The next morning, the expeditionary force was already on the march. The column of soldiers snaked along the tract leading north, toward the elven kingdom of Quel'Thalas.
Arthas rode beside Uther, enjoying the morning cool and the peaceful landscapes of his homeland.
"Master, have our allies deigned to inform us what forces they have at the border?" he asked, breaking the silence.
"They did not provide exact numbers," Uther, as always, was brief. "But by my estimates, there are unlikely to be more than two thousand rangers there."
"Two thousand," the young paladin rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "And the trolls, according to intelligence, number around five thousand. The odds are so-so."
"Correct. But do not forget that the trolls are not a single army," Uther objected, drawing on his rich experience. "They call themselves an empire, but in reality, it is an alliance of many tribes. Each has its own chieftain, its own territory, and its own loa-god whom they worship. They go into battle the same way—in fragmented groups. They have no unified command. As soon as the losses of one of the tribes become critical, they will falter and flee, without looking back at their neighbors. These are savages, led by fury, not soldiers, bound by discipline."
Uther had crossed his hammer with them more than once and knew their habits.
"And yet, if the situation were not so serious, Prince Kael'thas would not have lost face and asked for help from humans," Arthas remarked. He looked carefully at his mentor. "Doesn't this seem strange to you, Master? Where did they suddenly get so many warriors? Five thousand is not a routine raid."
The great paladin nodded in agreement:
"I have thought about that too. In past years, their raids rarely exceeded a couple of thousand. This time, there are twice as many. This is not normal."
"Maybe they had a poor harvest in the forest and decided to get their hands on some elf-meat?" the prince joked.
Uther allowed himself a faint smile. Both understood that this was nonsense. Trolls are not farmers; they live by hunting and gathering. The reason was something else.
The entire territory of Quel'Thalas was covered by a powerful magical barrier called the Ban'dinoriel. This dome not only protected from invasions but also saturated the forests with the magic of the Sunwell, turning them into a land of eternal spring. Beautiful, effective, but with one flaw.
The barrier was held up by giant runestones that served as its supports. And such expensive artifacts cannot be scattered all over the forest. Therefore, there were always "blind spots" on the borders, which the trolls used to periodically launch raids on the elven rangers.
Except this time, there were too many of them. Something had changed.
Arthas probably knew more about these forest trolls than some of their chieftains. They were all descendants of the once-great Amani empire, which ruled these forests long before the arrival of the elves. So, to be completely honest, the real invaders here were precisely the pointy-eared ones.
However, at the moment, that didn't matter. Humans and elves were allies, and the trolls were a common headache.
Thousands of years ago, a united army drove them into the deepest corners of the forests, but the dream of reviving their empire never faded from their hearts.
And their famous chieftain, Zul'jin, lost an arm in one of these attempts at revenge. Then he worked part-time as a guide for the orcs during the Second War. He lost again and disappeared somewhere in the thicket.
Astonishing persistence. More than six thousand years have passed since the founding of Quel'Thalas, and these guys still can't understand that their ship has sailed.
Each new generation of trolls became weaker than the last. From the former empire, only pathetic huts and faith in their primitive loa-gods remained.
And therein lay another problem.
The trolls were completely indiscriminate in their connections. They didn't care if a god was good or evil. If a being promised power, they would worship it with the fanaticism of sectarians, even if it was one of the Old Gods.
They could even bring any contagion from outside into Azeroth. And what to do with such unhinged fanatics? That's right. Only send them to meet their cursed gods. Express delivery.
The journey from Stratholme to the borders of Quel'Thalas took about two days. There was no need to carry equipment and provisions—thanks to magic.
Upon arriving at the destination, two archmages assigned to the detachment were supposed to open a portal and deliver everything necessary. This is one of the main advantages of living in a world where there is teleportation: logistics ceases to be a problem. If desired, his elite squad could have reached the goal by a forced march by midnight.
But Arthas was in no hurry.
If the elves were unable to hold out for even two days, then their small detachment would no longer help them—it would simply be a meaningless sacrifice. Besides, he was almost sure that the situation was not as critical as Kael had painted it in his letter.
The rangers on the border were indeed cut off from support from the capital, Silvermoon. But these were not green recruits, but seasoned veterans, Farstriders, who had been holding back troll raids for thousands of years. If they couldn't handle an attack by a few thousand savages, Silvermoon would have long ago turned into a pile of rubble with an altar to some vile loa in the center.
No, it was something else. He understood perfectly well what was happening there.
His friend Kael'thas was most likely genuinely worried for his soldiers. But the nobles of the Silvermoon Council... those old foxes would only be glad if the ranger corps suffered heavy losses. This would greatly weaken the influence of their general at court.
Kael'thas's father, the elderly King Anasterian Sunstrider, had long been just a puppet in the hands of this corrupt council. He was reported only what they wanted, and he himself, having lived for several millennia, no longer had the strength or desire to delve into the problems of some border skirmishes.
It was precisely because of these intrigues that Kael'thas had fled "to study" in the human city of Dalaran. He was simply forced out of his own capital. He, a powerful mage, would have long since dispersed this serpentarium, but his status as a prince tied his hands.
However, unlike the council, he was not indifferent to his people. The rangers were the main military force of the kingdom. If they lost faith in the capital, then one day the trolls would indeed knock on the gates of Silvermoon. And then it would be too late.
That is why he turned for help to the ally of Quel'Thalas, Lordaeron.
And his father, King Terenas, saw a perfect chance in this letter. A chance for his son. The old king understood perfectly that Arthas, with his talents, lacked only one thing—the opportunity to make a loud statement about himself on the international stage. To win where the elves had been powerless. It would be a triumph.