"Children grow up..."
That was exactly what Magister Aldanos Dawnwalker was thinking as he stood over the northern gates of the city, watching the receding dots of the Dwarven planes. Of course, he knew. Even though Davilinia hadn't been his student for long, the Magister had quickly learned to tell when she had come up with something and intended to carry it out.
This is extremely necessary knowledge, without which the young elf might create something unexpected. And as a Teacher, he is obliged to be aware of all his ward's dangerous adventures. To be aware, and to provide backup if necessary. For example, to reinforce the planes with Enchantment. Of course, the student, if she wants to, will see it, but she won't be able to determine exactly who cast the Enchantment.
Naturally, if this were a training assignment, he would have simply allowed the girl to crash the plane without reinforcement; she would have remembered it and enchanted everything that could possibly be useful. Even if it would have required a lot of Mana for the simplest durability Enchantment. But here and now is a combat situation, not a training one. He would talk to her later. For now, it was worth making sure the ward survived.
And as for the desire to explain mistakes. Well. He really wants to lecture someone who hasn't learned their lesson. And he would explain, perhaps. With feeling, with sense, with arrangement. He...
Returning to reality, the Mage once again surveyed the green field of the jungle spread out before him. It could make a good Arena for their future lesson. Theramore's officers are already preparing their soldiers for Survival there in the forest, among other things. And the student should partake in this knowledge. Hm, movement? Looking closer, the Mage realized that the swamp was moving. Or rather, someone was making their way through it, not particularly caring about mud or breathing, crawling right along the bottom. Undead. And, confirming his thoughts, a cry from an observer rang out from the wall to the left:
"They're coming! West, through the forest! They're stirring the swamp!"
The Mage leaned over the wall, looking around and determining the boundaries of the attack direction. Ten, twenty targets. Plus or minus ten. Demon Vision won't help; they are so submerged in water and mud that the necrotic energy is simply lost against the general background. Only ordinary observation. Mud and semi-liquid soil slow down the dead, and make these corpses distorted by necromancy less disgusting. But it is still a hungry, primitive, aggressive, and vile enemy. Which must be destroyed.
"Can't reach them in the water, weapons don't penetrate!"
They dared to come here to desecrate their new home. They managed to hide from swords and arrows. But one cannot hide from the elements so easily.
"Anara'nel belore!"
A wide fiery seal unfolded on the ground, with a radius of about twenty meters. From which, a second later, with a sound resembling the strike of a bell, flames erupted. The instantly dried earth cracked, as if opening a portal to a world of flame. This sight somewhat resembles lava making its way through cracks in stone slabs, but much more aggressive. Fiery pillars struck the sky, instantly boiling and drying both liquid and Undead. Yes, the creatures are partially hidden by water, but their bodies are organic, and they are vulnerable. Boiled Undead are just as useless as burnt ones. And someone else will have to clean it up anyway.
"Felo'melorn!" a second pillar struck the sky to the side of the first, consuming those who had managed to escape or bypass the site of the first strike.
To do this, he had to descend from the barbican to the wall to better cover the creatures. They decided to bypass the site of the first strike in a wide arc, naturally choosing a route further from the Mage. And that's not good; that section of the wall isn't finished yet. If they reach the water, flushing them out before they enter the city won't be possible.
"Won't help. Still visible. Felo'melorn!"
The third pillar went out and the movement finally stopped. Making sure no one else was running through the swamp, the Mage returned to his original position on the gates, thinking about the situation. The Undead have besieged the city. In a head-on battle, those left in the city won't hold out, only in Defense. In Defense, reinforced by several surgical diversions. Ultimately, demons aren't known for their patience. The leader of the ground base has already sent five assault waves, but not one has broken into the city. Sooner or later, this brute's patience will snap, and he will come himself. Then we'll deal with it.
And only the question of the naval battle will remain. And the air, of course. The air can be handled—create a storm over the city; even the Undead will be extremely uncomfortable when the weather is completely un-flyable. It won't be so easy with the ocean; the Undead can move along the bottom, and they don't care about the swaying. But, obviously, Davilinia has a plan. Which she, as usual, told no one. What could he arrange for her so the girl learns to rely on her friends and comrades, hm?
It's good that the others understand this and are trying to close the holes in her plan. Still, the attack on the necropolis is a very dangerous operation. He didn't know exactly what the girl had come up with, but he had a guess. She must have found a vulnerability in the flying Undead Fortress and decided to strike right there. And then, without fear, she set off for heroics. Just as he himself had done many times.
There is something... delightful about this student. A beautiful young flower, poisonous, ready to sprout, taking over the entire available field, forcibly claiming more and more space for itself. A dangerous approach that perfectly creates enemies. She already has quite a few of those; the nobility, as he managed to understand from his people's reports, is still trying to find the elf. They don't know about Theramore and are trying to search in already studied territory. In Stormwind, for example. Quite logically assuming that such an active personality won't stay in the shadows. And here they are right; she won't.
Of course, it would be easier to limit her. Put her in a box, lock her up. Among the Aristocrats, such treatment of young talents was encouraged. So they wouldn't get proud, wouldn't claim what belongs to others. Simply by dangling opportunities or pressing down with force. In the end, an excellent career as a servant would await the student; she would probably even reach the rank of Magister. Naturally, remembering every second of her life exactly who she should be indebted to for such successes. A rational approach.
And the Magister could understand why. An excellent example of an ambitious elf who turned out to be uncontrolled—Dar'Khan Drathir. He knew little of him, mostly rumors. With some explanations from the student, who told of his role in the fall of Silvermoon. Endless ambitions, pride that was never enough, no matter how generous the rewards offered to him. Dar'Khan always desired more, and Davilinia is similar to him in her ambitions. It's quite ironic that it was by the forces of two such personalities, Dar'Khan and the student, that Silvermoon was wiped from the face of Azeroth. For different reasons, both elves turned out to be outside the focus of attention of those who would have controlled their impulses. The result turned out to be quite impressive.
If the servants of the Aristocrats had handled their task... In the end, after twenty years of such a life, a very compliant young talent would have grown out of her, wearing a polite smile and carrying a tray of glasses behind her master in a light translucent dress. It is customary to train maidens from a young age; Davilinia is cute enough to attract attention with her looks as well. And the rest of the time, she would delight her master with her new inventions and fun toys, remembering her place at this celebration of life. And living in the capital. And Dar'Khan—would have become just another architect. If the Magister were one of the residents of the capital, he would welcome such an approach.
But Aldanos was not such a person. He had gone through the Second Orc War, along with the other heroes of that war. He had dedicated himself to hunting the Undead, destroying Necrolytes and Death Knights, and had handled the task well. While the masters of Silvermoon continued to wait idly for all their problems to be solved by themselves, by someone else. He had heard that Alleria Windrunner, to stir those nonentities up, had literally thrown an Orc's head onto their table during a feast.
The degenerates from the capital lost their right to a voice the moment they lost that capital. Let them catch the sunlight in the middle of the night now.
Unexpectedly, a deafening roar rang out, making everyone, even the trees, shudder.
"You have no chance, mortals! Tremble before the might of the Burning Legion!"
And the Magister smiled.
"It seems the commander's patience has finally snapped," here he noticed a new person on the walls, "Right, Commander Samayl?"
A human male in milky white Armor, standing nearby and also peering into the distance, turned to the Mage.
"You aren't surprised, Magister. Have you fought such creatures before?"
The Mage shook his head, peering into the distance. There, on the horizon, gargoyles began to gather like a dark cloud. That meant another assault was about to begin.
"No, Commander. Not with ones like these. But I have certain ideas about what he can do."
The Warrior stepped closer.
"Will you share?"
The Magister nodded briefly, continuing to watch the road and the sappers sitting on the bridge.
"I don't think a head-on attack by this living ram will help. We should try to block him and attack either from below or from the back, in the spine. Plus, we shouldn't forget that he is a Demon and has access to demonic magic. Limit mobility and kill; that's the idea. And we shouldn't forget about the wings. Obviously, they are too small to fly on. But they are excellent for using as protection."
The Commander nodded.
"I was thinking along those lines. Get in from above or below, hm," he looked down from the barbican at the sappers, "we can try."
They weren't allowed to talk further. A howl rang out in the distance; the Undead began the attack. The Magister turned to look at the ocean. The ships are still too far away, but their silhouettes are already clearly visible. Very soon they will close to attack distance. One must assume that when the demons reach the walls by land, the naval landing will begin as well. So that by the time the necropolis finally arrives, external resistance will have been suppressed. That won't happen. For the Undead, this won't be an easy stroll.
The sky is no longer turning red, which means their warlocks capable of summoning have finally run out. Looking over the walls, the Magister noted the sappers quickly running away. They had done their job. Not in the middle of the path—that would be stupid—but slightly to the side, with large charges set on the stone fragments of Infernals, Undead corpses, and other places where a directional explosion toward the road could be arranged.
Movement appeared in the distance. The Undead began the attack. It would be quite predictable. First, the Undead will speed up, passing through the already cleared area, and when they reach the weapon's range, they will have to move at a near-walking pace. The Infernals and Abomination corpses formed a natural barrier that seriously eased the Defense, despite the losses. The Undead are bogged down in their own remains.
And that's how it turned out, at first. The accelerating crowd of the dead, with Abominations moving in front to take the damage, began to rapidly close the distance, ignoring torn-off arms and chunks of flesh. And when the Abominations could no longer move, HE began to push them off the road, clearing a path for himself. The giant didn't slow down even when he reached the first barricades; he met them with his chest, simply scattering them in all directions.
"Indeed, a living ram," the Mage muttered, "curious."
Naturally, the crash like an explosion, the dust cloud, and the debris—he again drew the attention of absolutely everyone. Especially his huge shadow with glowing green eyes and a mohawk that burst out of the dust cloud.
"What kind of creature is that..." a Dwarf marksman said quietly, surveying the space ahead through the optics of his musket.
The Magister looked closer. Along the road, knocking aside the bodies of Abominations and fragments of Infernals, ran something he had seen earlier on the tactical table. This something, the size of a small house, was vigorously flapping wide wings and a huge paddle, scattering debris in all directions, and what it didn't scatter, it simply rammed with its chest, causing everything else to fly apart. An even greater resemblance to a mechanism was given to the creature by the fiery trail on its head, which he had taken for a hairstyle in the first second. A Pit Lord, in the flesh.
"It's a Demon! The enemy commander."
"Looks like his patience has run out," someone said nearby, but the Mage ignored him.
Yes, he had come to the same conclusion himself. This living ram the size of a wealthy mansion is rushing toward the gates, shielding itself from shots with its wings. And, judging by its appearance, the wings are intact. It hasn't taken any damage, at least none noticeable. And the ground is beginning to tremble slightly from the creature's stomping. Well then, the moment of truth.
"Drink!" the Mage ordered, unsealing a bottle of magical concentrate, of which he has more than a dozen with him. Instead of ordinary Mana potions.
Unlike ordinary flasks, the student preferred cylindrical containers, similar to test tubes, only larger. Which once again emphasized her drive for rationality over traditionality. On the other hand, they were easily extracted from special pockets, and the stopper was easily flicked out with the thumb of the same hand. And the stoppers themselves had a characteristic textured protrusion; you couldn't go wrong even by touch as to which one you grabbed. Chuckling at his fleeting thoughts, the Mage took a sip.
As soon as the liquid hit his mouth, a pleasant heat began to spread through his body, replaced by a thirst for movement, for activity. A magical concentrate of flame, Mana capable of burning an unprepared user if the excess isn't used quickly. The fire of an underground sun that exists for only fractions of a second and will never see the surface. Magical energy. Heat demanding an outlet.
The Magister reached for the power, and it responded instantly, much easier and faster than before. The effect is temporary, but very pleasant. One wave, and a blizzard broke out over the road. It might not kill the giant, but the Undead trudging behind him began to freeze, becoming covered in an icy crust. It is worth destroying the creatures in available quantities. The giant didn't even pay attention to the fact that he was left without an escort.
Spells flew at the demon charging like a battering ram, scattering stone chips and chunks of rotten meat in every direction. Not fire spells, though the urge was there. It was logical that a burning demon would have resistance to fire. Instead, frost and magical arrows, explosions, pulses, and more. Mines began to detonate under the monster's feet. The elf's sharp vision noticed glowing green wounds on the giant's legs. Insufficient.
"No chance, mortals! Burn!" the monster roared, smashing through another pile of stone left over from an Infernal. "I WILL CRUSH YOU!"
Less than a hundred paces; he was almost here. The stomping of four massive legs was so powerful that the walls and barbican shook, as did the bridge upon which he...
"Blow it!"
He had been running, apparently not even considering that it might be mined. The demon, roaring furiously, went to the bottom of the bay along with the bridge. The water boiled as it swallowed the stones and the massive demon burning with green flames. However, a second later, a no less boiling head emerged from the churning water. He grabbed the nearest support, hauled his multi-ton carcass up with one hand, and threw his other massive arm forward, clutching a spear. Strong...
"Paltry mortals! You think this will stop me? Ha!"
It didn't stop him, but it certainly slowed him down. It took the demon nearly two minutes to climb onto the wreckage of the supports. Naturally, this was done under a barrage of dense elven cursing and, of course, magical fire that knocked stone fragments from beneath his hands. The first support even collapsed under the bombardment, but the demon moved to the second. It was somewhat hindering that the demon's lower half was still underwater, and frost spells were protecting him rather than dealing damage, but still. Wounds appeared on the creature's body, not just his legs. Holes appeared in his wings; cuts and frostbite marked his torso. But he was still alive, aided by the armor plate on his belly.
But he made it out, rising above the water and glaring around maliciously.
"Curs... Curs!" the demon roared, clearly displeased by the sudden bath.
He then raised his weapon-clutching hand. It flared with green light, and a bright green beam struck from the spear, tracing a line across the upper part of the gate and the tower; the trail it left exploded in green fire. For a few seconds, the Magister lost his orientation as smoke, flame, and Fel energy obscured his vision, while the roar and crackle deafened him. The Mage was fast enough to cover himself with shields and drop low. Not everyone did the same.
When the dust cleared, he was able to assess the damage dealt by just one attack. The tower had begun to crumble, undercut, and people tumbled down along with the cannons. The gates... the battlements had melted, as had those defenders who hadn't managed to hide or protect themselves, turning into an unappetizing mass of flesh and steel.
The Warriors, even those who had hidden, were scorched by the cursed flame. The Mages... those who survived were also largely wounded. Weakened, and not experienced enough. The Magister himself noted burns on his body, and his hair was gone, alas. But that was cosmetic; as long as he was alive, the fight could continue. Worse, a significant portion of the gate's Defensive Line had been crushed, and the Undead were advancing behind their master, approaching the still-closed gates. Some died on mines, but the rest, those who hadn't frozen, moved forward.
"Burn them!" someone ordered.
The Pit Lord heard it. The demon narrowed his eyes, surveying the survivors.
"This is even more interesting."
Then the massive body lunged forward, performing a maneuver that seemed impossible for someone of such mass, and began jumping across the bridge supports, leaping from one to the next. He no longer covered himself with his wings, one of which was clearly crumpled and broken, but still. He tore forward, simply disregarding everything.
Finally, with another leap, the Pit Lord reached the gates, but instead of striking or ramming them, he thrust his long spear upward, which lit up again. He aimed for the spot where the defenders who had survived the beam attack were leaning over and shooting at him.
The spear entered the chest of a marksman who had leaned out too far to reach the monster from the wall. The Dwarf wheezed, flaring with green light as he clutched his chest. And then he exploded in bright flames. A moment later, a four-meter Infernal stepped out of the fire. As is usual with demons, it was burning with Fel flames and had emerald dots for "eyes." Right in the middle of the marksmen. Unacceptable.
"Sinu'amanore," the Magister chuckled slightly nervously, watching the towering, burning, sentient boulder swing at a soldier. "Band'or shorel'aran."
From the roof of the barbican, scattering molten debris, an ice spike struck the Infernal's chest. A very large spike. The walls shook once more, and the demonic golem, flailing its arms, plummeted down. Judging by the hissing, it rolled into the water.
In the next second, the Mage nearly flew after the enemy from an impact that shook the barbican. Judging by the roar, crackle, and grinding—the gates had given way. This meant the Scourge, led by the demon, would soon enter the city. And they had to be stopped. Immediately.
Gulping down another container of concentrate and swaying slightly from the rush of poorly controlled power, the Mage ran to the other side of the gate and looked down. There, the massive demon, towering over the soldiers, swung his spear. Now, while he was distracted and one of his wings was broken, his back was open for a strike. Of course, the best solution would be to somehow pierce his back... but with what. This was a damn Pit Lord, and he was tough. Frost attacks until now had only left superficial wounds on the monster's body, which wasn't enough.
Commander Samayl stopped nearby with a quiet clank. His apprentice disliked him, but the Human did his job. Full plate, white but now scorched armor, and a two-handed blade glowing with magic. Meanwhile, the demon, continuing his role as a living battering ram, kept tossing people, barricades, and equipment aside, clipping houses and turning their wreckage into shrapnel.
"Give me two seconds," the Warrior requested, clearly thinking the same thing as the Mage.
The Magister, after a moment's thought, nodded.
"Fine. Feather," the slow-fall spell landed on the Warrior.
He exhaled a wave of frost downward. It wouldn't even scratch the giant, but that wasn't the goal. The goal was to make the road surface slippery. The Pit Lord already had issues with inertia and traction. Or rather, the surrounding buildings he crashed into had the issues. He was swinging his spear and wouldn't be able to react quickly; that metal oar was heavy even for such a giant. And it worked. Predictably slipping on the ice, the giant slid into the nearest house, taking out a wall and ending up inside the building, which immediately began to collapse on his head. Judging by the disgruntled grumbling, he was only slightly offended. But that wasn't all.
"You underestimate my power, demon! Now!"
And then the Magister unleashed all available frost upon the demon. If it didn't kill him, it would slow him down, preventing the creature from moving normally on the slippery surface by constantly freezing new layers. The demon clearly realized this and roared, pushing himself out of the rubble, knocking people down with flying debris.
"I will devour and burn you all!!!" He tried to raise his spear, but it was frozen into a block of ice, so the demon had to exert effort to wrench it free. A second, which proved to be enough.
They struck together. The Mage, drenching the demon in frost, preventing him from moving or seeing where the blow would come from. Forcing the giant to resist, to cover himself, slowly advancing. And the Warrior, taking advantage of the slowed fall, climbed onto the creature's back to plunge his blade into the spine. A blade burning clearly with Holy magic. Into the spine. The effect was immediate; as soon as it entered the flesh like a knife through butter, the demon howled and convulsed, evidently suffering a conflict of energies within his body. And then he exploded, blinding and scorching everything around. The Mage only had time to teleport his ally and himself to the next street. Ensuring the Commander was alright, he decided to check how great the damage was and if defense could continue in this sector.
The Magister stepped out and surveyed the street. On both sides, houses had suffered destruction and caught fire. A couple of buildings damaged by the demon's strikes had collapsed. The gates were destroyed into nothing but burning splinters. But that didn't matter. The demon commander was dead. And the dead crawling over the wreckage after him, hm. They would be held back by those who survived. The defense was not breached.
Following Aldanos, Commander Samayl emerged from a neighboring building. The Mage noted his burnt eyebrows and likely hair, and burns on his face. The armor was also melted and darkened, several elements were missing, and one arm was completely stripped of armor and covered in burns. The man swayed but then steadied himself, surveying the surrounding territory. He grunted with satisfaction.
"Excellent. Hold the line! We haven't won yet, kha," he tried to shout, "haven't won yet."
The Mage gave a short nod. Frost spears streaked through the ruined gates, impaling the bodies of Ghouls and knocking them back. The commander of the dead was destroyed. Now they just had to finish off the rest. A matter of technique, really.
***
Arthas Menethil sank into a chair in his command tent with a sigh. For a second, his strength failed him, though he would never admit it. Demons and Undead... only the Holy Light knew how much destruction they had brought. But he had to be strong, at least in public. His subjects had to believe that everything was under control, to maintain hope. Their leaders must never lose their composure in front of subordinates. Even if doing so was not easy.
Lordaeron... only ruins remained of the capital and the cities of the once beautiful, prosperous kingdom. People fled, hiding in the forests, becoming prey for brigands. Food for the Undead and victims for demons. Slaves who would surely be sent to Alterac. His father's beautiful kingdom... ruins. Perhaps those who fell into the hands of the Syndicate would even survive. Unlike all of them. The King of Lordaeron could admit this to himself, but only in private and personally. Had he heard such a thing from anyone else, he would have punished the coward immediately.
Arthas took a letter from the King of Stormwind from the table. It had been delivered by soldiers sent by Varian. Not as many as he would have liked, but more than nothing. The official part of the letter was dry and polite, but there was also a personal one. It was this one the King took, re-reading the lines written by his friend's hand.
"Arthas. I am truly sorry that I cannot be by your side. But alas, I am no longer that boy, and as King of Stormwind, I have obligations to my people. Those I cannot break. What arrived on the ships is everything I managed to wrest from those greedy cowards. Use these forces at your discretion and try to survive.
Alas, I cannot send more troops. The nobility fears that if I send half the army to your aid, the Defias Brotherhood will immediately start a riot in the capital. These cowards want more protection for themselves, fearing the Brotherhood will encroach on their mansions and wealth. Unfortunately, their influence is too great for me to simply ignore these cries.
So these troops are all I can send now. To help you in some way, resources will also be sent with them. Here I am much less restricted and can fully utilize alliance obligations. As well as my own gold reserves, so the nobility won't forbid me from spending them. A number of mercenaries are also at your disposal; I have paid for their services.
Regarding the allies in the Systems Alliance... everything is bad. I tried to summon them, but few answered. Greymane abandoned everyone, hiding behind his 'Genn Greymane wall.' He believes he can sit out the trouble. And he understands perfectly well that I won't go to war with him too, certainly not now.
The elves of Quel'Thalas are out, but for a different reason. Their situation is as bad as yours; demons and Undead have overwhelmed their kingdom. And something else magical. I don't fully understand what exactly happened there, but the few survivors are fleeing the only possible safe route: to Stormwind by ship. So the path north for your people is also closed.
Only Magni responded. But you will learn that from the Dwarves. As far as I know, they will also give you a letter and send troops. Although they have some problems too, so don't expect too much.
Arthas. I won't ask you to leave your people in difficult times, but remember: in Stormwind, we will help the survivors. I give my word. I will be glad to see you as a guest when everything settles.
Varian Wrynn."
The young but rapidly matured man dropped the sheet of paper onto the table and sighed heavily. He had read this paper more than once. And he struggled to restrain himself. Never mind the elves; Arthas knew the Undead were rampaging there. Though he didn't know how bad it was. He believed Varian, so it seemed the elves themselves were surviving in conditions similar to the Lordaeronians. In such circumstances, demanding they fulfill their obligations would only be a pointless quarrel, making himself look like a fool.
Especially since the inhabitants of Quel'Thalas had helped while they had the chance. The elves, when the plague was spreading, sent their priests. And many survivors still serve in his army, helping the people. Spreading faith in the Holy Light, saving souls, giving people hope. Healing the wounded, allowing warriors to return to the ranks again and again. Unlike the Mages who fled to their city for good.
But Genn Greymane! Coward! How did he dare? Arthas had to suppress a flash of righteous anger. The bastard built the Greymane Wall, a high fortification separating Gilneas from Lordaeron, and forbade anyone from passing through it. Moreover, Varian was also refused. It seemed that for this coward, military honor meant nothing. Right at the moment when the inhabitants of the kingdom needed help. Even if Gilneas had simply accepted refugees, it would have been much easier for the King. But Genn didn't allow even that, and the King's troops were taking losses defending civilians.
Arthas rose heavily from his chair, specially reinforced to withstand the weight of the armor along with its wearer, and approached a small altar where his father's crown sat. The Undead and demons had staged a massacre in the capital; almost no one survived. Father, mother, sister. The only consolation was a certain wanderer who brought his father's crown from the desecrated capital. His crown. Which he hadn't put on even once since then.
"Your Majesty!" the Prince turned at the voice. "The scouts have returned! The Undead have retreated, sire!"
A messenger was found at the entrance of the tent. A somewhat battered man, yet he stood straight, and his armor was clearly looked after, which showed. The Prince had seen many deserters over these months who had lost their dignity. And it was as if the armor rejected the loss of military honor; it was the first thing to start deteriorating. Nonsense, of course; it was primarily about the possibility of normal maintenance; weapons were looked after much better.
Turning his attention to the soldier, Arthas asked:
"What did you manage to find out? Report," he said, taking the scroll with the report. Let's read.
The soldier straightened up and said:
"The demons, they are gone, Your Majesty. The scouts didn't see a single one. They surveyed the nearby territory and met neither demons nor almost any dead. Lord, it's..."
Arthas pondered, nodding while simultaneously reading the report, which said the same thing. It was all very suspicious. Could it be a trap? It could, of course. But why? The demons had shown the presence of a sizable group of extremely dangerous monsters and mechanical soldiers taller than trees. Their overwhelming power forced the surviving Lordaeronians to abandon city after city, retreating continuously. And now, when the royal troops were effectively pinned against the ocean, the demons had left? This was not normal.
"It's illogical. They left the blockade, but insufficient forces. Completely insufficient. Why did they leave?"
Arthas was pensive, but the soldier apparently thought he was being asked.
"I don't know, Lord. Maybe they decided we can't do anything anymore and found more interesting targets?"
Maybe. But what target was that, Dalaran? According to available information, the city of Mages was burned almost first. And the Mages, having refused to join the King's army, rushed to take it back. They claimed many terrible secrets and monsters were stored there, which, if they fell into the hands of demons, would make the situation even worse. Cowards!
If not for faith in the Holy Light, if not for the Paladins, Lordaeron would have fallen completely. No one would have survived. The King sighed.
"What does Lord Uther say?"
"Lord Uther reports: the forces of the Scourge have become much smaller, Lord. The nearest Undead forces have occupied the city and are settling in there, having ceased the attack. Advanced detachments have occupied the suburbs, driving the dead out. Alas, we haven't managed to penetrate beyond the wall yet; the Undead are guarding the gates."
Arthas nodded, reading the reports the soldier had brought, understanding less and less what was actually happening. It seemed that the demon army that had been crushing them all this time had simply... vanished. Leaving behind fairly large but still very modest Undead forces. At least on the front line. What was actually going on? Did they go to Gilneas, deciding that Lordaeron was no longer interesting? Or to Stormwind? Or somewhere else? The thought voiced by the soldier was the most reasonable. But seriously, where did they go and when would they return? Unclear.
He thought about it for a long time. Only ruins remained of the once mighty kingdom. Demons and Undead had ravaged what they could. Survivors hid where they could. And the only thing left of Lordaeron was the people. The people and the Holy Light that protected them in the darkest moments. And buildings could be rebuilt if only they managed to fight back. If.
"The Prophet was right..."
Of course, Arthas remembered the old Mage saying wild things, as it seemed then. And now, even falling from exhaustion, he remembered how he had predicted the destruction of the kingdom. The death of those who didn't flee to the lands of Kalidmor. Well, he was almost right. Almost, because they were all still alive. Cities were destroyed, graves desecrated. Father was dead. Sister... unknown. During the Undead attack, Calia Menethil was in the capital. In theory, she could have evacuated, but he wasn't sure his sister had been so lucky. Like his mother. The Scourge had taken everyone from him.
Arthas, clanking his armor, approached the altar again where his father's crown lay. He offered a short prayer to the Holy Light, feeling peace spread through his soul. Though his home lay in ruins, though he had lost everyone. The Holy Light was with him, and if the demons thought they had won, they were mistaken. Arthas would fight. For the future of this land and all those who live on it. For revenge against all those monsters that took everything from him. In the name of the Holy Light. He would fight until the very end. The Holy Light responded, accepting the vow, though it had been uttered many times over these months. The Holy Light had not faded; it supported him and his people. Their beacon in the darkness, their hope.
"Well, may the Holy Light help us. Let us begin."
The King left the tent following the messenger. He could rest no longer. He passed by people bowing to him through the military camp, dotted with banners. He stopped for a second, surveying what remained of the Lordaeronians. The tent camp had turned into a kind of tent city where survivors of all kinds huddled, trying to make their contribution. Several spontaneously formed squares had turned into places where people could receive help and pray to the Holy Light. Now everyone among the survivors believed, so there was even too little of this; people were openly crowding to listen to sermons and find peace in their souls. The King gave a short nod to an unknown priest who noticed the high attention to his person, then moved on.
And he entered the command tent, where the guards let him through, straightening up and freezing like statues. Inside were those who remained loyal to Lordaeron. Lord Uther the Lightbringer, General Abbendis, Taelan Fordring, Inquisitor Isillien. Those who stayed to fight the darkness. Seeing their King, the men bowed. Even Uther. Arthas still couldn't help but remember Stratholme to him.
"Your Majesty."
Arthas nodded.
"Greetings to you all. Lord Uther, you have returned? I was informed that the Undead have retreated."
The old Paladin nodded with a sigh. In his state, an ordinary person would be weak and infirm, but the Holy Light gave the old man health and powerful musculature. The King's teacher was firm, as always.
"Yes, King Arthas. I saw it with my own eyes. All this is somehow very suspicious. We managed to successfully establish ourselves in the suburbs. But I insist that we must be cautious, Your Majesty. This could be a trap. Demons are very, very cunning."
And Arthas fully agreed with his comrade; one Nathrezim had made the then-Prince remember that lesson. They should act for certain. To avoid traps and unnecessary losses. The enemy must not be underestimated. For the sake of Lordaeron and all its inhabitants. Discussion of the upcoming assault began.
***
Jaina Proudmoore quietly peered at the tactical table, or rather at the illusions covering it of the territory around the camp. Even if they couldn't properly scout the Night Elf territory, having a map still seriously eased operations. At the very least, a sudden strike that destroyed a scout became not so sudden. Which had significantly reduced losses among the supply crews. These lightning strikes were extremely tiring.
If she had doubted before, guided only by rumors, it was now clear: the Night Elves were a more than worthy opponent. Both for them and for the demons. Obviously, the Prophet expected them to come to an agreement... But how, if all the Night Elves were ready to give them were arrows shot from their bows.
Demon hens! In private, the sorceress could give vent to her irritation. This enemy gave her a literal migraine. The Night Elves didn't try to fight like Humans or Orcs. No linear formations or charging crowds of warriors for you. Hit-and-run tactics, leaving behind enemies riddled with arrows. The Prophet had promised them a solution to the demon problem here, but so far, both they and the Orcs had only found new enemies. And here the Orc warchief, Thrall, even agreed with her. This slaughter was leading nowhere.
Who would have thought she would agree with an Orc. But Thrall turned out to be no worse, and even better than many Humans she knew. The Horde has honor; they value truth and honesty. Straightforward, but honest. If he said he would strike, he would strike. But behind this power stood a mind that desired a peaceful life and hated demons. She liked Thrall, as she did the frightening, powerful, but fair Cairne Bloodhoof.
But Grommash, not so much. The leader of the Warsong Clan had been a butcher and remained a butcher. But as long as Thrall restrained him, Jaina was willing to tolerate his presence. Though she sincerely didn't understand how two such different personalities could be friends. They were literally night and day. Reflections on this always led the sorceress to the same question: could Humans live in peace with Orcs?
Hard to say. A question that concerned the sorceress more actively as time went on. No longer quite wild, aggressive beasts, but a people with their own concepts. Comrades. The Systems Alliance considers Orcs simply aggressive animals. Her father, Daelin Proudmoore, thinks the same. They are all wrong. Humans and Orcs can live in peace, as neighbors. She was sure of it. Even with those like Grommash.
Ping... Ping...
The sorceress was pulled from her thoughts by markers appearing on the map. Bright scarlet markers, with a huge scarlet inscription: "YOU ARE ATTACKED BY A THOUSAND FIENDS!" Jaina started, passing her hand over the tactical table. With a couple of already familiar pulses, the map scale decreased. And the scarlet markers became more numerous. Much more numerous. The entire south was fouled with scarlet. How many of them were there...
"Lady Jaina! Lady Jaina!"
She turned to the messenger. Time doesn't wait; if it's demons...
"What is it?"
The messenger said in one breath:
"A report from Theramore, Lady Jaina. The city has been attacked by demons."
She literally snatched the scroll from the messenger's hands. Just don't tell me that... The report stated that significant enemy forces had been spotted near the city. There weren't enough forces for an attack, but they would hold the defense. For as long as required.
At that moment, something thundered outside. And then it exploded. And the earth shook.
"They're here, the demons are here!"
"Save yourselves!"
"Stand fast, hold the line!"
The sorceress pushed her subordinate aside, summoning an Elemental and looking around. A scarlet sky, the beating of drums, and green meteors falling from the heavens, bombarding their camp. After the explosion, burning green stone golems rose from these meteors.
As if that weren't enough, a howl rang out, and many ugly beasts rushed into the camp from the forest. A bare skull with long fangs. A skinless body entwined with muscles. And appendages on the back. And more and more of these creatures appeared from the forest every second.
"Close ranks! Move!" officers began organizing the soldiers.
Members of The Horde joined in, joining the battle against the demons. Against a very large number of demons. She threw frost spears, forming more and more Elementals. Some golems fell, but more and more were falling on their heads. And the Hounds engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the soldiers and Brutes, preventing them from helping. The barracks flared up when a meteor pierced the roof, and the windows were blown out by a green explosion. Then the roar of battle rang out inside.
The sorceress continued to attack with frost spears, realizing more and more clearly that there were too many demons. They weren't ready for such a sudden attack. They weren't ready...
Trees fell, and new creatures stepped onto the battlefield. With red skin, ugly pig snouts, horns and hooves, leathery wings, and armed with curved blades. Not too tall, up to three meters, but strong even in appearance. New convenient targets for her magic.
The sorceress, initially stunned by the sudden attack, finally took herself in hand.
"Blizzard!"
As always, the storm descended on the enemies suddenly, killing visibility, hindering movement, wounding them with sharp magical icicles and freezing them to the bone. The demons roared; those strange dogs growled, revealing tentacles on their backs resembling flowers. Then they glowed softly, and the power of the blizzard began to rapidly decrease.
With laughter, the freaks with swords moved forward, swinging at the soldiers. But they didn't flinch. And yet, there were too many of them.
"Tell Thrall we need to pull back. These positions are bad for defense! Go!"
The warrior gave a short nod and ran off. For the sake of the future, they had to survive. And buy time. If this didn't move the Night Elves, Jaina didn't know what possibly could. And while they were thinking, the task was—not to die.
***
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