The Magister and Venidan found me about twenty minutes later. Well, yeah, for them I'm standing there, and then bam—I'm gone. Expectedly, they got worried.
Meanwhile, I had been sitting opposite the breach left by Medivh's death all this time, looking into the distance. Right on the floor, in the dust, enjoying the wind and smiling to myself. How wonderful. For the first time in months, feeling smells, hearing noises, the cawing of crows—all of it. Bliss.
And yet... I looked down at my knees. There, returned to its previous state on my left hand, sat the gauntlet. Though it's stupid to call it that now. It is my artifact, Uomo Universale.
A long plate construction hiding the entire arm to the shoulder, made of dark metal with yellow inserts, long fingers with claws. An absolute weapon that, at the cost of half my mana, punched through a magical barrier. An analytical code embedded in the soul that managed to find the magical key and neutralize the defense. I felt disappointment. This is not a Phantasm. It was stupid, but still, looking at the weapon, I feel resentment. This is not a Phantasm.
I knew it would be this way from the start. After all, I'm not Da Vinci, not a Heroic Spirit. Not a person who pushes boundaries, capable of inventing anything, doing anything. I don't have the conceptual weight of his legend. That very legend that turns a gifted but human being into a Heroic Spirit from the Throne of Heroes.
I am not him. And I created not his weapon, but a replica, a copy. I realized the principles on which this weapon was made, exactly how Uomo Universale would work if it were here. I copied them, placed them in a similar shell. And I got a replica, a copy. Devoid of the weight of legend, of conceptual power. It's still more than good, but I continue to feel that it is NOT ENOUGH. Yes, it's a magical artifact of colossal destructive power that would even make Archimonde feel unwell, but it's not a Phantasm. And that saddens me, makes me feel disappointment in the result.
And yes, I perfectly understand that I'm being spoiled. That the copy worked overall like the original, as it should. It's a very good weapon; even if the salvo ate half my mana, it was definitely worth it. It's a very, very good copy, perhaps even enough to be considered a Phantasm. But it's not one. Good, but not good enough.
It was this knowledge, despite the victory, that made me feel a bitter aftertaste.
Also, all these operations drained all my mana, making me feel less than great. Tired, and also nauseous. But I'm ready to endure all of it.
"DaVi! DaVi, for heaven's sake! She's here!" — a roar sounded in my ear, after which Veni turned me around, inspecting me, — "what's wrong with you?"
I was inspected and dragged away somewhere. But I... actually don't feel very normal. Nauseous, and on my lips, it's like rot. Or not on my lips. Such a foul aftertaste.
And the thoughts of the Phantasm won't let go. I still feel that I can do more. I understand the principles; I realize what's missing. Does this mean that I can eventually finish the work, create a full-fledged Phantasm?
I listened to myself, to my sensations, planning and calculating. Yes, I can do it. I can create my masterpiece, something truly legendary that people will talk about. More than a weapon. More than a concept. A true Noble Phantasm. And as the gods are my witness, I want to do it. Smiling at my own thoughts, I whispered quietly:
"I will do it. I will create it. I will create a true phantasm. I just need to write the legend…"
"Ah, what did she say?" There, my train of thought was broken.
I should probably pay attention to the world around me. It seems I'm lying down. I wonder what they're talking about over there?
"…magical exhaustion. But who, and how?"
"It looks like the local monsters have learned to drain magic…"
No, that's wrong. I have to tell them. Let them read it instead of doing something stupid.
"Diary. On the table where they lost me, there's a book, a purple one. It's a diary."
They left me in peace for a while. I even managed to fall asleep, only to wake up to a scream:
"What have you done to your soul, you fool???"
I made us all an exit. I made a copy of the phantasm and made us all an exit. Why scream like that? A second voice remarked displeasedly:
"Calm down, Venidan. If you haven't noticed, she is currently in no condition to react or reflect upon your distress. Let her rest, and we shall speak afterward. There is a wealth of information in this diary. I intend to study it. Let us not jump to hasty conclusions, young lady. You are the elder, after all."
And so I blacked out again, continuing to think about Phantasms. One day I will make one. One day I will write the legend for that weapon. Oh, yes…
The morning began with excellent news! I was in a bed! I wasn't taking a step through the Karazhan laboratory, which is how my day had started for a damn eternity in a row—I was in a bed! And I had actually slept in it! How wonderful!
"Awake, suicidal girl?"
I stretched, habitually bracing my hands against the edges of the cot, and looked at Venidan sitting on her side of the room. A very unhappy Venidan. Now, don't give me that; it was incredibly long, difficult, and unpleasant. You didn't see what I saw to be judging me. You were standing there like a frozen statue the whole time.
Fine, I'm just angry. I shouldn't snap at those around me for things they couldn't influence. I understand that for Veni, less than a day has passed; it's difficult or even impossible for her to grasp that for me, it was months. Not the easiest months, either.
Listening to my body, I realized things weren't all that great. The consequences were even worse than they had been in Stratholme. There was still a strange feeling of rot and wrongness in my chest, a heaviness. Was this a side effect of the artifact's operation? I'll need to find out. After all, I had installed seals of various... let's call them elements in them. Under normal conditions, they don't interact, but during the firing process, mana can be converted, changing elements. It results in something like a poisoning. Unpleasant, but it will pass with time.
I sat up on the bed and tossed out:
"I couldn't think of a better solution. And in any case, it worked. I wouldn't say I regret anything much."
The Rogue winced.
"Yes, the Magister explained. Seven months, just think of it. I want to strangle you, but you two are right—I simply didn't have a better solution for smashing through a barrier of stopped time. So let's agree that I don't approve of what you did, but I understand and I'm grateful to you."
I smiled, still trying to figure out what was wrong with my sensations.
"Thank you. Though I don't feel very well."
Veni approached and reached out her hand. I expected a flick, but she paused for a couple of seconds, poked me in the forehead with a finger, and smiled sadly.
"I can't even imagine what it's like. Several months effectively in a cage."
I don't think even the Magister can imagine. By the way, where is he? And where is my diary?
"It's shitty, Veni. It's a shitty feeling. Is the Magister in the lab?"
The Rogue immediately frowned.
"No, your teacher took a portal back home. He's supposed to be looking after the land, and here he suddenly dropped out for half a year. He said he'd find out the news and return. Just rest, you've earned it."
I laughed, looking at the gauntlet lying next to the cot. It had been removed, but I still felt its presence like another hand, ready for action. I suppose that's one of the results of merging soul and mechanism.
The ritual had been more than controversial. After all, Medivh, while possessed, hardly wrote standard magical treatises, preferring Demonology, Necromancy, the Void, and other "fun" things. Especially the first one.
And those rituals were never intended to be safe for either the target or the caster. After all, Sargeras didn't give a damn about Medivh's physical shell. As long as the task was completed. Not to mention that summoning almost always includes the subjugation of the summoned, simply as a preventative measure to ensure they do as told. And it's not just Necromancers; Mages don't feed an Elemental cookies when they summon it, either. All of that had to be removed. Or I had to adapt the ritual for binding a soul to a weapon—the one Gul'dan used to create Death Knights by transplanting the souls of warlocks into the bodies of dead Human Knights. A lot had to be reworked or removed.
And some things had to be added. For example, the gauntlet has an undocumented Mana Drain function. You press three magic crystals built into the finger claws against the target and start sucking. The mana flows directly into the organism. In theory, I can drain almost any Source of Magic this way, saving myself from thirst. In practice, we remember what the Fel did to Kael'thas Sunstrider. It's certainly "you're not you when you're hungry," but "you are what you eat" is also very relevant.
Yes, I had immersed myself not only in the knowledge of classical Arcana but also in the knowledge of forbidden schools. It's probably good that the Magister and Veni don't know everything. The Magister will likely guess a lot, but certainly not everything. I think I went a bit further in studying the knowledge of Warlockry and Necromancy than I will ever admit. Especially in ritualism. Creating a stable seal of the Void or Fel is simply impossible without the corresponding knowledge. But I couldn't ignore them entirely, either; otherwise, the weapon would have turned out flawed at best. At worst, it wouldn't have worked at all. It was a whole list of controversial and potentially dangerous decisions. But necessary ones.
Turning my eyes away from the gauntlet, I tried to get up, but I was stopped, held in bed by force. Naturally, by Venidan's efforts.
"Stay down, I said! The Magister forbade you from getting up until he returns. Until he says you can, you're staying in bed. And that's not up for discussion; I don't want to find you in a half-dead state somewhere else."
I sighed. Care is all well and good, but it was poorly timed. I had a ton of ideas that I really should be working on.
"At least give me the book. I'm bored. And I need to go to the bathroom anyway."
However, I wasn't allowed to read. The Magister looked into the room, and his expression was very displeased and suspicious.
"Awake? Good. How do you feel?"
I winced.
"A bit nauseous, but otherwise—I'll live, Magister. What's happening outside?"
The Mage took a step into the room but remained standing. Now I could see that he really hadn't slept, dealing with the news. His clothes were still pristine; he looked as neat as possible for an elf who had spent the last twenty hours working with documents.
"We have missed quite a few important events, DaVi. The Undead have returned to Lordaeron, and the human kingdom is failing to cope. The information isn't the freshest, but human refugees have appeared from the south. They say the dead are coming from the lands of Andorhal and Stratholme."
I see. It seems we were kept away from the "best" part. We weren't allowed to prepare, to turn everything against the humans. So it has begun; a Death Knight has been found to lead the Undead south. How did Kel'Thuzad put it:
"My death will change nothing... in the end. Now that the conquest of these lands has begun."
It seems that's exactly how it turned out. The conquest had indeed begun. I thoughtfully noted:
"We need to evacuate my parents."
Jaina, it seems, set off with the fleet around this time. The Magister winced but said:
"They are not in the settlement. They likely left for Lordaeron."
"What?"
I thought I misheard. What were they doing there... Right! "By the way, your parents were taken out; they were looking for you themselves and found the Admiral's daughter. She kept her promise." That's what that dragon said. So, discovering the Magister was gone and there was no contact, they rushed off to find me... and found Jaina. Of course, that doesn't mean I won't go in there and back them up.
"Magister…"
The Mage waved his hand.
"Venidan, watch over her. Today is for rest; that is not negotiable. Venidan can also watch the course."
The Rogue looked at the Magister suspiciously.
"And you?"
The Mage drew himself up.
"And I, as you might guess, will remain with you in the form of a raven. I must attend to the affairs of the settlement, prepare it for a possible evacuation. You can afford to head into the unknown, but the responsibility for all these elves lies with me. So each of us will be where we ought to be."
The Magister left, leaving the familiar raven behind. An unusually quiet Venidan helped me dress and escorted me to the pilot's cabin. This place had changed quite a bit since the beginning. Yes, the inner surface was still wood, but the windows were crystals with a reddish tint. In the pilot's spot was a wide, soft leather chair, in which one could not only pilot but even sleep, given its dimensions. As Zeltzer said:
"A real boss's chair. Expensive, leather, comfortable until you turn around—it gives you monumentality."
I simply collapsed into it, then reached for the control levers. I could use the gauntlet, of course—I hadn't removed the keyboard function—but I had promised not to use magic. So, good old handles and levers it was.
"We need to pick up the golems. If there really is Undead out there, they won't be extra."
While we gathered the golems and the things Veni had hauled in at my request, another couple of hours passed, which I spent frankly sleeping in the chair. After all, being sick has its perks when everyone is trying to please you.
But eventually, that was done too, and the Pepelats began to slowly gain altitude, leaving Karazhan behind. We'll probably come back here when there's time. Right now, I have things to do. But we emptied the warehouse anyway; where else would I find such high-quality magic crystals? And not just them. There's also a volume on Necromancy, a wyvern hide, poisonous hydra teeth, and much more. Yes, some things had spoiled, but not everything—far from everything. But that's the greed in me talking.
It was also good that we found some money. A couple of hundred gold—enough for food.
Loading the golems and cargo took some time; I even had to land the ship to make it easier. In the end, the Pepelats only left the ground toward evening, gaining altitude and moving away from Medivh's inhospitable tower. I checked the sensors one last time—all normal—and relaxed, looking at the raven.
"Is it quiet in Quel'Thalas, Magister?"
The raven nodded.
"As far as I can tell, DaVi. The magical defense is still very much there; the Sunwell is with us. There is nothing to fear."
Well, that's good. I even slept a little while we flew. No one tried to shoot us down during the night; there are no air traffic controllers, so we crossed the lands of Stormwind quite quietly and unnoticed, moving north. And if anyone did see us, it was only a glowing dot at night or a black one streaking across the sky during the day.
Having slept my fill, I finally slipped away to the workshop. We'll arrive by lunch, but until then, I can work on some schematics. Still, I'm in no hurry. After months of imprisonment, the chance to walk around the Pepelats is truly wonderful. I caught myself thinking that I took great pleasure in visiting all the compartments, including the technical bay and the bomb bay for mines. I opened doors, went in, looked, maybe touched things, and moved on. Some people touch grass; I touch mechanisms.
Finally reaching the workshop, which I visited last, I wondered where to start. And I should start... with a mask. Or even a helmet. Difficult times are expected; I'll have to interact with many people. And being a "tiny elf" could become a problem—not just because I won't be taken seriously, but also because of people trying to "cheat" me.
A full helmet that changes my voice to sound older seems like a solid option. Too bad I'm frankly too tall for a Gnome, by about half. I won't pass for a short Human or a tall Dwarf either—I don't have the build. But there must be stunted elves. Heh. I haven't seen any yet, but they must exist! Another plus of the helmet is toxins. The Undead use poisons, plague, and other "joys." And since the Undead will be one of the biggest problems in the near future, air filtration systems are a priority. Repeating Mortarion's glorious "feat" is not in my plans for the near future. Or ever.
The workshop mechanisms were still there, in their places. Tools nestled in slots on the walls, ready to snap out and perform work at the command of magical telekinesis. Hmmm. Today we'll work by hand.
"What should I whip up?"
Making a helmet for an elf isn't that simple, let me tell you. Long chestnut hair, long ears. And I mean really long—about ten to fifteen centimeters longer than a human's. Which affects the shape of the helmet. The second constraint is the hat. I have a very cool purple wide-brimmed hat, a real witch's hat. By the way, it's waterproof; it acts as an umbrella in the rain.
Also, I don't plan on making myself full power armor yet, so it would be good to close the helmet from below as well, adding a collar. And yes, it shouldn't be too heavy or obstruct my vision too much. And it would be nice to build in that "long-range vision" lens system I use when piloting the ship. At least for controlling the bird, but ideally everything, so I don't have to swap helmets just by sitting in the pilot's chair.
In short, it's a difficult task. Spatial expansion can help a bit, but expansion doesn't mean you don't have to build it all in.
I suppose I should start with the inner layer, not the outer. And what's our innermost layer? A mannequin of my head, of course! Fortunately, I don't have to get fancy here; any wooden one will do, as long as it's the right shape. Next. The collar and fasteners so it doesn't wobble on my head.
"Ahem, what if I do it like this?"
My problem is that I've never designed helmets. There was never a reason. And here I have to do it right the first time. And not just a plate bucket, but something that will protect my organism.
Right, okay, let's keep thinking. Tubes, filters, and an air supply. I can put that on my back. It's a vulnerable point for the helmet, either way. And a respirator for the face. It's a good thing we robbed Medivh; otherwise, I'd have to buy materials from Goblins at triple the price, if not more. This way, I can shape everything I need with telekinesis and tools. And where knowledge is lacking, we'll add some very strong Biotics user stuff. It's better to use combined filters—both technology and magic.
Now, the eyes. My pilot's helmet is built on lenses with various effects that can be switched. The main downside is fragility. After that ballista, I nearly lost my sight. And again, thanks to robbing the Guardian, I now have sturdier crystals. One pair—view from the eyes of the scout bird. One pair—thermal imager. Tuning lenses to perceive a specific type of radiation using magic is entirely possible. Polarization, can't do without that. Sometimes you need to look at an explosion. One... it would be nice to connect it to a long-range vision spell cast on the ship's "cameras," but that will be for later. For now, I'll just leave space for additional sets. Hm, it's not turning out that wide at all. But I need a way to switch them.
Hm-hm-hm. Did I forget anything? Voice—not a problem; the helmet will distort it, and if needed, we'll add a spell.
"Sensors? Sensors! I need to add those too."
Nothing particularly complex, just something to beep, for example, at a large amount of mana of a certain type. Or if the filter is working too hard. These kinds of alerts can be placed on the sides so they don't interfere. Hm... By the way, while I'm at it, I should add a dampening filter so I don't suddenly go deaf. There.
What do we have in the end? A crude and rather massive mechanical mess around the head. But a necessary one. In the shape of a cylinder—I still intend to wear the hat over this gear, so it has to fit on the head.
Fine, let's assume this works. If not, I'll rework it later. For now... armor. Several layers. Just a gambeson, and armor over it. We'll strengthen everything with magic. The color scheme—blue and yellow, like the gauntlet. The rest we cover with metal. It turns out massive, a bit heavy, but what can you do? The things you do for protection and anonymity. And the final touch: a T-shaped visor, because I want to be stylish.
"And because 'Vode An,' that's why..."
Of course, all this took several hours; I barely managed to finish when Venidan arrived.
"What, why me? DaVi, don't have your head in the clouds—heh, literally—we're approaching." She noticed the helmet and began to examine it. "Isn't it a bit heavy? What did you put in there? And it looks... you know, I'd never take you for an elf in that."
Exactly what I need.
"Doesn't matter." I waved her off, though it did turn out funny. "That's the plan, Veni. I don't want people to see me as 'the little one.' It seems we're heading into the deep end, and if people are constantly trying to push me to the background, we won't get anywhere."
The Rogue nodded understandingly. Then she stepped closer and turned the mannequin, inspecting my creation.
"It's still too massive. No, it matches the gauntlet, but just like this, it looks disproportionate. Or do you want full armor?"
Actually, I do have that idea. Not exactly a combat suit, but more like a chemical hazard suit against everything—hermetic and covered in magical reinforcements and seals. But I still don't plan on personally charging the front lines, so it's not urgent for now.
"Not yet, Veni. Armor might come in handy, but right now it's better to focus on golems and techno-mechanics. We'll definitely need those soon."
The elf grinned.
"So, we really are heading into the deep end, right? Well, that was expected. Get out of here, anyway; we're approaching Lordaeron. I think you'll want to see this from the bridge. I have no idea what we'll see, but I already don't like any of this."
I nodded, taking the helmet off the stand and carefully placing it on my head. It fits well, like all my creations, but it's quite heavy and unfamiliar; I hope I can get used to it. And since that's the case, I should wear it whenever possible. And Venidan can be the pilot for now.
"I'm coming, Veni."
***
Muradin entered the holy of holies of the High Elves with heavy steps: the Sunwell Sanctuary. The Guard at the entrance was dead; the elves had failed to withstand the onslaught. To their credit, they had tried; four guards lay alongside a total of three gargoyles and about a dozen ghouls. But in the end, there were simply too many attackers.
The gates had been torn down, the white towers blackened, covered in soot and rot. The neighboring building, clearly a former barracks, had suffered far worse: an icy blast had destroyed the structure from within, staining the crude blue ice crimson.
The author of this masterpiece sat like a statue in the shadow of another building, similarly tilted after the frozen strike. A massive dead dragon—Sapphiron. The lizard had attacked the Necropolises flying through its territory. Well, Muradin couldn't ignore such insolence from a blue dragon. Even better, the Lich King clearly appreciated the trophy and, taking control, helped resurrect it as a skeleton dragon. Its flesh had burned away in magical flames, its hide remained mostly on its wings, and only in the skeleton's chest did a bright blue magical heart glow.
Now the dragon sat bored, watching as Nerubians, skeletons, and other Undead scurried about. They were gathering bodies and preparing altars. Acolytes evacuated from Lordaeron, lined up in a circle around white-and-green seals, were summoning ziggurats and other magical structures, preparing the defense.
A separate situation had arisen with these acolytes, which amused the dead Dwarf. The failure of Scholomance and the Nathrezim had angered the Lich King; the Prince had not arrived in Northrend. But in the end, everything turned out for the best. The humans had spread the news as widely as possible, and when the Scourge forces gathered to collect the acolytes, the humans from the south and east and the elves from the north had reacted, sending significant forces of Rangers. Muradin almost laughed when the dead, loaded onto Necropolises, left the humans an army of skeletons raised in graveyards to play with and departed for the north.
They simply hadn't considered that Muradin's forces could move quickly by air. And they could.
A former senior master gunner ran up to the Dwarf and saluted. Even if they were dead, they were still a brotherhood, one force, one expedition. Comrades.
"Commander, deployment will be completed on time. The elves are gathering forces on the other side; they'll be coming soon."
Muradin nodded silently. Everything was as expected. As if confirming his subordinate's words, the artillery roared. Unfortunately, they didn't have much of it yet; those spiders had no idea how to make cannons. The fact that it was being used meant the elves were starting to move.
"Then let's get to work. The trap will snap shut."
The subordinate nodded and ran off, and the Dwarf finally entered the building, his boots clanking against the metal of the mangled gates that had crushed a couple more guards.
The heavy steps of metal-shod boots echoed off the walls, thumping against the marble floor. The heavy armor of a warrior, cold blue eyes, and a two-handed blade on his back—Frostmourne. He had found it after all. And though he had paid a price for it, the enemies had been defeated, every last one; the Master had shared his power with no small pleasure, and Muradin had taken revenge on the demons that had backed him into a corner. The agreement had been fulfilled, and his soul had passed to the Lich King without any regrets. Who had given him a new purpose, allowed him to return his fallen comrades from the expedition, and provided an army with one goal: the conquest of the living. All those who had abandoned him.
Passing a window, the former Dwarf paused for a second, looking at the Necropolis hanging over the island, and smirked to himself. The pyramid of dark stone loomed over the island like a dark shadow, one of several; from its bottom, green liquid poured into the waters of the bay, and more and more dead descended.
That was exactly what those fools hadn't expected: that instead of a ground assault, which would certainly have been detected, they would arrive by air. That Muradin would order the installation of the artillery his expedition had possessed onto the Necropolises. The elves were unpleasantly—to put it bluntly, mortally—surprised.
Outside, the battle still raged; the elven guard continued to resist, receiving reinforcements from the city to the south. But the Dark Rangers, the Death Knights made up of the Dwarf forces, were handling their task perfectly. After all, the elves relied heavily on the magical protection of their lands. Well, an unpleasant surprise in the form of a traitor awaited them. In any case, they wouldn't get a second chance.
Satisfied that the situation in the courtyard was under control, Muradin moved on. Through halls with purple, white, yellow, and red walls, very, very richly decorated. The elves had deeply valued their sanctuary, expressing their respect through numerous masterpieces of their art. Now splattered with blood, rot, and soot. Muradin passed through these halls, where no living remained.
To the place where, in a circular hall, a magical beam shot into the sky from a pool shimmering with yellow-blue waters. The Sunwell, the goal of this entire operation. Beside which an elf had stopped. He was no longer alive; that wasn't required. And yet, the Death Knight winced almost imperceptibly.
Muradin had never trusted traitors, and this particular elf was the perfect specimen of such behavior. A non-entity who had betrayed everyone and everything for more power. And, taking his life, Muradin realized that the elf would have tried to betray both him and the Master as well. More precisely, the elf had done his job first, and only then was he killed by Muradin's forces. And his service hadn't just ended there; it had begun. The newly arrived servant of the Lich King proved to be a very gifted Mage and builder. And an equally good assassin. Looking almost alive, he had managed to sneak in among "his own" and strike them in the back.
By killing several Magisters who were on the island at that hour, the elf had significantly eased and accelerated the capture of this place. Instead of a long siege—a quick strike, a decisive assault. And now everything would go according to plan, without a doubt. No one would expect such a thing; the elves, in their desperation, would bring everything the Lich King desired from them themselves.
Hearing footsteps, the elf turned, and Muradin greeted him.
"Dar'Khan Drathir, is everything ready?"
As he spoke, the Dwarf stepped over the desiccated bodies of the hall's guards. The elf, breaking inside, hadn't hesitated to drain the life from his former comrades. And the Dwarf could tell it still wasn't enough for him.
Dar'Khan himself turned to the Dwarf with a wide and undisguisedly admiring smile, causing a flash of brief irritation in Muradin. Dressed in the robes worn by the senior Mages of Silvermoon, with a wide-brimmed hat, his face expressed arrogant superiority over everyone around him, as if they were merely trash beneath his feet. If at their first meeting the elf had been polite and civil, now that they were both servants of the Lich King, the insolent man had let all his arrogance loose. And he irritated even a dead man.
"Ready, of course, Muradin. In the end, I was the one handling it, but the King demanded we wait until you were ready. As if with the power of the Sunwell we couldn't stop them, no matter how many arrived. Well then, shall we begin?"
The plan proved simple and hideous in its danger. Not to bash through all the lines of defense into the elves' holy of holies, but to penetrate from the sea, where there were no walls or fortifications, and then corrupt their Sunwell. The elves are dependent on its magic, and as soon as it is corrupted, it will begin to poison all elves without exception, wherever they may be. Forcing them to act rashly, to make mistakes, trying to make it in time.
Under normal conditions, this wouldn't have worked, but the King had found this exact traitor somewhere, who had deactivated the elves' magical monoliths, removing the protection and letting the Necropolises straight in. Making the task laughably easy. And when it all began, the elves would find themselves in a trap. They would be afraid to use the most destructive magic, not only because they feared harming their beloved Sunwell. But also because the mana restored by the Sunwell would be corrupted, and those casting would be poisoned. No, they would send their strongest warriors, and the Mages would strike carefully and precisely. The Undead would not be limited by such things.
Muradin nodded.
"The Necropolises are in position; the Ziggurats are being erected. Naxxramas is ready. Begin."
The bulk of the latter blocked out a significant part of the island, drenching it in plague, further undermining the morale and lives of the defenders. Furthermore, Naxxramas is the production center for Death Knights, plague, and the techno-mechanical creations of the Nerubians—meat wagons and the few things the Dwarf had already managed to set up. It was the only major production center for his forces, so losing it was out of the question.
Dar'Khan laughed.
"Simply wonderful, our Master will be pleased! We elves built our cities, reshaped the land to our needs, and created for ourselves everything we desired. I gave my all to turn Silvermoon into something infinitely beautiful. But for all the magnificence created thanks to the Sunwell, I received no reward. So I began to look for a way to reward myself for my good work. And now, that very time has come."
Muradin looked with interest at the elf, standing against the backdrop of the Sunwell flashing with blue-gold light, beautiful and arrogant, delivering his speech to the dead. But a second later, Muradin realized: not to the dead. His audience was him and his comrades.
"So that's why you betrayed them, boy?"
Actually, Muradin didn't care. It wasn't that he was interested. But still, there was sense in knowing what this elf had betrayed his own for. He had come voluntarily, after all. The Dwarf was absolutely sure of that.
The elf turned back to the Sunwell, gazing into the waters of the basin with delight. There was so much magic in them that it was visible to the naked eye. By corrupting them, the effect on the elven lands would be the opposite of what had lasted for thousands of years. A free army of the dead, an entire state even, with all the infrastructure and many Mages. An excellent plan. The elf spoke:
"Betrayed? Not at all! Merely took what was due to me, which I had been underpaid for centuries. My people are short-sighted. I was forced to weave my spells in secret, but weave them I did. Under the wise guidance of my blessed Master, who revealed to me the secrets of existence, new knowledge. A worthy reward for my efforts."
Muradin grunted.
"And now they'll all die. When we begin, their warriors will break themselves against our defense, storming this island, its Necropolises, and citadels. And those who don't will perish, poisoned by the distorted magic of the Sunwell."
The elf smiled broadly.
"Violence is regrettable, but entirely necessary for the greater good. I suppose those of them who come voluntarily can be granted a relatively painless death and afterlife service to me and our Master. The glorious Legions of the Lich King will erase Quel'Thalas, and I, directing the power of the Sunwell, will build a new society. A worthy society. A magnificent and just society! A true act of divine creation, worthy of our Master's attention, Muradin! Let us proceed!"
The Dwarf nodded, drawing Frostmourne from his back. The two-hander was frankly too large for a Dwarf, but there was nothing to be done. A small inconvenience was worth it to possess such a weapon.
Muradin swung the blade as the Lich King spoke unknown words of a spell through his mouth. Bluish energy flowed from the blade to the dead, flowing into their bodies. And the fallen Mages twitched, began to move, moving better with every second, as if remembering how it was done. Their empty faces did not bother Muradin. Not full servants, but puppets for the ritual. He could feel the threads forcing their bodies to move. No will, nothing. Only obedience.
Finally, they rose and moved somewhat mechanically to their positions, taking places in a circle around the Sunwell. Muradin listened to his sensations, checking his subordinates once more. Three Necropolises, about a dozen Spirit Towers already summoned by the acolytes taken from Lordaeron, and as many more towers in the queue. And the entire landing force that had arrived with them. Separately, in the rear, was Naxxramas. The factory of plague and new Death Knights, created from the guards who died here, the best of them.
The territory of the island was being drenched in plague very reluctantly; the Sunwell and its background were actively interfering. That was about to change.
Opening his eyes, Muradin took note of the dead elves. They had formed a circle around the pool, spreading their arms as they glowed with magic. Soon after, bright green magical seals began to form around the Sunwell, and a draft of cold and death swept through. The Lich King began to pump more and more energy through his subordinates, forcing the seals to burn brighter and the glow of the Sunwell to dim. The waters resisted, but it was only a matter of time before the corruption changed them for the better.
"What is happening here?"
Muradin reacted to the intrusion instantly. The seemingly lumbering dwarf cleared a dozen meters in a single leap, swinging his two-handed sword and marking a new target: a mage and the four warriors who had arrived with him. Likely a teleport that allowed them to bypass the patrols. Mid-leap, the dwarf unleashed a torrent of ice upon his enemies, which the warriors took upon raised shields that flared with magic. The ice slammed into an invisible magical wall, dissipated by the shields. Predictable. The warrior simply ignored a fireball that struck his body, as well as the discomfort it caused.
Frostmourne struck the gap between the shields, and Muradin felt his blade rip the soul from the warrior's body. The other three failed to react as four comrades hacked into the formation behind their commander, and the marksmen raised their blunderbusses, firing a salvo with perfect synchronicity.
Blades clashed with a ring—the warriors were forced to block the dwarves' furious onslaught with their weapons, and the latter took advantage of this, unleashing an icy blizzard upon their foes. Feeling the grave-cold chill, they shuddered.
"C-cold..."
Separately, Muradin noted the elf mage, who had been grabbed from behind by the neck by Dar'Khan, whose hands glowed faintly violet. The mage's eye sockets, mouth, and nose glowed as well, as if a violet lantern had been lit inside his skull. The enemy mage thrashed, rapidly weakening. Good.
Spending a fraction of a second, Muradin impaled the last of the warriors still resisting the will of the Lich King upon his blade. A moment of communion, as the dwarf felt the vibrations of the soul being drawn into the blade, was replaced by cold and silence. It was over, but these were the first of many. They should be brought back; they would serve as protection for the mage.
"Dar'Khan?"
The mage was dragging his still-living former colleague into the circle. The eyes of the still-living elf widened.
"Dar'Khan? You? But why?"
The elf threw him into the center of the ritual circle, directly into the glow of the Sunwell, and stepped after him.
"Perhaps, if we had a little more time, I would answer your question. Alas, my Master does not wish to remain in weary anticipation. But do not worry, you will understand everything now; you only need to endure a little."
With those words, the elf plunged a dagger into the chest of the elven defender, chanting the words of a spell. Through the dagger, necrotic energy struck the mage's body in a solid river, passing through him, flowing and mixing with the energy of the Sunwell. The process that once nourished the mage was now working in reverse, filling the well with darkness, causing the mage to experience indescribable pain while forcing him to continue existing, to continue being a conduit for the energy of death.
The yellow-blue light of the Sunwell began to fade, changing color to a darker, blue-gray as the ritual corrupted it. The green and violet magic circles, which had become incredibly bright and distinct, full of destructive magic, also helped.
"Excellent. And now, my creation! I will make Quel'Thalas more beautiful than ever. Worthy of the greatness of the Lich King—my masterpiece, my reward!"
The distorted energy, obeying the elf's will, flowed in all directions, intercepting control over spells, altering them, imbuing them with new meanings. Then the energy reached the structures being erected by the acolytes and began to nourish them. As the elf had promised, the defenses would be built much faster than anyone thought.
As the ritual progressed, Muradin felt the resistance of the land and the vessel grow weaker as the magical energy of the Sunwell, guided by the elf, reshaped this place. Ziggurats began to be summoned faster, and the Cursed Land, which had previously barely moved, began to rapidly spread across the island. He even felt the dead ready to rise at his call.
Now, everything would begin for real.
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