Life is good. I'm lying in the sun, kicking my legs, managing the construction with the power of thought, and singing a cheerful song:
"Are you ready to suffer defeat once again from the imperfection of your creations? Years of despair, years of deprivation…"
Well, why not? It's a great song. The main thing isn't how I sing it, but not losing concentration. If simple tasks can be entrusted to golems, then assembly—only personally. Not just because these clumsy-hands will break everything they can, drop what they can't, and lose what they don't drop. That's the reality of golems; they are extremely stupid and straightforward. Without direct control, a golem might ignore a log lying a meter to the left because it's supposed to lie "right here." And it's to the left.
"I was created by gods, a triumph of technology. I am recognized to doubt your right to live! Behind my back are epochs, your youth and vices…"
A great song. And no, I'm not complaining. Golems are very good in their sphere. As a mobile manipulator performing one or two simple operations. But if you need to do something one-off and precise, then only personally.
For example, right now I'm mounting the supports to which the engine will be attached. It's very convenient to do while lying on the roof of the technical module. And sunbathing, too—what else is there to do in this heat? Put on a hat with the widest possible brim, a swimsuit, conjure some ice into my juice. In short, we're working with maximum comfort. And I'm certain no one is peeking: the height settles that.
My new ship is starting to resemble a flower. At the bottom are the supports and the frame suspension for the modules: a "stem" with a ladder in the center. Two meters high, three massive supports with a "bird's paw" base. I had to do quite a bit of magic to make sure they definitely wouldn't break or overload. It's easier for the Alliance with their flying ships—they can land on water like a proper ship. But we're going a different way. Well, I am. I have stylish supports with "paws," three in number. There are three backups, but by default, three are lowered. On a square base, it's more stable that way.
Above the supports is a square base, from which the frame goes out in a cross shape with a tower in the center. Inside the tower is a ladder, and between the frame sections, the module rooms will be attached, eight in total, four per floor. That's another six meters, plus half a meter for the supports.
And the top level. Here, at the peak of the "flower," are the cockpit, the technical compartment, and soon the supports where the engines will be attached will appear. The cockpit is absolutely gorgeous, a fairly high room with panoramic windows across the entire wall in the front; the pilot's chair with levers and other mechanics is here too, along with a few smaller chairs. Well, chairs in the future; for now, it'll be a regular stool bolted to the floor. Minimalist, but I don't have time for leather thrones; I need to finish the mechanism as quickly as possible.
The technical zone, however, hasn't been finished at all yet. Yes, the room itself has already been levitated to the very top and secured. But the interior... it's still a bit empty. On the bright side, it's a convenient and high-positioned (eleven meters above the ground) compartment. A massive wooden tower, four stories high. Building something like this alone, without half a hundred golems, would have been simply impossible. The somewhat boxy nature of the construction is a source of irritation for the adults (it's "not elven"), but I brush it off by saying the wood can be sanded down and decorated later. This is just the frame for now. I want it to turn out beautiful myself, though my understanding of "beautiful" might differ from the generally accepted one, yes, yes.
For example, I find the current flower quite charming. Paint it yellow, draw an Aquila, blast some Turjan Ailan in the background—or whatever his name is—and you could fly off to conquer the Hive to the commentary of a mustachioed man in a peaked cap. I just need to mount a couple of cannons, but that's all in the future. The primary goal is to finish the machine on time. I have no idea where His Highness Arthas Menethil is wandering, but I can't delay. As soon as the assembly is finished, it's takeoff almost immediately and off to Stratholme.
To be honest, when I look at the ship from below, it seems so huge, but in fact, the internal space doesn't turn out to be that much. Eight rooms, at least one of which will be occupied as living quarters, and a second as a warehouse. Or maybe more than one. Most likely more than one.
And another room is a workshop with a machine tool. If I'm going to drop mines down, one of the lower-tier compartments will be converted for that. If I add drones and weapons—that's another couple of compartments. In the end, nothing will be left. It'll be like a submarine. It seems big, but the crew (especially in older models) is practically sitting on each other's heads.
Though I am leaving room for expanding the structure, both upward and outward, in the future. It's a good thing magic allows me to ignore gravity. I need the supports partly so that the hull doesn't smash against the ground during landing, making it softer. Anyway, okay, it's starting to get hot; time to get to work. But first, I need to flip over so I don't get burned.
Why am I lying down, exactly? Well, I'm sunbathing. It's July here, scorching heat... I don't want to move at a-a-all. Of course, I could cast something over the area, maybe even let a frost storm loose over the camp to make it cooler, but... I thought about it, and this is essentially my last chance to lounge around before the Third War. So, whatever you think, I'm going to sunbathe. I want to, and there's nothing you can do to stop me. And so that no one nitpicks about "indecency at such an age"—you never know—I chose a spot up high. If you flew up here just to complain, it's not me being indecent; it's you being a prude and flying up here just to find fault. There.
Of course, I'm not just lying here; I'm hanging my head over the edge of the structure and, with magical vision active, I'm directing the assembly. Right now. In the best traditions of the Jedi, I slowly raised my hand, making about a ton of material slowly take flight.
The support with a jet engine attached to it obeyed, slowly rising upward. I had thought about various engine options. Turboprop, even ionic. But in the end, the most basic "whistle" won out. It's simpler than fussing with every single blade. Air can be forced in using magic. Of course, if I were a Shaman, I'd harness a little Elemental as a starter, but there are other ways. Jaina summoned water ones; I went for summoning air ones. It's more useful for me.
The idea is simple. A fuel tank will be located in the technical compartment—in our case, it's hydrogen, because electrolysis isn't hard. Through pipes, the hydrogen will flow to four engines located at the ends of the supports. And yes, the tubes need to be protected and fitted with valves so they don't blow up if hit.
And after that, it's pure physics. Air enters the chamber through blowers, gets compressed there, the pressure rises through the combustion of hydrogen, and all these whistles shoot out a jet stream wherever I need. I regulate the altitude with magic, and these engines are needed for speed. Simple and feasible.
The support continued its leisurely ascent. A massive beam, at the end of which sat the engine cylinder, and in a groove—the pipe. The structure, obeying the movement of my hand (and the tension of the strings), hovered right in front of me, turning to be secured.
"Excellent. Now, come to me. Gently."
Of course, I'm just talking to myself, for reassurance. The process is controlled on a different level. The part began to move toward the ship, entering the slots with a quiet rustle. The resistance increased, which is good. It means it fits tightly.
I must look almost cool. Excluding my choice of clothing, in a wide-brimmed hat, sitting on the edge of a high structure, moving a part levitating under telekinesis with a wave of my hand.
"Good. Now like this. And... done."
A click and a soft thud as the beam finally settled into place. Two more as the braces also locked in. The first engine took its place. Three more like this, and I can start "reinforcing." Overall, as soon as I finish here and install the tank, the ship will be almost ready for takeoff. Install a few blocks, the tank, reinforce everything with magic, start hydrogen production. And you could even fly on that. But I still want to finish the project, just to have more capabilities. That will take another couple of weeks.
"Fits like a glove. 'Land Creation' really is something. Alright, clay-boys, assemble the rooms; I need to finish up here and go somewhere."
I know they don't care. It just happens naturally that I talk to the golems, imagining workers in their place. I suppose it's a habit of mine to imagine something sentient in their stead, hee-hee. So, the first support is holding; let's deal with the second. It's good that no one is interfering with the work.
Venidan went to the Rangers. She firmly decided to stand up for me, shook a letter of recommendation out of the Magister, and went to report to the higher-ups. She won't be around for the next few days. I even envy her. In our business, she's the muscle. I'm the one who has to design, research information, and assemble mechanisms. I'm sure she'll even linger a bit to show off her new bow. Well, I don't mind, actually. Perhaps the bow will serve as proof of cooperation. And it's just cool; I like the concept of a compound bow.
I like the concept, but the number of figures I had to give birth to in order to calculate this weapon—not so much. As well as the difficulties with manufacturing the parts. It would seem like a small mechanism. But for the conversion of tension into energy to be sufficient, the cams must be shaped correctly. The shape, the cable, everything must be calculated correctly, otherwise it either won't work or won't be drawable by an elf. By the way, for the future, I should think about how to make a ballista out of this.
While she's out wandering, I can lie here, enjoy myself, and work for my own pleasure. Spreading out like a happy puddle on the warm wood, an iced juice in my left hand, a glove on my right. It has a shield built into it; if they shoot, I'll have time to react. Life is almost good, though chores are suffocating, of course.
The issue is the engines and other projects. The bow for Veni was the easiest; essentially a normal weapon, just of a design unfamiliar to the locals. She accepted it easily and mastered it quite quickly.
The staff and the glove are more difficult. After a couple of weeks of refinements, the staff finally worked. And it's definitely more powerful than the apprentice one I had. Essentially, my old staff was a primitive stick with a crystal and a couple of spells—a cheap craft that wouldn't be missed if an apprentice lost or broke it. But the new one is a different story. As I already mentioned, it looks quite simple and high-tech. A crystal dangling between three fixators, a metal shaft wrapped in leather at the grip points. Simple, but technical. If anything, there's plenty of room for upgrades, but that's not a priority.
The glove... still isn't right. Tsk. I'm still thinking about how to achieve "that" result, but I'm not sure how it needs to be done... I need to think.
With a thud, the third part with the engine settled into place. I yawned. But I can't sleep; the assembly is ongoing. If the golems are left unsupervised here during assembly, at best there will be a jam and they'll crush each other. At worst, they'll damage the parts, and I'll have to remake them, effectively setting the process back several days. I wouldn't want that.
Will is an important component of magic; there can be no doubt. It's just like with the Jedi. Why is it hard for an adult to master telekinesis? Because they don't believe you can just pick up a starfighter with a wave of your hand. Or a beam with an engine attached to a swivel, weighing a couple of tons. So forget logic; surrender to the will of fantasy. I'm in my early twenties; I believe it's flying. I see it's flying. And I couldn't care less if the scientists of my old Earth would scream "impossible," "it doesn't happen like that," "fairy tales." We're on Azeroth, boys. And in a few seconds, obeying my will, the fourth part will settle into place. Slowly, glide, like that. More. And... done! I did it!
"Excellent," I exhaled, releasing the tension; I was still afraid of damaging the mechanisms, "and now, reinforce everything with magic."
Close my eyes. Leisurely feel out the strings, finding the right ones. I don't need to see to know where they are. All this magic is mine. I created it; I am its mistress. The strings responded easily and pleasantly. Good. Good. Done. Now, weave it all together. Connect the fasteners, fuse it with magic into a single construct. In a certain sense, this is the "Health" indicator of the mechanism.
It's impossible to describe the vibrations; the strings don't tangle or knot. They change, flowing into new forms. Unified forms. Where before each support had its own set and the base had its own, now there is a single, harmonious network. The guides—the ones that will be able to turn the engines—laid down as the second layer. My breathing quickened, and my head responded with a slight ache. It seems my fingers are shaking slightly, but I must finish everything correctly and on the first try.
The third layer—reinforce the pipes and other important elements, separately. The fourth—enchantments and stabilization. And... done. I carefully pulled my metaphorical hands away from the "strings" and exhaled. Done. Everything settled perfectly.
"Phew. Phew. I did it! I did it! Hee-hee, ha-ha-ha! Phe-e-ew. I'm good."
Excellent, what a relief. Now, where's my juice.
"Well, here's to you flying far, through forest, field, and sky," I sat down on the warm wood and tapped the roof of the mechanism, "and man, this is nerve-wracking work, precisely assembling ships. But you're going to be a good, sturdy one for me. And we'll defeat everyone on you, I promise."
Yes, I'm getting carried away. No, I'm not ashamed. After thinking a bit, I even flew a bit further away to evaluate the ship's new appearance. It looks cool; I like it. Exactly what I wanted. When I was coming up with the design for my flying bucket, I followed several rules.
1) Compactness. Maybe one day I'll get to flying battleships and cities, but that will be one day. Right now, I lack the resources and knowledge to maintain something large and complex.
2) Speed. It's fairly obvious that the speed of bats, wyverns, gargoyles, and griffons is limited. If there are many of them, it will be hard to fight them off. But why fight if you can just fly away, moving faster than them? So I looked for small but sufficiently powerful solutions. And four jet engines look good. Hydrogen isn't hard to get. Casting metal casings isn't a problem, for almost any faction. Reinforce all that goodness with magic, and you're done. In theory. In practice, we'll find out in a few hours when I finish assembling and connecting all this stuff.
And the third point—supply. Obviously, the ship will get into combat. And I must be ready to repair it. Not in a special workshop, of which there is only one in all of Azeroth, but in the field. Therefore, the materials must be accessible.
After admiring the creation of my dark genius for a bit, I carefully glided down. High time to deal with another important issue while the golems haul resources for the next part of the assembly. Of this, I am sure.
What I am not sure about is how to tell my parents. Yeah, I'm shocked myself. And it's not just that if I say: "Mom, I'm flying to Stratholme, there's going to be an Undead plague epidemic there and the city needs to be purged, but in a way that the Human commander doesn't lose his mind in the process," my parents' reaction will be perfectly clear and reasonable. Waking up in the morning, I'd find such a set of magical seals on my room that there would be no words, only emotions of pure admiration for the delicate and multi-layered work.
There's another point. The fact that I want to warn them. But those I told about the future earlier quickly took that secret to the grave. Except for Venidan; no one touched her. It all makes the situation so complicated...
And never mind the evacuation. Shoving my parents onto the ship without explaining anything—they'd at least listen before doing something stupid. But I'll definitely have to leave the town several more times on my new jalopy, which means I need to somehow convince them that everything will be fine. A bit of a problem... After all, no arguments will help; I'm not an adult yet, and they are parents. And I'm clearly not just going out for a walk with a boyfriend, tsk. I think they'd take a boyfriend more easily than a flight on a potentially suicidal mission. I irritably shot an icicle past the edge of the clearing. No, it didn't make it easier.
I never would have thought that the most morally difficult question in saving the world isn't some sacrifices in battle, or from villains. It's the need to explain things to the ancestors and the fear that the Bronze ones might arrange an "accident" for them. That is, I need to convince them to let me go. But without saying why... I have a suitable candidate; I just need to get dressed.
Naturally, I went to the Magister. Who else? In case of trouble, he has a better chance of covering for me, citing practical lessons. Fortunately, today I'm here on business, not turning in homework, and the defense system didn't try to humiliate me in a particularly cynical way. I still remember the chess. And that thing crawling on the ceiling.
During the walk (obviously, I got dressed), I managed to stop by the blacksmith's to see if everything was alright with him and his wife.
"Greetings," I bowed slightly to the elf sitting, as before, under a canopy at the magic machine, "how are you?"
The man chuckled. Yes, during the clearing of the settlement from Trolls, he had been injured by a bone spear.
"I'm fine, DaVi, thank you. A healer arrived from the city and fixed everything."
His wife looked out the window.
"DaVi, dear! Hello!" I bowed. "Come in! You're so thin and haggard-looking. You must be living at your construction site. I won't take no for an answer; come in, I'll give you a treat."
Well, it's impolite to refuse. I need to rest anyway. So my answer was:
"Of course, but not for too long. I still need to see the Magister."
The blacksmith nodded.
"I understand. Our head is an experienced Mage; he participated in the war with the Orcs. He probably monitors every step. Just do everything conscientiously; he'll appreciate it. You have talent; you'll manage. You're doing great, a true protector of the village."
I smiled, for some reason feeling myself starting to blush. But refusing the offer would be simply impolite. So, sipping herbal tea with pie, I decided to think about the Magister. I'd end up seeing him sooner or later anyway.
The problem with this guy is that I have no idea what's going on in his head. I know he's a sadist who isn't afraid to do rather risky and not always legal things. But at the same time, he doesn't hesitate to help, has never shown pedophilic tendencies, and hasn't harassed me at all. In fact, he's an extremely useful gentleman, ready to teach, give advice, suggest, and help. I'll try to reach an agreement; I think I have a decent chance. They let me go about an hour later, and I headed straight for the tower.
The little tower we flew on had returned to its place in the general ensemble. I, by the way, have no idea which of the towers flies; the illusion makes them all identical. And it's a high-quality illusion; the outer layer of strings is no different.
The Magister was already waiting for me in his office. I suspect this sadist has a block hanging somewhere here just like the one at my construction site, obtained through "Land Creation." Yeah, I look for traces of this type of magic everywhere now. It's interesting to see who else uses it.
The Magister was in the office. I had only been in this room a couple of times. The desk stands opposite a window that takes up the entire wall, so upon entering the office, you can observe our village behind the Magister's back. A sort of: "everything here belongs to me, show respect" vibe. There are also shelves with books and scrolls, racks, and a filing cabinet. An official's office, not a Mage's. But that's normal; magic is performed in other, protected rooms. And here, they deal with the boring part of ruling. Bureaucracy.
As I entered, our leader and my mentor was looking out the window, but he turned, pointing to a chair on my side of the desk.
"Come in, young lady. I believe it is time for 'that' conversation."
I nodded and sat in the chair, then replied:
"Thank you, Magister. But if I may ask, what do you mean by 'that'?"
The Mage smiled slightly, which made me feel uneasy. An unpleasant smile.
"About the fact that you have a prophetic gift, obviously. You were beyond the veil; you saw death and were able to bring revelations back from there. And they trouble you enough to force you to act. Correct?"
Oka-a-ay, you're right there, but...
The Mage continued:
"You are likely wondering how I realized. Oh, youth and naivety, what a wonderful time," ideally this should have sounded wistful, but it came out almost mechanical, "perhaps someone more foolish, seeing your hobbies, would have raised the alarm. Sent you to a boarding school to be re-educated. Or spent a long time diligently lecturing you on the impermissibility of even thinking about Necromancy. I acted differently. What is your opinion on how, exactly?"
I sighed. I had an answer to that question. I'd wondered myself if he'd figure it out.
"You cross-referenced my questions to you and started looking for the reason behind such a choice?"
The Mage smiled very wide and predatory.
"Exactly. I am glad I was not mistaken in you, apprentice. I cross-referenced your requests, based on the fact that you, my apprentice, are an honest Mage. And the answer came: in death, you saw an omen. Something that prompted you to seek a solution to a problem that cannot be solved otherwise. From there, it was not particularly difficult to piece everything together, based on a simple conclusion: something is approaching, for which you are preparing. I admit, until the very last mission, I was certain it was about the return of the Orcs. Last time, they caused a great deal of trouble. I was wrong, wasn't I? You may speak plainly and fully. I am not afraid to hear the truth."
Hm. He... has reasons to think that. The Orcs during the Second War did more than enough damage here. And yet, he really isn't afraid. I see it. A fearless man who, upon learning his death date, would throw an epic party, cover himself in weapons, and rock out in this hole. Respect. Since that's the case, I won't lie either.
"Yes, Magister. It's about the Undead. About the Orcish Necromancer Ner'zhul, who was turned into the master of the dead, locked in a Frozen Throne in the middle of Northrend. And he is actively displeased with that fact. What is coming is part of the dead Orc's plan for liberation."
The Magister immediately grasped the important part, sitting down at the desk and making notes on a sheet of paper.
"Who locked him up and why?"
I sighed.
"The Demons of the Burning Legion. They want to use the Undead as their pawns, and the Undead know it. And they are trying to outplay the Demons on their own field. The living are only of interest to them as tools for their plans."
And then came the story. I didn't say I saw it in a game, no. Но in other respects, I explained what I remembered and what would happen in the near future.
"...that's why, Magister, I need to go to Stratholme. It's a risk, but also an opportunity to break the whole system over my knee. If we can convince Arthas, or at least his teacher not to leave the boy alone, they might be able to change everything for the better."
The elf thought for a long time; I didn't rush him, sipping my juice. When my voice started to fail, the Magister gave me a glass. Finally, he decided.
"You will not go alone. That is out of the question. I will cover for you with your parents, but I will go myself. Two strong Mages, two magical weapons on the towers. You need to finish the assembly as soon as possible. I will examine everything, so don't think that shoddy work will pass. I need results. Everything you can remember. Write it down and inform me. All I can promise you is this: if you have told the truth, I will allow you to participate in this. Under a teacher's supervision. Questions?"
I was somewhat surprised by the shift to "thou," but recovered quickly.
"No, Magister. Then I'll return to the site. I need to finish assembling the power plant, produce fuel, and test it."
The Mage nodded, clearly lost in his own thoughts.
"You are dismissed, young lady."
I walked quickly toward the exit. This is my small victory.
***
Time stopped.
A Gnome appeared in the room in the young elf's house. She appeared out of nowhere, without side effects. A small, plump girl, an adult but quite young. In a yellow dress and with her hair braided into two spheres. Chronormu, a Bronze Dragon.
The Bronze Dragonflight had always been the Keepers of Time and history. Nozdormu, their Aspect and father, had taught them this. Unfortunately, this means that many things must happen. Monstrous things. Chromie generally had a positive attitude toward the younger species, but they are fragile and short-lived. And yet, sometimes unique individuals appear among them.
This girl, the elf. An anomaly. By her survival, she changes the flow of time, but at the same time, she is not a dragon from the Infinite Dragonflight; she does not alter time. She simply is. It shouldn't be like this! She shouldn't be alive; her soul should have been eaten by a Loa! But it wasn't eaten; she escaped, showing considerable strength of will.
Chromie was seriously puzzled and even notified the Aspect of their flight, Nozdormu. What to do? Fortunately, their father and leader decided to spare the child. But he charged Chronormu with ensuring that this child's influence was minimal.
Chromie walked through the room and, with a confident movement, pulled a sheet of paper from a folder. This girl had compiled a list of what was to come. Quite unpleasantly accurate.
Chromie killed her, as an agent of the Infinite dragons.
Chromie talked to her, trying to convince her to back down.
Chromie visited the past, trying to find the source of the foreknowledge. Unsuccessfully.
Chromie asked the elf how she knew this. The girl rudely insulted Chromie.
Chromie took the sheet and moved to the first floor of the house. There, she folded the sheet as if it had fallen out of the young elf's jacket. Her mother isn't here yet, but she'll be coming very soon. And she'll realize that her daughter, who spends a lot of time at the construction site, simply forgot this paper. And she'll read it. And time will proceed as it should.
"I'm sorry, but it has to be this way."
In the probabilities that did not happen, she tried to convince the girl to back down. And, let's be honest, she couldn't blame her for refusing to cooperate. For her, this is a life that can be made better. Saving loved ones, saving many. Unfortunately for her, the elves of Quel'Thalas cannot be allowed to be prepared. Even if Chromie sympathized with their grief, duty was above all. Time must flow correctly. Such is their role in the world order created by the Titans. Taking one last look around the room, the Gnome disappeared.
Time proceeded.
The front door opened and an elf entered the room. A beautiful, stately woman—a pastry chef—was humming a pleasant song.
"Oh! DaVi, you've become so absent-minded, dear," the woman smiled, noticing the fallen sheet and picking it up.
As she read the text, the notes, the smile rapidly left her face. They needed to have a serious talk with their daughter. No, first let her sleep; she won't run away anywhere until she's finished anyway. Otherwise, it'll go in one ear and out the other. But still, she needed to inspect her room. If this is true... No-no-no. I'm sorry, but you aren't going anywhere. Better to inform the Magister. He'll know what to do.
Time stop.
The Gnome appeared in a monastery of the Holy Light, where elven Priests and Paladins are trained. Unfortunately, to carry out the Aspect's instructions, something else must be done. During the Second War, the elven Magister Aldanos Dawnwalker, in order to survive and protect his future wards, entered into contact with the cult of Yogg-Saron. He didn't become a cultist, but he cooperated.
And the Priests will be extremely interested in this information. And more importantly, a potential cultist of the Void cannot be trusted. So Chromie carefully corrected the report so that the Paladins would be concerned about the situation. And send a squad to take the Magister and his associates into custody while the investigation is underway. Especially since the Magister has an apprentice who has problems with her soul.
Chromie looked into the future. Yes, good. It will be good this way. The Gnome, having done everything she intended, disappeared.
Time proceeded.
***
***
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