The morning of the fifth day marked the total loss of the Orc base. In theory, resisting was still possible, but in fact, by the evening of the fourth day, the demons had already destroyed the Horde camp by more than half. When Dartaola and I arrived there, the Horde camp was a sorry sight. My helmet wasn't returned to me so as not to attract attention, but my binoculars were. I have a helmet too, but a regular metal one. Regardless, it doesn't matter.
Where there were previously walls and towers, elven trees—now only charred and smoking fragments of trunks and the columns of towers remained. And around them—the metal skeletons of Fel Reavers, like huge, even colossal metal corpses, lie with arms outstretched, often on top of each other. And among them, like small groups of mice, something is moving. Raising the binoculars to my eyes, I noticed small, hunchbacked demons in robes, with rounded heads, looking like piranhas. Demon mechanics, if I'm not mistaken. Trying to repair the Fel Reavers? I'm not sure they'll succeed; the melted chests and heads of the mechanisms, from which green sludge is dripping, don't look like something that can be restored in the field.
Other Fel Reavers tried to climb steeper slopes, clutching at trees to attack the Horde camp from the flank. Because of which, for example, one lies right on the trees, having crushed them with its bulk. Green sludge is pouring from the Fel Reaver's grate, which is why black stone stalagmites have formed under it, looking alien even from here—black-green stone into which the tree trunks, earth, and grass have turned. And over this hangs the "vomiting" giant. By its strength and, apparently, several others like it—the forest to the south of the Orc base has been turned into a windfall. Everything there is burned, and it's hard to distinguish what is where.
The base itself also doesn't look its best. The "tents" of wood and leather closest to the defense line are completely burned out, leaving only a black skeleton. And someone is scurrying there too. Attempts to examine them led to nothing; unlike the rounded demons, these hide much better.
"Who's that there?"
I asked Venidan, who was right here on the front line.
The defenders occupied the far, surviving part of the base, the Horde buildings with access to the gates and the slope leading to the Night Elf base, so there would be somewhere to retreat. The defense will last until the sixth day, as Malfurion Stormrage said, who is preparing his trap. There is no "standing to the death" here. Positions can be abandoned as long as there is somewhere to go.
The Rogue looks much dustier than usual. A completely closed cloak covered in soot, dirt, and blood. On the helmet's visor—scratches. And cuts with traces of blood are visible on the cloak. It seems she engaged in close combat and was Wounded.
"Snipers. Damn dead snipers. They wound the attackers but don't finish them off, and then they shoot at those who try to pull them out. And just at observers—be careful. The dead don't need to move. The ones that twitch are distractions."
And true, there are many bodies lying around. Judging by the spots on the ground—many bled out. And they don't allow anyone to move forward, to repair or extinguish a building. An Orc burrow is burning on the edge of the base, but no one even tries to approach it.
"Are you all right? You were hit,"
I pointed to the traces of obvious wounds.
The Rogue nodded briefly.
"Yeah, fine. We have Priests and Paladins here, and there's a supply of Alchemy. Dead saboteurs are a rare nuisance."
I couldn't help but joke:
"Like you, but they annoy even more?"
Venidan not only wasn't offended but nodded.
"Exactly. They creep up on us in the shadows, find hiding spots. Those same Dwarf bunkers, for example. Or the latrines. You go off, sit down, and then—*hoba*—and a poisoned dagger sticks into you right from the hole and dissolves everything there."
Dartaola lightly struck the Rogue on the back.
"We were feeling perfectly fine without such details, Venidan."
The Rogue just shrugged.
"I'm saying they penetrate the rear, even if they don't entrench themselves. Be careful with that, okay?"
I nodded.
"I understand, I'll be careful."
On our side, everything is different from the destruction and ruins on the side of the attackers. Numerous lines of trenches lead to the buildings, so there is access, albeit partial, to all surviving structures. And even protected from rare artillery salvos from the Dwarves—though they haven't repeated that hurricane shelling since the first assault. Nothing left to fire? I don't know. And over there, to the left near the barracks, a battle is apparently going on between warriors and the Undead. Or demons, it's hard to tell; they are below ground level.
With a clatter, a bullet bounced off my mana shield, making it ripple, and I ducked sharply. The Paladin clearly noticed this. The Rogue did too, and smirked cheerfully.
"Don't stick your head out too much, I told you. They've noticed you; now they won't let up. The mages have bled them quite a bit, you know."
Yeah, I see. Blizzards, fireballs. Area damage is our everything.
"If you think about it, the Undead are also forced to hide among the buildings."
Why not bring down... for example, an explosion on their heads? Finish breaking the buildings so they aren't such good cover for the Undead. I explained to Venidan.
"The Undead are hard to pinpoint. They don't breathe, don't get tired, hide well, don't move. These are our kin, Davi. And they know how to hide among almost any trash, even where there would be no cover for you or me. You could break everything in sight, but it's very costly."
Pathfinders with sniper rifles, damn. And at sunset, when the shadows get long and the light is dimmed, you can't see them at all. It's going to be a long night. Good thing the Dwarves have flare rounds left.
"Davilinia."
I turned to Dartaola.
"What?"
"It's going to be a long night, and you've just been in a fight,"
the Paladin noted instructively,
"you'd better get some sleep. Who knows when another such opportunity will arise. Just choose a place where you won't be alone."
I agreed; getting some sleep really wouldn't be redundant. For sleep, I chose not one of the Orc buildings, which might have seemed logical, but a Dwarf bunker where a Dwarf storekeeper and a couple of other sentients were constantly hanging around. I wrapped myself in my camouflage cloak with the mirrored side out; it would be harder to detect me that way. And it's quiet enough here, and until something hits the roof directly, I'll be able to sleep normally. And at night, using magical vision, I'll be of more use. Our task is to stall for time? Then we'll stall it.
So I checked my mana shield and relaxed in the darkness. It's going to be a long night.
***
BOOMMMM! BOOMMM! BOOMMM! HMMM?
The roar, the falling dust from the ceiling, sand, and stones became synonymous with waking up. And also screams and gunfire somewhere in the background. The same darkness is interrupted by dim flashes from the entrance. The door turned out to be ajar, and sounds are leaking through it. It seems a battle is going on outside. Why wasn't I woken up? At the very least, the storekeeper knew about me. Then why wasn't I woken up?
The roar died down, but a voice rang out:
"Orcs, you are weak and unworthy of my attention! Why does Mannoroth even bother with you?!"
The voice passed through all barriers again, echoing somewhere deep inside. So, Archimonde has arrived in person. Is he in the camp already? Isn't it too early? Though, it's the fourth day, or perhaps already the morning of the fifth. They built the base, and the defense was weakened. Well, yes, it's time for the boss to show up. And yet, where is everyone, and why can't I hear anyone else?
Rising quietly from behind a crate, I realized the dugout was empty. No one was there. Or rather... everyone was dead. It's hard to see without a helmet, but I am an elf after all; our vision is better than that of Humans. And I am capable of identifying three silent bodies lying in suspicious dark puddles on the floor with their weapons. A Dwarf, an Orc, and a Human. They lay in different poses, not thrown back by an explosion, but otherwise. Did they fight someone? But why didn't I hear it? In any case, my shield is on, and I move very, very quietly so as not to draw attention.
If Archimonde is here, he'll twist my head off with great pleasure. For everything I did to him yesterday. And without my little chair, I won't outrun him. He simply has legs that are far too long. He could just pelt me with fireballs the size of a house while I prepare my gloves for a salvo. No, I don't plan on taking that risk. I'll try to slip away without any extra noise. And the gorgeous cloak I found in that city will help me with that.
Mother tailored it, and now I have a truly top-tier cape. In low light, if you don't move, it provides complete Invisibility. Or it significantly reduces visibility while moving, which, since it's night outside, will be very useful indeed. I'm a mediocre sneaker at best, but maybe with the cloak, I can manage something.
Wrapped in the illusory cloak, I quietly crept out of the dugout, pressing against the earthen wall. Immediately, the boards creaked under my feet, forcing me to freeze and listen, trying to ignore my racing heart. Damn, stealth isn't my forte. Without the cloak, it would have been easier to just try and break through, though I wouldn't have gotten far anyway. At least it's night now, the best time for such gear. So, I wrap myself in the cloak so that only my eyes remain. If anything happens, I'll cover them with my sleeve. That's the plan, at least. In the worst-case scenario, I'll try to dash through using blink.
And yet, how well did I sleep to miss Archimonde's arrival? On the other hand, someone killed those guys. Maybe assassins or Scourge Rogues? That means I need to keep my eyes peeled. Because I have no idea what I might run into here.
"I bow before your will," this voice made me freeze, "the master wishes to know what remains in the warehouses. Come, his will shall be done!"
I froze, pressed into the wall of the trench, leaving only the very edge of my helmet open so I could see what was happening with one eye. Three figures in purple robes descended into the trench, which was quite wide—about two meters—rustling against the ground and collecting all the dirt. They walked loudly enough, stepping on the boards, making them clatter and creak. I caught a glimpse of grayish Human faces, pale and therefore perfectly visible in the dark. I remained motionless, trying not even to breathe, so that God forbid they wouldn't hear me.
They passed by and didn't even flinch, didn't turn, silent and wordless, literally a stone's throw away. Only when all three figures disappeared into the dugout did I exhale and, turning my head in all directions, quietly and as quickly as possible, moved on. Scary! I didn't get far, though.
"Woooooommmm... Aaaa-a-a-a-aa-a-a-a-a-aa-aaaa!" not a scream, but a wail made me freeze and cover myself with the cloak again. What on earth is going on there?
Three seconds, five, ten—it seems like there's no one. Dammit, it's so inconvenient being short, I have no idea—ah! I see! A green glow over the trench and familiar bone-like protrusions striking from the ground suggested that a Scourge building was beginning to form. Which means I can... not move. A Ghoul is lumbering slowly along the edge of the trench.
"Urrrreeee, nothing to ea-t. Left nothing behi-nd," muttered the monster with unnaturally long clawed front paws and a huge lower jaw full of sharp teeth, "offensiiive."
He is dressed in rags of peasant clothing made of coarse, thick Cloth—a shirt and pants, all patched up. Small red eyes glow on that gorilla-like face. The parasite walked along the trench, then sat on its haunches and froze, looking down at me. You freak, how am I supposed to go further! And killing it is risky; if Ner'zhul is watching, he'll notice the sudden passing of a subordinate. As long as they aren't looking for me—if they start, life will get much harder. No, I'll have to wait.
Wait a long time; the dead man is in no hurry, allowing me to see how a Ziggurat is slowly forming behind him in the green glow of magic. And the Ghoul itself, too.
A Ziggurat is a stone pyramid made of large black blocks with metal slopes and an entrance inside. Now, while it is only forming, the layout can be seen from the inside. Inside, there will be a sacrificial altar and a plague cauldron. No comforts, pure functionality. The upper part isn't forming yet; it's unclear what will be there.
And the Ghoul is the most common infantry of the Scourge. The necro-chimera was once a Human, but magic deformed its body into the likeness of a gorilla. An unusually wide shoulder girdle, which caused the shirt on the monster to partially tear, and where it didn't, it stretched tight. The hip area, on the contrary, shriveled, making the Ghoul pigeon-toed with every step, spreading its legs to the sides. The jaws deformed and stretched forward, especially the lower one, which is greatly enlarged. You really are a freak.
And you're an even bigger freak because you're just sitting there and not going anywhere. Just get lost already, will you? My legs are going numb, my heart is pounding, and it's getting harder and harder not to move!
"Y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y..." the Ghoul howls quietly, and I want to throw something heavy at him; my musical ear can't stand such a perversion!
Just shut up already! I feel like crap and I'm scared too! But that's no reason to strain yourself like that! Apparently, I'm not the only one who thinks so, because footsteps were heard. A dead Dwarf approached the Ghoul, clinking his Armor quietly, and kicked him. A meter tall, Armor made of Saronite—a dark metal—styled with skulls: skulls on the pauldrons, on the belt, and a skull symbol on the chest. After the kick, the Ghoul fell silent and stared at the Dwarf. The latter grunted:
"Shut up and get to work. Your howling is annoying," watching the lumbering Ghoul walk away, the dead Dwarf sighed, "stupid animals. No wonder we're taking so long. How can you even work when your subordinates are so stupid?"
He asked this question to another Dwarf, also dead, in a familiar mechanic's suit.
"Consumables, what else do you expect?" the mechanic waved him off, "only the peak remains. All is the Master's will; we'll manage. A Necropolis will fly in soon with a new batch of chemical bombs from Naxxramas. Things will go quickly with them. Maybe we'll find some new brothers."
The Warrior looked at his colleague with interest.
"So, they did it?"
The mechanic nodded.
"That's right, brother. Plague gas will smoke them out of the trenches, incendiaries will burn the wooden fortifications. It will all be over by evening. I'm sure of it."
Shitty. No, of course, it's cool that I overheard them, who's arguing? Huge stroke of luck. And then? I still need to get out of here. At least the Dwarves went toward the Ziggurat, talking. These Death Knights look way too alive; it's worrying. Like they're alive, but undead, heh.
In any case, it's quiet now—through the trenches and forward-forward-forward. Toward the exit from the base and the path up to the Night Elves. And, who would have doubted it, there are even more Undead on the front lines. Necromancers, acolytes gathering bodies into a pile. M-mother, a meat arts and crafts circle! No, I can't go through the main gates.
And what's that squelching... Ugh, pfe, how disgusting. An Abomination chewing on a corpse. Tfu! Oh. And not just it; apparently, the rejects—bodies that are too damaged—are given to the Ghouls and Abominations, which is why they're crowded there. Dozens of creatures right at the gates. And Zombies are wandering around. No, I'm not going there; I like living and not portraying Eren Yeager's mom. No-no-no-no, we'll go another way. As far as possible from this place.
Okay, plan "B": escape through the forest. There's a chance of running into Night Elf saboteurs there; I'll be polite, and they'll lead me out. Then the plan changes: we go through the forest. Still through the trenches, and then the forest. Past the Ghouls, who are also chewing on someone. I can hear it, but I can't see it. And thank all the gods, I've had enough impressions as it is. The trenches are deep, and I'm short, so the voices and movements pass me by. The main thing is not to make noise. And to freeze when another Abomination makes its way across the footbridges thrown over the trench. And try not to breathe.
Gods, how it stinks. How... okay, DaVi, calm down. Calm down. Quietly and imperceptibly we scrape along further. Don't breathe through your nose, and everything will be fine. And now—don't move.
Another group of acolytes passed by in the same purple robes, silent and quiet. This time I managed to stay calm—well, relatively. It's still terrifying, but there's more confidence now. They didn't notice me again; it only seems like they're close, but I'm invisible. They don't see me. Just like the Ghouls carrying logs three hundred meters further. That means I'm safe; I just need to avoid making extra noise. The construction will hide any stray sounds.
The forest is getting closer, which means the clearing is too. It seems the Undead have taken over the sawmill left by the Orcs for their own needs. And it also means more Ghouls. Damn, they're actually chopping wood with their claws, hacking chunks out of the timber with raw physical strength.
Oh, boy! I barely managed to dive behind a support, catching a movement.
"Deathfrost, you weren't in a hurry."
Carefully peeking out... And there is Archimonde, a humanoid tentacle-bearded giant with bluish skin, the size of a high-rise building. And next to him, in a frozen haze, floats the small—by comparison—figure of a Lich. Even if the Lich is three meters tall, the Demon is ten times taller, forcing him to stoop to hear his subordinate. Unfortunately, I can't hear him, only the Demon's almost deafening remarks, like claps of thunder.
"Good. I'm tired of waiting. This..." suddenly the Demon froze and began to look around, "we are being overheard. Search everything! Find the spy! NOW!"
The Demon literally growled the last part, looking around. And I pressed into the column, realizing that the size of my headache had just grown several times over. And this was confirmed by the low, creaky voice of a dead man, quite loud this time.
"Seal the base, find the spy. Bring them to the master!"
Mother-mother-mother! I'm afraid even to breathe, in every sense. Ghouls entered the sawmill area, inspecting and even sniffing every corner. And I'm not visible, and I'm not visible... ten meters. Two Ghouls climbed up to where they saw the logs, two more are walking below, inspecting the area. Okay, I need to distract them or make sure they don't catch my scent. If I start throwing spells, Archimonde will notice; if I run, they'll spot me. What to do? I'll have to take a risk. Sawdust burns well. I can use "Burning" from under the cloak. If I hide well, they'll think it's a distraction. I scooped up a handful from the pile I'm hiding behind and held it to my cheek.
Five meters. It won't work; the sawdust is damp. Oh, hide! I'll try to bury myself in the pile of sawdust. I had to roll up my sleeves a bit and extend the blades to scoop better. Good thing they aren't rushing. Quick, quick, quick. The clicking of claws is very close.
Seal change—Necro. Sterilization. A Human's scent is formed by bacteria on the skin and inside, breath, and also direct secretions like sweat and sebum. With Death Magic energy, you can briefly pass for a corpse by killing the bacteria and decomposing the secretions. But with salts and other non-organic things—it probably won't help.
The gloves flared with black-gray energy, almost without a flash, enveloping my body. I jerked to keep from screaming from the searing cold as the energy washed over my skin. And immediately—an ice block. This will trap any new secretions. And now—wait. I don't know how much time passed; the ice muffles sounds. But the clicking of claws first approached, then something rustled, and then it began to recede. Further and further. Until it fell silent.
Defrost. They're gone; they really did leave. Phew, that was close; my heart is beating like crazy. But it seems to have worked. Damn, that was a close call, we missed each other by literally a meter. I can't even believe it. Calm down, DaVi, exhale; you need to calm down and leave. Sooner or later, they'll be back.
I carefully peeked out—no Ghouls nearby. I don't think they'll leave me alone that easily. The cloak is fine; I checked to make sure—I'm still invisible. Excellent.
A short gesture, and magical vision settled over my eyes, and Thalassian profanity came to mind. At the edge of the forest, black, swirling silhouettes without legs or arms are flying—blurred shadows. Ghosts—Scourge spies. Invisible, and I almost walked right into them. That means... the exit through the forest is also closed. Great! Just wonderful! Jaina, now you're absolutely obligated to show me the portal spell! I swear, if I get out of here, I'll make you teach me at any cost! But for now, I need to not die.
Quietly, in dashes, we leave. Between the piles of logs, straight into the trenches. Archimonde is still walking around, but he's too tall and the night is dark to tell where he's looking. Though no fireballs have flown from the heavens, so not at me.
Okay, and where do I go? Dead guys at the gates, Ghosts at the forest—we aren't going there. The rear isn't an option. I still don't know how to make portals, right, Jaina? Plumbing is more useful, Jaina?! I need something else, otherwise I'll stay here.
Hmm, what were those Dwarves talking about? Bombs. On planes. If I can hijack one, hmm. And where are the planes? No idea. It's dark as an ass on the base... probably, I haven't checked personally. I don't think the Undead have had time to set up an airbase; they've been here for no more than an hour or two. But they said—bomb at dawn. Did they turn the Necropolis into a carrier?
Sounds like a plan; I'll try to check. Under the Necropolis, there's a portal up—an arch glowing with green energy; through it, I can get up into the building. Right now, it—the Necropolis—is hanging in the southern part of the base; I can see its silhouette. A task. But more solvable than the others. I still have the cloak; there are a few hours until dawn. I just need a bit of luck.
And lung capacity, so as not to breathe while creeping past the Abominations. Vile and stinking giants covered in rotten fat. Ugh!
"Hmmm?" one of the creatures, boredly scratching its ass with its third hand, looked around, "someone wants to play?"
The second one looked around.
"No one is playing, stupid," and hit the first one on the head with the flat of its cleaver.
He scratched his head and said thoughtfully, building a pyramid of stones:
"I want to play. Boring..."
And I want to not breathe. And in dashes, freezing every time there's a risk of being noticed. The Undead are patrolling this zone, but so far they haven't found me, it seems. They're searching the perimeter of the base, thinking I'll go there. But I won't. I have to go quietly, from frame to frame, from building to building... freeze! Wait, wait, now further, through the trench.
This cloak is a damn cheat. Which will work until dawn. And then, if I don't get out of here—I'll die. I'm absolutely sure: if Archimonde realizes who's running around his base, he'll start blasting, regardless of collateral damage. No thanks, I'm not okay with that approach.
The closer to the Necropolis, the easier. It's clearly being used as a cargo ship; hence the pile of crates and equipment, both classic Undead and Dwarven.
And that means a lot of cover in the dark, including under the wheels of carts. Zombie porters aren't Ghouls; they don't have a dog's sense of smell. Neither does the rather loud Dwarf mechanic. A dead one, of course.
"Move it, rot-heaps. If you can't drive a tank properly, at least carry the crates straight! Straight, I said! Where did they dig up such clumsy fools like you?"
And Zombies are difficult. Their legs give out, which is why large crates have a tendency to bump, fall, and scrape. And annoy their boss. For me, this is excellent cover; the main thing is not to rush, to catch the moment when everyone has turned away and quietly crawl further and further toward the desired portal arch. Quietly and silently. I am a goddess of stealth; I'm sure no one expects such nonsense from me. I don't even expect such nonsense from myself!
Okay, for the last twenty meters, there are no crates. I'll go with a blink. I just need to catch a moment when no one is looking my way.
As soon as the Dwarf gets distracted by a crate again, I'll jump. Wait, wait, wait... jump!
The cold of death seared, but I fell out of the portal exactly where I needed to be, in a large and dark room with a similar arch. And another blink to the wall! Behind the boxes and don't move. Did they notice me? It seems...
"HHm?"
I froze again, trying with all my might not to move. Shuffling footsteps were heard.
"What's that?" a Zombie groaned.
It seems they noticed, but didn't understand the nature of the problem.
"Nothin', probably. No one," a Zombie noted, peeking behind the crates. His twisted face with a torn throat is turning just half a meter away from me, and not reacting requires all possible self-control.
The first one scratched his head, which has an arrow sticking out of it. He moved the arrow, thought about it.
"Maybe tell the head? He's sma-rt."
"He'll yell," the dead man suggested, "always yells when he comes."
They thought some more.
"Then we won't tell. Drag it. He'll yell."
"Yeah. Drag it. So he won't yell."
The Zombies shuffled away, and I was able to exhale. And shudder with a clear conscience, knowing they couldn't see me anymore. What a stench! What a monstrosity! And anyway, I know you! I remember your annoying faces! You were the numbskulls who took me for a witch! Well, now you're Zombie porters. Though, in my opinion, if you've gotten stupider, it's not by much. Witch. Wise bird. Tfu, idiots. But at least they were useful this time. Though in my opinion, just stupid. Oh, it seems I've let go, hee-hee.
Okay, and where have I ended up? A dark, gloomy corridor; I'm on tiptoe, like a thief. Just like in the song. A corridor of dark and very cold stone, as if drawing the heat from my body and the light from the surrounding space. At least there are a bunch of crates along the walls; there's somewhere to hide. And there's minimal lighting, so the cloak will work as it should. It reminds me of the corridors of my dungeons, except we're now at a height of a couple of hundred meters, not underground.
A very cold and very gloomy place. I don't even want to touch the black stones of the walls; it feels like they absorb both heat and light. Just like the metal that reinforces the ceilings and from which the lanterns are made. Not outwardly, but I feel that even in gloves, it's not a good idea. And yet I have to move forward; Zombies are walking here, carrying crates from the depths of the corridors.
In which I almost got lost. This place is so identical! Also this chill and a quiet, persistent whisper. Not voices, like in the Void, but singing—monotonous, quiet, and sad. I don't want to linger here. And I won't. Good thing that in this twilight, the cloak's Invisibility works almost continuously, even if I move very, very slowly. I can't rush; there are plenty of Ghosts in these corridors too. But the combination of blink and the Invisibility cloak makes me, I think, a pretty good Ninja. Who has found her target, and that's important.
It really is a carrier! Almost half of the Necropolis has been dismantled and turned into a real airbase! I found it; this place isn't that big. A piece of the tower seems to have been cut off, turned into a runway. There are planes, and quite large ones at that—bombers. Many barrels and bombs stand by the walls. Clearly prepared for the assault. A real carrier, just as I remembered them from my past life! It's simply impossible to be mistaken.
The staff consists of Dwarves—Death Knights and their assistants—Skeletons. And all of this is Ready for Combat! Well, so it seems to me. The machines look intact; put the pilots in and you can fly. Just what I need.
All that's left is to choose a bomber to my liking and get out. For example, that one on the far left. It's by the wall, convenient. It looks like a machine from World War I. Two pairs of wings connected by struts and cables, four propeller engines, a long fuselage. If I approach from the wall side, the fuselage will hide me from the Undead. Just what's needed. I'd booby-trap everything here, but I'm not an explosives expert at all. So we're just quietly getting out.
I creep along, barely breathing, so as not to startle them. Those who have been asleep for a long time, those who don't care whose cockpit I'm secretly trying to peek into. To hijack! This wonderful plane. Open? Open.
The door opened easily and silently; the hinges were greased. Peeking quietly into the cockpit, I exhaled: no one, including in magical vision. Excellent. Now to the pilot's seat. The controls... unfamiliar. No, it makes sense; I made the Pepelats controls so that it would be hard for anyone but me to operate the machine. Here the problem is the same: I fit the height, but I have a very vague idea of the purpose of half the levers. Trouble.
And also, if I understand correctly, this gauge here indicates fuel. Which there isn't. The plane isn't fueled. Well, shit, now what?
"Remind me, what is it like to feel disappointment?" I looked up and met the gaze of skull sockets in which blue lights glow.
A Lich, standing on the other side of the cockpit. Due to height, the standing Lich and I in the cockpit were more or less at the same eye level. Deathfrost, I think that's his name.
"I haven't felt anything for a long time; what I'm truly curious about," the Lich noted, tapping his finger on the glass from the outside, "is that you bypassed so many patrols, passed by traps. And now, when salvation is so close, it turned out to be another trap. This, I think, is a rather disappointing experience. What do you think, mortal elf?"
Can't argue with that. And what to do? Blast magic in all directions, hoping it blows up? There are so many barrels of toxins here that even if I survive in an ice block, I'll still die trying to get free.
"Yes, that turned out unpleasant," I agreed, to stall for time.
The Lich continued to examine me. For him, it must be amusing. When I move, a silhouette is visible—the fingers of the gloves, well, and the lower part of the face, the eyes possibly. The rest is all very transparent.
"Unpleasant? Just that?" the Lich seems dissatisfied, "now, when you are on the brink of defeat, when you realize that you can no longer deliver information to your leaders. That in just a couple of hours your base will drown in a plague mist, causing everyone you know to die in such exquisite agony. And your World Tree, the greatest pride and relic of your people, will perish, just as the Sunwell did before. And after that, you tell me it's just unpleasant?"
He seems to be getting worked up. That's good, of course—I'll live a bit longer; let him talk. But it's also bad—there's still no way out. And no fuel. Perhaps we could make a deal.
So, comrade schizophrenia. Let's be more specific. What kind of deal?
"I am dissatisfied!" the Lich was outraged, "you should feel the bitterness of defeat! Disappointment! The realization of your own helplessness! The cruel fate that is ready to cover your miserable living bodies and souls! To experience unutterable agony and a crisis of faith from the realization that your insignificant goddess did not protect you!"
Goddess? Um, what is he talking about? Oh, right, the skin tone from the poisoning. He took me for a Night Elf! Schizophrenia, what's the deal? Just hurry up; I'm about to be killed.
"Well, we haven't lost yet."
The Lich thought about it. Not for long.
"There is indeed logic in that. The thing is, your suffering, insignificant mortal, is not enough! You are not broken, not deprived of weapons, not subjected to the terrible tortures that will await you every second of your miserable mortal existence, and then, when the soul is separated from the body, the torture will continue! And then you will experience even more pain—spiritual! And your soul will cry out for our master's mercy, but mercy will never come until your soul is purified! And you will accept the master's will, and the pain granted by him, as the truth and your path! And then the pain will be enough! Or maybe not!"
Schizo, listen, I'm being promised a millennium of pain here. Offer something faster.
I offer you a portal out of here, which will destabilize, blowing up the containers around. A deal.
Sounds tempting. If it blows up well, the Necropolis might be destroyed. Or it will take damage after which an air attack won't happen. And the price?
A little help with one matter.
With what? And who are you anyway? Not answering?
It doesn't matter now. Something else does. Do you need a portal? Choose.
Right now, my situation is completely hopeless. Several Death Knights, a Lich, a couple of Shadow Hunters, and all sorts of Undead have gathered outside. And there's a pile of barrels with explosives there. If I start using magic, with a probability close to a hundred, I'll go to the next world in a huge explosion. No, art is an explosion, of course, but I don't want to die at all. On the other side of the portal... Xal'atath is in the knife now. In short, fifty-fifty. I'll either die or I won't.
"Hey, are you sleeping in there?" the Lich barked, "seize her."
Okay.
"Portal!"
The Lich froze when a purple vortex separated me from him. Into which I jumped. Bye, losers.
***
Traveling through the Void is a specific experience. Maybe it was different in the dream, but now the feeling of cold and presence doesn't let go. Someone is there. And that someone is watching. And I don't like that look. And I don't like this place at all either. A purple intestine without end or beginning. It's probably even good that I can't find my way in it. On the other hand, it also means that I have no control over the movement process at all, which is also very bad.
Who was it, why, for what? I don't know. Finally, the flight ended; I was swallowed by something purple and spat out...
"Ah, a familiar landscape."
I saw this in a dream. The same gray-purple desert, breaking off into nothingness, cliffs of the same shade. I was even ready to meet the same elf, covered in hieroglyphs with eye-sockets and two spheres above her pauldrons. Xal'atath, whoever she was.
But it turned out not to be her, but an ethereal. A Mummy with purple energy inside, wrapped in white ribbons. Moreover, I can clearly see that there is no flesh under them, only energy. But the ethereal is clearly unusual. For example, part of the bandages on his body forms a skirt. Or an equivalent of a mage's robe. And there is matter on his body.
The claws end in artificial fingers made of a material similar to bronze. He also has bracers and a belt made of the same material. Pauldrons, like the claws of some cosmic predator, cast in bronze and shadow. Curved upward, joining in the middle of his torso into a ritual breastplate that some high-ranking cultist would wear. And a headpiece resembling a crown with three prongs, or a torch, in the center of which is a spike styled as tongues of flame. Purple flame.
Magically speaking, it's a complete mess. Both the bandages themselves and what lies beneath them. A hellish jumble. Chaos. I don't understand.
Obviously, while I was examining the one who pulled me out, he was examining me. It's not polite to remain silent further, so:
"Hello. And thank you for saving me. It means a lot to me."
The ethereal nodded slightly.
"Greetings. I am called The Wanderer. You may as well."
The Wanderer, The Wanderer, I don't remember. And your voice is interesting. Firstly, it's quite resonant. Secondly, it seems as if many people are speaking at once and there's an echo. But also resonant.
"Greetings, The Wanderer. Well, my name is Davilinia."
The ethereal nodded.
"I believe you will be pleased with the news that as a result of the explosion, the contents of that room were destroyed. The Undead attack, I am sure, has been thwarted."
I nodded. And I'm terribly worried about the price that will be demanded of me for such a thing. One rescue is already a lot. And a rescue with another maneuver that qualifies as a heroic feat...
"May I ask a question?"
"Ask," the ethereal replied easily.
It's interesting that he sways slightly. As if his non-physical form is blurring a bit, and the bandages are supporting it. Though in theory, that's how it is.
"How long have you been watching me?"
"Not particularly long. Or maybe—long enough. Here, time is a very relative concept."
Okay, it's clear that nothing is clear.
"What do you want from me?"
The ethereal just looked for a while and then replied:
"Help with one operation. Don't worry about time; you will return to your world in a minute."
And here come the problems.
"What kind of operation?"
"You will find out if you agree."
Who would have doubted it.
"And if I refuse?"
The ethereal swept his hand across the space. In which there is a magical nothing. Desert and cliffs. I don't think there's any food there suitable for an elf.
"Then you will have to learn to feed on energy. I did a favor—I saved you. You need a portal and more. I need the job done. My previous contractor is currently unavailable. I am offering a deal—to you."
"Aha!" I said, demonstratively carelessly inspecting the claws of my glove. "I know how to feed on energy. Do you think I'll agree that this is what I had in mind when I sought salvation?"
The ethereal wasn't particularly upset, judging by his tone. He just shrugged his pauldrons.
"Well, fine."
And he left. Um, and now what? There's nothing here. I mean, absolutely nothing—a blank sandy beach and the abyss. Did he leave for good? That's... what am I supposed to do now?
"Mister? Come back, will you? I thought we were bargaining? Please."
Damn. So much for that conversation. No, well, this is a very original way to commit suicide—to dismiss the one offering you help. On the other hand, my choice is just magnificent. Go left—fall into the abyss. Right—desert with cliffs to the horizon. Straight—the shore in between. And no-thing. What to do? I don't know. Maybe if I shout loudly and apologize, he'll hear me? Maybe he hasn't gone far?
"The Wandereeeer, are you there? Sorry! I did something stupid, I understand. Come back, will you? I really got carried away; I thought you'd be measuring strength too. Please, huh? I'm still small; I do stupid things sometimes! But I'm apologizing! Come back, please!"
Zero effect. And after a minute, too. About two minutes later, when I had already decided that was it, the Void portal vortex manifested nearby again. From which the mummy stepped out—the same one. Just in case, I repeated:
"Sorry, I did something stupid. I really didn't think you'd react like that."
The ethereal nodded.
"There is sense in that. Even if it's not always obvious," he pointed to the vortex behind his back; the portal hadn't closed, "this is your way home, little elf. But if you wish to know what you are more capable of. If you want to repair your artifact. I am ready to help. For a favor."
Now that's interesting. Not coercion, but cooperation. We approve of that.
"Repair the artifact. You know something?"
"Void energy flows in your body. Chaotically. Incorrectly. Inefficiently. It can be reconfigured into another sequence, fixing the design."
I looked at the mummy, at my "contact pair." And then I looked some more. It sounds tempting, very much so. Void leaks and poisoning by it are a very unpleasant process. On the other hand, I don't want to sign up for something unknown. Ethereals are shady characters; who knows what he wants from me.
"Excuse me, but could you hint at exactly what I'll have to do? Even just in general? I'm interested overall, it's just that where you pulled me from, my comrades are fighting demons. And leaving them wouldn't be right."
Apparently, the word "demons" had an effect, because the ethereal nodded.
"Now is not the moment. You may go. But I will find you when the moment comes."
The ethereal waved his hands, displaying an image. A familiar image.
"A Draenei ship. Will I need to find something there?"
The mummy immediately countered.
"Naaru, to be more precise. They were created by entities of Holy — Naaru."
I just brushed it off. What difference did it make whether the Naaru or the Draenei created them?
"It doesn't matter."
What mattered was that these were Draenei ships. And there is technology there, like what I intended to find in Tempest Keep. But an expedition to Outland is long and difficult. Making a portal, finding resources, finding Tempest Keep itself. And here, I'm clearly being led toward this business… I could probably build a dreadnought much faster. I had another compelling reason to accept this guy's offer.
"Technology and mana-conduits are important. Revered World Wanderer, if you want to go and rob this ship, then… a little later. As I already said — the battle for Mount Hyjal continues and they are waiting for me there. I won't be able to focus on the task until the danger of the Burning Legion hanging over my world is resolved. But after…"
Another nod from the World Wanderer.
"What you do with the ship is far beyond my interest. Your task will be related to the demon that will threaten the ship. The rest — on your own."
I like this even more. So…
"Agreed. But first — the demons at home."
I jumped into the portal vortex feeling extremely pleased with myself. Ultimately — I escaped the Undead camp, blew up a necropolis, and instead of Tempest Keep, I got the chance to rob the Armies of Light, and I'll even be guided to their tub. What else do I need for happiness? It's actually curious what kind of ethereal this is and what he can do. Very curious. He said the "contact pair" could be fixed. But how? And what else can be done? An interesting question. I want to find out more.
***
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