A week of flying over the forests, fields, and villages of Quel'Thalas later, we finally found the Goblins. Though "found" is a strong word. In fact, we stumbled upon them by accident; otherwise, we could have been flying for another week.
I got the impression that the Magister was intentionally not helping us, making us fly everywhere except where we needed to be. I'm certain of this because the Goblin camp was located just a few kilometers from the southern wall. Right where the army is gathering near Silvermoon. Or rather, not the army itself, but the southern perimeter—the part that fends off the Undead pushing from the south, trying to catch the Elf army in a pincer movement. Actually, the Goblin tower is perfectly visible from the Elf positions.
The Elves in this camp trade with the Goblins, refugees are actively flying away on Goblin zeppelins, and the Magister could have told us about this. But he didn't, forcing us to scour the territory in search of a fairly small dot on the map. Naturally, I asked:
"Teacher, why did you stay silent?"
The crow replied in a bored voice:
"I had no reason to interact with the supply forces and the southern perimeter. In the end, you succeeded, apprentice."
I tried to force him to confess, asking questions, looking for inconsistencies, but the answers were vague and non-committal. He never once directly admitted that he knew about the Goblins. I have no direct proof, so I just have to accept reality as it is. And assume that the Magister didn't want to let a child into the center of the battle.
The fact that the "child" in the process of saving civilians had encountered the consequences of magical poisoning, mastered a course in emergency medical aid, Elven-style, burned out slaughterhouses and packs of Ghouls eating fresh meat—apparently, that doesn't count as "hardcore." Nor does watching civilian Elves wasting away from toxic energy. Also a very lovely activity, just right for a teenage girl. I even had to go into melee against gargoyles; those "birds" swooped in while we were handing out potions to civilians. But at least I didn't end up on the front lines right away, yeah.
It happened like this. We landed the Pepelats near another convoy to help the locals with mana. And to ask about the possible location of the Goblins, or if not them, then Scourge bases for clearing. Somehow it turned out that none of the people we met had contacted the Goblins, or at least claimed they hadn't. Just no one; all the answers were negative. Yeah, I believe you. But I have no proof to the contrary, so we'll just help with mana and fly on to keep searching.
Anyway, we disembarked, having checked the territory of course, and went to share Alchemy with the caravan. The sight was... eerie. A plague caravan, damn it. At the very least, the participants didn't look healthy. Pale, haggard, they were shivering and stumbling. There were no healthy people in principle, whether among the civilians or the soldiers.
As it turned out when we introduced ourselves, these were residents of Silvermoon. They accepted our help and began to divide and distribute the potions so they would reach as many Elves as possible. They told us many interesting things in the process. And nothing pleasant.
"We weren't ready; no one was ready for it to be like this. Just after another spell, the pain rushed in, everything went blurry. We didn't understand what was happening, didn't know what to do. Some looked for a healer, some tried to help themselves. More magic meant stronger poisoning. We tried to recover as best we could. But we only made it worse."
Dartaola immediately asked:
"But the Mages, the nobility—no one said anything?"
The slightly trembling, pale Elf shook his head sharply, even jerkily.
"No, nothing, nothing at all. There was some unrest in the city, but not much; no one was even surprised. We thought someone important was arriving and the city was being prepared for a celebration. We were wrong. When the illnesses started, no one understood right away either. No one can say exactly when the first dead appeared; we were too busy. And then there was just panic. We fled as best we could, wherever we could. The sick, the fighters, the Undead—they were everywhere. Chaos, death. In this caravan are those who thought to flee to the city gates before the guards closed them."
We listened in silence. And only when the twitchy Elf finished did Venidan clarify:
"What about by sea? On ships? There were ships there; you could have tried them. A whole port of damn ships!"
The Elf spread his hands.
"Forgive me, we weren't thinking of that. Perhaps they were able to escape too. I don't know."
No one knew. The stories of all the survivors were quite similar: felt a severe malaise, no one understood anything, Undead appeared in the city, fled through the gates while it was still possible. Only later did they find out it was from magic and that The Sunwell was poisoned.
At that moment, the notification system built into my helmet went off. More precisely, the system itself is on the Pepelats, but I'd plugged a simple alerter into the helmet if new targets appeared on the radar. The bad news was that I simply didn't have time to determine where they were coming from.
A moment later, several Elves fell through the ground; screams of terror rang out. I flew higher, raising my gauntlets and extending the claws into combat mode.
"Underground! They're coming from below!"
At that moment, the ground beneath my feet heaved and split open, revealing a circular burrow from which a multitude of small eyes stared at me, set into a head with large mandibles and the chitinous body of an insect. A Nerubian. Huge, three meters high and five meters long, we locked eyes. My two eyes and its twelve. And for some reason, I was sure that in its gaze was hunger—limitless hunger directed at such an appetizing me.
And to add to the impression, the huge insects were covered in small beetles—scarabs the size of a fist. The spider twitched its legs, and a swarm of these little things rushed up toward me, only to hit the mana shield and fall back into the burrow. Simultaneously with the small fry, the big one tried to grab me by the legs with its huge mandibles, clearly intending to drag me into its hole. And there, to commit terrible outrages! No way!
"Hans!!!" I shrieked, sending a fireball into the burrow out of pure disgust. "Eat that, you freak! Burn! Burn!"
The burrow turned into a furnace, from which, after shoving me aside, the huge creature leaped out. Yes, a huge, five-meter-tall, six-legged insectoid beast, hissing something disgruntled and foul, leaped out of the burrow, shaking off the fire, with a swarm of small fry swirling around it. Fine then, fire didn't impress you—let's try frost. No one had banned frost spears. It was enough for the creature; it began to wheeze and grumble, twitching and trying to reach the stakes stuck in its back.
Finally, the Nerubian collapsed onto its back and stopped twitching; the flight of the surviving small fry became more chaotic and random. They immediately lost all interest in me, apparently sizing up their own dead master to eat. Just in case, I added another icicle; I'll have to cut it open later and study the physiology to know where to strike. Now I could look around.
The ship's turrets started working, but the purple beams and flashes were flying not at the Nerubians, but over the trees, into the distance. It seemed the golems had found an enemy in the air as well, though it wasn't visible behind the trees yet. Well, fine, am I a Mage or just out for a stroll? Right nearby, the ground exploded in a fountain, and another Nerubian crawled out of the hole, covered in small fry. And another one behind it. Gross! I was wrong—they weren't five meters at all, but about six or seven. A huge spider! Apparently, the first one was still a baby. Huge insect bastards! You're so ugly!
"Ugh! Get back, you damn cockroaches!"
I didn't need to worry about mana, at least not right now. A frost wave flooded the next hole, crushing and smashing the arthropods, who found peace with a high-pitched, strained squeak. As if assessing the situation, the ground exploded in two, three, five more places. And from there crawled new Nerubians, spitting webbing and hurling swarms of small fry. Of course, fire would have helped too, but a frost wave covering the ground with numerous sharp icicles was definitely a good option. There was plenty of mana; I could afford not to be stingy with the surroundings.
I spun around, creating a frost barrier that shattered a webbing net. And another one. These spits of webbing hindered movement and drained shields significantly. And immobilized warriors are dead warriors. A spider, having entangled one of the guards from behind with a spit, tried to grab the victim. But a fireball to the face and a volley of magical arrows forced the creature first to retreat, and then simply to collapse without a head. Great, what's next?
The battle raged all around; spiders crawled out of the ground here and there, dragging Elves away or fighting the guards. Not everyone was lucky; screams of pain could be heard—clearly, someone was already being eaten in some of the holes. I'll find out later why the tracking system didn't find the enemy. For now—frost field! Fireball! Stream of flame! And magical arrows for change! Burn, you bastards, burn!
From two sides at once, swarms of insects hit the shield. The small fry were crawling out from everywhere, buzzing and biting fiercely. If the frost field held back the big ones, the small fry didn't give a damn; they just flew over the frost spikes, fiercely attacking their targets. It was fine for me and the other Mages—we had mana shields—but it was hard for a warrior to deal with a couple of dozen beetles burrowing into any flesh not covered by armor! Burn! Burn, all of you!
"Air!" someone shouted on the battlefield.
Dartaola raised her tower shield along with the other guards, and greenish energy bolts shaped like sickles shattered against it. Glancing at the sky, I noted noseless creatures there, flapping wide, leathery wings. A skull stretched with skin, large ears, claws resembling a bird's. Gargoyles—a whole pack that had flown in from somewhere on the flank. And all this un-dead fauna really wanted a piece of our convoy.
The residents didn't lose their heads; from under the cover of the shields, spells and arrows flew at the gargoyles, piercing bodies and wings, setting them on fire if they hit. Still, the flyers weren't just shooting; they were actively maneuvering. In response, blobs of acid and magic flew back, and a nasty screeching rang out. Several creatures plummeted onto the Elves from above; fortunately, on the surface, gargoyles aren't very mobile. But that doesn't mean they're weak, just clumsy.
The Pepelats was on the surface, but that didn't stop the magical turrets controlled by the golems—they opened fire on the enemy. The gargoyles weren't very large; the torso was comparable to an Elf's. But it was already dead, which made arrows largely ineffective against them.
Magic was better, but even then, not perfect. A fireball shattered against the torso of one of the creatures circling the convoy, singeing it slightly but not destroying it. The gargoyle howled in response, and six of its friends immediately sent magical bolts at the guard protecting a Biotics user. The shield was smashed, and the Elf collapsed, twitching faintly. The Mage left without protection panicked openly but was dragged under a second shield by a fallen comrade's partner.
And then there were the spiders. They burst from the ground here and there, and little scarabs were crawling everywhere, obeying the big ones. The small fry were everywhere, trying to bite into flesh, leaving wounds, and dragging the bitten-out meat to their masters. We crushed them, burned them, froze them, but there were truly many of them and they were truly everywhere, and they just wouldn't end. I just had to give up on any restrictions and flood the area around me with magic, even if I hit my own—it didn't matter. The Pepelats would deal with the gargoyles; if we were eaten here, it would be bad for everyone. Good thing there was nothing big here; the Pepelats would have noticed such an enemy much earlier. Abominations aren't suited for stealthy movement.
The golems from the Pepelats also joined the fray. With a couple of commands from the gauntlets, I ordered them to cover the civilians; we could handle it ourselves here. The fewer targets there were, the less I needed to control during the magical attacks.
Something heavy fell nearby. Turning around, I blocked the clawed strike of a wounded gargoyle with my gauntlet. The creature had lost a wing and part of its organism, which is why it fell. And it didn't die, of course; there was nothing there to die. As long as there were limbs and a body in general, it would survive.
"In the name of the Holy!"
Something behind me grumbled discontentedly; apparently, another Nerubian was finding peace. Good riddance. Just in case, I polished it off with a frost wave. The gargoyle, seeing it couldn't reach with its claws, lunged forward, trying to bite my face. I recoiled; this creepy, noseless creature with teeth an inch long was truly terrifying. Yes, it didn't pierce the shield, but teeth snapping a few dozen centimeters from my face was an unforgettable sight. I really wanted to knock them out. Along with the noseless mug of the creature those teeth belonged to.
"Begone!"
A frost spear to the face blew its mug apart, but it still wasn't in a hurry to die, continuing to try and latch onto my face. I managed not to stumble or fall partly because I was levitating as usual, and the creature was holding me with its claw right over the shield. But it was truly creepy.
A couple more icicles, and the creature finally jumped back. Its skin turned gray, and the gargoyle froze like a statue. Still creepy, but now motionless. And it was regenerating; I could literally see the holes in this stone organism closing up, the figure leveling out—even the wing had started to grow back. No-no-no-no-no! Wait a second, I'll deal with you right now!
I turned around, discharging magical arrows at the small fry; I could afford it. I looked around, satisfied. The enemies were starting to run out. Dartaola and Venidan had moved into melee, actively smashing everything that dared descend from the heavens to the earth. The former with blade and Holy, the latter spinning among the dead, gracefully dodging blows and bending in ways a human simply couldn't physically manage—like a cat. I almost got distracted watching; after all, it's not often I get to see my partner show off her skills in melee.
But I had to look away and return to the gargoyle. The regeneration was noticeable; the wing hadn't grown back yet, but the holes in the body had significantly decreased—another two minutes and it would recover. It was even interesting where this thing got the material for regeneration. Well, whatever. How about some magical arrows at point-blank range?
The purple flashes were quite reluctant, but they began to chip away pieces of the gargoyle. Somewhere after ten hits, the creature stopped petrifying and tried to run, but I had plenty of arrows, and in its non-stone form, the monster's defense was much lower. In short, the beast was finished.
By this happy moment, the battle was over; the attack had been repelled.
"Well, that was quite a stroll."
I always said—magical combat leads to magical destruction. And serious destruction at that. Previously, this had been a forest road, not very frequently used, essentially just a wide enough forest trail for dragging floating containers.
Now—the trees around were broken, the terrain for fifty meters in all directions was covered in a mixture of soil and frost spikes, upon which were impaled charred and hacked-to-pieces Nerubians. Pieces of trees, insect carcasses and gargoyle fragments, burrows from which these creatures had crawled. Some burrows were burning; the Mages had done their work. Over all of this was stretched a multitude of webbing left by the insects; in some, Elves were struggling, being freed by their comrades.
In short, it was very rugged terrain, across which the survivors wandered, looking in the burrows for still-living colleagues and unfinished cockroaches, large and small. Our people were alive, so we could participate in the search for survivors.
So, I not only got into a melee fight but also received a stylish little cloak from an Elven grandmother. She was traveling with her great-great-great... I don't know how many times great-grandchildren. Anyway, they didn't appreciate all my camouflage; they lamented that I was already getting into fights at my age and gave me a basket of rolls and a little cloak. Bright red, with a hood. I'll paint it black later and be able to cosplay Revan, heh-heh. I just need to find a red lightsaber, or I'll end up as a chibi-Revan instead of a Jawa.
Afterward, we conducted some research on our enemy. It quickly became clear that the damn spiders, buried in the Cursed Land, were almost undetectable; when they're buried, they fall into a state resembling suspended animation. Against the general background of the poisoned land, their magical signature is completely lost. Unpleasant; we could have missed other such packs simply because we were moving by air. Gargoyles can do that too, by the way, when they're in stone form. But there was nothing to be done; we continued the search.
So we flew for the whole week, learning about the world and the Undead. During this time, the rocket supply was halved, and the Pepelats acquired a stylish fringe of dirty webbing and scorch marks. And we would have kept flying like that if Veni hadn't noticed a Goblin zeppelin flying over us during her watch on the bridge. After that, she turned on the Cloak and led the Pepelats after it.
And it was the zeppelin that led us to the Goblin tower we were looking for. Veni called us to the bridge to look at what was happening.
"Looks like the Goblins decided to hire a designer," the Rogue chuckled, looking at the scene ahead.
"Agreed. Looks like the Goblins hired a designer."
On the edge of the forest on a hill sat a fairly tall, circular tower, at the top of which, like petals, were docking platforms for zeppelins, one of which was currently docked. It was sharp-nosed, painted red, with "fins" and clearly rocket engines. And the tower itself looked quite solid. Not crudely welded or even unpainted metal, but quite classic stone, polished steel glowing in the sun, clean windows, and even with stained glass of vulgar content. In short... quite lovely.
"And refugees. Lots of refugees," Dartaola noted, looking down.
And that was also true. Around the tower was a whole tent city; judging by the magical traces and numerous visible Elf figures, the people had clearly decided to fly away in comfort. We wouldn't go down there; they'd take the Pepelats by storm. Especially since I could see soldiers too. Whether they were guards or deserters didn't matter. What mattered was that they were there. I pointed to the tower, which had three more free berths.
"Descend at the docking pier; hover there. We'll deliver the cargo and head to the city."
Dartaola frowned and looked at me disapprovingly.
"We can help them."
I nodded. In such a situation, it was easier to explain.
"We can, you're right. As soon as we smash the Sunwell. If you look closely, this camp has guards, and the Elves have money for mana potions. We didn't bring all those mana potions for nothing. And they all look sickly. From here to the Sunwell is quite close, Dartaola. By removing the problem, we'll do better than just getting them hooked on our Alchemy. Veni, take the Pepelats out of optical Cloak so the Goblins don't start firing out of surprise."
It worked partially. The Pepelats appeared about thirty meters from the tower, and the Goblins sitting on the roof with rifles raised their weapons, but lowered them after a few seconds. I rushed down to the airlock, picking up the recommendation letter from Zeltzer on the way. And when the airlock lowered with a hiss, I shouted to the guards:
"Yo, guys. Delivery of goods from Dalaran. Kick the person in charge over here."
Goblins on guard are serious guys. They were dressed in full military uniforms, with rifles, grenades on their belts, and gas masks. They even had helmets, bandoliers on their belts, and some kind of potions. Not full hazmat suits, of course, but they were packed up to their ears. They were the same green, midget-like creatures, but their faces were dead serious.
"How do you prove it?" one asked.
As befits a Goblin, he was midget-sized, a bit shorter than me, with huge ears and a nose. I waved the envelope.
"A letter from Zeltzer Mindflux. Also from Dalaran, a recommendation."
The Goblin took the letter and opened it according to all the rules. In a gas mask, having stepped about ten meters away from the others. He even scanned it with some device with antennae that he took from his belt. I want to see that! And only after that did he take it into the tower.
About five minutes later, their boss came out. Also in armor, plate this time. He inspected the Pepelats and the bored us, then approached quite peaceably.
"Yo, DaVi, right? I'm Burazhor Mindflux, in command of this place and all these guys. Never thought the old man would send someone to this hole."
I jumped from the ramp onto the platform and returned the handshake, applying a bit of enhancement to the gauntlet so it would be firm. Honestly, seriously? Burazhor—borax, a flux for soldering. Burazhor, son of a father named Mindflux... Someone was clearly quite the humorist. However, my smile wasn't visible under the helmet.
"Evening, Burazhor. Your father ordered us to deliver goods right here. And it's not a bad place, why complain?"
The Goblin chuckled.
"Yeah, I read it. So, the goods from you, and from me, a resupply for the flyer, yeah? Refill the rocket supply, if you need other materials, urgent repairs if necessary," he looked over the Pepelats, "looks like you've been in a fight. We'll do it all, on the delivery's tab. By the way, how about making a little money off those people down there? We could use another transit transport; we don't have enough of our own, you see."
He was likely talking about the refugees. But alas.
"No can do, sorry. We're heading straight to the front from here. Need to end this circus."
The Goblin took it quite easily.
"Well, my job is to offer. Up north, it's complete madness right now. We're watching the road; the Undead are just pouring in from the south, almost in a continuous stream. Mostly those meat golems and Ghouls. And for the past few days, no one has been coming back. The first few days there were many refugees, but now no one is coming. No one at all."
Overall, the meeting with the Goblins again proved extremely useful. The hold was unloaded quickly, and the rockets were partially replenished. I tried to protest, of course, but Burazhor showed me the almost empty warehouses with a satisfied face. The Goblins had dug in here as best they could and were defending against the Undead with what they had. Zeppelins, Shredders, shooters and warriors, mines all around. Not too many, but they provided protection from small groups of the Scourge.
They were also the ones who told us which way to fly to the Elf camp. The High Elf camp, yeah. An unforgettable sight.
The first thing you notice even on the approach is the dead, infected nature: plants, animals, and even the ground itself radiates foul magic. From the north stretches a concentrated cursed surface, infecting everything it touches. There are no longer any trees untouched by death. Leaves have fallen, gray dirty dust, dried grass, fallen leaves full of dead and un-dead animals. And only the camp and the circular territory around it are completely cleared of the infection. It seems they have the appropriate artifacts.
The camp itself is essentially a full-fledged town. Not just a tent city, but made of stone and metal, though there are tents too. Magical towers along the perimeter, individual buildings forming straight streets. It looks like some form of magical building deployment, like those "toy town halls." Logical, considering the cream of our magic has gathered here.
"They've settled in quite well here," the Rogue snorted, voicing my thoughts. "With style."
"Though it still looks dull compared to Silvermoon," Dartaola argued with her.
The Rogue just waved her off.
"Better a living tent city than a capital of the dead."
Silvermoon, yes. The Elf capital was located to the north; its walls were visible to the naked eye, they were so white and tall. They towered over the forest, showing superiority. And behind the walls were domes and tall, very tall towers, statues, and it was hard to say what else. I don't know what it looked like before, but now instead of gold and crimson colors, there were gray and purple. Dead land, heavy, leaden clouds making the world even grayer. And the city. It escaped me:
"It's... huge."
And it was the pure truth. Even now, even the damaged Silvermoon was colossal. It was a true metropolis, and that's no exaggeration. I zoomed in on the image. Yes, multi-story houses. Yes, more than five stories was a rarity, but three to five was quite normal. Each floor seemed to be about three meters high. And even now, under the sun-obscuring clouds, you could see how beautiful it had been. Galleries, carvings, whimsical statues. The Elves hadn't had to use these walls for their intended purpose for a long time, and they had spent time making these walls, this city, even more impressive. I—I just don't have the words to describe this masterpiece.
"First time seeing Silvermoon?" Dartaola asked with a slight smirk. "Illuminated by the sun, without burned buildings and smoke trails, it looks even better. I hope one day it can be reborn. After everything."
I nodded.
"First time. I've never been even close. By the way, the city looks quite intact."
No, I could see the glow of fires, smoke, but there were almost no visible destructions. It looked like what had happened in Stratholme. Although the Human city had been set on fire and almost completely burned down. I looked through the eyes of the mechanical bird flying over the city, and it bore strikingly little destruction, even where the Undead had clearly been rampaging or the Elves had been flooding everything with magic.
"I see barricades, corpses, Undead, Undead structures. But the streets and buildings are intact. It looks like it wasn't a siege—it was a massacre."
A little further on, traces of truly destructive magical battles were finally found. Well, as it usually happens: smashed quarters, churned-up streets, conflagrations. But those were details; ninety percent of the city was intact, at first glance. Maybe I just wasn't seeing something. Right now, I could say that what had occurred in the city streets was a slaughter, not a battle.
The Pepelats abruptly changed course, and I nearly tumbled over, engrossed in studying the city.
"What is it, Venidan?"
The Rogue pointed forward, beyond the crystalline glass. Indeed, ahead of the ship, a rider was flying on a dragonhawk—a violet beast resembling a flying fish crossed with a lizard. A curious creature, clearly flying by means of magic; the creature's proportions were far too wrong, it was much too heavy. But the elf sitting upon it in crimson plate armor looked more than serious. The Magister's raven stirred.
"I will arrive at the site immediately after landing and resolve everything, apprentice. Do not worry."
And so it happened. As it turned out, the guards had spotted us and decided to find out who had arrived. Reasonable, considering the situation and the raids by Undead gargoyles. And not just gargoyles; we were "graced" with news of Undead helicopters piloted by dead Dwarves. They didn't venture far outside the city, but any attempt to attack from the air was suppressed immediately and radically. The Undead had deployed significant Anti-Air Defense forces; even the Pepelats couldn't break through there.
The Teacher met us at the landing pad, briefly explained things to the Patrol, and we were allowed into the camp. I bowed:
"Teacher."
The Mage nodded in response, gesturing for us to follow him. It's quite elven here; I see warriors in crimson and gold plate, Rangers—and not like Veni, but full-fledged ones—there are Priests, and even civilians in rich and not-so-rich clothes. The elves passing by, though they noticed us, ignored us, clearly going about their own business. I, however, used magical vision to check my theory. Traces of necro-energy poisoning were present in each and every one of them. To a greater or lesser degree. Some looked weak and sickly, others did not. But the Well had left its mark on them.
The Magister led us to his own quarters. His flying little tower, which he used to transport us, and a couple of tents nearby. Quite decent housing, I must note. The Teacher himself was composed, dressed in a traveling robe, but I saw paleness and bags under his eyes. It had taken its toll on him too. Besides the Magister, I noted the blacksmith from our village; we exchanged handshakes. He, too, was quite pale and sickly.
The Magister literally collapsed into a chair, while we sat down much more carefully. I handed the Teacher a vial from my belt. Another new item: a potion belt; I hadn't carried one before. Made of hydra skin, with many pockets and a small bag attached to the belt. You can carry quite a lot; I paid nearly two hundred gold for this bag during my last visit to Dalaran. Inside, it's like a full-sized backpack. True, it doesn't remove mass entirely, so you have to watch how much you carry. The Teacher took the bottle and turned it in his fingers.
"Mana concentrate, Magister."
The Mage nodded and drained the container in one gulp. He shuddered and relaxed slightly.
"Good, indeed, a concentrate. Thank you, apprentice. The situation here is difficult, as you may have noticed. Significant forces have gathered beneath the city walls, but the Undead, using the power of the Well, have entrenched themselves more than well. We did not expect this; no one expected it, I think."
Dartaola sighed.
"What will happen next, Magister?"
The Teacher only spread his hands.
"Alas, that is unknown to me, Dartaola. Currently, the troops are led by the Ranger-General and His Highness Kael'thas Sunstrider. As you understand, they do not report to me. All that remains is to find out rumors and what colleagues are saying. Preparations for an operation are underway, but we do not know exactly for what. No deadlines, no forces, no plan—only rumors that such a thing will happen."
Unpleasant, but expected. Yes, Magister is not the lowest rank in the hierarchy of Quel'Thalas, but it's not even close to the pinnacle of development. Upper-middle class, if you will. The necessary magical level, the presence of apprentices—in a class-based society, that's far from everything. Besides merit, lineage matters, of course, as do wealth and heredity. One of the reasons I didn't initially strive for the capital—I have none of that. What's important is that my plan for an orbital strike also doesn't involve contact with the powers that be. On the contrary, they might interfere. And now that we are on site, we can begin to implement it.
I took the tube of blueprints off my back. I unrolled the necessary one, showing it to the elf.
"Here, Magister, is what I intend to do. We will build a machine that will fly high, into the upper layers of the atmosphere, and even higher. And then it will strike the Well vertically from above, bypassing all defenses—ours and those used by the Undead. Of course, to assemble the machine, some equipment will be required. But if everything is done correctly, no one expects a strike from there. The main thing is that the damage is sufficient."
The Magister nodded.
"That will not be a problem. Much can be found in the city or the surrounding areas. Just write down for me what is needed and how much. I have acquaintances; we shall see what can be gathered. Your potions would help well with payment; right now they are far more valuable than any jewels. But how do you intend to launch this?"
Taking another sheet, I began to write.
1. Acceleration. We will use the Pepelats as the starting module. If we remove the mass with magic, it won't be a problem. Four engines, I'll push them to afterburn, external missile rack. We just need to gain speed.
2. Launch. The missile separates from the rack and continues moving on its own engine. The engine is pure hydrogen, almost like the Pepelats', but not a ramjet.
2.1. The missile flies toward the target and upward along a ballistic trajectory, tracked by the tactical table. (1st stage of aiming)
3. Fix the Pepelats. It will serve as another triangulation point. We set 2 points in advance, static ones. Those at the bottom of the map. We know their positions exactly.
3.1. Using the 2 reference points, we refine the 3rd point on the "plane" of the planet's surface—that is, the Pepelats. Who knows where the acceleration will end.
3.2. Transmit triangulation data to the missile. The shot must occur at the right moment. Another aiming factor will be the necro-energy emitted by the Sunwell and the Undead base.
4. The missile reaches the designated altitude.
4.1. Separation of the 1st stage. It will only be in the way. Return of mass to the equipment.
4.2. Homes in on the target using the reference points, including the Pepelats. (2nd stage of aiming)
5. Acceleration. Separation of the 2nd stage.
6. The combat module reaches the calculated altitude.
6.1. Homes in more precisely on the energy signature of the Sunwell. (3rd stage of aiming, final)
7. ?????
8. BOOM!
The Magister read what was written and looked at the missile blueprints. He sighed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"No one has ever done such a thing, apprentice. And never will, I hope. And yet, it looks promising."
Venidan grimaced.
"Blow up the Sunwell. The heart of our lands," and she delivered a long monologue in Elvish of a profane nature.
Dartaola didn't jump into the conversation, but even she disapproved of this entire paragraph; I could see it in her eyes. And yes, we had already discussed this with Venidan before, but back then it was just talk, jokes. Now, a project lay before them. A project not for retaking the Sunwell, not for cleansing it, but for destruction.
The Magister spoke first.
"Likely, there truly is no other solution. If His Highness himself plans something similar, I can understand why no one knows of it. Even for me, after all the discussions, it is difficult to accept this. And yet, I will help. This deed is terrible, but undoubtedly great. And one more thing, apprentice."
I looked up from the calculation sheet I had turned to while they were talking.
"Yes, Magister?"
The Mage gave a crooked smile, hiding the fatigue in his eyes.
"You do realize that to many survivors, you may become a monster? After everything you intend to do?"
Dartaola raised her hand.
"But the Sunwell is poisoning us, and them too? Everyone. What is the point of hating Davilinia? Something really does need to be done about the Sunwell!"
Oh, that's quite simple. We exchanged looks; I snorted, adjusting my wizard hat. I can answer this question, especially thanks to human experience. Elves are quite the ultra-conservatives. High Elves—to a lesser extent; after all, we had to relocate to another continent and contact other races capable of surprising us quite a bit. With the Night Elves, it's much, much worse. Ten thousand years of hanging out in the forest, in the Emerald Dream. When half the population is sleeping and the other half is praying to Elune. That's the kind of society you get in such conditions, and what would they have done to me if I had blasted the Uomo Universale at the Tree instead of Archimonde? Spoiler: nothing good. However, for an elf, it's not so obvious. The general static nature of society is familiar to us. I'll answer like this:
"The destruction of the familiar, Dartaola. The loss of hope for a return to normalcy. And all of it—at the hands of a single elf who can be blamed for everything. Our people are quite the conservatives. The last time a major split occurred, it nearly led to a civil war—I'm talking about the Night Elves and High Elves, if you're wondering. Quel'Thalas, Silvermoon, the Sunwell—it's all our heritage, a symbol of stability and order. And now we're going to smash it. A simply magnificent reason for hatred. If at first they might accept it as a necessary evil, then over time... I'm almost certain there will be those who blame me for the loss of the Sunwell, as if the Undead weren't even there."
Be that as it may, in the canon, as soon as the elves had the chance, they restored both the Sunwell with Anveena's help and Silvermoon—its right, intact half. Elves are conservatives and always will be; it's an inevitable part of our longevity. And our leadership are the gods of conservatism, sitting by the Sunwell and letting no one in, because there's no reason for any upstarts without a lineage to meddle. So I won't be surprised if, after what happens, I end up with a significant list of detractors.
This means two things. First: I'm going to do it anyway. Because it's necessary and it will greatly help my Legend, which is part of the plan. Second: I won't shout about what happened on every corner, just in case. No, of course, being the author of such a kaboom would be cool, but becoming one of the points of sincere hatred for my people—not so much. Better to be famous for the Uomo Universale shot at Archimonde than for this.
Venidan nodded, smiling encouragingly, though a bit mischievously.
"Don't sweat it, DaVi. With our Prophet, we'll tear everyone apart and be the only ones left," she laughed, seeing my displeasure, "oh come on, kid. You're just being modest. What will the Undead do next?"
"Attack Dalaran," I only realized half a second later what I'd blurted out, "go to hell, Venidan."
She burst out laughing, moving a bit further away. In any case, the atmosphere lightened a bit, and we continued discussing the situation. The sun was still high, and we had only just begun.
The scope of work expected is truly enormous: everything needs to be calculated, a control system for the warhead written, two reference beacons made and delivered to the necessary points so the bearing works correctly. Assemble the missile, the Mana Bomb, and prepare the equipment here. And all of this—in the shortest possible time. Then connect it all and launch it into the sky as soon as possible.
We have less time than it might seem. The Magister is certain that the attack on Silvermoon will be in the very near future. Obviously, the rulers won't listen to a teenage apprentice; they have their important adult mission, not all these childhood dreams. And if we want to reduce losses, we need to act fast. We parted ways well past Midnight. The working days, so to speak, had begun.
The morning of my day in the camp begins with a five-kilometer cross-country run to the south with a cart in hand. Not just a morning jog, but a run to the southern perimeter, where soldiers and mages are holding back the Undead crawling into the rear from all over Quel'Thalas. Why? After the very first morning, the soldiers at the camp entrance began piling up Necromancer hearts and gargoyle cores, magical staves, and other necromantic staff. Because I showed them the Umformer and explained what it was for.
"Yo, people. Take the goods."
From my belt bag, I laid out mana concentrates on the table while a couple of soldiers unloaded all that filth onto the cart. Through this simple barter, we obtained a supply of potions so as not to be distracted by searching for them unnecessarily. Yes, the first time, the soldiers got nervous; even the officers interrogated me on the subject of: "are you a Necromancer by any chance, coming with such requests." I answered honestly, showed the Umformer on the Pepelats, gave a lecture and a demonstration. And by the second day, they were waiting for me with a load of goods. That's what a good project and a helmet on your head hiding your age can do.
"Hello, DaVi," a soldier extended a hand for a handshake, bowing slightly, "take the goods."
Of course, we keep a couple of potions for ourselves daily. For both ourselves and the Teacher. But thanks to this deal, we don't have to worry about mana supplies ourselves. So we load the staff onto the cart and roll it to our tent. As much as I can by hand, for the exercise, the rest—by telekinesis. Then breakfast, various domestic trifles. While waiting for the Pepelats to return, I go to the workshop compartment. It was detached and placed by the Magister's tower so I could use the assembly line even without the ship. As it is, the Pepelats itself doesn't spend much time in the camp. It participates in the defense with Venidan's forces, or in long-range missions, but already within the framework of our project. And here it is.
As soon as I stepped out of the workshop, the ship's tower descended nearby with a howl. The ramp lowered and Venidan stepped out. Looking quite brisk and satisfied, the ship was hardly dented. Well, that's good. The Rogue waved her hand.
"Morning, DaVi."
I waved back, pleased.
"It's almost lunch; breakfast is over. Come on, eat, and you'll take the second one. I just finished assembling it. How was the flight?"
Veni nodded. She knew herself that's how it would be. After all, we had discussed the plan in detail.
"It was fine, delivered everything to the site, used the invisibility scroll, everything as it should be. Had to run from some gargoyles, though, but the turrets chased them off. You know, they really don't like this triangulation of yours. Or the ship, I'm not sure yet."
Whatever, soon it won't be a problem.
"The main thing is that it worked, Veni. We'll survive the rest."
Where does the Rogue drive the ship? Actually, this is one of the important parts of creating a ballistic missile. It needs to not only be launched toward the target but also guided to that very target, and done so accurately. And for this, we use the triangulation method. We set up three beacons—in our case, two beacons and the Pepelats. Launch the missile, track the distance relative to all three points. If the position matches the calculated one—we are at the target. The gift can be launched.
It was precisely such beacons that I assembled first. And while I sit in the camp, busy assembling equipment, Venidan took them to the points we had determined in advance. The third beacon, like the docking node, we will install on the Pepelats itself. It will hover north of the Island of Quel'Danas and serve as the third point. There will, of course, be a fourth, in the form of a projectile that we will launch toward the Sunwell. But that will happen at the last moment; the Undead might notice the device and destroy it. Which is unacceptable.
While the third magical beacon and the docking node for the missile are being assembled, and Venidan has flown off on business, I buried myself in blueprints and runes. The hardest part is teaching the machine to track the beacon vectors.
Five golems. Three each control their own beacon signal, including physically turning the guide in its direction. The fourth monitors the reaction of the first three, firing the missile's maneuvering engines. The fifth is the control golem, which monitors everything and is ready to replace any of the first four in case of failure. A redundancy system never made anything worse; there simply won't be a second chance.
Somewhere in the process of working, the Magister came to my tent and brought materials. From where? He has friends, acquaintances. I don't know how, but the Teacher convinced them to supply me with resources. Convinced them that the project was worth trying.
All that remains for me to do is write programs, manage the machines, and prepare blueprints. And this takes up most of the day's time. Assembly can take place in semi-automatic mode, provided there are golems, materials, and diagrams. The actual process of building the missile takes place in a clearing nearby, thanks to "territory expansion." Next to the workshop stands an assembly block where two dozen golems turn wood, metal, and magic crystals into a ballistic multi-stage missile. And when the missile, moving along a parabola, reaches the desired point, the gift will be sent down. One that gives itself.
A separate project is the projectile that will attack the Sunwell. A sturdy warhead that will have to carry the bomb to the target at hypersonic speeds, and do so with minimal error to destabilize the Sunwell. It's not easy, I won't deny it. High altitude, a hydrogen booster block, homing in on the necromantic trail of the Sunwell and a beacon that will be launched onto the island for this purpose. And when the projectile slams into the Sunwell—a Mana Bomb will trigger, reacting with the magic of the elven shrine, destroying it.
And here we got lucky in many ways. One of the Magister's friends obtained a cup of cleansing: an artifact that cleanses any liquid that enters it with Holy light. And we also have a Paladin, in the form of Dartaola, to charge it with magic. Charge it well, to full light overload and loss of stability.
Why? If this thing is charged to overload and then placed in the Sunwell, poisoned by necro-energy... Even if the explosion doesn't destroy it, it will guaranteed destabilize it. Arcana, Holy, and Necro energy will enter into conflict, making the Sunwell unfit for use. But by all calculations, the mana explosion will indeed destabilize the Sunwell. I will be the one charging the bomb with my mana; I have PLENTY of that stuff. As well as the potions I'm setting aside for this. Crystallized mana will do its job; we just need to hit the target.
And so our days in the camp flowed by. I, busy with assembly and blueprints, essentially didn't show myself outside the tent except to tidy myself up and collect new supplies for the Umformer. All the rest of the time—assembly control, blueprints, runes, scrolls. Scrolls, blueprints, runes, and assembly control. We must finish as soon as possible. It doesn't matter what's happening outside; we must succeed in any case.
The beacons were ready first, by the second day; I finished the third in the evening. Essentially ordinary magical emitters, with a long-range communication system, along whose magic strings the vector tracking occurs. Venidan delivered them where they needed to go, camouflaged them so they wouldn't be found immediately. In the process, I also assembled a replacement. If someone tried to move them, we would know by the changed vector.
Two days later, the missile casing was assembled. There was nothing particularly difficult there; all the "fun" was the filling. And I'm not talking about the rocket engine, but specifically about... let's call them programs for the golems. And I spent nearly a week on them with almost no sleep or rest, on stimulants. Good thing Mom can't see.
Next? Store hydrogen—assemble course correction and aiming systems. And all of this—with the creation of terrain, for greater reliability. We will have exactly one chance. Put it all together. Conduct several tests of the guidance system to make sure everything works as it should. Lost one of the mechanical birds; whatever. What's next?
Assemble the projectile for the attack on the target, conduct calculations not only for the missile but also for the bomb, so that it would be at the right time, in the right place, fall along the right trajectory, accelerate, and hit the right point. All of this—with minimal error, a few meters maximum; more is unacceptable. And there's simply no time for rest; the troops have begun forming units that will attack the walls from different points on command, including a drop into the city itself via Teleport.
In such conditions, the slogan "do or die" no longer seems so out of place. Use technology where possible—replace parts with magic. All tracking is on golems, which are integrated into a system that will work in a strictly defined way.
I was very pleased when, on the tenth day, the Magister brought news:
"I managed to speak with the unit leaders and warn them. There will be strong mages in each unit; they will evacuate the elves if we achieve success. Though they do not much believe in you, I believe. And the rest... the main thing is that they are warned, apprentice."
I looked up, taking nearly a second to process what was said; I was too engrossed.
"Good, Teacher. We will achieve success. We must. We need to push harder."
The Magister even took over the assembly control duties as much as possible. All to give me the chance to check all the projectile's systems. To avoid mistakes. We even conducted a small test using the installed beacons and the triangulation system, now full-fledged. Yes, it required a second set of golems, just to be sure. But we have no right to make a mistake. Not today. Which means everything that can be tested must be tested. No mistakes.
And finally, on the twelfth day... everything was ready. The missile blocks were docked to the Pepelats; trial launches were successful. The missile is loaded, the mass reduction runes are glowing as they should, the fuel is filled. The signal from the beacons is stable. Triangulation is occurring as it should. We can begin.
Speaking of triangulation: it can be used not only in the missile but also for orientation on the ground. We have a problem with the Pepelats flying by the map. Simply because there are no satellite systems like GPS here, and a map can be thirty to fifty years out of date. Simply because for elves, there isn't much difference. This way, I'll get normal orientation in at least some places. And the locals I give access to will appreciate it. For example, if we entrench ourselves in Theramore, we can set up a similar system there.
But that's all for later. For now, the joy of finishing the work was interrupted by news from the Teacher, who appeared in a flash of Teleport.
"It seems, Davilinia, rest is postponed for now. They are beginning."
And as if wishing to confirm his words, the tubular sound of a horn swept over the camp. A strained sound, in a sense sad. The sound of doomed heroism. This is a risky attack, a suicide attack. Good thing they were warned, at least, and there are mages with portals to pull the elves out of an ambush. But that no longer matters. They are beginning; we will have to act too, immediately. With a reflex movement, I poured a bottle of stimulant down my throat; I grimaced—nasty stuff. I'll die from the overdose consequences later. For now—do it, don't die.
"Alright, let's work. Crew, to positions. Let's show the dead that the sky belongs to us."
The Magister was suddenly beside me and squeezed my shoulder.
"We will do this. Remember and do not doubt, apprentice."
Venidan laughed, but the chuckle came out a bit nervous.
"Yeah. Let's blow things up."
Almost on autopilot, I reached the Pepelats cockpit and pulled on my helmet, scanning the new sensors whose illusions were arranged around me. Triangulation readings, missile data, vectors. Mass reduction active, engines loaded. This is my flight. Here and now I am alone, and I can only rely on myself and my mechanisms. A little scary. I exhaled.
"Alright, let's begin, I suppose. Final check. Everything... normal. Prepare for launch."
The ocean north of the elven lands was chosen as the launch site for the missile. For the triangulation reading to be correct, the Pepelats must be positioned north of the Island of Quel'Danas and then hover at the specified point and under no circumstances move, so as not to disrupt the coordinates. Any mistake—and the projectile might miss. Which meant I had to fly the ship around the peninsula and the island in a wide arc to avoid detection by Undead patrols. The longer they don't see me, the safer I'll be.
So, move the Pepelats to the start point. Settle into the chair more comfortably. Check the helmet and air supplies, just in case. Brace the body. Start the engines, warm them up. A bit scary. I think I have the jitters. Remember, DaVi, you can do this. No one but me will do this. And, begin.
"Three. Two. One. Launch."
The Pepelats started with the maximum available acceleration, pinning my body into the chair. Readings in the yellow zone; everything's fine. Not for nothing did I double-check the machine in case of unexpected "surprises" from the lizards. Everything's normal. I don't have the strength to speak; all that's left is to watch, directing the process with short gestures and strings directly, so as not to move unnecessarily under such loads. Everything is going fine. Just heavy, but that's right. Heavy is good, hee-hee, heavy is reliable.
Good. Separation in five. Four. Three. Two. One. The Pepelats jolted, after which it began to slow down, obeying my command and banking into a turn. I need to brake as quickly as possible so the signal stays true. Relief washed over me and I exhaled, trying to calm my wildly beating heart. Alas, there's no time to sit around, so I stood up and went to the tactical table, where all the readings from the instruments, beacons, and the missile are displayed. Everything is in the green zone, within expected parameters. Won-der-ful! My Brain is trembling! Oh, that's not from this opera. I'm just nervous, I know it myself; all sorts of nonsense is popping into my head. Hee-hee.
"Phew. Phase one—normal. Tactical table, hm. Signal—normal. Everything's working."
I can't see it, but the bright dot of the missile is rapidly receding into the upper layers of the atmosphere. I, however, can enjoy the view of Silvermoon while there's a little time. Ahem. No, I can't; everything is covered by heavy gray clouds. So only the table image from the scout birds. Well, fine, I didn't really want to anyway!
"Good. Pepelats fixed, beacon signal stable. Ready to continue. Projectile away, also good."
Another point—for guiding the missile to the Sunwell. Here we borrowed an idea from that Troll—an enchanted ballista bolt. If you don't look closely—it's just a slug that flew in from somewhere. Who knows how many of those will be lying around there. It doesn't even look like a mechanism if you don't look closely. No explosives, nothing suspicious. Well, except it's humming with magic. Но at the Sunwell, everything is humming with magic; they shouldn't react immediately. And if they do, the magical background of the Sunwell itself will still remain; they certainly won't be able to muffle that.
While the projectile flies and the Pepelats is fixed under a Cloak, I peered into the map on the tactical table, selecting a filter for various types of magic. Besides the violet markers denoting Undead, there are also blue ones, Arcane magic. The largest—of course, the Sunwell. Whatever they say—the poisoning is still far from complete. However, there's no one to make Anveena; all that's left is to blow it up. More markers—two triangulation points, and the ballista bolt that just reached its position. Not noticed yet, excellent. I went to the window and looked down.
The ocean is calm. A couple of gargoyles flew past; they paid no attention to the motionless and invisible Pepelats. These creatures are dangerous, but they don't excel in intelligence. Like most of the Undead, for that matter.
A beep sounded, forcing me back to the tactical table. The missile reached stage four—separation of the first stage. Return of mass to equipment... successful. Triangulation signal is stable. Good. My paranoia demands I double-check everything, but so far everything is normal. Nothing even to complain about. Strange, that. Could it actually work? I really, really want it to work.
Another ping.
Course correction is underway based on beacon data. And though I can't observe the process other than by instruments, my breath is simply caught in anticipation. Good or not, I don't know. I hope good. There's no one on the ship right now, and the silence is pressing on my brain a bit. Veni and Dartaola stayed in the camp with the Magister. In case we fail or are spotted in the ocean, there will be nowhere to run from here; they are simply safer there; the Magister understood this and helped convince them that I would be fine. I hope it turns out that way. I would have seen the process through to the end in any case, though. They would only be in the way, and they aren't trained to withstand the G-forces. Neither am I, but I endured.
Ping.
Calculated altitude reached. Separation of the second stage. The combat module is moving by inertia. If I believed in the local gods, I would be praying. As it is, I just have to freeze over the tactical table and wait, looking at the instrument readings in the oppressive silence. Everything seems to be normal. All indicators are within calculated limits. There is no one else in the cockpit. Not even the raven; the familiar wouldn't have withstood the loads either. Only me and the ship's systems.
Ping...
Ping...
Ping... ping...
Ping-ping-ping-ping!
We are almost at the shot point. Moment of truth, bastards. Everything that can clench in me has clenched. We are on position and... there is separation! Another marker appeared on the tactical table map, moving faster and faster. The combat module continued its fall by inertia, but the bomb itself had already received triangulation. The boosters fired; the descent began. Course? Within the calculated range. My heart is beating wildly. Scary. I don't know what will happen next, but I hope. There are no atheists in this foxhole, but I just don't know who to pray to here!
I quietly returned to the chair. A little more, and we'll be able to see the result. Come on, come on, come on!
The projectile swept ahead, streaking across the sky like a bright white dot. It slammed into the cloud cover over the city, punching a kilometer-wide circular hole in the clouds, simply scattering them. And then there was a flash, visible even through the clouds. I don't know when, but I found myself pressed against the crystals of the windshield, screaming with delight!
"YEEEEEEEEEEEEES! Yes! It worked! Eat that, bastards! I did it!"
A moment later, a violet wave of energy tore through the clouds, revealing a view of the island and the city, consuming and igniting it, leaving behind a series of magical fires and explosions. Another moment later, the shockwave reached the Pepelats. The ship shuddered; the warning systems wailed.
At that moment, I came to my senses, feeling hellish pain in my torn throat and eyes filled with tears of pure happiness. I did it! I did! It went boom! And what a boom! A fantastic boom! And even the bout of pain didn't rob me of my delight, though it did force me to move. Need to leave before I'm flipped into the ocean. A hit just like in the textbook; now the next most important task—not to die!
"Fuck. LEA-kha-kha-khe!"
Somehow suppressing the cough, I took over the controls with my gauntlet. To hell with the Cloak, to hell with everything. Let's get out of here! Let's go! This clearly isn't the end! Perhaps I underestimated the power of the cataclysm.
She didn't even try to return to her seat, gripping the handrail and watching as a violet wave swept away city blocks. However, the first wave died out rather quickly, only partially covering the city. But it didn't end there, no. A white-violet pillar of energy shot into the heavens, and even without any scanning, I could feel this concentration of magic. Very unstable magic. Arcana, necro-energy—all of it, stripped of form and limitation, tore outward, boiling, spilling, distorting, and destroying, endowing the space with the pure chaos of a magical storm.
In magical terms, this ocean of pure power felt like total chaos. Strings, devoid of purpose or meaning, formed, conflicted, and rearranged themselves into unthinkable, inconceivable constructs. Pure madness, a repetition of thousands of actions, each time with a different result. There was no logic in it, nor could there be. A brief glance with magical sight was enough to make me clutch my head and recoil in horror; it defied logic and perception to such a degree. I have absolutely no desire to find out what happens if I get covered by this... whatever-it-is!
The Pepelats, as if sensing my fear—bordering on terror—bolted from its spot just as the second wave struck. This one was weaker than the first, but besides it, the city and its surroundings were lit up by many, truly many, white flashes. It seems the Arcana is reacting; such a number of glowing points occurring simultaneously must be caused by the Sunwell. I don't envy those who remained in the city and are still alive.
The concentration of death energy is so thick it's hard to breathe, but I try. And I continue to look at the receding city, being devoured by magical chaos. About a minute later, when the city's silhouette had shrunk on the horizon, the third strike overtook us. The alien energy constricted my throat; perhaps I screamed, I don't know. But the ship, driven by the flame of its engines, continued to hold its course, ignoring the turbulence. We have to get out. We have to make it. We simply must make it. Come on, baby, move!
The fourth wave reached the Pepelats when the city had already turned into a line on the horizon. Warning systems wailed; the shield was simply blown away. The Pepelats was thrown forward, and pings of warning cascaded. Violet and white flame washed over the hull; total disorientation set in. I could only breathe.
I don't know how long it took for it all to end. What matters is that the Pepelats, in a battered state, hovered over the ocean on its antigrav, and seemingly even level. The number of errors and critical notifications had long since exceeded all bounds of decency. The words that escaped were a whisper of the soul. Not a scream—with a ruined throat, there was neither the possibility nor the strength to scream.
"I'll outlive you all, you bastards. Why does it have to be so agonizing every single time, huh?"
And yet, I'm still alive. The others? I don't know; the Magister was supposed to evacuate them to one of the beacons. I hope they made it. The first wave was noticeable enough, but it didn't cover everything. The second was weak enough; there was time to leave. Alright, I need to head back. We'll find out everything in the process.
I had to make sure the Pepelats was sturdy enough not to fall apart right in the middle of the flight. Overall, it's not that bad. Yes, there's damage, but nothing critical; we aren't falling apart. However, the ship flew back slowly.
The first piece of good news was the ping from the beacon. A pre-arranged signal confirming that the Magister had successfully picked everyone up and reached the extraction point. And right now, they are waiting for me there. A literal weight fell off my soul. They made it. I responded with the same ping, interrupting and returning the signal of the device installed on the Pepelats. And I received confirmation—they heard me too. I dissolved into the chair like a happy little puddle; they are also alive and okay. Now I just need to fly there and not fall apart in the process.
I didn't push the throttle; I was curious to see what was ahead of us. From the air, using the scout-birds. One that is still functioning. And which I hadn't sent to monitor the territory. Who knew it would blow up exactly like that? No, I suspected it, but it's one thing to suspect, and another when it actually blows.
Unfortunately, until we fly further away, it won't be possible to tell if the Sunwell's influence remains. But I'm almost certain it doesn't. Because the Sunwell, like the island of Quel'Danas and about two-thirds of Silvermoon, is gone. Completely gone; only a crater remains. Well, the city is definitely beyond restoration now. Not to mention the magical background; for the next few years, I wouldn't visit this part of the continent at all. Just in case—you'll stay alive longer.
I determined all this both by the instruments and personally, flying over the territory. The entire north of the peninsula has been erased into nothingness. And judging by the markers on the scanner, such an anomalous hell is happening there now that the Exclusion Zone couldn't even dream of it. No, we aren't going in there. The city... well, these ruins aren't very recognizable, especially from a height. And it only took a few seconds. I can't even imagine what happened when the Well of Eternity blew ten thousand years ago, if the Sunwell went off this catastrophically. Fortunately, there aren't many other places in Azeroth that can be detonated so thoroughly.
The Pepelats flew over the camp, or what was left of it. Some of the buildings were simply leveled by the shockwaves. And it's also full of anomalies. In general, it looks like Quel'Thalas has been turned into a dead zone, perhaps even worse than what Arthas did. I'm not sure it will be possible to resettle this anytime soon, damn. Turned out to be an excessively powerful cloud-dispersal tool, heh. I'm talking nonsense, I know, but this... it's just beyond me, yeah. Such power... I'm not sure whether to laugh, cry, admire, or be afraid. A difficult moral choice, no joke.
As we moved south, the situation didn't improve much. There's no great problem in determining the boundary of the explosion, but the anomalies and the general contamination of the territory are at a very high level. Looking at this in the silence of the Pepelats, a question keeps creeping into my head: did I make it worse? It's as if Deathwing went for a stroll, seriously. And there's no one to talk to.
And yet, when the Pepelats reached the beacon point almost twenty-four hours later, I was already being met. Dartaola, Venidan, the Magister. They had been waiting too. They were also glad to see me. For the first few seconds, we were all hugging, congratulating each other, rejoicing. That was when the Magister informed me:
"We succeeded. The contamination here is weak, and I no longer feel the pressure of the Sunwell, I don't feel the poison in my blood. The magical hunger hasn't left us, of course, but this is a victory. Congratulations, Davilinia, you have accomplished what not a single High Elf has managed before. You did well, apprentice. Truly, well done."
Venidan was also smiling:
"Well, when I set out with you, I was hoping for adventure. I won't say I'm disappointed. Kid—you're a monster!"
Dartaola reacted more reservedly.
"Holy be with you. And though your descendants may curse you, remember, you did what you deemed the only right thing. And we still don't have a better solution, alas. In the end, the Army of Undead didn't survive this either, I have no doubt of that."
As for me, I had a small breakdown. Not at the moment of the meeting and conversation, but later, when I returned to the bridge. When the others had scattered to their own places and I could be alone to fully realize what had happened. And then I just broke. From exhaustion, from tension. From everything. There's no point in recalling everything that happened, but I fell asleep right there in the pilot's seat, completely drained. I woke up in my own bed almost a day later. The stimulants, the nerves—it all took its toll. We won, we did it, that's what matters.
Padding barefoot to the bridge, I found Venidan there, looking bored at the controls.
"Oh, DaVi. How are you?"
She politely omitted "after yesterday."
"I'm better, thanks. Nerves and stimulants aren't the best combination. Thanks for carrying me to bed."
The Rogue nodded calmly.
"There's a decoction on the table. Drink it. It's actually for something else, but it should help. We all understand, kid. We're not idiots. And I'm really happy for you."
I gratefully latched onto the bottle. It was sour, but my head really did clear up. It's useful to have an Alchemist on the team. Especially an Alchemist who isn't against drinking herself, and therefore knows how to clear all this up.
"Thanks. For everything."
The Rogue hummed, continuing to look ahead.
"We'll be at Dalaran by lunch. So you have a couple more hours to lounge around if you want."
I agreed, returning to bed and dreaming about what we would do next. And again, reality reminded me of its existence. Again—in a not very pleasant way. I was sitting in the living quarters on the bed, drawing. Just drawing for no reason, deciding that I had the right to be a little lazy. That specifically today—I could. Then I'd have to return to the helm, simply because we only have two pilots. But for now, I could. The intercom turned on.
"Dalaran ahead. It's burning. Lots of violet on the scanners. On the ground, in the air. The Undead are storming the city. We... I don't think we can break through; lots of gargoyles, at least five Necropolises, and god knows what else."
What? When? How did they manage it? How? I ran there just as I was, and not just me—Dartaola too, and the raven was there. Venidan wasn't wrong; Dalaran was indeed under siege. Pincers of darkness seemed to have gathered around the city; many towers were ablaze, magical strings disrupted. The Undead were already in the city.
And the Pepelats is battered enough that we shouldn't dive into the thick of the fight. Besides... very soon Archimonde will be summoned. Which means it's time for us to leave. And though I didn't want to do it, I pulled Jaina's crystal from my pocket.
"Set the Pepelats on a new course. Course—to Kalimdor! Faster, Veni, before they spot us. We're leaving, immediately!"
I hope someone managed to survive.
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