The good news is we made it back before dark, so everything went according to plan. The soul crystals are with us, and there was no pursuit. Of course, against Trolls and their magic, that means nothing; I have a poor grasp of what those voodooists are capable of. But for now, they aren't here, so all is well. I doused the ritual site with my version of Goblin solvent so no traces would remain. Whether it helps or not, we'll find out in time, but so far everything is going according to plaaaaan…
Looking at what happened from the perspective of experience—we were terrifyingly lucky. Or perhaps it's because no one could even imagine such a thing. That a team of psychos would fly a Gunship into tribal territory and do what we did. The obvious conclusion: this was a one-time stunt. They won't let us pull something like that a second time. And I wouldn't try it myself; the survival chances of a second raid are at the level of statistical error.
The bad news—after all those walks and talks, I was so wrecked that I missed not only the return itself but also the transfer of my carcass home to bed. I slept through the entire next day too. I also slept through the visit from the healer, who left a whole stack of various potions, herbs, and packets on the nightstand. And a note demanding I take them all. With instructions on what, when, and how much. At least they didn't forbid me from leaving the room, so thanks for that. Though I wouldn't have gone far those first few days anyway. I wouldn't even have flown.
I was able to move normally by the third day; the effects of the stimulants were still taking their toll. And yes, my parents forbade Dartaola from healing me, even though she offered. They wanted me to feel the consequences and not treat the use of combat Alchemy so flippantly. As Dartaola herself put it:
"Your parents believe, and I agree with them, that you've grown accustomed to easily fixing any injuries with a healer's power. Including those from Alchemy. We consulted and decided that feeling not just the pleasant effects, but the consequences as well, will be a useful lesson for the future."
I reminded her then:
"I don't have withdrawals or anything like that."
The Paladin nodded:
"No, but that's not the point; it's about what you're experiencing now. A body that has endured excessive strain reports it through pain and discomfort. They aren't dangerous to you, but they are quite educational. I will pray that you pass this trial with dignity," she tapped her fingers on the book at her belt, "I can recommend it. Perhaps turning to the Holy Light will help you as well."
Yeah, right.
"No, thanks."
Dartaola smiled.
"Don't take this the wrong way, Davilinia. We would like to help you. I offered treatment. But your flippancy harms you, so consider this your penance before the Holy Light. For your overconfidence."
"Yeah, yeah, just go already," I sighed, knowing full well I couldn't win the argument.
And begging was beneath my pride. Ultimately, I understand why they did it. So I prepared to endure.
I endured, what can I say. Magic stimulants are absolute garbage. Yes, in battle they provide many useful things—absence of fear, with possible side effects like bouts of unmotivated mirth mixed with aggression. They dull sensitivity to pain, the sense of fatigue, and fatigue in general, as well as magical exhaustion. All of that hits after the battle, once the Alchemy wears off. Life is easier when you have a magical healer on your side, but they forbade healing me with magic, yes. Those were a very agonizing three days.
Partly because my skin color… became public knowledge. As did the Void poisoning. And the fact that they didn't interrogate me on the very first day is unnerving. Because it's clearly an attempt to let me stew, and a successful one at that. I seriously didn't understand how bad things were or what my parents even thought about all of this.
Well, and then… then came the interrogation. I was discharged and sent home, where my extremely displeased parents were waiting. And once they were finished with me, there was a talk with Jaina. Which, in both cases, boiled down to the same question asked in different ways:
"Why didn't you tell us? Why did the two of you go in there alone? What were you even thinking?"
This was asked of me and Venidan first by my parents, both of them. And then by a certain Wizard, who simply and straightforwardly demanded a report. Because she is my boss, after all. But the reactions were different. From my mother:
"Fine. I understand it was necessary for the future, but still… WHAT THE DEMON, DAVILINIA??? WHY DIDN'T YOU COME TO ME?" A second passed, and she continued, still very angry but in a quieter voice, "Do you think I didn't know you were preparing something? That the warehouses with your golems were suddenly being emptied? That illusionary block fourteen of the Tactical Table is filled with a map of unknown territory, and I don't know about it because that specific map isn't in the records? Why didn't you just come to me, huh?"
Um…
"I didn't know," I realized I'd said something stupid and added, "I didn't know you noticed. I thought we worked clean…"
Mom exhaled very, very heavily. I suspect she was barely restraining herself from doing something unpleasant.
"DaVi. We went through the war with the Orcs. Through the Troll raids. We saw our neighbors killed by brigands. We understand, DaVi. I understand why you did this. We've seen the Troll sacrificial altars; I've heard the stories of those intended to be sacrifices myself. Those who were saved in time. I understand what this means to you. Your brother, my son…"
I felt awkward. Because for me, my brother is largely an asset. While over this year and a quarter I've managed to grow attached to my parents, Veni, and even Dartaola—we've gone through things together—I barely knew him, and immediately after my rebirth, I hardly noticed him. For me, my brother is mostly an opportunity to work with Necromancy that won't have public repercussions. Because saving one's brother is important. It is respected.
And such praise… it causes mixed feelings. It's nice to be praised, in a way. But it feels like it's for nothing, because we mean slightly different things by "saving." So I'll try to change the subject.
"His soul is no longer in slavery, Mom. We won; the Trolls got what they deserved, and so did their Loa."
She hugged me.
"Yes, DaVi, he is free. Though the way you did it…"
There, that's better.
"I knew it would work, Mom. I saw it. In the end. If you had the chance to save him, what would you have done?"
Mom smiled sadly, but she smiled.
"We would have done the same, of course. We would have saved him, or at least tried. You're quite the adult now, DaVi, making such decisions," I just can't feel normal about this, but she turned somber again, "even if you do need to be more careful with the darkness. You look unhealthy. The healer said it's the consequences of the darkness and Alchemy poisoning. You must take better care of yourself, or you won't grow up. That impudent Rogue indulges you too much. You'd do better to be friends with Dartaola; she's an experienced woman and can give you a lot of useful advice in life."
I won't even argue with that. I have to. Though I'm not sure I can give up Alchemy. Or if I want to. And Dartaola, yes, is older than both of us combined. It's just that I'm not sure I'd ever go to her for advice. For some reason, that thought is quite embarrassing.
"Dartaola will help with the darkness. I have no doubt about that."
Convincing her isn't easy, but the Paladin is indeed a good argument. The Barrens doesn't bring me serious suffering, and the healer didn't find anything particularly dangerous. For now, my parents' worry is unfounded. Especially since I can change the subject.
"Mom, since we're talking about mistakes. What did I do wrong with the paperwork? Tell me, for the future. I thought I'd covered everything."
She's had a lot of practice lately, so I went to the right person. And she was clearly happy to help.
"I see. Yes, we knew. You still don't know how to work with paperwork; finding discrepancies is quite easy. We had to cover for you so the quartermasters wouldn't ask questions about where the goods from the warehouse went. In the future, even if you own the goods, such things must be accounted for. And declared correctly."
Fine, I get it. That was stupid. But here I can be honest with myself—outside of mechanics and magic, my skills are quite modest. It wouldn't hurt to find a proper deputy.
"Thanks, Mom, for covering for me."
She nodded and continued:
"And I understand there are things you want to play on and that are important for the future," with these words, the Wizard walked over to the tactical map, "I hacked block fourteen and saw the battle in real time. I was worried about you. And then you came back, and you were paler than usual…"
I don't feel like protesting at all. I'd rather sink into the reactor room. Since Mom keeps coming back to this topic, she was clearly worried because of me. In short… that didn't go well. Just like Father, actually, but he simply isn't talking to me now. I'll have to think of a better way to apologize, yeah. And yet, when I left Mom, another conversation on the same topic was waiting for me in the very next office.
Jaina was more restrained, but she still expressed her displeasure.
"Winners aren't judged, Davilinia, that is true. But you still could have explained yourself. You could have asked for help. If you're interested…"
I nodded. There's nothing wrong with getting help from a competent specialist. I don't want to make blatantly "childish" mistakes. In every sense.
"I am interested, Lady Jaina."
The Wizard stepped closer and, looking me in the eye, said:
"You lack the ability to work with others. In a team, with subordinates, the ability to ask for or demand help. As soon as things get tight, you turn to a single Rogue, compensating for the rest with machines. Though sentient beings would have fared better. I won't punish you, much as I want to, but promise to think about this. Because if you want to be a leader, you'll have to work with subordinates, delegate duties, and not do everything yourself."
A reasonable grievance.
"I promise, Lady Proudmoore. I will think on your words. And if you happen to have a management textbook…"
The Wizard stopped drilling me with her gaze and replied more softly.
"Alas, they remained in Kul Tiras. But I'll tell my deputy; she'll look around, maybe someone in the city has the necessary material. And yes, you need to give warning. We have an operation planned and had a full warehouse of mines. The keyword is 'had'."
Well, I have something to say to that.
"I assembled the mines on my own equipment, using my own resources and for a specific task, Lady Jaina. They weren't intended for sale; I'm sorry I didn't inform you."
The Wizard nodded but wasn't impressed.
"Something I didn't know. And I was counting on us having mines. You're right, I won't punish you for sabotage. Nor for the unauthorized raid you staged. But that doesn't mean you should forget: you are an officer of Theramore. Responsibility lies on you, Davilinia, as it does on all of us. And if everyone does whatever they want, the city will not stand. Do you understand me?"
I nodded.
"Yes, Lady Jaina."
"Dismissed."
I bowed and left in silence, thinking.
And I did indeed think about what was said, and I truly wasn't punished. They just expressed their deepest disapproval. Seasoned with socially useful activity. Every evening, my parents sit me down for bureaucracy. Again. Technically it's not a punishment, but in fact—it's a curfew combined with lessons. At five in the evening, I have to be in sight and, without a helmet, do whatever they tell me until midnight. Playing the part of a warrant officer.
Sleep, food, gymnastics on schedule, all in the city and under the supervision of Venidan and the healer. Or my parents, or someone else. Perhaps only for the sleep can I say thank you, as I hadn't had a particularly good night's rest in a long time.
Lady Jaina fully supported my parents. I suspect she was the one who kept her secretary from more decisive measures. Because an important campaign is approaching, and she needs her seer with her, in the field. We have a war here, now with the Orcs, then with the demons. Sentiments aside, the Wizard is clearly ready to use all means to ensure Theramore stands.
And yes, I don't believe I did anything wrong this time. The battle at Mount Hyjal must end in a very specific way if I don't want to risk, at best, a bombardment of Theramore by Infernals, or at worst, an "accident" from the lizards. I have to take risks, and this risk paid off. Yes, they may be displeased, but that doesn't make me wrong in this case. And it doesn't make their advice bad, so I will learn.
Unfortunately for all of us—time is limited. I need to get the equipment running as quickly as possible, to prepare. This will happen in two stages. First—finish the hall, fill it with mechanical components. Second—visit the mountain and finish the installation. Start the magic reactor of my new base, and then its necro-AI. And yes, I need to talk to my brother. All of this takes time, which is in short supply.
Jaina is heading to the front lines very soon, tomorrow to be exact. She is a powerful Mage; the situation is becoming tense. And Mom kept her word; I'm participating in this trek to the mountain too. So I have to pack, taking and storing supplies for the road. Naturally, they made me give my word: "no independent action without a direct order." The looks became even more suspicious when I gave it.
Well, what of it? This is Medivh's solo aria; let him have his fun. As for me, I'll follow the truth: the most important thing in a raid is good loot. I decked out the walker with bags and bottomless crates, about three hundred liters each. They're metal; the main thing is that the transport doesn't fall apart from the load. I had to reinforce it with magic. Death by burial under tons of treasure falling out of collapsed chests is not quite the way I'd like to end my existence. I wouldn't want to die at all, fortunately, this body is quite durable.
And yet, if you think about it, if the Bronze ones wanted to kill me, they could do something like that. A poorly welded seam—and there, the chest collapses, everything inside instantly regains its volume and mass, the explosive impulse breaks my legs at best, then the other chests crumble, and that's it. Death by gold and diamond shrapnel under colossal pressure. And no one will prove it wasn't an accident, but sabotage.
Instead, they came themselves and offered cooperation, since I know about them and the future. A code of honor that played on my side. Well, we'll decide what to do with Wrathion in the process. And yes, I realize this is a "could have slashed me" situation. But as long as they haven't "slashed," I can use them and prepare myself. There's a non-zero chance of seriously screwing over the lizards during the Cataclysm—that's when the Dragon Aspects gave up their powers. Which means they'll be weaker, vulnerable to a strike. Sounds like a plan, hm.
A separate issue—my brother. He and his colleagues are placed in soul stones, pebbles borrowed from Warlocks. The soul in them isn't going anywhere; store it to your heart's content. I'd like to talk to him, but… not now. Right now there's no time to deal with ritualism, to spend Mana on it. Much as I want to. No, later.
And naturally, I regularly visit my new dungeons. I have several passages into them. From home, and the one I use when coming from work: through the brothel or the confectionery. Nothing strange, really; they have contacts with many people. The brothel, I mean. I dug a tunnel for them to the confectionery. And another entrance to the tunnels for myself. Not a direct one, of course, but you can get into the underground complex through it too.
And yes, I found it very amusing to enter specifically through the brothel rather than the confectionery. Usually, people try to hide, going through the shop. They have some kind of arrangement there; you have to buy something to pass. Personally, I think it's stupid when everyone interested knows why so many people enter the confectionery and leave with a huge delay. Maybe that's part of the game too? In any case: I was paid, and I dug the tunnel.
And yes, out of a sense of contrariness, I enter the tunnel by the reverse route, from the side of the "tavern with expanded functionality." A helmet hides my face; most don't know my age. And no, they don't bother me; from my appearance, it's clear I'm more of a client than an employee. They're actually strict about that. You bother someone, and it turns out to be a Mage, and one with a title like me. I'll burn your balls off for such hints, and the court will side with the Mage. Because you have to watch who you open your mouth to. There are no fools here.
Besides, I really am a regular customer of this establishment; they have absolutely magnificent juice, I like it a lot. I go in, say hello to the Dwarf woman at the reception, Kirpichslava, whose biceps are as big as my torso. Then I buy a cool juice and go down the wooden stairs to the basement. Here is a small kitchen, rooms for staff, and a secret passage. A wall you have to press at the right point. All according to the rules of secret passages. From the inside, it looks like an ordinary stone tunnel with magic lamps on the ceiling, but thanks to the enchantments it's dry, though cool. And the walls seem to press in.
Now—twenty steps, straight to the wall, and slide the key-card between the stones. Another invention of mine; everyone here uses standard keys of the most ordinary shape. But I use a metal plate with runes and holes, like a punch card. Good luck picking that with lockpicks. When it requires a response from the runes, closing contacts, matching holes and solid metal. No? The door locks, and it can only be opened from the inside. On the first try, no "three attempts" for you.
Further, when the bricks slide apart like the entrance to Diagon Alley, a dark, gloomy corridor awaits us. Really dark and gloomy; any light other than from the doors triggers the defense system, because why not. A mine on the ceiling, that's how it is.
And also photocells in the walls, an automatic turret, and a few other small things. For example, I had the idea to use plasma heat in production. Well, for melting metal, or thermal treatment of materials. Or, send the heat through a pipe, isolate the room on command, and perform sterilization. I don't think many would be able to breathe air several hundred or even thousands of degrees in temperature.
But that will be later; for now, thanks to all my efforts, the metal has been delivered, and the runes are being applied. What can be assembled is being assembled. Golems are building the reactor, and I head straight there.
The next door; I took the experience with the Druid into account and added several new posts with turrets. By the way, I'll have to decide what to do with him later. Alastir is suspicious. For now, I stood under a lamp shining from a vertical pipe, forming a pillar of light. By the way, there's a mine underfoot, yes. Now place a hand on the pipe and send Mana into it. And the key, of course. For now, it's like this; you can't get inside without clearance. Access for others, those not so small?
Quite quietly, without unnecessary noise, the door opened, revealing a metal grate that rises afterward. And if not? Well, the ceiling will crush you. Several tons of stone; few could hold it up, and certainly not a Rogue. The defense system is still categorically incomplete, but the base, essentially, isn't built yet. Empty halls, and even of those, less than a quarter is ready. Once we assemble the reactor, things will move faster. There will be energy for more machines and golems.
Next, the path lies through dark stone corridors to a vertical elevator shaft. With a coded call system. And if you dial incorrectly—an illusion will arrive instead of the elevator. And the alarm goes off, of course. And at the bottom—spikes. And yes, it says three attempts, but the alarm goes off after the first.
I don't feel any problem with this; the danger is written on the gates. You entered? Your own fault. Dialed the wrong number, stepped on the illusion, and fell down? Well, you were warned. Didn't step, but dialed wrong? The golems activated. Yes, no sirens wailing or anything, the golems just start moving. Mines, Manhacks, shooters, most doors lock. And then my guardian spirit will decide. If he agrees, of course. We'll talk to the candidates about that later. If not… I'll look for someone else, but I'd have to subjugate them. While I'm sure of my brother—he won't act against me—I'm not sure about a random spirit.
The 'hacks in these dark corridors proved particularly effective. Yes, they just lack the momentum to properly saw through armor, but they don't need to. It's assumed the base will be stormed by a Rogue, which means the 'hacks, crowding the room, just have to graze him, knocking him out of Invisibility. Then the target is simply forced to run or will be sliced into ribbons.
Of course, my code was correct, and the elevator sent me down. To where the clatter of metal, the hiss and flashes of welding, the glow of runes, and the hum of magic reside. To the very bottom, into the reactor room. And yes, this tunnel will be filled in later; right now it's here to facilitate access to the hall for construction.
The last gates opened, with a schematic drawing of a sphere with "rays." I entered, and the sight brings me joy. It is stunning, even now.
In the darkness, machines are assembling IT. My future reactor. I reached out to the strings, a dense web of a vast number of layers entangling the entire room. Several dozen full Mana limits had been poured in here, a mountain of potions spent, layer by layer, seal by seal. Not for nothing.
The golems are finishing the primary assembly of the general frame. A cylinder that will house the TOKAMAK—"toroidal chamber with magnetic coils." And as soon as the last parts are in place, the strings start moving, wrapping around the structure coil after coil, enchanting it, fixing and reinforcing it. A few seconds, and the frame is already glowing in the magical spectrum with layers of strings. And the golems begin the next stage of assembly.
To keep this heresy from melting, the process will be constrained by both the laws of magic and the laws of physics. Magic will provide the strength, reliability, and fire resistance of the structure. An Elemental will control the process. Physics—everything else. Specifically, magnetic fields.
The elevator jerked behind me. My eyes scanned the panel—no alarm, friendly. Good.
To keep it from melting, I bought up all available Adamantite, literally draining all my gold reserves and borrowing from my parents. Adamantite is extremely refractory, so it will definitely come in handy, but even that won't be enough. If you heat the system to millions of degrees, even Adamantite will evaporate, along with the heat-resistant enchantments.
That is why thermonuclear fusion in a tokamak takes place inside a magnetic field under the control of a Fire Elemental. To create the field, sections with wound coils inside are installed in the device. They run the entire length of the chamber, creating something like a closed tunnel, and the magnetic field created by them is called toroidal. It is this field that is the working zone of the tokamak.
Hydrogen will serve as the fuel. And a real, subjugated Fire Elemental will serve as the stabilizer. These beings aren't alive in the usual sense, but they are conceptual enough to stabilize plasma without issue, simply by making it part of themselves. If we had a regular water reactor, the Elemental would suffer, but here there are only magnetic fields, heat, and plasma. It should be fine for him.
I admit, I was afraid it would require a lot of hydrogen as fuel, but calculations say about a quarter ton of hydrogen per year. Even if extracting it requires ten parts water to one, that's only two and a half cubic meters of water. Trifles. And the result… we pump in hydrogen, extract heat, plasma. The heat can be sent to blast furnaces for production. And through pipes for "sterilization." And into generators. Because the turbines will produce not just electricity, but Mana. A lot of Mana. By all indications, this energy source will be enough for my experiments and for all the Elves living in the city.
All that's left is to assemble this "donut," and that's where the difficulties lie. Rare materials and metals are needed. We can assemble the toroid itself, the valves, the pipes. But as for the magical components, the sensors—I have nothing to make them from. My supplies are gone. If we don't find what we need here, I'll have to organize a repeat raid on Karazhan. No, that's also in the plans; there is still VERY much left unlooted there. But later.
The pressure door began to rise with a hiss behind me, letting in two Elf women—the Rogue and the Paladin. And I'm glad to see them.
"Veni, hi. Dartaola! Long time no see, I thought you were at the front."
And I really am happy to see this Paladin. Though we didn't start off well, everything has changed now. I quite like her, despite all the conflicts.
Both Elves curiously inspected the ten-meter "donut" being built from sections, with its many tubes, valves, and strange mechanisms. It was tall; the main block alone was five meters high. And that was just the base. Around it would be input and output pipes, fuel feed, heat extraction. Processing—that is, the turbines—was already in another room, but there would still be a decent amount of pipes and various sections. For now, none of that was there, only holes and mountings. Given the spider-like golems crawling over the structure and the larger "carriers," prototypes of the future Hive, the whole thing resembles a strange iron hive with huge beetles crawling in the gloom. There's something… symbolic in it.
"I'm glad to see you too, Davilinia," the Paladin smiled, "and I'm here because I was recalled. We will head to meet the Oracle together, in one group. No one wants to let you go alone. Venidan will be piloting the Pepelats, so I'm staying. And the soldiers, of course."
Venidan laughed.
"We head out at dawn the day after tomorrow, Midget," she giggled, "so this is your new project? Looks massive. Though it's strange you tucked it away at such a depth, like some kind of Necromancer."
At that moment, one of the sections was finished and the strings jerked, wrapping around it. Naturally, I watched the process. During this time, the Elves approached, and Dartaola clearly felt something. Only she didn't ask me, but the Rogue.
"Is this it? I feel traces of darkness," and she placed a hand on my forehead, fortunately I was without a helmet here, "hm, the darkness is felt, but weakly. External influence?"
I snorted, though I didn't brush her hand away. In general, yes, I didn't smear myself with the Void on purpose, so her version is quite correct.
"The hood slipped over my eyes, it happens. Veni, Dartaola, everyone has already chewed my ear off on this topic. Take turns! Have some conscience! But generally yes, external influence."
The Rogue nodded, smirking.
"I have a conscience. Roughly where you walk to get here. And if you don't want to look after yourself, at least don't complain that others are doing it. Accept it stoically, if you can't manage to be grateful."
I had no counter, so I didn't try. Especially since Dartaola remained relatively satisfied with the results of the examination.
"A couple of weeks in a temple wouldn't hurt you, but alas, we don't have the time. Plus, I'm sure you wouldn't agree to it yourself. So I will be the one praying for you. Blessing you with the Holy Light, too. On schedule, morning and evening."
I didn't argue. It's not that I feel a huge difference, but if they want to, why not.
And… I really am glad they'll be with me. By the way, Dartaola has her own Crane, which we spent our time away from the rampage quite nicely upgrading for her needs. We added chests and storage slots. A personal shield, adjusted so it's more convenient for the wielder of a tower shield to carry it, or even hang the shield on the side for greater protection. And we decorated it, of course. It turned out beautiful. After all, a mass-produced model is one thing; one customized for yourself is another. We changed the nose plate, making it in the style of "wings," a traditional Elven design. And we added plates to the limbs. Of course, this will slightly reduce the machine's speed, but it will make it sturdier.
They didn't let me take stimulants, so I had to oversee the reactor assembly after the fact, but before leaving, the secondary frame was assembled. The rest will be prepared, but without the magical parts, assembly is pointless; the most important parts will be the magical ones. I would have to take everything apart in the future, overcoming the resistance of the strings, and then reassemble it. So for now, the construction of the reactor is on pause, though I continued digging the tunnels; they aren't limited by such things. More materials and parts will be delivered while we're away. And if everything goes according to schedule—we'll be able to finish everything quickly. Both the reactor and the generators for it.
At dawn on the third day, the army moved toward the mountain occupied by the Oracle, also known as Medivh.
The troops were quite diverse, gathered as a result of constant skirmishes with the Orcs. There were columns of footmen and infantrymen led by sarges. Marksmen, mostly Dwarves with rifles. And the cavalry—some on ordinary horses, fortunately, as the road through the jungle was ready. The rest consisted of Gnomish and Dwarven mechanical spiders, as well as my "Cranes." The "spiders" were literally spiders: six-legged robots shaped like a fully mechanical spider with headlights for eyes. Their armament consisted of a machine gun or a grenade launcher. The machine was low-slung and compact, though not very fast. It could jump reasonably well, and thanks to a magic box, it possessed an almost unlimited ammunition supply. Good light artillery, all in all.
Jaina won't be with us; the sorceress departed via Teleport. Meanwhile, the army and I have two weeks of trekking on foot through jungles, mountains, and barrens. Or rather, some on foot, some mounted. The Legion goes to war, and all that. Venidan will cover us from the air, while Dartaola and I are among the cavalry.
Perhaps the most awkward part was saying goodbye to my father and mother. For a change, he thawed out and demanded I return with victory. Mom smiled, though it was clear she was sad to let me go. I understand, but such are the times. Someone has to. All that remained was to promise I would definitely return. It's a good thing I'll be wearing a helmet so no one will notice my facial expression. I don't like goodbyes.
We left the city via the northern bridge. Generally, although only one road was originally laid, there are now three, leading to various deposits and logging sites. On this side, the city is already partially enclosed by white stone walls and towers equipped with cannons, with patrols walking the beats. There's no particular need to fear land attacks. As expected, the road itself is quite narrow, with dense vegetation beginning almost immediately beyond it. The jungle is trying to reclaim its own.
Slightly accelerating my Crane, I caught up with Dartaola, who was moving on hers. Veni is among the scouts who ensure there are no sudden surprises from Orcs and Trolls from the air. The Demons are somewhere far away, which means old grudges and conflicts can be remembered, and people can start cutting each other down. The sun burns, but magic defense is our everything. A "climate control" dome is deployed over our machines. The Paladin nodded when she saw my walker pull up alongside her.
It's curious how different our color schemes and equipment designs are, even though the helmets are identical. I made my friends analogs of my own, with an air supply, filters, and magical infection sensors. My helmet is purple and yellow. Dartaola's is red and white. And Venidan's is white and green.
The Cranes are different too. Dartaola chose a more classic, Elven style with wings that cover the sides well. Everything is in red, yellow, and white—colors characteristic of Elves. Mine is more angular; the nose resembles a square fish head to accommodate launchers for grenades or Hacks within the armor folds. It's in my yellow-and-purple style. Venidan doesn't have a Crane; she's a pilot, so she's not supposed to have one.
The Paladin saluted:
"Good morning, Davilinia. How are you feeling?"
I shrugged. They really did give me "light therapy." I don't feel much of a difference, but if they want to do it, that's their right.
"Not bad so far. Though I've never traveled like this, with an army. Always on the Pepelats, in comfort."
The ship itself is being piloted by the Rogue, as expected. As a Mage, I'll be more useful here on the ground. At the same time, I can see how "mere mortals" do it. At a run, to put it briefly. Trucks haven't been invented yet, so mere mortals in full armor are learning the magic of a forced march in full gear.
"I'd say I sympathize, but that would be a lie," the Paladin said, clearly pleased. "On a campaign, you must be ready for anything. But don't worry, I'll look after you. Adjust your cloak so the sun doesn't hit you. It would be bad if you got sunburned again. And remember, do not lose heart!"
I sighed, mentally preparing for a long, long journey.
The entertainment, frankly speaking, was below average. Even with magical climate control removing the heat problem—humid heat, to be precise. Our tour package included: insects, a landscape so monotonous it was numbing, a backside aching after a whole day in the saddle, the smells of unwashed and very sweaty bodies, the necessity of Territory Control over an area where magically nothing was happening, and the need to move in a single formation.
Reading helps a bit. I managed to beg for a few textbooks to read on the road; there's nothing else to do anyway. *Kas's Reflections on the Connection Between Cooking and Alchemy*, *Advanced Enchanting in Field Conditions*, *The Structure of Material and Magic, Their Weaving. Author: Antonidas*. And a couple more on Cooking and Alchemy, as those are the topics most interesting to me.
Actually, an interesting fact: advanced Cooking is a branch of the Alchemical arts. The preparation process uses methods similar to creating potions—correctly introduced Alchemical "spices" into a dish provide an effect from consuming the food or drink for several hours. So yes, they turn an ordinary piece of roasted meat into a full-fledged long-lasting potion. The effects are usually weaker than those of regular potions, but more durable.
And those aren't all the advantages. The joke is that Alchemy and Cooking do not conflict. At all. There's no problem where potions of the same type cancel each other out—which is why drinking ten intelligence potions won't make you a genius. Only the strongest potion works, no matter how much you drink. There is no problem at all with eating a herb-treated steak that increases strength and endurance, then using a strength-boosting scroll or potion before a fight to get a double Buff. Or training longer by taking advantage of increased endurance. Also, endurance potions in a certain form are ordered by the brothel, but that's irrelevant to the topic.
In general, it's an extremely vast subject. There's a book that, judging by the name, was written by a Pandaren. A real one. Judging by the author's name: Shinjo Swiftfoot. This means there is another continent to the south—Pandaria. I'll have to find it. But that will be for later; for now, all that's left is to read.
There's no one to fight because of the Pepelats. Venidan both controls the territory with mechanical birds that know no fatigue and burns Centaurs from the air. I got bored, so I assembled a pair of binoculars from tubes and Mana crystals. The helmet has zoom too, but it's weaker than the magically enhanced optics of the binoculars on Mana crystals.
I had to work hard to make it function, as it was made on the fly, but I succeeded, though not immediately. And through it, I saw several times how the Pepelats would dart off to the side, after which a magical—and sometimes rocket—rain would pour down on the Centaurs in the distance. There's no point in rushing that way; they simply don't make it to us, leaving us with only observation. And boredom and envy.
So my entire day is spent reading under climate control, wrapped in a cloak to somehow hide from the ubiquitous dust. But it doesn't remove all the consequences. Far from all. As they say: I don't like sand; it's hot, fine, gets everywhere, crawls into your nose, into the joints of your gloves, making them creak. I don't even want to think about how the soldiers feel.
Evening? Great, a halt. Which means we have a new type of fun. Hard beds, flat soldier jokes, and a crowd of men who have no idea how old I am. Fortunately, it doesn't go beyond crude jokes. Partly because of the massive rune-covered panther. Yeah, Alastir is here too. But I still go to the Pepelats to sleep whenever possible; there's a soft bed there, and no one will bother me in my sleep. Venidan laughed, but agreed it was sensible—the people around me would be safer.
"Veni?"
We were sitting in the cockpit, chewing on rations in the semi-darkness, but the dark isn't a problem. Darkness is a friend to the youth. And for some reason, it's much more comfortable to talk about various complex topics in this kind of lighting. Or just to chat.
"M?" she raised an eyebrow, not looking away from her food.
Actually, I really am curious. Two weeks in a row, in full armor, with weapons from dawn to dusk. What kind of horse-like endurance do you need to run that much? And for them, it's the norm. I hear the conversations. They aren't happy, of course, but otherwise, they perceive running in full plate as something normal. Maniacs.
"Was it the same for you? You know, troop movements? Forced marches, all that."
She nodded, finally stopping her chewing.
"Uh-huh. You already have camp experience; now you've seen the movement too. Though if we dared to make this much noise in Quel'Thalas, Trolls from all around would have come running. A Ranger must move quickly, but also very quietly and inconspicuously. Not raising a cloud of dust that can be seen beyond the horizon. The horizon part isn't a joke; the dust column rises very high."
I shuddered.
"To the demons with that. I'll build a Dreadnaught and make excellent, comfortable cabins with all the amenities. Once was enough for me."
The Rogue laughed.
"Softie."
In response, I only shrugged.
"And I regret nothing."
Veni smirked and shared a story before bed. To put it briefly, they recently wiped out some Orcish Marauders. Wolf riders—but while Human riders use spears, the Orcs use long, heavy choppers, vaguely resembling a very, very large cleaver. Also nets, harpoons, and other boarding tools.
"Anyway, these guys tried to repeat that boarding attack on the ship that the dead Dwarves pulled on us. They threw ropes onto the Pepelats, the wolves held them in their maws, and the Orcs climbed. Knives in their teeth, huge cleavers on their backs, angry faces—classic pirates."
I didn't see any signs of boarding on the hull. That means they didn't make it up. I don't believe, excuse me, that they could have removed not only bloodstains but also chips and other damage. Which means the Rogue came up with something.
"The Pepelats looks quite intact. What did you do?"
Veni laughed.
"I used the 'first stage' system. Followed the instructions: clench your ass, squeeze your buns, press the big red button. And go!"
Huh? Ah! A-a-a-h... I burst out laughing because I imagined not a very brutal death from a fall, but something cartoonish. Veni joined in, and for a while, we just roared with laughter.
"I see... They learned all the benefits of aeronautics without a safety net. I envy you, Veni. It's boring here, words can't describe it."
The "first stage" is an option left over from the detonation of the Sunwell. Afterburners to get the rocket to orbital velocity—ultra-fast vertical takeoff. The result after that isn't hard to predict. Orcs, no matter how strong they are, aren't trained to handle that kind of acceleration and G-forces. Which means they were blown off either during the acceleration or on the turn.
"Yeah, most of the scouting is like that. And yes, I spent most of the hydrogen reserves. When we arrive, we'll need to refill."
Well, whatever. Ultimately, the tank is there to be spent.
"Just don't forget. Sigh, the crossing is very boring. Scouting is much more fun."
The Rogue tried to give an encouraging smile; it didn't turn out very well.
"It's fine; all these small groups are just a couple of salvos for the Pepelats. Relax and treat it like training. Or think about what you'll dig up in that mountain. You hinted there would be a lot of stuff there."
Fact. I remember we need the right tunnel. And in that tunnel, there was a lot of everything. Scrolls, artifacts, potions. The masters of the mountain clearly didn't consider it valuable. Or they hoped to return later but couldn't. Now we'll take it.
"Oka-a-a-ay. Listen, Veni..." we chatted for a long time.
Actually, for the entire two-plus weeks we were moving, I was waiting for an attack. You know, like in the "Thirteenth Legion" or something. Blocking the road, sending fireballs down from the mountain, mines, or something else like that. But... nothing happened. No one ever appeared, and the scouts cleared out a few packs of Quilboars, an Orc patrol, and a small detachment of Centaurs themselves. Well, yeah, they have a fully loaded Pepelats; the Centaurs with bows were recycled right on the move. And we kept walking.
The Magister, by the way, travels with me in the form of a bird. The raven either sits on my shoulder, or dozes on the walker's handle, or flies around, scouting. And he served as a pretty good shield against the soldiers' attention. Here's how I look: on my head is a solid cylindrical helmet with a T-shaped visor, slightly elongated to fit my ears. A sand-colored cloak, from under which protrude arms encased in purple and yellow armor. The helmet is in the same color scheme as the gloves.
I almost never talk to anyone, being more occupied with reading or surveying the surroundings. On the other hand, I might start talking to a massive black raven or a huge wild cat covered in glowing patterns. I look down on everyone from the height of the walker. Even to direct questions, I answer briefly, sparingly.
Sometimes I dash off after the bird, running into the distance and then returning with various strange things that I put into boxes attached to the walker. Bones, skulls, strange fruits. I don't pray to the Light; I whisper something clearly fiendish.
Plus, I have pale purple skin and a strange voice because of the vocoder. Horror, pure horror and paranormal activity! No normal person would even come near such a thing. And I don't mind, though it's still boring. This crossing is just killing me.
The jungle gave way to barrens and groves of local Baobabs—tall, thick trees with a "cap" of branches and leaves at the top. We also found Tauren skeletons. It all started with the Magister. The raven landed on the handlebars and spoke in a human voice:
"The scouts found skeletons over there. Very large skeletons. Let's go have a look."
I nodded and, giving the patrol a sign that everything was fine, hit the gas, accelerating the walker with sincere pleasure. Who doesn't love a fast ride? But you can't; Centaurs love setting traps. The walker won't hurt its leg, but at high speed, it might trip, which is dangerous—risking being thrown from the saddle. So I carefully ran along the formation, following the raven toward the scouts. At least some entertainment.
"Whose skeleton, Teacher?"
The raven, staying slightly ahead of the walker, croaked, turning its head:
"You'll see."
I saw. A huge, four-meter humanoid cow, next to which lay a log that was clearly the cow's club, judging by the runes and the metal banding on the end. A Tauren, indeed. A momentary urge to hang this fellow's skull on the walker was diligently suppressed. The Taurens would be offended, and I don't want to pick a fight with the cows, at least not right now. I have to maintain my image.
Still, the skeleton is massive. A Centaur is a fairly large creature, half human, half horse. Correction: half local human, and they are larger than usual. This steroid cow was even larger and more powerful in life. I imagined what a giant he must have been and shuddered. And the twenty-centimeter log the cow had instead of a club hints at physical strength. Armor won't help much here. And then these monsters from the Horde will give the Taurens proper weapons, and off it goes...
Still, I pulled the skull over with telekinesis and tossed it into the box.
"I'll show it to Jaina and the others so they know what to expect."
And the monotonous crossing began again. By the way, the barrens aren't entirely uniform. There are quite a few "table" mountains—columns with tops that look as if they were sliced off. A couple had observation towers, but our scouts dealt with those too. But other than that, nothing interesting. Baobabs and incredibly, just unrealistically flat terrain.
Even a herd of local herbivores—Thunder Lizards—became a pleasant distraction that I stared at openly. These lizards are a hybrid of a rhinoceros and a crocodile, about the size of a small bus, not counting the tail. They are omnivorous, though they prefer wood. Alastir informed me:
"One of the rare inhabitants of the barrens that Centaurs are afraid to deal with. Not particularly smart, but their tough hide allows them to ram an enemy without consequences; arrows from the front can only wound them in the eyes or nostrils, which you still have to hit. They can also live in caves; fire-resistant individuals are found there. Another variation is capable of striking with lightning from dozens of meters away."
One of the soldiers asked:
"What if you stab it with a sword?"
The Druid nodded.
"You can stab it; the hide holds up poorly against piercing damage. But they know how to swallow an enemy. Entirely, with armor and weapons. Then they digest the target for a couple of days, alive. The eyes will give out relatively quickly, then the ears. But the skin, for some reason, resists. So, blind and deaf, you will be boiled alive, very, very slowly. Going mad from the pain, disoriented—very agonizing."
The soldiers shuddered.
"That's brutal."
The Druid nodded.
"That's why they try to shoot them, preferably stealthily, in the rear, without letting the battle turn into close combat. Or on the plain, while one distracts it by running from the lizard, the others shoot it from the sides. Dangerous beasts."
Alastir, as it turned out, knows quite a bit about the fauna of Kalimdor, so in his spare time, if asked, he told us about the interesting things living here. He also mentioned Harpies:
"Strange creatures. They look like Night Elf females with bird claws on their feet and wings. And natural magic. But the resemblance ends there. Having settled in a territory, Harpies devastate it, building their huge nests, and their presence is felt from afar by a sharp smell. They always attack openly. Few can withstand their piercing scream, and absolutely no one can stand the smell coming from their nests. With age, Harpies only seem to get more beautiful. Their Matriarchs, the oldest among them, are truly beautiful. But the stench of decaying flesh coming from their nests is an important warning."
I clarified the most obvious option.
"A magical experiment? A curse?"
The Druid shrugged.
"Alas, I do not know. And yes: a Harpy's kiss is poisonous. There have been cases where uninformed travelers fell for their tricks and kissed Harpies. Most likely, it will be the last thing you do in your life."
In the evening, I asked Venidan. They hadn't encountered a nest, which is a shame. Still, I'm curious what kind of creatures they are. Centaurs are half-human, half-horse. Now there are Harpies that look like Night Elves. Could the mages of the ancient empire have been having fun here? Another mystery for the future.
More than two weeks later, we finally reached our goal. On the horizon, a large mountain was visible, the only one in the entire area, looking like a sharp predator's claw. It is, in fact, called Stonetalon Peak.
The Baobabs grow densely, having turned into a literal forest. And more importantly, Human fortifications began to appear in large numbers. Towers, sawmills, patrols. The forest here is magnificent: large, thick, and very straight trees. Just take them and build, with minimum processing.
Traces of Orc presence were also encountered. Or rather, corpses piled in heaps and burned.
The smell, the appearance—but I noted that I was reacting to this much more calmly than I supposedly should. I'm starting to get used to seeing such things. Or maybe it's because I, as with the Trolls, don't really perceive Orcs as equals, forgive me, sentient Orcs.
It's just this mountain of muscle, these fangs... a green gorilla, a dangerous predator. You might feel sorry for it, but when "it" comes charging at you baring its teeth, clearly wanting to kill and devour you, sympathy doesn't manifest even in theory. Kill it first, and then figure out if "it" was rabid. And the gorilla part isn't a joke. A powerful body corded with tight muscles, a thick hide. The skull looks more like an ape's—the mouth shifted forward with large and sharp teeth, fangs protruding from the lower jaw. Eyes of human size, but they look very, very unfriendly.
And yet... they should be given a chance. It's necessary for peace, and for trade too. I don't have to love them, but writing them off as beasts just because of their appearance is the last thing to do. Ultimately, our leader is Jaina. I will support her decision.
Nearby, trampled into the dust, lay a banner that I pulled over with telekinesis. Fabric that had hung on an L-shaped standard fixed to a back. The standard was broken; only the material remained. I can't feel it through my glove, but the fabric looks very thick and coarse, like the Orcs themselves.
"Warsong Clan, milady," a soldier standing by the Crane noted, looking out. "Beasts. The last attack was by other clans, but before that, they were the ones attacking. Hacking and slashing without mercy."
I nodded, thanking him for the explanation. Interesting banner. It's as if an Orc painted a skull on his face and fell asleep on a red rag, causing the jaws and eye sockets to imprint on the fabric. Perhaps that's how the banner appeared. He drank, painted a skull on his mug, fell asleep, woke up, looked at the result of his "creativity," and decided it was cool. This conclusion has no practical value, but it's easy to imagine. Anyway, the banner went into the pile of burning bodies.
In a separate pile lay axes... I don't know what a normal battleaxe should look like, but a one-and-a-half or even two-centimeter steel plate crudely joined to a stick, sharpened at an angle of about thirty degrees... I'm no weaponsmith, but I think this weapon is more about splitting with its mass than about cutting.
There is armor too, but it's crude and incomplete. Bracers, pauldrons, shields—also made of thick iron plates. Generally, Orc armor resembles gladiator gear: on one hand, sturdy plates providing protection in an attack. On the other, a large amount of open flesh not covered by anything—just take a swing and hit. In a fight, when a blow can come from anywhere, that's a very bad solution. But they are adult, ahem, Orcs; they decide for themselves how and what to wear.
Hmm, the soldier is still looking. Should I say something?
"We'll see. Bird?"
The raven took flight from a charred Orcish arm; apparently, the Magister had taken control. And he perched on my shoulder. The soldier's facial expression was priceless. Where do they come from, these superstitious types? So what if I hide my face and talk to a bird? Is that really something to twitch about? But the Magister clearly thought otherwise and quietly, inaudibly to the soldier, informed me:
"I do not sense corruption in them. Just aggressive savages wishing to kill by their nature. Nothing interesting, student."
As expected, they supposedly drank "Mannoroth's firewater" already in Ashenvale. The clan itself is just filled with aggressive personalities, and their chieftain is cut from the same cloth. How Thrall, raised by Humans, could become friends with this berserker, I'll never understand. And he didn't just become friends; they became blood brothers. A great mystery, that.
I didn't turn my head; the Hacks surveyed the surroundings, assessing the damage. Partially destroyed towers, a couple of houses, one burned down. The barracks—a stone fort with four small towers where marksmen sit—has only two; two have collapsed. Judging by the smoke trail a couple of hundred meters away, they were working with catapults. There is a palisade, but how long it will hold...
"Not enough forces. With the Pepelats, they'll hold out longer. But leaving it here..."
The second Crane braked nearby with a hiss. With an old acquaintance, Combat Commander Samayl. He and I aren't particularly close, but we recognize each other's competencies. I'm not a combat commander, and he's not an inventor.
"Without strengthening the defenses, this post won't hold for long."
Turning to the owner of the snow-white armor, I nodded.
"Agreed. Though I don't know how much time the mines and golems will buy. If the Horde throws large forces here, these people are doomed anyway."
And they will. Thrall knows that Human forces are blocking access to the mountain. The Pepelats and golems will buy time, and that's it. Personally, I would let the Orcs through, just setting up such an amazing minefield for them that they'd get tired of clearing it. And behind the minefield—a line of golems. By the time they get through that circus, we'll already be deep enough, and we won't have to fear a stab in the back. Thrall has to go to the Guardian too, so let him come. But that doesn't mean we won't go first and gut the treasuries.
I'll need to bring my thoughts to the leadership. Fortunately, Jaina did squeeze some information about the near future out of me, including the fact that the Orcs are also rushing to the Guardian and will make it. That was one of the reasons for her irritation—by attacking the Echo Isles, we seriously depleted the warehouses of various explosive surprises that they were already planning to expropriate for the army's needs. Specifically for this part of the operation. I should have warned them; I didn't build all these weapons for a joke.
"Request a gear drop from the gunship," the man demanded. "We'll set the mines."
I shook my head.
"Without permission from the leadership, I don't have the right. Explosive supplies are limited."
The officer frowned.
"I command these troops. Carry out the order, Mage, immediately! This isn't a children's party."
I shrugged.
"Yeah. My job is to think about it and warn you."
Well, in any case, we still have plan "B"—blowing up the cave entrance. Thrall is a Shaman; clearing it isn't a problem, he'll manage. But it's still better to pull the troops back from the entrance; a senseless slaughter won't make anyone better off.
Leaving the mines and the surviving soldiers, we moved on. Or rather, the Theramore infantry left immediately, while the "cavalry" lingered a bit. I still believe there's no point in holding this half-wrecked post, but I'm not a general, and my dissatisfaction is hidden by my helmet. I brought my ideas to Jaina in advance, and as for how to convince the generals who are her subordinates, let her deal with it. Or not deal with it; it's not for me to decide.
The landscape began to change subtly. No, the barrens remained barrens, but while traces of civilization were previously very sparse, now buildings began to appear. Human towers, a ruined Harpy nest—a tower of bones and hides. And corpses. Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Orcs, Trolls, and Taurens.
I was particularly impressed by the corpse of a Tauren who had smashed three mech-spiders by pounding them into the ground with a log. The cow itself was torn up too; there it lies, next to a comrade who bought a passage to the mechs. But the fact itself—a twenty-centimeter log as a club is a serious argument that light armor doesn't hold at all. And that bloody log with the remains of a pilot—horror and brutality!
Gods know, I want to perceive the members of the Horde as adequate beings like myself. I know we still have to work together. But you look at a brutality like that—and you just can't! You sit and think: what kind of beasts did this? There they are, the beasts, lying nearby. It's good that no one can see my face.
I dedicated the entire way to the camp at the foot of the mountain, by the cave entrance, to pondering this question. Actually, it's more interesting—the base itself is shifted a few kilometers to the side relative to the cave. Но the line of defense is set up to cover the entrance with marksmen and artillery. You can both sit in defense and entertain the Orcs. I see.
Regarding the Horde... as I decided, I'll trust Jaina. She managed to negotiate in the canon; let's assume she'll succeed now too. Because I can't manage to accept the Horde. Honestly, it's as if they specifically try to kill Humans in the most brutal way possible. Though that might not be a bug, but a feature.
The Human fortress itself is indeed a fortress. Thanks to the Baobabs and transmutation, they won't have to hold a defense in the barrens with nothing. Walls, towers, many buildings, including barracks, workshops, and sawmills. Besides the wall and towers with cannons, there is a moat with a palisade, so a nasty surprise awaits the wolf riders. Though the stakes won't exactly stop the Taurens much. Но add mines, golems, equipment, and the Pepelats, and you get a pretty vigorous defense. The Orcs will either bleed out breaking through it or will slowly and painfully fight their way to the cave entrance under fire. We win either way.
Also, there's a river nearby and a perfectly clean spring with suspiciously magical water. A Source of Magic? For the Pepelats, it's a source of new liquid that will be turned into hydrogen.
Note for the future: find and study the magical water source, determine the cause of the high Mana concentration in the liquid and the possibility of industrial extraction.
It'll come in handy. Right now, these two bodies of water supply the camp, so experiments are out, but later...
I was let into the town hall without problems; the Crane as a status symbol does its job. Or the guard just knows me; I didn't check. And inside were Jaina Proudmoore and familiar officers discussing the plan for the upcoming battle. As I thought, the racial diversity of the Horde's troops was a nasty surprise for the command. As was their number. Here you have Orcs on Wyverns, Taurens, and Kodo—a subspecies of Thunder Lizards. Digging in quickly moved into the category of strategic necessity.
And without my mechanical birds, they wouldn't have had this information. And a nasty surprise would have awaited everyone. Did I hear a thank you for it? Actually, I did; not everyone is like our "white knight." But the information is still quite frightening.
There was no tactical table in this camp, but there was the Pepelats, so I had to spend half an hour transferring the image from the ship to the town hall. And the situation there is so-so.
"There are many of them, too many," an officer replied succinctly, perfectly describing the situation. Or rather, he used a short version involving phallic analogies.
Fact. Horde detachments are coming from the south on a wide front, reclaiming the territory sector by sector. Our road isn't exactly blocked, but there is a risk of encirclement. And there are, frankly speaking, too many of them. We can hold the defense, but there's no talk of an attack. Without the Pepelats, everything would be even worse for them.
"We expected as much," Jaina replied to the man, but even she looks quite grim. "That is why we placed the main base away from the direction of the main strike."
The officer sighed.
"The caves. Which you intend to enter. They will block the entrance, cutting off the path of retreat."
Jaina nodded.
"We'll blow the entrance, as planned. Blow it, mine it, and you will harass the Horde from the air. As for the retreat... I still possess mass teleportation. We will not find ourselves in a hopeless position, I guarantee it."
I nudged Venidan and whispered:
"Try not to wreck my Pepelats. But if it comes to it, better you than it. Then just don't die as long as possible; we'll get you out."
She nodded and replied just as quietly:
"I'll try. You don't dare die in there either. I'll resurrect you then and mock you for the rest of your life."
Unconvinced, I decided to push further.
"I'll resurrect you myself and make you a Lich. Specifically a Lich; they're ugly."
Veni shook her fist.
Overall, the plan is simple: a small elite squad, as balanced as possible, will head into the dungeon. Essentially, a raid. The entrance will be collapsed behind us, mined, and cannons will be set up to cover the approaches and stall for as long as possible. But not to stand to the death; that's not the task. Just buy time so they aren't breathing down our necks and let us raid to our heart's content. Vacuum the dungeon, reach Medivh, wait for Thrall and Cairne, and let the Raid Leaders negotiate.
"We'll watch, listen, and provide fire support if necessary. Of course, fighting a shaman of Thrall's level in an enclosed space is an inherently idiotic decision, but Jaina has her teleport, so we'll just need to buy time. In the best-case scenario, we won't even need that.
And yet… we're going on a raid! This is amazing! And I have permission to haul out absolutely everything my carrying capacity allows. Want!"
***
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