction. It wasn't the first time mages had raised the issue of the plague, nor the first time the nobility had ignored it in favor of Orc tribes.
Well yes, the plague is intangible, illnesses happen often, that's a matter for Priests and peasants. But aggressive tribes of Orcs burning villages—that's a problem, a threat. One that many veterans of the First and Second Orc War had seen more than once. And yet nothing had been heard of Orcs for some time, while the plague—here it was. Arthas smiled politely.
"Thank you for the help, Lady. But I hasten to inform you that according to my order, the entire population of the city is subject to destruction. The plague spares no one. It is better these people die by my hand than become bloodthirsty Undead. As you may have noticed, this fate overtakes everyone. All this is the machinations of a Demon prowling the city. If you wish, we could hunt down and lay the creature to rest, avenging the fallen."
At these words, the survivors huddled in the crowd clearly became nervous. The Elf, however, kept her composure and simply nodded, bowing slightly.
"I understand, Your Highness. And yet, my leader has confirmed that the infected can be tracked using magic. It requires some effort, but we are ready to try to save those who are not infected. To give them a chance to survive, which the Undead seek to take from them. To save these people, your subjects. They will have no other chance, unfortunately; the Undead spare no one. Let there be few of them, but these people can still survive."
Arthas tensed. This Elf had publicly challenged his decision. This struck at his resolve, his authority. And it bred doubt in his people. But Arthas, thinking, realized that he himself doubted. He wanted to agree.
"I must refuse you, Lady. The decision has been made; these people cannot be saved, Darkness is devouring them."
The Elf tapped her face near her eyes:
"Magical vision and Arcane genius, Prince. I can say for certain that not one hundred percent of the city's population is infected. We can help those who are still healthy."
And yet, if he thought about it, Jaina had been able to feel the Darkness in the grain silo. Did that mean another Mage, no less gifted, could do the same? How untimely Jaina had fled; there was no way to ask! What if! But... there were no guarantees. But what if! Contradiction, hope, made the Prince not rush with an answer. He doubted, he wanted to save them, but the plague... But! But? But what if!
And yet Arthas did not rush to conclusions.
"Who is your leader? Is it a Mage? Do they have anything to back up their words? If the dead break out of the city, this Scourge horde will sweep away many, many settlements. We cannot afford to take the risk."
The Elf cast a glance at the dead monster. Meanwhile, the soldiers and golems scattered, attacking the Undead rushing toward the noise. There were so many of them, and they were so vile. Piles of bodies began to form on the streets, and the street itself was covered in red and black sludge. Filth. The Elf sighed, watching as the soldiers and golems handled the dead.
"Unfortunately, my commander is busy managing her creation and the golems. Communication will have to be postponed until after the battle. For my part, I will say that her Teacher participated in the Second Orc War and fought against Orc Necrolytes and Death Knights. And he knows where to look, how to distinguish the dead from the living. We do not ask to save everyone, Your Highness, but we implore you to try to save those who can still be saved. There may not be another chance."
Arthas thought... for a long time. The offer was too risky, coming from someone unknown.
"Still not enough proof. And we have no time. The longer we delay, the more residents the Demon will enslave."
"Yeah, I saw," the Elf agreed, "and that's why I'm ready to offer my help. Mine and the golems of my colleague in the sky. It's not particularly much, I know. But Prince, these people can get a little hope. Hope that their lands will be cleansed and they will return to their homes. Yes, the Demon takes lives, turns the infected."
"If they survived and don't get infected, they can be given a chance, Your Grace."
Arthas turned to the soldiers, looking into their eyes and seeing full support. Not for him, but for the Elf. He understood why, but... he doubted. If it didn't work, if the infection spread...
The Elf added details, specifically proposing to create a camp where they would keep those filtered out in Quarantine, and in case of infection—destroy them too. That is, a separate guarded zone for those who wouldn't be killed. And only then, still doubting, still not sure it was the right decision, Arthas agreed. Partly because he himself hoped they would succeed. He wished with all his heart that they would achieve success. That this day would not only be marred by slaughter. But also be a cause for joy for those who managed to survive and were saved.
"Let's try it, Lady Venidan. I will give the order."
Everyone exhaled: both the Elf and Arthas's soldiers. They too sincerely wished for a miracle. Perhaps the Holy light had not abandoned them.
***
Arthas actually agreed, that bastard. While he and Venidan were negotiating, I sat on pins and needles, weighing options up to a direct attack on the Prince. But he agreed, and everything became much simpler. The golems split up and began to accompany squads of soldiers, seeking out the infected and the "clean." In the case of civilians, they are shown to a golem, and those it doesn't attack are sent to the camp at the western gates.
We didn't save many. People are often afraid to come out for the golems to check. And those hiding in houses, barricaded in, are often torn apart by neighbors who have become Undead, or Necroarachnids tunnel straight into the basement, or passing Abominations smash through the walls. You break through a barricade, and on the other side, there are no living left; everyone is dead.
And yet we moved, house by house, not forgetting to fend off the Nathrezim. The Demon doesn't forget to remind us of himself, appearing from time to time, trying to deal damage or turn people into Undead before our eyes. And not once—at the camp, which served as proof of their purity for the Prince.
We, by the way, found the slaughterhouse where these creatures are created. Naturally, we cleared it. It turned out to be in one of the warehouses in the port, so I immediately carried out another part of the plan: detached the workshop, giving the order to produce golems. With the help of surviving sailors, we managed to more or less keep the piers under control, and when the first golems were assembled, even to gain a foothold on the embankment. And the few survivors got another relatively safe place and are helping the soldiers and sailors build barricades.
Unfortunately, in other districts of the city, things are going much worse. Ghouls in urban combat and sudden attacks are extremely dangerous. Even a single Abomination breaks a formation—if you aren't Venidan, you simply have nowhere to dodge. I lost some of the golems, but primitive animal instincts governing the Undead saved them—the dead break the upper part, and the "wheel" rolls home for repairs. The process slowed down significantly overall, as the Scourge brought reserves of full-fledged combat Undead into the fight.
And I'm simply in shock at the number of not just cultists in the city, but specifically Undead. Those same Nerubians aka Necroarachnids were somehow dragged past the guards behind the walls. In the warehouses, cultists were cranking out Abominations; I won't even mention the Ghouls and Necromancers. Good thing there were no Gargoyles at least. And I'm wildly curious—how it all swarmed in here. Alas, now is not the time to deal with that.
The advance through the city stopped, replaced by street battles with an Army of Undead. Only Arthas's squads are steadily hacking their way deep into the city, and I'm helping with magical turrets, but I simply don't have time to be everywhere.
And just so it wouldn't be boring, from time to time reality throws us some quirks. Nerubians trying to drop my Pepelats, for example. A pack of these cockroaches climbed the walls and shelled my ship. The shields almost fell; I had to fly further away for a while. And while I was flying, I saw a most curious sight. In a dark alley, all the dead were slaughtered and burned, and on the ash heap, two little dragons were fighting. One with yellowish hide, the second with glossy purple. And when I blinked in surprise, both vanished as if they had never been there. Only the burned corpses remained to remind me that they were there at all. What the, and who was that? I don't remember.
The next cool news: Uther returned with the Paladins. I didn't waste time finding out what he was doing there, but they drove off a sizeable wave of Scourge with Abominations and Ghouls coming from the northwest and stayed to guard the camp of the saved. Not a single one entered the city.
I, by the way, flew over for a visit to talk.
"Lord Uther the Lightbringer, we meet again."
The Paladin was actually surprised when he recognized me.
"What are you doing here?"
I snorted, answering politely.
"Solving your problems, Lord Uther. Saving those who can still be saved. I came because... His Highness encountered a Demon in the city."
Uther froze, as did his subordinates.
"Are you sure?"
I nodded sadly.
"Absolutely. The Demon is accelerating the development of the plague, turning people into Undead immediately. And Arthas is chasing him. And there are ships in the port, and who knows where he might run..."
Fortunately, Uther took the hint.
"I will send a messenger to lead them further away. Thank you for the warning. Anything else?"
Well, that's fine then. Of course, it will be hotter in the port, but I hope we'll manage.
"No, I'm going back to the city."
The Paladin watched me with his gaze as I climbed into the Pepelats. And it's time for me to get into the fight. By the way, I still haven't met the long-eared recruit. I'm even curious what she's busy with.
We didn't talk to Arthas, didn't even see each other. Maybe later; he's running around the city, I'm flying, helping with turrets in defense. Now our priority is clearing and searching for those who can still be saved. And I'm sure it was the right decision. People were very encouraged when they saw the survivors; I specifically checked with a bird. The fact that it's no longer necessary to kill absolutely everyone seriously raised morale and made me personally quietly curse Jaina for the fact that she, like a good little girl, kept quiet and cleared out after Uther. I'm just sure she can do the same! Just sure!
The next disaster was a fire. It started in the second half of the day, closer to evening, when it began to get dark. I don't know who thought of burning residential houses, but it happened. There was no one to put out the fire, and the Undead are too stupid for such a decision. But they had enough brains to wander away from the fire. And that meant another wave of dead, exceptionally coordinated.
And yes, Mal'Ganis! Someone might have forgotten about him, but he himself—definitely not. The Demon, reinforced by full-fledged Scourge squads, constantly flies into groups of people here and there, trying to help the zombies break the defense. I ran out of mines long ago, but the bird allows me to find the creep, directing Arthas to him. The bastard somehow forces the development of the disease, which is why wherever he goes, an outbreak of rapidly appearing zombies occurs. Which are also strengthened, becoming much more vigorous and sharp than usual. Add the fire, and we get a hellish night.
There were no more survivors; the city streets are filled only with dead wandering here and there and rare organized Scourge monsters. The soldiers, and I too, are holding on by sheer persistence. There is no place for morality or doubt here. The Holy light has left us. There is no hope, and no one is waiting for us anymore. There will be no salvation; there are only flashes of spells, the red glow of the burning city, the howl of engines and the dead, and shots, shots, shots.
There goes Mal'Ganis with a squad. He reached the explosives planted by the Dwarves. An explosion. He's temporarily cleared out, leaving behind the remnants of his own troops. But it doesn't matter anymore. We just continue to do this. Another Abomination torn to pieces by a mine causes irritation and fatigue. But we continue.
The artillerymen brought down a barracks where zombie-marksmen and Necromancers had taken up positions. The soldiers finished off their former comrades, acting mechanically as if they themselves were dead. And we continue.
There is Arthas with a squad breaking through a street where several hundred zombies are wandering. The buildings on the left and right are burning, the stone is charred and blackened, waves of heat make the dead smolder and wander, seeking to get further away. But it doesn't matter anymore. Mal'Ganis is waiting in the square.
Arthas doesn't know yet, but by Uther's order, the ships have left. He has nothing to sail to Northrend on. I'm almost sure the Paladin will conduct an interrogation later, but I don't care. I just want it all to end and to sleep; I'll give answers later.
Unfortunately, I couldn't help the Prince with magical fire; another group of Nerubians finally broke the shields and plastered a turret and two engines with webbing. Likely, this is my mistake. A loss of concentration that already cost me five golems on two Abominations. But we almost drove the Demon away, and that's all that matters. The final clearing of the city won't be fast, but if we kick the Scourge out of here, the process will become much simpler.
And only when the Demon, in dented and smashed-in-several-places armor, with a drooping wing, fled, delighting the Prince with news of Northrend, was I able to exhale. We did it and we are still alive. My strength has left me.
Need to rest before the hardest part: the debriefing. There are survivors in the city, the Demon is banished. Perhaps, if I push head-on, I can knock the right thoughts into the head of this overgrown blockhead. But first—sleep. I'm so tired...
***
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