Before sitting down, I carefully checked the log for ants, snakes, and other crawling vermin, including meter-long spiders. Seriously, this is Kalimdor; it's even worse than Australia here. Ants the size of a dog... I haven't encountered them here, but I suspect it's not a fairy tale. Veni said they exist here. Which means I need to make sure nothing extra crawls under my clothes. And yes, the scourge of all worlds—ticks. Tiny, ubiquitous pests.
Though nothing seems to be crawling here. Which means I can sit down, relax, and think about things, looking at the crown of the world tree looming overhead.
"A huge tree... Under its shadow, there's room for everyone, heh," my hands reached for the tube and pencils.
All business is done, and I chose a moment to rest and draw. After all, as they say: you can watch forever as fire burns, water flows, and others work. From here, there's an excellent view of the Theramore camp, so it's very convenient to watch others work. And the view here is absolutely magnificent.
Seriously, no matter how I feel about Night Elves, this giga-bonsai is amazing. It's colossal, huge. And from here, from the mountain, the view becomes even more beautiful and complex; it's a real, full-fledged composition. Like green grass with a rock poking out, on which a lone tree grows. Except the "grass" is a forest of ancient and millennial trees, often thirty meters high. The "rock" is Mount Hyjal. Well, the tree is just a tree, Nordrassil. The World Tree, the source of immortality for the Night Elves and a battery for the Emerald Dream, which I don't really understand. Another space? A pocket dimension? A noosphere, a space of the mind? More likely something like the latter. This colossal oak is all of that and more. I would call it a magical artifact and a conductor of colossal power.
And all of us, regardless of size and height, are just ants at the foot of this giant. I can even understand those who pray to this tree as a god, it is so colossal and overwhelming. All-encompassing, I would even say. From our current position, it literally cuts the sky in half, even though the crown is at a height of several hundred meters. I could be wrong, of course, but from this point, it looks that way. It is HUGE, and that is undeniable.
And then there's the magical background... This stump stands on the Well of Eternity, which they won't let me near, of course, and has the blessing of three Magic Aspects. Naturally, I tried to examine it. Both with simple magic vision and through the Uomo Universale analytical module. I even had to swear I was trying to understand the tree, not blow it up. First to our people, then to a couple of patrol Elves.
I managed to understand very little; I'm not a Druid. And besides the Nature Magic and a whole web of strings that hadn't been cleaned for fifty years—the web, not the strings—there are also the blessings of the dragonflights, which are also magical and also unclear how to read. In short, all I understood is that they have a huge thermonuclear reactor under the tree, which pumps energy through it. Truly huge; I could only see a part, and it's still a lot.
In the end... I decided not to make a fool of myself and just sit and sketch everything in sight. I have a day off; I have the right to be lazy. Especially since the tree gave me an idea. What if... I try to build a powerful magical catalyst? Yes, staves and wands exist, but I can pump a huge amount of Mana through myself. And even add more using external sources. A reactor, for example. And if I pump all that through myself, I might get a spell of transcendent power. Of course, this would require a truly powerful catalyst. The size of a room, or even a house. If...
I laughed.
"That's already turning into a Golden Throne. No, I don't need THAT much power right now, but if. If! I ever need it... I'll likely end up like the author of the golden chair himself, heh."
A few calculations confirm this. Only an Elemental, a being of pure energy, could withstand pumping such an amount of energy through an organism. Or change oneself by force...
Oh, go to hell, voice. On the other hand, there are ethereals. Or demons. Or liches. In short, even if the voice goes to hell, theoretically, yes, there is such a possibility. But I don't want to lose myself! So I won't engage in such things. No. And anyway, enough of that. I'll think about Theramore, about a new home. There, an excellent idea.
The mission... ended well. We were successfully brought into the anthill, or rather the Systems Alliance base. I simply can't perceive this military town any other way, given the size of the tree in the background. And yes, the Horde and Night Elf bases, which I haven't seen yet, are also anthills, so large is this tree.
Theramore Base, as dictated by canon, was located at the foot of the tree, lower than all the others. The Humans would be the first to take the blow from the demons. The Undead hadn't arrived yet, but it was an obvious fact. However, this town turned out to be significantly better protected than I remembered from the game. Buildings, a full set, towers deployed. There was a palisade—wooden, true, but it was there. A moat had been dug, stakes driven in. Unlike the game, the front here was much wider. The Undead could attack from both the west and the south. Therefore, the defense line was built jointly. The west was covered by Systems Alliance buildings, a wall, and towers with cannons and ballistae.
The south was protected by a chain of trees that looked at us with suspicion—I could practically feel it. Next to each such angry oak was a pile of stones. So, this is what you look like, Ancient Protectors. Roughly a two-and-a-half-story stump with an unnaturally thick trunk, log-arms, and a malevolent gaze. Right now, it wasn't moving, but I could feel the tree's attention fixed on me. This stump, if I lowered my shield, could crush me with a single squeeze of its log-arm. So, it was better not to attract attention unnecessarily. Though our first meeting had been awkward. We had approached Mount Hyjal from the south, and seeing the camp, I had relaxed.
I didn't look closely at the suspicious trees planted in a row, one of which decided to grab us as we approached. Well, in response, I fired a Fireball. How else are you supposed to react when a paw the size of yourself tries to wrap around you? As a result of the misunderstanding, I got scared, the tree's limb got scorched, and now these stumps definitely judge me. But it didn't end there.
From the gates, once the Patrol recognized who we were, we were brought directly to Jaina. The soldier escorting us was practically jumping with joy, drawing questioning looks from the guards at headquarters and even the staff officers. Even more curious was that the soldier who brought me wasn't dismissed but was led away somewhere. The reason for such sudden, universal joy and the associated suspicion was explained by the Wizard herself:
"We deliberately did not maintain contact with the city, Surveyor. Demons attacked all our supply bases. We didn't want to take risks."
Furthermore, Jaina gave the order to detain the Patrol members who had seen us and provide some sort of explanation. Later, more quietly in her office, she explained the reasons for her actions:
"It was a difficult but necessary decision. We didn't know if the city survived and decided... to ensure that the troops fleeing from the demons wouldn't know they had already lost everything. That they have nowhere to return to. We knew a good Line of Magical Defense remained in the city, but there were categorically not enough troops. The sudden strike by the demons effectively cut both us and the Orcs off from the entire logistics chain. It was assumed that Theramore suffered just as much, if not more. To demoralize us."
I understood.
"So the soldiers wouldn't lose hope that perhaps the city held out..." Dartaola repeated thoughtfully.
The Wizard nodded.
"Yes. Even if we were to die here, we would defend our home to the end. A home to return to, where people are waiting for us. Knowledge of Theramore's destruction would be a blow our army wouldn't survive. These people didn't flee just to find out they'd lost everything anyway. And it's not just that. The Nathrezim are watching, we are sure of it. The Patrol has destroyed spies several times. Therefore, to avoid revealing ourselves and exposing the city to a repeat strike, I ask you to remain silent. I am glad you made it, but we shouldn't give the demons such a lever of pressure."
The decision was sensible; we did exactly that. Now, we weren't messengers from the city, but a long-range reconnaissance squad returning from a mission. And we were given twenty-four hours of rest. The Wizard said plainly:
"According to our calculations, the demon vanguards will reach the mountain tomorrow. So rest, everyone. Another chance may not present itself for a long time."
The forecast was more than realistic, so we complied. We cleaned ourselves up and piled into the barracks to sleep. I crashed for sixteen hours and decided to kill the remaining eight by inspecting our defenses. Today we were all allies; when else would I have the chance to walk freely through both the Orc base and the Night Elf combat forest? I figured it wouldn't be anytime soon. Anyway, I'd sat around enough; it was time for a walk.
I made sure to check myself for sudden insects—nothing. But going for a walk in Demon Combat Form wasn't a good idea. It would be quite suspicious: a soldier in uniform wandering where they shouldn't be. I needed to change. Questions would arise anyway, but at least it would look like I wasn't on official business.
I chose a casual outfit. Something that didn't make me look like a messenger on a mission, but also didn't make me look like an outsider. No dresses or anything like that—just boots, trousers, and a cloak with Theramore's symbols. Helmet and gloves included. And I took the Crane (Walker). After all, there were several kilometers between the bases, so it was either running or using transport. Plus, a walker was a status symbol; not just anyone gets to drive one. And off I went on my tour!
It was still morning, but the movement in the camps didn't stop for a second. It seemed the demons had lit a fire under them enough for the survivors to take the situation more than seriously. It was logical, but it's one thing to know it and another to see it. Everyone was preparing, everyone was on edge and paranoid. At the gates, I saw a fire pit where they clearly weren't burning branches, but corpses. And not just in the camps; on the roadside, I found the charred remains of a very familiar species. Ghouls, apparently scouts, had tried to break through. They failed.
The road stretched for several kilometers. A standard, well-trodden straight road which, judging by the presence of Goblins and a Dwarf tank, was clearly being mined. Traffic was quite active. Wagons and Kodo passed by, and Orc porters ran past with sacks. A squad of Goblin Shredders was sawing down a massive tree and immediately loading it onto a Kodo. Everything was fast, methodical; everyone knew what they were doing. If I was noticed, no one reacted. Everyone had plenty of their own business.
At the entrance to the Orc Fort, there was also significant movement. There was a queue, but it moved without delays—do you look like an Orc or a Human? Pass through. A pair of Brutes stood at the gates; they looked me over and jerked their heads—pass through, they signaled. I recalled that Nathrezim and dragons were quite good at disguising themselves as Humans, so this security was purely nominal.
Stepping inside, I looked around.
"Curious."
The Orc camp was fortified much like ours. That is, wooden walls, a row of Orc towers with archers and ballistae, and a moat. Also included in the defense systems were the Goblin mines I saw on the road. And a row of Night Elf trees, just as silent and heavy-eyed. You suspect I burned your colleagues, don't you? Well, I did. But I wasn't going to say that out loud, just in case.
Inside, the Orc camp was exactly what you'd expect. Massive, low, squat wooden buildings covered in sharp spikes. They somewhat resembled large tents, but made not of skins and fabric, but of wood reinforced with metal and bristling with spikes. Instead of glass, the windows had stretched fabric or hides, but they were all positioned high up under the roof. Huge, muscular green men walked here and there. Except, besides the green men, there were the indecently monumental Tauren and the tall but hunched Trolls with bundles of spears on their backs. The Goblins had settled separately, quickly building themselves a garage, next to which a row of Shredders was lined up. Smoke rose from the garage chimney; something inside was hissing, puffing, and snorting.
"Hey, what are you doing here?"
I turned, looking down at three Brutes with crooked smirks. Typical green guys in horned helmets, dressed like gladiators. Armed with axes and shields. They looked unfriendly. Well, well, I don't think you have the strength to wound me.
"Looking around. I haven't been in an Orc camp at a time like this."
The leader snorted.
"Yeah? Well, come on, we'll show you the camp. You need, uh, guides, right? We'll show you."
Seriously? I still didn't like those smirking, arrogant, tusked faces. Looking at them, I felt a threat. And threats are solved quite simply—with an ice block. The only problem was that I was in an Orc camp, and fighting everyone, especially Shamans and individuals of Thrall's level, was likely more than I could handle. I had to at least try to resolve this without a brawl.
"I can manage on my own."
The Orc, still smirking, countered.
"You don't understand, Elf. This is a combat camp. Not just anyone can wander around; the Warchief forbade it. So you need guides. That's us three. This, like, isn't a request."
Laughter rang out from the nearest building to the right. Turning, we all noted the massive, long-haired, black-haired green figure of Garrosh with his signature axe. Punks hoy, man. I couldn't help it; this long-haired brute only triggered those associations for me.
Grommash detached himself from the wall and, swinging the famous Gorehowl, walked toward us. Seeing this, the Brutes took a step back.
"This Midget can protect herself. Out of the way," he growled at the Brutes, and they instantly vanished.
Hmm, he hadn't changed at all. A few more scars, but still the same punk-brute. And Gorehowl, his axe, was still as cool and enormous as ever. Stopping next to the walker, the Orc looked mockingly at my helmet.
"You don't lack courage, Midget. Showing up alone in our camp. On business, or what?"
I snorted. He was a jerk, a beast, and a thug, of course. But a charismatic one.
"Or what, Grommash Hellscream. Lady Jaina said the Undead would reach the camp by evening, so while there's a chance, I decided to look around. First time in my life I've walked through an Orc camp like this. When else, if not today?"
The Orc raised an eyebrow.
"Decided to die? Unexpected for you; I thought you liked living. And annoying everyone. You know, those claws really stuck in my memory," Grommash showed a scar, looking at my reaction with curiosity.
I huffed.
"You know, you look more alive than you're supposed to be."
"Is that a threat?" Grommash raised an eyebrow.
Calmly, but with a clear hint.
"A reminder. I didn't just sink claws into you; I saved you."
Grommash nodded.
"I remember that. And I also remember you mentioned my son, Garrosh. How is he, do you know?"
I could answer that.
"He's the son of the Orc who was the first to take the demon blood. What do you think?"
Grommash understood and winced.
"He'll manage. Or he's no Hellscream. But it's still interesting."
Should I tell him I plan to head to Outland? Not yet. Maybe if we need reinforcements, I'll suggest it before leaving. Grommash has experience against the Draenei, too. If anything, we'll break through. But it's too early.
Grommash led me to an Orc tavern. The same kind of round wooden house, only two stories. Otherwise, it was a classic. A bar where a bartender stood by barrels pouring something. Tables made of roughly hewn logs. The patrons—Orc and Troll warriors—noticed me instantly, but seeing the monumental figure of their superior, they immediately returned to their business. The Orc himself dragged me to the second floor, onto a balcony. This place was also good because it was level with the windows under the roof. It was brighter here, smelled less of sweat and brew, and generally had fresh air. VIP seats, basically.
Grommash sat on a stool where a liter mug and a piece of somewhat overcooked meat were already waiting. I sat in the empty seat. The Orc took a drink, burped, and said:
"When the demons come, we'll all see who's worth what. But a warrior who prepares for death in advance will meet it. So, what have you cooked up there?"
I shook my head thoughtfully. In truth, I was plagued by vague doubts... It's one thing to attack a Necropolis, another to attack an archdemon. The mission really was suicidal. So much so that I hadn't told anyone anything, not even my friends. But still, my silence could lead to mistakes. And Grom, though a thug, was an experienced warrior who had seen demons in battle. Maybe he'd suggest something smart. So, after thinking for a few minutes, I finally replied:
"I have a plan, it's just a bit, well, suicidal. I don't want to die, but I assume he won't leave me alone so easily after this. So I'm preparing for everything, Grommash."
How could I explain the essence of the idea to him? The thing is... I was going to wound Archimonde. For the sake of the Legend, but also because it's cool. Who can boast of literally wounding an archdemon? Aside from those OP characters who at this level would have killed him and the Bronze Dragonflight, slept with Tyrande Whisperwind, Jaina, Thalisra, and god knows who else. No, not my method. I'm not a Mary Sue from a harem story, just a regular OP girl. And yes, if I gorged myself on concentrates and hit only with Fel, maybe—I wasn't sure. But maybe, in theory, I could try to if not kill, then disable Archimonde. Maybe it would work, maybe not; I didn't know and didn't intend to find out.
Besides, I had my own thoughts on the matter. I didn't really like the Night Elves and their attitude. The incident with the Well was the fault of Azshara and her followers. The Mages, as much as they could, contributed to the defense against the demons. And they suffered from the actions of the Elf Queen, whom the Night Elves actually loved even more. And what was the result?
The Druids and Priests exiled the Highborn, giving them a choice: either get out, or embrace Druidism, or die on the spot. And yes, connecting to the source of power was not part of the deal, so my current ancestors wandered for decades, suffering from magic withdrawal. Before they found a new home and built the Sunwell. Which I blew up, yes.
After that, the Night Elves locked themselves in their forest, enjoying immortality and playing Tarzan. That last part wasn't a joke; although I'd seen Elves in normal armor—mostly Huntresses—the outfit of the archers made me want to SCREAM. But silently, so as not to look like a fool. Even the Orc Brutes had more armor! Seriously! Fur panties, bracers, and greaves; the girls had something covering their chests. That was ALL the armor they wore. A traveling brothel, no joke. Are they trying to seduce someone while the men sleep in the Emerald Forest? I don't get it! Or do they specifically pick clothes to look prettier? Seriously, even the Orc Brutes wear more armor—the youngest and greenest ones who, by Orc standards, haven't even earned it yet!
And these characters try to claim they are better than us, that we are sub-elves and demon sluts? These guys, right? Another bunch of immortals who spent ten thousand years fooling around in their forest while Aegwynn fought the Avatar of Sargeras? What the hell, I ask? Sleeping? Well, now please descend to the level of everyone else without flaunting your attitude.
My squad and I had heard enough of this attitude. The Huntress escorting us initially took me for a warrior. Because of the claws on my gloves and the closed helmet. And without holding back, she said everything she thought about Mages as "demon sluts." She, you see, lost someone ten thousand years ago, pff. Then she critiqued Venidan's skills when she tried to punch her in the face for it. But our guide treated the Rogue normally, while I had to restrain myself from roasting that long-eared prostitute.
Anyway, Alastir, I was wrong—you're cool! I'll kiss you when we meet. My attitude toward this specific faction of Night Elves had become even more biased.
I recounted all this to Grommash in a condensed version, explaining the conflict as "warriors versus Shamans," where the warriors won. And that I, as a descendant of a "Shaman," wouldn't be caught dead helping them. Kicking demon ass is one thing—that's a noble cause. But burning myself out, channeling huge volumes of Mana through my body just for their immortality? Forget them!
I looked suspiciously at my glass of juice. Did they spike it with something to make me so talkative? Doesn't seem like it; coordination is fine. Strange.
"I know a little bit of the future, Grommash. Not a prophet, no, but I know some things. And I know exactly how the Elves will stop the demon. And what will happen after that."
The Orc listened, occasionally asking clarifying questions. You wouldn't even say this was the berserker-maniac I was wary of. No, right now he was as calm as a boa constrictor. We were alone on the second floor; no one was bothering us. So he asked:
"And what will happen?"
I thought about whether to tell him or not. Ah, whatever.
"Archimonde will get through. He's too strong, and he's gorged himself. We'll delay him, buy a lot of time. Maybe days, or even a week, but he'll still get through. He'll break the base defenses, crush them one by one. The demon will reach the Elves' tree, and they will blow it up, destroying the magic that gives the Elves immortality along with the demon himself. They will become just like us, Grommash. And I will be watching. Standing right there and smiling."
I don't know why I let it all out like that. Probably because I'd kept it inside for too long, for months, afraid to tell even my comrades. And Grommash... he wasn't going to go tattle, unless he decided to bash my head in himself.
"And you want to fight him in this battle," the Orc concluded, "but suffer defeat so that he passes through."
I nodded, showing my metal-clad hand. And the crystals in the palm and fingertips.
"The plan is this," the glove reconfigured into power hammer mode, then into devouring mode, then back to hammer, then the analytical block, then folded back into "travel" mode, "enter the battle, show what I can do, retreat. And inflict a wound that won't kill the demon but will make him very, very angry."
The Orc, now with great interest, clarified:
"And where do you want to wound him, Midget?"
I smirked.
"In the most vulnerable spot for a man. The damage will be dealt with Fel, so demonic regeneration won't help him. Not immediately. The wound will be powerful enough to be noticed. And even with it, he'll be able to reach the tree. If he can't walk, they'll carry him. But he'll get there."
The Orc snorted, taking a drink.
"And humiliating enough that the demon will want to erase you from existence at any cost."
I nodded; the Orc laughed.
"That's the plan."
After he finished laughing, Grommash nodded.
"You know what the demons did to us and what it cost to gain freedom. Such a blow, hm, will be very pleasant. If you are sure we cannot kill him."
I just spread my hands.
"The parasite is too resilient. Wounding him is no problem. Killing him? He won't die. Besides, he won't be alone there, so there's no need to stand to the death. Just keep them entertained for as long as possible."
Yes, that was the suicidal plan. Inflict a wound everyone would notice. And then let him go burn the tree. And yes, the main problem wasn't taking the shot. I didn't think Archimonde would even dodge; he'd take arrows and magic to the chest, parrying spells with his nipples. So another shot would land where it needed to. The problem would come later, when the archdemon, in a state of pure rage, would want revenge for his most precious lost part. And by all calculations, the demon's twenty-meter legs were longer than mine. So I wouldn't be able to outrun him in the forest no matter what, yeah...
I needed a flying transport. There wasn't time to make something proper, so I had to improvise. Or learn from the best, depending on how you look at it. A flying chair so I could strap in and maneuver in three dimensions. Control via the glove, as usual. Fire, then get out of there fast and in zigzags. It wasn't ready yet, but I was almost sure I'd finish it in time.
We talked a bit more. I managed to get the Orc to talk about demons, their combat methods, and demonic magic. Obviously, Grommash wasn't a warlock, but he'd seen a lot. It would be stupid to pass up information that could save your life in the future.
The Orc kept his word and showed me the camp. But that was where it ended. A horn blast sounded, signaling an alarm. At that moment, we were walking past a sawmill, which an Ancient Protector was watching very closely and very malevolently. For a stump, it must be literal torture to see its kin being dismembered. In any case, the horn's wail made everyone jump. Warriors rushed out of the buildings. The workers, on the contrary, headed into the underground burrow-dens where spears and javelins were already prepared to be hurled at the enemy.
"Air! They're in the air!"
And someone's roar echoed across the base:
"Well, shoot them down! Move!"
It looked like it had started. Naturally, I also raised my gloves, looking for the enemy, and ran further away. It's much easier to find an aerial target when nothing is blocking the sky.
"They're a bit early..."
We expected an attack in a few hours, or even days, once the Undead deployed a base. But they didn't wait.
Running into an open area, I looked at the sky. A clear blue sky with sparse clouds, and many black dots rapidly growing larger. Orcs on the towers began to swivel the ballistae; Trolls snatched long javelins from their backs. I particularly liked the bolt-throwers loaded with nets packed in special containers. I assumed they unfurled in flight to entangle the target. They had shot those at the Pepelats, but if the target is too big, there's just no point.
I should note that I'd only seen such massive Undead raids a few times, near Quel'Thalas and in Theramore. The attack range on both sides wasn't very large. Ballistae don't shoot very well into the sky; at an angle of forty to fifty degrees, the projectile quickly loses its killing power. And Ghouls use magical blades for attacks, which can cut through wood up close, but the further the target, the more they dissipate. Therefore, the battle begins with a skirmish at a distance of one to two hundred meters, transitioning into close combat.
So, despite both sides seeing the enemy, they were in no hurry to attack. Too early.
Near the largest building of the Orc base, I noticed Thrall sitting on a massive black wolf. The Warchief was also focused on the sky. Then he raised his hammer to the sky, and it lit up with lightning. The Ghouls were getting closer. Everyone seemed frozen in anticipation. Waiting... waiting...
Finally, Doomhammer flashed even brighter, and lightning struck the Ghouls.
"FOR THE HORDE!" someone yelled, but I didn't hear who.
I didn't have time for that anyway. Everyone unfroze, and to the collective roar of Orcs, Trolls, the lowing of Tauren, and everyone else, nets, arrows, spears, and javelins flew at the Undead. The Ghouls responded with a collective howl, darting aside, dodging, and sending magical sickles at the defenders. Not all the creatures were saved. Some had their bodies pierced by spears and, if the wound was serious, began to descend while flapping their wings furiously. Not forgetting to scream and shoot, of course. There were also those who got tangled in the nets.
Relatively small monsters, unable to free themselves, began to fall to the ground, either gracefully or like sacks of flour. Those that fell within the base immediately engaged in close combat with the Brutes. Their long sharp claws and teeth were very dangerous in close quarters, but the wounded and partially bound creatures had many more vulnerable zones. And the Orcs had heavy axes and a sincere desire to kill.
I also joined the shooting. Not with large ice spears, but with small, long, sharp darts with wave-like "blades" that left frost and long cuts on the Ghouls' bodies. Not much damage, but with my amount of Mana, I could form and fire them with the speed of a machine gun. Wings were shredded just like that. What didn't die would freeze and fall, where the Orcs would deal with them. Again, I could have hit them with ice spears or magical arrows; that was possible. But there were many enemies in the air; while I killed one, another twenty were disemboweling someone else.
For example, the Ghouls managed to widen a gap and get into an Orc burrow where workers were hiding. They weren't much as fighters; limbs flying out the door and a severed head were very telling. A Goblin standing nearby simply tossed several grenades inside, not caring at all about the survival of the Orcs within. He almost died from another creature trying to drive its claws into his back. But I reacted and knocked the creature down with a series of shots. Then the Goblin himself turned and drove a knife into the monster's belly. The Ghoul immediately turned to stone, trying to survive. The Goblin simply placed a grenade in its stony, toothy mouth and ran away.
Yes, the Ghouls fought back. An incautious Brute stepped too close to a fallen creature, and the Ghoul's released magical blade literally disemboweled him. A swarm of creatures reached the defensive towers and engaged in close combat with the ballista crews. They attacked in numbers, throwing Orcs down, tearing and gutting them. They collapsed one tower by cutting through the supports with their magic.
The trees didn't have a good time either. Magical blades cut off branches like the sharpest axe. And even if it took many such hits, with a large number of Ghouls circling over the base, the tree rapidly lost mass and became helpless.
Still, the Ghouls were starting to run out. In close combat, the Trolls and Orcs were handling them. A Troll Witch Doctor with a huge backpack leaned over a wounded Orc with a torn belly; various totems and sticks with figures and drawings hung on his back. He stuck one such pole into the ground, with a plaque depicting someone's face, and at the top, between the "horns" of the figure on the stick, lightning danced. And the Orc's wounds began to close. And not just his—everyone's around him. Well now. That clearly wasn't ordinary magic.
A new volley of nets, and five more creatures plummeted uncontrollably to the ground, where axes fell upon their bodies. This attack was repelled...
"Dragon!" someone roared almost in my ear; I practically jumped.
A second later, I had to dodge. The lizard appeared suddenly, passing right over the trees, so no one noticed it until the last moment. Not a living creature, but a skeleton, ten to fifteen meters long. Huge wings with scraps of skin, glowing blue magical eyes in the skull, an icy heart beating behind the ribs, and icy mist swirling in its maw. I tried to drive a Fireball in there, but the dragon refused to die. Instead, the lizard hovered, looking around, and the frost around it only increased.
"It's gonna breathe! Scatter!" someone yelled.
The serpent exhaled frost at the base of the nearest tower, and rapidly growing ice crystals shattered the supports. With a crunch, it began to tip over; the archers jumped off themselves. The tower hit the ground with a crash, raising a wave of dust. The dragon's second volley hit a tree. It survived, though its "arm" was fixed with a crunch in a pose unnatural for a human. I'd say it had a fracture. But that wasn't the problem. This was a dragon.
"Shoot it down!"
We're trying, we're trying! The lizard didn't care about spears. It didn't care about nets either; it was too big. Magic broke through, but it didn't burn very willingly. It just flew and froze things. I was about to unpack my glove, but it wasn't necessary. The trees, which everyone had slightly forgotten about, went to work. One such stump picked up a boulder the size of a small car and hurled it at the lizard. Remarkably, it worked perfectly. The dragon's skeleton was literally swept away by the hit, crushing a wing and several ribs, and the serpent crashed heavily to the ground.
It didn't die. The lizard, as soon as it fell, scrambled to its feet and exhaled a frost wave, turning the space in front of it into an ice field, freezing the running warriors into ice blocks. I had to distract myself from the Ghouls and send a couple of Fireballs at the lizard, right into the broken part of the skeleton, to get its attention. It worked perfectly; the lizard turned, and our eyes met. There was no emotion in its icy eyes—just another dead monster.
"Just a huge, vicious animal."
Grommash landed on the dragon, screaming like a madman and swinging his axe, which shrieked in flight. The question of exactly who I considered an animal remained hanging in the air. The Orc brought his axe down with force on the dead lizard's leg, and it snapped with a crunch. The dragon, which had just begun to exhale another frost wave, stumbled, and the impulse went wide. This gave the warriors a chance to approach while preventing the dragon from attacking.
Grommash yelled again and drove his axe into the monster's side, crushing ribs and trying to reach the core, ignoring the icy magic radiating in all directions. At first glance, his strikes seemed random, but they weren't. He was hitting joints, weak, damaged points. The dragon roared, trying to reach the Orc with claws and magic, but it couldn't.
That was the end of it. Grommash, like a wild beast, hacked his way to the dead lizard's spine and began to frantically crush it. Until the dragon's head was severed and the magical flame within it died out. The Ghouls were finished too. The Orc, making sure everything was dead, climbed onto the skull and yelled:
"The Horde is victorious! They are dead!"
"YEEEEAAAAAAHHHH!" the whole area roared, and I... found myself among those shouting.
Ahem, nobody saw anything. I'm not even here. And yet, we won. The attack was repelled—one of many. How many more would there be. I looked around; many wounded remained on the battlefield, buildings were damaged by the dragon or Ghoul attacks, ice spikes had split open one of the barracks, and a couple of burrows had bloomed with icy bloody roses. Grommash, busily prying teeth out of the skeleton, noticed my gaze.
"I think it's time for you to head back to your own, Midget. Their battle will start soon too. I'll be there. Don't die."
I nodded; it really was time for me to go. As I left, I heard Grommash's shouts, demanding that "these crooked-faces" carry out repairs right now before the creatures returned. And that wood was easier to replace than stone blocks. If someone would work faster. And ice could be broken with pickaxes. Or someone's thick skull. But the towers had to be ready in half a day, no excuses. Yeah, the dragon had really messed up everyone's life. It didn't destroy that much, but what it did break would be hard to restore. But that wasn't my problem anymore.
The road back was suddenly empty. The porters had vanished, and the sappers too. Except the Shredders were still sawing wood and loading it, but that was obviously their job. About ten Goblin riflemen with guns had gathered near the sawyers. And four Ghoul corpses were lying there. So, it wasn't just Ghouls coming from the air.
The Human camp met me with the same bustle as the Orc one. Except there were no traces of a rampaging dragon here, but there were many Night Elf archers. Those same ones, yeah, the Tarzans—or rather, Tarzan-ettes. It seemed the Night Elves had sent reinforcements to the front line. Judging by the activity on the walls... I checked with a sentry.
"Did the Undead come?"
The man nodded.
"Yes, Surveyor. The attack was repelled. The creatures gnawed at the walls, and—" he pointed to a tower, clearly breached and emitting a familiar green mist, "—they're poisoning us, the bastards."
Three Priests had already gathered near the damaged tower, providing aid to the victims. And workers were hauling away the damaged stones. I nodded.
"Good, I'll head there."
The closer to the wall, the more troops there were. On the walls stood marksmen with rifles—humans and Dwarves, judging by the uniforms and the emblems on the stone. Warriors loitered nearby, ready to repel a breach in the defenses. Behind the wall stood detachments of archers, and further back, Dwarven mortar teams were deployed. And yes, the archers were Elven. I could clearly see the little soldiers looking at the Night Elf women with great interest. Muscular, shapely, and wearing a minimum of clothing, the archers clearly didn't mind. At least some of them were openly posing, hee-hee.
Then there were the dryads. Now, those I was truly seeing for the first time. They're like centaurs, but instead of a horse half, it's a deer's. But that wasn't what interested me. Their upper halves weren't quite Elven either. For example, their hair was clearly of plant origin—literally vines with leaves. Some had horns. And for some, one or both arms were wooden. I mean literally, skin transitioning into wood. Usually, it was the hand gripping a spear, bow, or staff. In the male version of the dryad, both arms had a wooden appearance, and the fingers ended in impressive-looking claws.
One of the "clawed" ones noticed my attention—I had slowed the walker to get a better look at them—and she made a scratching motion with her wooden hand. She clearly saw that I was looking specifically at the limb. I smirked and responded with the same gesture, extending my claws. The dryad laughed at this and began whispering to the others as I drove on.
I passed a mountain giant, which I didn't recognize at all at first. I mean, there was a crag overgrown with vines that I hadn't seen here before. What was it doing here? But when the crag moved, I got a better look at "him." A massive giant, as tall as a three-story building. Not the neat, carved Dalaran Golems, but a rough-looking living rock overgrown with vines. Such a boulder could just lie on the ground, covered in moss and creepers, and no one would guess it could stand up and crush you.
The Crane, its limbs clattering, approached the wall, and I nearly flinched as I caught the gaze of a dozen tigers at once. Night Elf Huntresses, the ones wearing proper armor. They were positioned away from the main forces, near the dryads and mortars. I don't know what the cats and their mistresses didn't like about me, but they didn't even bother to restrain their pets. I snorted, shifting the grenade launcher into combat position. If you think I was impressed, I wasn't.
"Surveyor Davilinia!" Jaina, who had noticed me from her position on the wall, called out to prevent a conflict. "We need to immediately assess the location of the Undead. We didn't expect their forces to arrive so quickly. I was able to sense their presence, but we need to understand how many forces are out there."
I nodded.
"On it. Just a moment, I'll set up the table."
I opened the container on the rear of the walker, taking out the mechanical birds under the interested gazes of many large cats. This time, the Elves took them under control, and no one bothered me. A few commands from the gauntlet, and they took to the sky, while I had to pull out the field version of the tactical table. It was folding—we didn't make it that way for nothing.
These tactical tables were the most expensive and useful order from the Theramore military. Several birds with standard commands programmed in, allowing for Territory Control around a given point in the field. And an illusory projector-table acting as the center and landmark for those very birds.
The range wasn't great, and the birds were frankly slow-witted if you jerked them around too much. But for the task at hand—flying forward until a sufficient number of Undead markers were revealed—it was enough. And if I controlled the process myself, with the birds linked directly to the gauntlet, the Mana consumption increased, but the control became much finer. And if my personal birds were involved, I could even get a "first-person" view if needed.
While the birds were flying, I looked at Tyrande Whisperwind. The High Priestess was here with Jaina, on her standard-issue tiger. But Malfurion Stormrage was absent; apparently, he was preparing wisps, doing Druidic dances with a tambourine. Naturally, those present didn't even notice me—just another subordinate who could be given an order. But for me, it was important. Those same leaders of the Night Elves would look at my creations in the future and might remember. They'd say, "Yes, we saw her, it was good." And when I do what I intend to do...
It seemed to me the tigers were more than interested in watching the "birds." Truly a grateful audience. Including Tyrande's cat, while the priestess herself stood apart, next to Jaina and the newly arrived Thrall.
The priestess herself... beautiful, what can I say. She didn't look old at all—about thirty, just right, so to speak. Bright white eyes, green hair down to her chest, which went well with her purple skin. And she hadn't forgotten to put on Armor. Her thighs were exposed, and there was a cutout on the chest, but otherwise—it was quite the Armor made of some white material visually resembling bone, though I was sure it wasn't. Something thin, but surely expensive and durable, decorated with green and blue gemstones, quite large ones, some glowing with magic. Her gaze was proud, clearly showing who she considered the boss and that everyone else was an aboriginal. And yes, her height was the standard two meters for a Night Elf, meaning I only came up to her chest.
I liked the tiger more. Huge, the size of a good, well-fed brown bear, white and very fluffy. Probably ate all the deer in the area. It was lying down, looking bored.
Alright, enough distractions; we're approaching the Undead positions. The image is coming through now; the first markers are already in the construct's line of sight. Oh, an owl! White, transparent, and glowing, and I can even guess whose it is. A flying scout of that same Priestess of Elune. Another owl, and a third. It's one of two things: either the Undead brought unique polar owls from Northrend that aren't afraid of the dead, or the Night Elves are doing the same thing I'm about to do—sending out scouts and looking through their eyes. I'm almost certain that big bird belongs to the High Priestess. Well, fine, my birds can create a tactical map. Can yours?
Five kilometers away, the first violet markers appeared, and soon there were an indecent number of them. One of the birds banked to avoid a collision. Three Necropolises were hovering over the Undead base, and two more were in the distance—apparently their reserve bases. Let's see what interesting things we have here.
"Lady Jaina," I called to the superior. "Necropolises at the position. Six kilometers. They've already begun deployment."
On the rune-covered and Enchanted plate lying on the ground, divided into segments, violet markers began to appear, growing illusory "flesh." A Necropolis, Ziggurats, a crypt, a slaughterhouse—they were already unpacking and forming infrastructure.
I looked at the Elves with superiority; however, they couldn't see anything because of my helmet.
"We only expected them by evening," the sorceress exhaled, "but this... it looks like they arrived a day early."
Tyrande Whisperwind nodded.
"Demons are strong and cunning. Underestimating them and their servants is a direct path to defeat."
I think everyone heard the jab at the "lesser races," even if they didn't comment. Well, yes, the Night Elves can litter the whole area with sentinel owls; we have less Mechanics. And the Elven marksmen took a very active part in reducing the amount of that Mechanics.
"Demons do this so we not notice," noted a Troll who had approached—someone unfamiliar, not Vol'jin. "It be not easy."
Jaina nodded, peering at the map. Then she turned to me.
"Not easy. Davilinia, you need to fly over the territory. We must ensure the Demons haven't prepared other surprises for us."
I gave a slight bow.
"Yes, Lady Jaina."
And I stepped aside so as not to interfere. The bosses are big; let them do the thinking. And yes, I was still listening to the command conversations. Tyrande Whisperwind said we need to hold out for another four to six days. Almost a week. It's naive to think the Demons and Undead will just sit and wait all that time.
And they didn't. The flyover wasn't even finished when the attack began. It wasn't hard to notice; the passage from the base had been cleared, partly by the Elves themselves, to avoid problems with detection and line of fire toward the enemy. The Undead move quite fast and are dangerous in close combat; it's best not to give them cover.
I, meanwhile, watched the process from above, from a distance safe from marksmen. And I reported to the command, who were more occupied with discussion. Overall, my job here was the same as it was during the liberation of Grommash. To watch from the heavens for those who cannot see otherwise. Thrall has Far Sight, for example, though he too was looking at the map to see the overall picture.
The technical part of the base bothered me a bit. As before, it was divided into two parts. Typical Nerubian architecture for the Undead sat alongside black-and-green Demonic and technical infrastructure. Helicopter landing pads, Dwarven tanks, gun crews. Howitzers. And yes, they looked like Dwarven tanks but with longer barrels. Reminiscent of the "Basilisks" of the Imperial Guard. The crew for all this gear was quite diverse: Skeletons, something like Death Knights, and Demons in robes. Yes, they looked like cultists, but shorter and more rounded.
Demons and Undead replenish their troops differently. The Undead come from portals usual for a Mage; apparently, they are gathered from other places. Perhaps from the Eastern Kingdoms. Or not, I don't know. But the Demons crawl out of an arched portal. Rune-glowing columns with a crossbar, and in the resulting arch, a green-violet vortex of Fel, from which more and more Demons and mechanisms emerge and drive out.
And it extremely bothered me that in the Undead camp, on its far edge, stood a dozen Fel Reavers. And they were in no hurry to join the attack, trying to stay further away. An eleventh one just stepped out of the portal vortex. But it went back to the far part of the camp and stood there. Suspicious. What are they planning?
"Gathering. Catapults, Ghouls, and Abominations. Felhunters, Doomguards... two. Strange... Archimonde is absent from the base. Tanks, helicopters, and cannons. Serious forces."
And again, Felhunters, small Demon-mechanics—rounded, hunchbacked, and toothy. The small fry went to the Fel Reavers, the dogs to the attackers. And then the attackers set into motion.
"It's starting."
At first glance, this attack looked utterly chaotic. The Undead didn't try to choose any formation, except that the catapults stood apart. One moment they were just standing there, barely moving. And then this entire mass simultaneously set into motion, rushing toward our positions, accelerating faster and faster in a single wave. Behind the dead, at a short distance, came the Demons, and behind them—the siege engines. It was quite clear what would happen next: the Undead would take the damage so the Demons could reach us and engage in close combat. If they reached us.
"Ready! Aim! Fire!"
The Dwarven cannons let out a Salvo, and the shells whistled into the sky, making the nearby Elven soldiers wince. Apparently, they weren't used to the roar. The Dwarves began quickly rolling new shells into the barrels. I shifted my attention to the bird flying over the attackers.
The dead came in a flood; hundreds and thousands of corpses trudged, crawled, and ran forward in a loose formation. Among the ordinary Zombies, Abominations lumbered, and Ghouls picked their way through like animals. From the sky and in magical vision, this was a multitude of violet dots on the gray-black Cursed Land. Among the crowds of Undead, the first high-explosive shells launched by the Dwarves began to burst. And behind them—shells from catapults, splashing black burning sludge in all directions. The dead didn't stop, except for those who were in the impact zone, who slowed down. A number of them were torn to pieces.
"The enemy is preparing catapults."
They reached their position, after which they immediately fired a Salvo. The Meat Wagon serves as both a catapult and a corpse storage in a crate. These are used both for firing and by Necromancers. And the machines arrived at the position already loaded.
"Everyone, get ready!"
Bloated bodies showered the wall and the defenders; the bodies exploded into violet and green poisonous mist. Those affected began to wheeze and suffocate; some fell from the walls, running away. Toward where the priests were already waiting to catch them. The poison was magical; if it couldn't be cured, the suffering of these people could at least be alleviated.
"Fire!"
The Dwarven artillery fired back, this time targeting the catapults with precision. I had to work as a spotter, reporting which hit where.
"First—over by twenty. Second, third—hit, destroyed. Fourth—three short, damaged. Fifth, sixth—over by ten. Seventh—hit. Eighth—short by five, damaged..."
A new Salvo of catapults, more corpses hit the positions. They aren't aiming precisely, but they don't need to. The troops are gathered on and behind the walls, and it's enough for the Demons not to hit the wall itself for damage to be dealt. However, the defenders realized this themselves.
"Wyverns from the north."
Trolls on Wyverns, armed with pots of incendiary mixture. I, by the way, found out exactly what they load in there. The base is oil bought from Goblins. To which they add a few herbs and some chemistry obtained from the mines to the southwest. Yes, in the area where we received the dragons. As a result, this junk heats up to quite indecent levels, burning everything that can be, if not burned, then at least melted. Actually, that's what the Trolls did: they waited until the main Undead forces moved away from the catapults, then dived on them, pelted them with incendiaries, and let them smoke.
"Enemy artillery suppressed."
And that meant the Orc catapults and mortars switched from the Meat Wagons to the advancing Undead forces, helping the marksmen and Mages. On the path of the dead, utter hell broke loose. Snowstorms adjacent to seals of fire. Explosions of high-explosive and incendiary shells. I even had an association with Hell. Scorched earth, unbearable heat adjacent to incredible cold that freezes flesh and cracks bone. And among all this, dead souls survive, experiencing unbearable suffering. Literally Hell! And there are imps too.
"The Undead are Retreating."
"Cease fire!"
The joint forces held the first blow well. I smiled to myself and continued gathering intelligence.
Following the first attack was a second. This one came through the forest from the south, where the marksmen and artillery couldn't work properly; the thousand-year-old forest interfered, withstanding shells simply due to trunks several meters in diameter. Here the Night Elves showed themselves well, easily staying at a height and attacking the not-too-maneuverable Undead and Demons with bows. And even a Pit Lord with Doomguards didn't help them; ballistae loaded with long stakes pierced the giant's defense. And the Druids set the forest itself on the Demons. Trees came to life, grabbing and tearing the dead and Demons. After which they moved aside, literally digging themselves up and, picking their way with roots, cleared a line of fire for us.
Perhaps the Night Elves aren't useless at all. And yet... it's all too easy. We repelled the first attacks with no problems at all, with minimal losses. I don't like any of this. Especially since there are already nearly thirty Fel Reavers in the camp. I brought this to the command's attention. Jaina nodded but spread her hands.
"We can't do anything about them right now. We'll keep it in mind, but for now, we should solve problems as they appear."
Meanwhile, evening was falling. Clouds covered the moon; the night promised to be dark. Ideal conditions for an attack. Except the Dwarves didn't agree. With a hiss, another shell whistled into the sky, blooming like a bright white sun over the camp. The Dwarves had illumination shells with them. In the night, they left a smoke trail behind them while the brightly burning artificial sun descended, creating longer and longer shadows. But giving enough light to track the enemy's actions.
This allowed the night attack of the Undead to be noticed in advance, concentrating forces on and behind the wall and subjecting the next wave of dead to a hurricane of fire.
FZZZZZZZZZUUUUUUUUUU, BOOMMMM!
And the Undead had howitzers. I told you it was too simple!
FZZZZZZZZZUUUUUUUUUU, BOOMMMM! FZZZZZZZZZUUUUUUUUUU, BOOMMMM!
Shells rained down on and behind the wall, shrouding everything in stinking smoke, scattering grapeshot, tearing the living apart. The tent where the tactical table was set up shuddered as shrapnel left many holes in it. I only flinched when they made my Mana-shield flare up. Need to find the artillery, fast.
Boom! BOOMM! BOOOMMMMMM!
Venidan ran into the tent. She screamed—it seemed she had been deafened:
"Davi, let's get out of here! We won't survive this!"
BOOOMMMMMM!
I just waved her off.
"Need to find the howitzers! Fast! The Undead are crawling in!"
I'm scared, truly scared. Every explosion shakes me from the inside. The only reason I didn't run is the inner voice. The brat is very vividly describing how the terror-stricken minds of those around me, unfamiliar with such things, are easily broken. How I should bend them to my will now, when they are so vulnerable. Armies of puppets ready to protect me, to fulfill my will, my smallest whims...
Having listened to such interesting ideas and focused on controlling the birds, I managed to somehow abstract myself from the unfolding disaster.
"Midget, you don't understand! Get out of here!"
Something blew up very close, after which something collapsed with a crash. Venidan, giving up on everything, grabbed me and, using the cast levitation, dragged me toward the exit of the already smoldering tent.
Outside, it's a total mess. The wall, made of wood, has a mass of holes and shattered boulders, which the Druids are frantically trying to close by moving trees there. The barracks closest to the wall has collapsed, as have almost half the towers. Craters are everywhere, and the remains of those who didn't manage to hide lie around. It's clear they're firing chaotically—the craters are very unevenly placed—but there's clearly more than one gun. At least a dozen, I think.
FZZZZZZZZZUUUUUUUUUU, BOOMMMM!
Another explosion occurred at a considerable distance. No one was hit, but the Orcs and the Elf woman hiding in the crater flinched, huddling closer. At the same time, the firing doesn't stop; an attack is still coming at us. The claps of shots and flashes of spells haven't gone anywhere; the artillery, those who remain, are also firing. And meanwhile, the horn-head is dragging me toward the town hall, which has lost a couple of towers and has quite a few craters around it. Still, the accuracy of the Undead's creation is clearly non-existent.
"Veni!"
The Rogue turned around but continued to drag me.
"What?"
"The attack is continuing! We need to go back! Fast! We'll flood them with magic!"
Veni stopped, especially since Dartaola joined us.
"No need," the Paladin replied, "I feel the power. Over there."
We turned toward the wall, peering where the Paladin pointed. To where, on the destroyed wall, among the debris, stood Tyrande Whisperwind. As if waiting for that, the clouds hiding the moon suddenly parted. And the moonlight illuminated everything. But most of all—the priestess. Her white Armor seemed to light up from within, creating an almost ghostly shimmer around the woman's body. I can't see her face, but I'd give a lot to be closer and from a different angle. It's... majestic? Divine? Stunning?
Probably, if I were a real child, I would have approached after such a demonstration with a request to tell me about Elune. Even now, despite all my cynicism, I couldn't NOT look. My heart was pounding wildly, the inner voice shut up, and I'm sure—it's afraid to show itself.
The priestess, meanwhile, raised her hands to the sky. A beam of light hit her, illuminating her even brighter, and a crescent moon image appeared above the priestess. Tyrande began to speak, and her voice resonated deep inside. And it couldn't be made quieter by the screams, the roar of the Undead and Demons, and even the howl of the shells receded into the background. It's something... inside us.
"Arama sh'nala fasima nemelia boranna… manoria fesala maranor… mal'nala fal!"
And the stars began to fall. Bright dots showered from the heavens, and though the walls hid them, I have a helmet. And on it—the image from the bird, fortunately, the light of divine wrath is bright enough. The Undead flare up with white flame as the rain of lights falls precisely upon them. No misses; the shells land exactly on target, igniting and destroying. Ghouls only need a couple of hits to go silent. Abominations—more. The Demons slowed down, growling and trying to shake off the white flame, writhing as if they couldn't bear this pain. The attack sputtered out, and after a few minutes, only rare volleys and the cries of the wounded reminded us of what had just happened. The Undead burned in the divine light of the moon.
I found myself standing on my knees. And the tears couldn't be wiped away; there's a helmet on my head. Damn... I'm dangerously close to just giving up and actually approaching the priestesses. This is... stunning. A real influence of a divine presence. And I don't care what those around me think. All this... I used to perceive priests as just another subspecies of Mages; I didn't understand. And now I see and am trying to put the template back together. I felt HER presence, I'm sure. I... just don't know what to do with this.
"Dartaola?"
The Paladin, who had been looking at the priestess all this time, asked unusually quietly:
"Yes, Davilinia?"
"If Paladins learn to do that, I'll believe in the Holy and go to a monastery. Any one you want. I'm not joking."
The Elf sighed.
"Alas."
Uh-huh. If we survive, I'll actually approach some priestess and ask her to tell me more. I think if I mention Tyrande's ultimate, she'll understand. I'm not saying I'm going to sign up to be a priestess. But at the very least, I want to know more.
After such an attack, the Undead didn't move much more until dawn. Simply because the priestess's influence burned out everything that was crawling in, and they needed to accumulate fresh forces. We didn't wait either. I managed to sleep for about four hours, after which I pulled out Billy and began helping the Dwarves dig in. As it turned out, they are perfectly familiar with the concept of trenches and bunkers. So during the night, they partially dismantled the walls, leaving fortifications around the towers, but we gained a very decent network of trenches. Everyone who could worked, including the Orcs, who brought a bunch of laborers, and the Night Elves, who harnessed Treants for this. It turned out quite well. The Orcs explained that when they finish here, they intend to build trenches at their base, so they need to understand how it's done. The Dwarves promised to send specialists. By the way, the Night Elves began planting and growing trees over the bunkers, creating additional protection from hits.
The problem is relevant; the artillery fires from time to time, reminding us of its presence. The Dwarves try to respond with what they have, but there are no idiots on that side either. I managed to find six cannons; we destroyed three of them, and three moved to a new position. And there are at least a dozen more there, most likely—more.
In the morning, a new attack began. It started with a hurricane artillery bombardment. But this time, the losses were much smaller. It's still scary as hell. But the trees and trenches protected the soldiers. Redoubts and embankments were made around the mortars, as well as around the catapults, to protect them from fragments. The towers suffer, but there's nothing to be done about it. Except to pile all the excavated sand into bags and strengthen the base of the towers as best as possible. And with logs from the fence. What they managed to do during the night, they did.
And then, as the first time, the Undead surged. I don't know who thought what, but after Tyrande's demonstration, everyone was much calmer. The wounded were delivered at a high pace to bunkers hidden under trees, where priests heal them and return them to the ranks. And the Priestesses of Elune, when necessary, brought divine light down upon the enemy. By the way, Alastir too—I saw him.
The next attack was stronger than the previous one. Another hurricane bombardment, but this time they aimed up, at the artillery. And also, Infernals showered from the heavens...
"Just what we needed, this junk..."
They showered right into the trenches. To their regret, trees can not only take damage but also know how to hit back. And also the warriors, almost uninvolved in the defense before this, joined the battle. The attack sputtered out.
"I don't like any of this," I shared with Dartaola, "it's going too easily somehow. And also, Archimonde has come to the camp."
This archdemon, as far as I remember, doesn't lack patience. Which means if we were being warmed up before, now we will be crushed. Which the Demon himself didn't forget to inform us. His voice wasn't a scream, but it carried over the mountain; everyone heard it.
"Hear me, mortals. I am your doom! I am Archimonde the Defiler! Do you think your pathetic defense will stop me, Night Elves? My servants will crush it before sunset!"
I cursed quietly.
"Now the real shit begins."
The Demons began the attack immediately. Minimum Undead, maximum Demonic beasts. Everything that had been accumulating. Nathrezim, a Pit Lord, a pack of Liches, and their Demonic entourage. Doomguards. All this seasoned with artillery and machines of dead Dwarves. Against our exhausted Defensive Line.
Here I already had to stop caring about everything, unholster the gauntlets, the concentrate, and burn. A hurricane bombardment of everything we had left fell upon the Demons. Thrall set Elementals on them. I fired three shots from the gauntlet, having gorged on concentrate, and now I feel unwell. Tyrande once again called for the goddess's help, which I stared at. Partly because it allowed the pain to be eased and another shot to be made after a bottle of concentrate.
Unfortunately, that was the end of my authority; I had to return to the tactical table. But each of my shots destroyed one truly giant Demon.
The Demons endured everything. Last time, the power of Elune made them stop, but this time they apparently feared Archimonde too much. They continued to attack, ignoring everything. Demons fell, burned, and exploded; Infernals crumbled; Felhunters writhed from the Holy light of the Paladins and Priestesses of Elune. But they continued to move forward.
Thrall created a firestorm, continuing to burn Demons by the hundreds. They continued to move forward. Through snowstorms and fire vortices, withstanding fireballs and dying from them. The fear of Archimonde was stronger than any other, and they came.
"Little One?"
I looked up from my observation and almost jumped back from the shaggy face that was half a meter from my helmet. Maybe he understood something, but he grunted. Bastard.
"Yes, Grommash?"
"Apply fire resistance. And make it quick."
I fulfilled the request, pouring in as much as I could.
"Done. Tear them apart."
The Orc grunted.
"That's why we're here."
The Demons reached the Defensive Line; Frost Wyrms in the sky joined the battle with Wyverns, but I simply don't have time to watch that. For the first trees flared up, destroyed by the mighty blows of the Pit Lord.
"FOR THE WARSONG CLAN!"
When Grommash, screaming furiously and swinging Gorehowl, flew into the Demon's face. I wonder who threw him like that, but he landed his axe exactly in the Demon's face. The latter recoiled, splashing bright green blood full of Fel. And it worked.
"For THE HORDE!"
"FOR LORDAERON!"
"FOR THERAMORE!"
The warriors, emboldened by the sight of the Demon being sliced into pieces, rushed forward, hacking into the Demonic host. The Paladins burst in with them, among whom I noticed Dartaola, who had grown wings of Holy light and was swinging a blade charged with light. I remember she couldn't do that before. That's what fighting Demons with Elves does. A zone of gravity spread around her—an aura slowing the blows of the Demons, who seemed to have fallen into a viscous sludge. And the blade of light cut through a Demonic warrior along with his naginata. And then another.
The priests, positioned behind, used their power to heal and help. Troll healers helped them, standing in the same rank as those they had fought for millennia. And yes, I remember that the Darkspear tribe didn't fight us for that long. But the enmity between Elves and Trolls is a long-standing matter.
"We're managing."
The attack sputtered out. The Demons fell one by one, leaving a plowed field strewn with the frames of machines and catapults, craters, the remains of Demons and Infernals exuding Fel. A lunar landscape with a magical tint of corruption.
"Now it will take them a lot of time to gather a new army. Undead, Demons. We can hope the night will be more or less quiet."
I can understand. We took colossal damage; the Front Line is burned out, a third of the trees are destroyed, it's full of wounded and enough killed. But we stood our ground. And Archimonde will need a lot of resources to gather another such attack. Which means we've won time. For a few hours, there really was nothing; the sun began to tilt toward sunset, showing that Archimonde hadn't kept his word. The forces that came out of the portal, by my estimates, were still too few.
And then the ground began to shake. It took me a couple of seconds to realize what it was, switch to the right bird, and curse.
"Oh..." Venidan muttered, having seen the same thing I did.
The Fel Reavers set into motion. Previously, they had been hiding in the far part of the base, and they had almost been forgotten. Now the giant mechanisms came forward, realigning for an attack. Three rows, positioned diagonally relative to each other, like checkers. They all tower over the forest, looking at us with their eyes and glowing with furnaces full of Fel. If the road became extremely difficult for ordinary Demons and Undead, for them... I don't think they'll even notice the obstacle.
And then the mechanisms simultaneously began to walk. The first row, followed diagonally by the second and third.
Venidan cursed. And I completely agree with her.
***
***
Read early on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Granulan