Approaching the coast of Lordaeron, the Pepelats descended to get a better look at what was happening on the ground. Generally, flying over the ocean in Azeroth is a relatively safe activity. Sailing, however, is dangerous. The ocean, as it should be, teems with various sea filth wanting to kill and eat you. Starting from various sea brutes—it seems there are even huge krakens, can't do without them—and ending with the Naga, former elves who, by the will of the ancient gods, changed their form of existence into various serpentine brutes.
One of these, if I remember correctly, subjugated the Murlocs, fish-faced natives, and forced them to perform sacrifices for the glory of the Old Gods. And the victims were both humans and orcs. Until Thrall came and decided the issue radically, drowning both the Murlocs and the island. And even later, some of them would be recruited by Illidan Stormrage when he is released from the great cage of Abstinence, in which he hasn't seen women for ten thousand years. Scary, probably. They walk around for epochs. You hear them, but you can't do anything else. Or is it that the Sentinels don't mind, but after taking the fel, it just doesn't work anymore? Hard to say. But then that's a very cruel psychological torture from the night elf women.
Anyway, jokes aside, foresight is a cheat. I have no idea what I would do if I didn't know where we needed to go and what to look for. For example, I know exactly where one future lich was buried, and it would be good to interfere with the Resurrection process. The Death Knight should be dangerous now, but he shouldn't have a large army; the Undead are only just gathering it. In short, the perfect moment to mess things up. I understand why we were locked in here; with my knowledge, we could essentially stop the Scourge at the initial stage, winning a lot of time before the invasion. But we were successfully cut off from that divergence point, alas. Oh well, let's see what can be done.
I approached the glass, feeling like Darth Vader. I mean, in a bulky, uncomfortable, and slightly stuffy helmet, in which even breathing isn't very comfortable, let alone turning your head. It's no joke—a large and inconvenient mechanism that interferes with... well, almost everything. There were far fewer problems with the gauntlet, although it also seemed heavy at first, so I didn't want to move my hand. So I'll get used to it, I think. Protection is worth some inconvenience.
"Doesn't look so bad," Veni noted, scanning the coast, "no smoke from fires, no battlefields, no convoys of fleeing refugees being cut down, robbed, and raped by Outlaws. And if you wanted a bucket on your head so badly, DaVi, you could have just asked. I think the Goblins would have found a suitable one, from a latrine."
I felt slightly offended.
"You're walking."
Veni snorted, adjusting the pilot's helmet visors on her head.
"I can see it's hard for you to carry it. Seriously, I never understood warriors, and you're supposed to be a Mage, yet here you are. If the Ghouls or Abominations get to you and gnaw through your shield, this tin can won't help you at all."
I tapped my finger on the helmet. It was strange that my finger didn't hit my face, but still.
"Protection from poisons, a filtration system, a bit of impact resistance, sensors notifying me of all this, a noise-canceling system, image polarization. If that ballista bolt hits me again, the helmet won't break. Heavy is good, heavy is reliable. If anything, I can headbutt someone."
The Rogue nodded slowly and meaningfully.
"And who are you going to headbutt? A Zombie or those butcher-brutes? Or maybe the Death Knight you described and are clearly afraid of?"
I waved her off.
"You're just nitpicking. I already told you why I'm doing this. And nothing has changed in a couple of hours. Admit it, you just wanted to make jokes about a latrine bucket."
"Not without that," Venidan easily agreed, "but there's a reason for it. It would be one thing if this thing were comfortable, but I see it's not. I see how you move, like someone who put on Armor that's not their size."
I didn't answer that, just staring at the ground below. Naturally, I switched the helmet to lenses with magical vision. On one hand, Veni isn't entirely wrong. On the other, it's all a matter of calibration, fitting, and experience. It would be strange if my first work was immediately perfect in every respect. From a functional standpoint, it turned out great; I put everything I wanted into the helmet. The problems are specifically with the proper fit. And that's fixable; I just need to calibrate it a bit. I'll deal with that later; for now, it's worth assessing the scope of work.
At first glance, everything isn't so bad. We flew over several villages and found no sign of infection. But that doesn't mean anything. For peasants, war was almost always the business of masters, something that concerns them only when people come to rob them. In neighboring regions, chaos might be happening, but if it doesn't affect the locals themselves, they won't even twitch. Peasants have plenty of work to do without wasting time on nonsense. The main battlefield before this was northern Lordaeron, which means it makes sense that this part of the kingdom is almost untouched.
Gilneas, by the way, built a wall. We took a detour and were able to admire this engineering feat occupying the peninsula in the southwest of the kingdom. High, monumental, clearly built using magic. You can tell immediately: you are very much not welcome here.
Why is a wall needed if both Lordaeron and Gilneas are part of the Systems Alliance? Well, while other kingdoms tried to help Lordaeron somehow, with Priests or warriors, Gilneas decided that illegal migrants should be fought by building a wall. Otherwise, they'll bring the plague and leave the workers without jobs. So, they built it.
For which, by the way, the undead residents of Lordaeron were "very grateful" to them. To the point of fierce hatred for their neighbors. But we didn't do anything; it's just not my business. And the Pepelats doesn't have siege weapons; here, you'd only be tearing down a wall with a pseudo-phantasm. If necessary, I'll tear it down, but for now, there's no need. I just noted this action for the future.
We flew further north. And traces of a mass Scourge Invasion are still nowhere to be found. Where is the apocalypse, where is the war? I even released the bird, which is undesirable to do in flight—it's slower than the Pepelats, after all. No, I understand that Arthas's survival on the side of Holy should have changed the Balance of the situation quite a bit, but still.
"Where, exactly, is the infection? The Scourge Invasion? It seems we've lost the war."
Venidan, looking no less intently, muttered:
"Suspicious. It should be worse, right?"
I nodded.
"Worse, more massive. Stratholme, Andorhal. All of it was quite destructive, impressive; the Undead devoured everyone they could reach. But not even close to the Second War. The Horde burned just as fiercely. But when the Scourge returned, having gained normal commanders in the form of high Undead, that's when the real slaughter began. The dead in a solid wave staged a zombie apocalypse here."
The Rogue pondered, continuing to stare at the horizon.
"So maybe we made it in time? Maybe the worst hasn't happened yet? Or Arthas was able to organize a Defense, and the dead just didn't get too far?"
I just spread my hands.
"I have no idea, Veni. But I hope you're right."
I hope and I fear it. The more global the changes, the less our advantage. Entropy, as they say, grows. The more you change history, the less useful after-knowledge becomes. Sometimes, even harmful. And here it must be said: the survival of Arthas is a very global change. He is a very strong Paladin, who turned into a very strong Lich King, and even suppressed the personality of Ner'zhul. There are no guarantees that Muradin, or whoever took Arthas's place, will be able to repeat this trick. There is no information on exactly how he will act. And this forces me to act slowly and cautiously, feeling out solutions. If only I don't mess everything up...
After inspecting some more territory, we decided to fly to the nearest town and ask the locals. Well, a town—essentially another large village, bigger than the previous one. And again, no traces of infection; I specifically did a "lap of honor" from the air to see what was below.
Naturally, at the roar of the engines, the locals poured out, looking at what kind of "flying thing" was flying in their sky. The Pepelats itself, having finished its lap of honor and found nothing, again, went in for a landing right in front of the town hall. I had to hover so people would clear enough space, but the guards got their bearings and dispersed the townspeople. And to look like more important guests, of course.
In the end, the four of us stepped out of the Pepelats. Me, in the helmet, with the gauntlet and staff, disguised. Venidan, again dressed "for the field," and two wheel-golems as guards. From the other side, a rather richly dressed man in gold-embroidered clothes and a neatly trimmed beard stepped forward. A bit fat for a warrior, more of a bureaucrat or aristocrat, more occupied with closet work than war. Apparently the local ruler. And with him, the possessor of an impressive folder of documents and equally impressive forms—apparently, I still won't get used to this for a long time. Seriously, why are you all so huge? And a couple of soldiers in full plate behind them. The man stopped about three meters away and put on a polite smile.
"Greetings, lady. I am Algor Fireface, landlord of these lands. With whom do I have the honor?"
"Davilinia, apprentice of Aldanos Dawnwalker, Magister of Quel'Thalas. I am pleased to meet you."
Technically, I am senior to Veni as a Magister's apprentice. And she is only a Ranger's apprentice, so I greet first.
"My name is Venidan, Ranger of Quel'Thalas. I am pleased to meet you."
The man gave a short nod, clearly drawing conclusions.
"Likewise, ladies, likewise. I must admit, you know how to make an impression, to announce your arrival, so to speak, demonstrating yourselves in all your glory."
I smiled broadly.
"Thank you, Lord."
Veni, by the way, before coming out, made sure I knew how to greet correctly, with a small but noticeable bow. Which means: I am below you, but I am a warrior and I must be respected. Etiquette is complicated; I've always said that. Essentially, the introduction happens on several levels. You inspect each other, evaluating the opponent's clothing. In this case, we have rich clothes on the part of the governor. The Pepelats, my sufficiently expensive, clearly handmade and rich clothes on mine. Without the symbolism of Quel'Thalas or the Kirin Tor, which would reveal my affiliation. Venidan's gear is also of good quality, but it's more martial, field-oriented, which means with a minimum of decoration.
The second stage is the introduction. All these curtsies, formulations, manners. No transmigrator could authentically portray a noble. I couldn't either, if not for months of cramming under the guidance of teachers and the memory of my previous body, which knows how to do it at the level of reflexes. And even so, my level is "not great, not terrible." Not good, but not awful. Still, I rarely have to put this into practice. Now, the man shows performance at the proper level, as does his nameless secretary.
And now the third part of the introduction awaits us: we're going to measure our backing.
"So, I am curious what brought the emissaries of Quel'Thalas to my humble town, especially in such a... noisy manner."
I stepped forward, looking at the man from bottom to top through the visor.
"We are working for His Highness Arthas Menethil, searching for traces of plague infection. I apologize, but to inspect the town, we had to fly around it."
The man nodded.
"I understand, although it was not required. We followed the orders of His Majesty and requested a Priest to check the food supplies and the residents."
I bowed slightly.
"Once again, I apologize, governor, but orders must be executed, not discussed. Especially the orders of His Highness. No one wishes for a repeat of Stratholme."
I like this helmet. Even if it's heavy, it has many functions and distorts the voice well. I clearly see that I am not being treated as a child. By the way, the locals quietly approached closer and are whispering among themselves, listening to our conversation.
The man nodded.
"I understand. Но allow me to clarify how true the rumors are that are circulating in the town. About Stratholme, Andorhal, and the dead that rise from their graves. Is all of this really true? After all, it sounds somewhat implausible, you must agree. An epidemic is one thing, but reviving dead? Pff."
Venidan nodded; I said:
"We did not have the chance to visit Andorhal, but about Stratholme—it is the pure truth. In less than two full days, four out of five residents of the city either turned into Undead or were devoured by them. In Andorhal, as I heard, it is much the same. If not for His Highness and his readiness to act firmly, it would have been worse. Much worse."
The man nodded understandingly, hiding an anxiety whose traces I still see. And also that he does it so that the people around can hear everything. Interesting. Does he want to reduce the population's discontent at our expense?
"Of course, the mercy and bravery of His Highness are indisputable. Will you allow one more question?"
And upon our agreement, he asked:
"According to rumors, the Kirin Tor is gathering an expedition across the sea to escape the plague. Do you know anything about this?" — he is definitely clarifying this not for himself, but for the townspeople. Hm.
Judging by how everyone fell silent, the people have heard of Jaina's expedition and are curious. I nodded again.
"It is so. The Kirin Tor Expeditionary Forces, several Paladins, the 7th Legion, and those who simply want to leave. Quite large forces, ready to set off to the west, across the seas."
At this, the whispering became quite loud; people are trying to discuss what they heard, but also not to interfere with the conversation. Or maybe to hear something else. Venidan immediately added:
"But there are no guarantees that they haven't departed or won't depart in the coming days. After all, no one wants the plague to be carried onto the ships. An epidemic at sea is very bad news."
The conversation took some more time, but already inside the town hall. Obviously, having recovered from our loud arrival, the landlord came to his senses. Fortunately, an invitation personally from Arthas was quite enough for him. And then he remembered hospitality as well. However, besides a good lunch—there were no results. In short, we learned a magical nothing. For the sake of appearances, we had to hang around for a while longer, listen to and discuss rumors and news; for example, the governor really wanted to know more details about what happened in Stratholme, but that was all.
We left the town in even greater thought. But where? Veni separately listened to the locals, just in case they were being held Hostage. Not even once; there's just no Undead. None at all! The Magister said something completely different; what is going on here anyway?
Next, we flew leisurely, inspecting every more or less populated point for infection. We even found a cultist; a man was chopping wood in the forest. I sensed him the same way as the previous times, by the magical trail of necromancy. Looks like one of the surviving acolytes who returned to their homes.
Both of us, driven to the extreme degree of irritation, immediately disembarked, wanting to know where they had all gone. The man didn't even try to run when the Rogue closed the distance and punched him in the gut. The cultist folded, wheezing, and trying to crawl away.
"Where are the plague cauldrons? Where are they???" Venidan barked in the cultist's face, "you wouldn't have hidden them in a random basement! Where are the plague cauldrons???"
And she shakes the man, making his jaw rattle. I stepped closer, extending the blades in my gauntlet and making grating sounds. For greater realism.
"I-I-I don't understand what you mean..." this one tried to deny it.
Venidan growled:
"You reek of necro-energy, you loser. So let's do this: you tell us everything yourself, and we won't work you over so much that even your masters will be disgusted."
At this, the cultist stopped playing the fool and laughed.
"I will say nothing; the Lich King will reward me. You do not understand and will never understand. Never. You are too limited by the primitive, the mundane..."
I stepped very close, clicking the gauntlet and changing the mode. Now, besides the blades on three fingers, magical crystals extended, glowing with a steady green light. The man looked at me, smiling.
"Veni, hold him for a second," and clanking my claws, I showed the cultist the blades.
Characteristically, he didn't even flinch. He only stared into the T-shaped visor of the helmet.
"And this is supposed to be scary? I have seen such facets of horror that you haven't even dreamed of. I have seen the great darkness and the great wisdom. I have seen eternity and the boundless knowledge of the great end. You cannot frighten me. My loyalty to the Master is unshakable."
I smiled, though he couldn't see it. I just stopped, pretending to examine the gauntlet but tracking the man's reactions. He is clearly nervous, although he doesn't show it.
"You're not the only one who knows how to control the energy of death. I built magical vampirism into the gauntlet to recover Mana at the expense of people like you. For faithful service, Ner'zhul promised you eternal life, immortality in undeath. I will take everything from you. Everything that was intended for him. Your life, energy, and soul. Your blood will be spilled not for His sake, but to nourish me. And only empty water, useless to anyone, will remain for your master."
Veni looked at me with very great suspicion. The cultist—with horror. And I almost didn't lie; I can do it. Another matter is that I don't want to set myself up like Kael'thas, so I don't plan to absorb anything except Arcana or natural energy at all. I'll be safer that way. True, the cultist doesn't know this.
"You wouldn't dare! He will punish you! Legends will be told of your suffering! Don't you dare! The Master will show no mercy."
"Ner'zhul shows mercy to no one, ever. A stupid attempt. Try again."
I slowly spread my hand, then began to carefully cut the clothes on his chest with the blades. The cultist tries to flinch away, but Veni holds him tight, and I haven't turned on the vampirism. My body is too alive for the energy this psycho can share.
But, as I thought, these former peasants have slightly less than zero knowledge of magic. A few mantras and rituals memorized, and that's it.
"Don't dare! Stop! The Lich King will not allow this! Don't!!!"
I poked him in the chest with a finger. Well, not deep; I carefully cut the pale skin with the blade, then gave it a bit of magic so the cultist would feel a sting. The cultist, staring at the finger, began to breathe heavily.
"Don't..."
I pressed the blades on two more fingers to his skin.
"Convince me."
The cultist shuddered, trying to move away, but bumped into Venidan's legs. Looking up and meeting her gaze, he swallowed and spoke:
"I don't know, truly! Master Kel'Thuzad told us to hide until the time comes and we hear the call. But that's all I know; there was no call! No call!"
I reminded him:
"Rumor has it, the Undead are rampaging in the north."
The cultist actually cheered up.
"Really? Then very soon the Master will summon me! How wonderful! But I really don't know anything else! I swear by the Master's wisdom!"
Unfortunately, it wasn't possible to get specifics. Neither with threats nor flattery. The guy is quite simple, but he just didn't know anything. If he were at least a Necromancer, it would still make sense, but like this...
I didn't poison myself with his Mana, nor did I kill him personally. Whatever people might think of me, I haven't had to take lives personally yet. I simply ordered the golems to destroy the target, riddling him with bolts once we left. The golems performed the task.
I was very surprised when, upon our return, Venidan didn't ask anything. However, the thoughtful and wary looks she kept throwing me were much more unnerving. In the end, I was the first to break:
"Well, say it already..."
"Is it because of that..." She glanced at the gauntlet. "Because of what you did to yourself in Karazhan?"
What? I didn't even know what to answer for a moment. Oh, wait. The diary described that Void magic, demonology, necromancy were used there... What is she...
"Who do you take me for?" I was indignant, raising the artifact. "This is just a tool."
"So, if he hadn't started talking, you would have..."
"Of course not!" I was actually repulsed by the thought. "When I started fitting my prophecies to reality, the Magister nourished me with Death Magic. It was nauseating, vile, and very disorienting. My body is too susceptible to magic and too alive for something like that, Venidan. I wouldn't poison myself with his Mana."
But the elf understood perfectly what wasn't said directly.
"But the possibility exists... Why?"
I grimaced, but didn't deny it. After all, if I want her to listen to me, I shouldn't lie. This is indeed an important question.
"Mana thirst, first and foremost. Stick the claws into a mana-wyrm, or a device, pull the strings, and you're done. I swear I'm not going to drink the innocent. And Veni..."
She sighed heavily, as if she had decided on something very difficult.
"I won't tell. But... DaVi, forgive me, if I see that for the sake of quenching your thirst..."
I nodded calmly.
"I understand. I'll even say more: I've thought about asking you to finish me off myself. Because if it comes to that, I won't be able to ask for it anymore. Or I won't want to, I just won't want to."
She sighed once more, but now relaxed. And then, she actually giggled:
"You just haven't seen yourself from the outside." Venidan lightly tapped my helmet. "A hollow, sinister voice, huge claws, and a minion about to soil himself..."
"Heh." Indeed, I hadn't looked at it from that side.
"I'd already managed to imagine all sorts of things..."
The conflict wasn't resolved, but it was definitely exhausted. But generally, our behavior can also be explained by uncertainty. We expected one thing, and the output was somewhat different. There is logic in this, actually. A different Death Knight will have different points of interest. But we are still obliged to check.
"Okay, DaVi. It seems this annoys you as much as it does me. Where are we flying next?"
I would have liked to say "to the port, to look for my parents," but for now, I need to conduct an investigation, to understand what the hell is going on here, what we're missing. We've been scouring the territory from the air for three days now, and we've found surprisingly little evidence. It seems it's time to stop playing around and head to the most obvious point.
"The next target is the city cemetery on the outskirts of Andorhal. The Undead simply must be there."
The Rogue snorted.
"Original. Are we looking for someone specific, or did you just want to feel eternal peace? Or maybe dig up some new friends?"
Not a bad joke; I even smiled.
"Kel'Thuzad is buried there, the leader of the Cult of the Damned. Correction: he was buried there a month ago. Now, I'm not so sure. Besides, according to the Magister, the Undead are coming from right there, drawing away the forces of humans and elven Rangers. Magister, do you agree?"
The raven, which had been quietly and invisibly present all this time, nodded.
"Of course. I believe everyone agrees that the situation has changed quite significantly and we should understand exactly how. As far as I've been able to learn, General Windrunner has shown interest in the Undead, and additional detachments have been transferred to the south. Just act carefully; the enemy is using land corruption. I would recommend making Venidan a helmet similar to yours."
"Yes, teacher, we'll do it."
Veni, however, tried to object.
"Don't bother so much; your helmet is too big, it'll get in my way."
Don't even hope; you won't get rid of me that easily!
"I don't need to make it fully functional. Just chemical protection, a filter for the face. It'll be quite alright."
And considering I'll be making it from Goblin materials, it can be made stylish and post-apocalyptic. Or the same tin can as mine. She has a hood, so I can make a helmet like Revan's. Decided.
"Don't worry, we'll find you something good. I have ideas. But that will be a bit later; we're taking off!"
The Pepelats gained altitude, heading for the ruins of Andorhal. Doing this isn't so difficult; after all, the city isn't the smallest. And since it's an agricultural center, it should have significant traffic, and the locals should know exactly where we need to go. And so it turned out, especially since as we moved, we did start to encounter traces of infection. And not only that.
I went back to the workshop again. Not out of a good life; I urgently need to implement two more projects. A magical concentrator that will collect and crystallize Mana from the environment to avoid thirst. And the turrets can be recharged simply during the flight. And not only the turrets, but other small things, like lamps or a projector.
By the way, the projector! I finally made it. It wasn't particularly difficult, a purely magical device. I wrote the circuit while still in confinement, and then it was all a matter of technique, so to speak. Duplicate the image to the projectors, assign certain markers to visible objects, set it up so it hits the table at the same scale, and done! We have a mini-map. More precisely, a macro-map of the area; you can monitor the surroundings even without the pilot's helmet, just by the instruments. You won't be able to control it that way, of course; the map is very simplified down to markers, but still, it's more than there was before.
Anyway, forget the projector. The condensation system is a machine I promise to struggle with. And no, there is an easy solution. Open a stable portal to one of the planes where elementals live and draw energy from there. The problem is obvious—the portal will be noticed, and they'll knock from the other side. No thanks, I'm fine as I am. There remains one option, not the most convenient or efficient, but safe. Statics.
We have here, in the language of the Nasuverse, an age of gods and heroes. Even if you take the Sunwell out of the equation, both of them, there's enough magic in the air for people to cast spells as they please. Yes, only a few, like Khadgar or Jaina, can grow to the level of experienced elves under the Sunwell, but they can, while not being dependent on the well. Which means condensing the required amount of Mana is possible. It all comes down to the availability of parts. And here's the bad news—I don't have everything. I'll need to stop by Dalaran to see Mindflux; he definitely knows where to buy everything necessary. So I just assembled what I could. And I'll finish it later.
Manhacks are another matter. Small bots that will be dangerous in enclosed spaces will distract the enemy. Mines can also be transferred to this platform, using the magical core not only as a bomb but also as an energy source.
Small in size, about twenty centimeters. Along the body is a rapidly rotating saw, so the dead trying to hit them with their paws will be very unpleasantly surprised. The design is simplified to the limit; everything important is on the rune plate. Why not a scroll? Well, I want to teach my bots to accompany an important target and thus solve the problem of orienting a stupid machine. It will hover within a radius of ten paces from an ally.
"And if we apply the runes to a plate, much like a program, and only change the plate when necessary, it will save a significant amount of time. Besides, destroyed Manhacks can be salvaged for spare parts... In general, this is a very promising, and most importantly, entirely metallic development.
Where will we get the metal? Right here. A little looting of abandoned forges won't hurt anyone. And what we lack, we'll buy. This isn't Earth's Middle Ages, where good steel cost a fortune. Here, ordinary Footmen wear full plate, and laborers use iron, and in some places, steel tools. In short, if there's a will, it can be found.
And we have the will. Iron golems are more expensive, but far more durable than wooden ones. I can still make some parts out of wood, but the weapons must be exclusively steel—no two ways about it. You can't saw through iron with a piece of wood.
So there I am, sitting in the workshop, minding my own business, when a low hum echoes through the ship—the sound of a battle alert. I was on the bridge within a minute. The external shutters closed with a clatter; Veni sits there focused, control levers in her hands.
"What is it, Venidan?"
I look at the map projected onto the table. Ahead are two groups of markers. One is blue, the second is gray. Undead. And yes, essentially, that's all that can be said based on the first version of the device. I simply didn't have time to refine it.
"Zombies are fighting the locals up ahead. They're trying to break through a blockade. I'll hover and help them."
While waiting for the battle to end, I managed to convince myself that the map needs more work. I need to add more viewing modes. A camera view via "far-sight." Magic can do all of this; there just wasn't time for the upgrades. All I could see from here was a black marker approaching the blue ones, after which the group of gray ones ended quite briskly. Then Venidan announced she was landing the machine. Naturally, I decided to take a look too and stepped outside, shielding myself with a Mana-shield.
Outside, a pair of towers in a very characteristic Systems Alliance style were discovered. The left tower was leaning; apparently, something heavy had hit it. Judging by the lying body of an Abomination with a log, it was exactly that which was heavy. The second one looks intact, but there are cracks and chips on it as well; the tower was attacked, albeit unsuccessfully. Whether anyone is inside isn't visible from here, but I suspect there is.
The road is blocked by barricades made of crates and overturned carts, behind which stand about a dozen Dwarves with rifles. Systems Alliance soldiers, those very Footmen, and a few archers are also holding nearby. They've all positioned themselves across the road, ready to meet the Undead. There are plenty of Undead bodies on the other side. Mostly Zombies, but I also see Ghouls and a second Abomination.
And completing the defensive line are two elves: a Priest and a Paladin. A female Paladin, to be precise—all familiar faces. And I wasn't the only one who recognized her.
"Dartaola. I thought you would return to Quel'Thalas," Venidan noted.
Yeah, that's the same Paladin. Though "the same" is an exaggeration. Her armor is simpler but heavier, and I can see from here that it's scuffed, gnawed, and clearly hammered out from dents in field conditions. And on the pauldron, I clearly see teeth marks.
The Paladin herself looks at us exiting the Pepelats with irritation.
"So, you survived after all. Midget, do you have any idea how many people are looking for you? I'm truly curious how you managed to hide from your own parents, the prince, the Kirin Tor Mages, and several others."
I decided not to take offense at "Midget," considering what I was seeing. If during our first meeting the girl was self-assured in polished-to-a-shine Armor, now her tone held an irritated exhaustion.
I didn't take off my helmet—she clearly recognized the Pepelats—but I replied:
"We stumbled into a magical trap. We returned as soon as we got out," and immediately clarified, "How do you know about my parents?"
The elf sighed, removing her helmet. Yes, she is still young, but the fatigue is palpable.
"They showed up about three months ago, asking the elves about you. That's when I learned you both had vanished. I last saw them about a month ago; your mother was in her robes again as part of an expedition for that woman, Proudmoore, I think. If they haven't sailed yet, you might catch them."
I nodded and even smiled gratefully. After that, I ran and brought the locals some Alchemy we'd picked up from Medivh. Healing potions, mostly, and a couple of Mana-restoring ones. Of course, I intended to sell them, but these people definitely need them. Venidan decided to question the elf a bit, so I overheard part of the conversation.
"So, you stayed with Uther?"
She nodded.
"Lord Uther was extremely displeased with the prince, but he couldn't abandon the people. And I couldn't leave them when there is Darkness all around and they need to be given a little Holy light. After all, true heroes are not those who fight the Darkness, but those who carry the Holy light within them. So I stayed in Lordaeron to help cleanse this land."
I tossed her a vial of bluish liquid, which she caught.
"It'll come in handy. We'll stay here a bit longer, and then I want to try to join the expedition."
The Paladin nodded understandingly, uncorking the bottle and draining the vessel.
"I feel better, thank you. Now I can heal a few more wounds for these people."
And that brought up the real question.
"So what's the situation, Dartaola? The Magister said there are plenty of Undead around here on the borders. But I didn't encounter anything like that further south."
It wasn't the elf who answered me, but a Human Sarge who approached. The same Footman, but in slightly more decorated Armor.
"That's how it is, milady. The dead have infected this land, and nothing lives on it anymore. People fall ill and die. And the most terrifying thing is the flying ship. The prince led the best warriors there, while Lord Uther established a quarantine. No one is allowed to enter or leave. You aren't allowed either."
Aha, so there is an attack after all, supported by a Necropolis. Interesting, interesting. And Arthas is wandering there while the Undead gradually spread across the kingdom, pushing back the living with siege engines. Good—though it's not the answer to all questions, things have become a bit clearer.
"Wait, Talok," the elf requested, "perhaps our new acquaintances will fulfill one more small request before parting."
I snorted.
"Fulfill it—we'll see. But I'll listen. Surprise me, Paladin."
The Captain exhaled.
"The dead have catapults that hurl rotting corpses at us. This is already our Third Line of defense. We lost the first two when the fighters collapsed from disease and green rot; the sickness brought them down, and the Undead finished off the survivors. Those catapults need to be smashed, and things will get easier for us immediately. They might build new ones, but that will be later. I wouldn't risk sending you there, but if the Paladin herself thinks... Take the risk, if you're confident in yourselves."
Dartaola smirked.
"They can. If I'm seeing correctly from here, thaaat square thingy will do all the work. They won't even have to disembark."
We exchanged looks. I fully recognized the description of meat wagons, also known as Abominations' meat wagons; Venidan was clearly thinking about the Pepelats' standard armament. We really do have the ability to quickly solve their catapult problem. Apparently, we thought of it together, as Veni said quietly:
"We have missiles. I think we can do this."
I nodded. It was actually a good deed. We'll look at the Undead base, maybe pull some dirty trick, and fly away. Especially since I have the bird, which means we don't have to go in blind. Our enemies aren't expecting the Pepelats; it could turn out to be a textbook hit-and-run attack. All in all, assessing the risks—we can do this.
"I'll send the bird for reconnaissance. Those machines should be quite large and noticeable. And based on the results, we'll see what can be done there."
Ultimately, it really will make life easier for all of us, and it shouldn't take much time. A missile Salvo, then we just break distance. And without siege weapons, it will be much easier for the enemy to maintain the quarantine. Yes, we will do this.
***
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