Finding the target of the attack wasn't a big problem when you know what to look for. Especially from the air. An Undead base is a rather noticeable place, in every sense. Both in terms of architecture and on a magical level. Actually, it's very convenient that each faction has its own unique architectural style; you can't mix them up.
As they said on Earth: "This will kill that. The book will kill the building." What does that mean? Since ancient times, architecture has been the best method of identification known to humanity. Just try finding a book—they were expensive, and only a few could read. In such conditions, buildings were the method of transmitting a message. Seeing a structure, you can tell exactly who built it, why, and what will happen to you if you try to enter without an invitation. It's the same here; the Undead structures more than stand out against the forest, clearly hinting at where you don't want to go. And we won't go. We'll fly. So I gave the order to the bird to look for very specific matches and signal.
Meanwhile, I'll handle other matters, specifically calibrating and refining the tactical table. Right now it's quite primitive, reflecting only magical markers by element and approximate target coordinates. For example—the purple glow of necromancy, which is present in all Undead structures and troops, their distinguishing feature. But that doesn't mean it should stay that way, or that it's enough. Purple markers in the middle of nowhere are completely uninformative.
Fortunately, I know an excellent method to solve this problem: golems. We take golems and let each one track a specific thing on the map and apply specific types of illusions to it. Yes, the map will still be limited to known markers, but it's much more than what we have now. I prepared the golems in advance and wrote the scrolls for the specific task. And now I can start assembly.
No, the magical search isn't going anywhere; it's perfect for creating primary markers on the coordinate grid. Magic is everywhere, in any Undead technology or infantry, so the magical search will be the foundation. Necromancy is even in the Undead catapults—the meat wagons. Where? Well, they use corpses to destroy stone and wooden walls, and that isn't the laws of physics at all; it's very strong sorcery.
A corpse is pumped with necromancy, turning into a powerful high-explosive bomb that not only damages the structure but also infects everything around it with toxic gas. The gas is heavy, doesn't rise, dissipates slowly, and soaks into wood, destroying it. Considering the locals know nothing about gas attacks, after a hit on a tower, everything inside simply dies off in minutes.
Anyway, that's just theory. The important thing is that absolutely all Undead structures contain magic. And all points containing magic are applied to the coordinate grid by the first golem. At that moment, the second, third, fourth, and fifth golems step in, identifying the object and overlaying a pre-prepared illusion on the marker, showing exactly what we are seeing. For example.
A couple of kilometers from Dartaola's position and the point where the Pepelats stopped, the Cursed Land began. And Cursed isn't a metaphor. On the map, it's marked with a grayish color. In the magical spectrum, these are thin, slimy strings that, like tentacles, crawl all over the area. They stretch out, seeking to come into contact with any life, to infect and consume.
On the map, these strings overlaid the terrain scheme, clearly outlining the circle of desecration, allowing the epicenter of this mess to be determined. I couldn't hold back a smile—it looks good so far.
"Radius, hm. We need to go there, adjust the bird. Done. Okay, now the markers. Good, like that."
And yes, if the enemy group is large, it will merge into one purple blob, but individual markers are quite identifiable. And as a result of processing all these images and markers, we get... a picture. And all this beauty updates in real-time if there is a scout bird within visibility range. I surveyed the field, pleased with myself. Everything is working exactly as I wanted.
The field is divided into square sectors, a circular marker indicating the bird's visibility radius, purple enemy markers of varying brightness with vehicle illusions overlaid. Just like in a strategy game, with a top-down view. Of course, only markers within the visibility radius of the bird and the Pepelats move dynamically, but I have three more new reconnaissance modules being assembled. When I finish, it will be even better.
The second important change, while there is time for preparation, is the second gauntlet. Generally, it will have the same functionality as the first, but with a more... effective firing system. Well, yes, I intend to bind it to my own organism with rituals as well. And no, I don't plan to tell anyone about that. About the binding, of course. So that I can defend with one hand and attack with the other. Why I need a staff in such conditions, I haven't decided yet, but let it be.
"Right, let's see," but I didn't have time to deal with the gauntlets either.
A beep sounded, and numerous purple markers began to appear on the map. And on the "eye-view" of the mechanical bird, Undead structures emerged from behind the forest. The dark pyramids of ziggurats, the spiked construction of a slaughterhouse filled with meat, in which... I gagged. It's a good thing the helmet's mouth isn't covered. It's bad that I'll have to clean everything here; at least I didn't mess up the chair and levers. Ugh! Ugh! How disgusting!
"Disgusting. I... damn, my eyes are watering. What total psychos.
Yes, I can't smell this "meat-processing plant," but it just looks like... hell no. Okay, to abstract myself, I'll call you the "meat cutting and sewing club." A wonderful idea, let's do that. Over there on the table, kiddies in purple are assembling an organism from limbs and tendons, stitching it all together. They're making an Abomination. Another pair is literally sewing shirts out of skin. Human skin, of course, taken from those same damaged bodies piled up nearby. And separately, a pair of Necromancers are idling, standing by the wall and seemingly smoking, surveying the creative collective from the side. Well, you shouldn't have done that; I'll remember you, and right now.
"So, do I have high-explosive missiles? I do, good. And napalm? Won't hurt, thank you, Goblin-brother, it'll come in handy. What else is interesting here?"
Next to the cutting and sewing club is a warehouse where several frankly waddling four-legged figures are dragging a log. Ghouls, apparently. From this distance, they aren't scary at all. Up close, the situation changes somewhat: huge claws, a mouth full of teeth, and a malicious, hollow howl. Better not let them into close combat.
I shifted my gaze further and smiled to myself. There are our primary targets.
"Now this is interesting..."
Separately from everything else, by a small building, technology stands in a row. The territory is even fenced off so that the Zombies wandering around the base don't go in there. Not that many: three catapults and... five Dwarven helicopters? Where did these come from? Let's see.
The bird carefully banked over the technical zone of the Undead base, examining the enemy in more detail and better determining their coordinates. Between an aerial battle and a missile strike, I choose the second. There are enough missiles for everyone; no one will feel left out. And still, where did they come from? I looked closer.
Indeed, five helicopters of either Dwarven or Gnomish design. The concept differs little from the helicopters of my world, though they have their own specifics. For example: the absence of an enclosed cabin, and two pulling rotors combined with turbojet engines on the sides of the hull. Undead are bustling around the machines, clearly servicing the tech under the supervision of a couple of Dwarves. Likely Muradin's expedition, raised by the boss along with the equipment. Interestingly, Arthas didn't bother with such nonsense, preferring the weapons provided by Ner'zhul. Not good; I'll have to solve this problem first.
The first missile Salvo on the helicopters, the second on the Gargoyles, if there are any. The spiked decorations on the roofs of the buildings are hard to read; maybe there are Gargoyles. Next, we take out the catapults, The Spiders, and everything that can hit the air. And we mock the survivors until the base is completely annihilated. Separately, we can hit that structure that clearly used to be a residential house. There is no Necropolis in the camp at all; this isn't a game—here, flying Undead bases are command centers, very expensive and complex. But other recognizable buildings are present. Ziggurats, a slaughterhouse, a graveyard, something like an altar. And the base continues to expand.
Over there, five figures in purple robes have lined up in a circle about twenty meters in diameter and raised their hands. A large circular green magical seal appeared under their feet, which glowed brightly, and bony outgrowths began to emerge from the ground. In magical terms, the construction looks like a concentration of a large amount of energy and the transmutation of matter around it into a given form.
"They, hm..." I pinched my nose and said: "We need to build a Ziggurat!" I couldn't help but giggle, watching the magic, which was new to me, with interest.
The tower began to form. An altar located inside the pyramid, and blocks of black stone began to form around it, like a ladder, layer by layer. The clawed structure froze, forming the frame of the future tower, upon which the blocks were being laid. How interesting! I didn't try to interrupt the construction, observing the process in full detail. It'll come in handy.
Building the Ziggurat took about two hours. During this time, the tower formed completely, the magic faded, and the acolytes, who had stopped collectively casting "terrain creation," sat right down on the steps. Their internal magic glows much less brightly than before.
An hour later, having finished the reconnaissance, I stepped out of the ship and stopped on the ramp, where Venidan was frankly bored, looking at the people. Dartaola, using the power of the Holy light, was healing her subordinates, removing chemical burns and poisonings. The soldiers are doing everyday things: standing guard, cleaning weapons, eating. The people look exhausted, sick, but they're holding on. Waiting for the attack to begin.
"What's the word?" Veni turned, noticing my presence.
The Paladin also heard the Rogue's words and raised her head. I gestured toward the ship.
"There's a map of the area, the base, the troops. Everything needed for an attack. And yes, I doubt these people will last long without our help. Catapults, Ghouls, a slaughterhouse where they create Abominations. And five Dwarven helicopters with pilots. All of this will simply tear through the remaining defense without even noticing it."
The elf whistled.
"There are two dozen soldiers here; they'll be crushed regardless of the fortifications."
I nodded.
"And if they can't, the Undead are pulling Cursed Land here. You remember the feeling. If nothing is done, they are doomed here."
Dartaola came closer, listening to our conversation. The people... look even more nervous and are exchanging glances.
"Are you refusing, Mage?" the Paladin inquired, seemingly bored.
I snorted, looking at her mockingly. An attempt to bait me, seriously?
"Try harder, Paladin-recruit. I already said we'd handle this. The situation, overall, is better than it could be; there are just more targets than I thought. Those wishing to see the map may step inside. On the condition that you don't wander around the ship. The golems are active; I'm warning you in advance. 'Do not enter, will kill' in its purest form."
Dartaola and the Human Captain went up to the bridge, along with Veni and the raven. I waved my hand, showing off my creation.
"Allow me to demonstrate—the tactical table, my newest creation. Literally just finished it. Here, a map of the area with target markers: the Undead base, roads, forests, Cursed Land. Everything is here."
The Captain shuddered at the sight of the Scourge base.
"Holy shit, is that all Undead?" I nodded. "Technology. What Elf technology has come to. We could use something like that. And still, how do we defeat this?"
Dartaola grimly surveyed the map of the area.
"It doesn't look very good. I don't think we can hold out against such forces. We should begin the operation immediately. Either retreat and regroup, or, if the lady Mage agrees, strike."
"It's not all that bad," the Captain countered, "we'll fulfill the task. Though there are quite a lot of them, of course. If all of these stand up, it'll be tough. But, orders are orders..."
I snorted.
"Ground forces, for the most part. We'll manage. I don't think it will be such a huge problem."
In any case, the Pepelats is preparing for takeoff. I prepared a block of missiles and made sure the warehouse had fragmentation shells for firing at "living" forces. Venidan prepared poison for several golems in case of boarding. Dartaola... hm?
"And what are you doing here?"
No, really, what is she doing on the bridge? Unlike the Human Captain, she clearly has no intention of leaving. The Paladin measured me with a gaze full of irritation and fatigue.
"I'll cover you. Holy light handles Darkness well, if anything. And in case you've forgotten, Davilinia, I have orders to watch you. Still. Despite everything you've pulled here. Clear?"
Claaaaaaass. No, I'm not against help; the other thing is that we don't intend to get into close combat at all. And I don't trust this pointy-eared one specifically. She can't see my face because of the helmet, but she apparently guessed what I was thinking. She approached the pilot's chair and poked me with a finger in a plate gauntlet. I swatted at her hand, but Dartaola held her finger firm, showing she was stronger.
"Don't even start, little one; you've seriously ruined my life too. I was a temple recruit, training with friends, praying to the Holy light, and living in comfort in Quel'Thalas. And now I'm in the lands of Humans, haven't seen any of my family or acquaintances for a long time, fighting filth I'd only heard about and never dreamed of facing in battle for at least another hundred years. I've seen soldiers die, rotting alive, seen people kill their comrades who rose as Undead. Seen them betray everything they hold dear. It's a caravan of deaths, and it's very hard on every person. So be so kind as to shut up and do your job. I intend to save these people or punch you in the face until you do. Clear?"
I probably should have gotten angry at this expressive tirade. Probably. But I was simply stunned by such blatant arrogance. That is, she, an auntie about five times older than me, is shifting responsibility onto a minor. She, you see, has to do her Paladin work because of me. Not peacefully chilling in Quel'Thalas on Discipline, but blood, corpses, and dirty work. She's supposedly stronger, so she'll force me to solve the problems with her peace of mind. Suffered because of me, poor thing?! Why, I in Karazhan...
"DaVi! DaVi!" Veni suddenly shook me. "If you continue, we'll have to change the interior again."
"Ah..." I released the boisterous Paladin from my telekinetic grip, letting her slide down the slightly mangled wall, extinguishing the Mana in my gauntlet. "Well, yeah... We'll deduct the damage from her salary."
"What?!" the Rogue was outraged. "You..."
"Yes, she's coming with us." I decided, having finally calmed down. It was actually a convenient opportunity. "We're short a tank, and none of us really knows how to heal." I decided to explain after all. "And at least I know this bitch."
"That... Of course, yes..." Venidan listened to my arguments. "But what salary?" she was outraged. "I want one too!"
"Ah, em..." That was a bit awkward.
"I'm just kidding." The elf ruffled my helmet and, picking up the stunned Light Warrior, led her off the bridge with the words: "If you want it that badly, Dartaola, we can compare the shit that's fallen on us. Oh, come on, I'll give you a tour..."
She brought her back about fifteen minutes later, while I was conducting pre-flight preparations and thinking through the attack plan. It would have been foolish to start while Veni was setting the record straight. I listened to the crumpled "apologies" of the overly zealous servant of the Holy light without enthusiasm, and when she dejectedly left, my helmet was pulled off in the most arrogant manner.
"Relax." The Rogue ruffled my hair. "She's just scared. If all of this crawls to the surface, they'll all die; I understand that, they understand that. So she's putting on a brave face, trying to look strong in the eyes of the people and those who doubt her. Us, yep."
I exhaled, but didn't shake off her hand. I felt calmer for some reason. We've become friends after all; I see no point in denying it.
"Let her mope somewhere else, Veni. I'm a little scared too, but we're going in."
The Rogue gave a crooked smirk, nodding.
"Exactly. Our whole survival depends on you, pilot. So don't twitch; it'll work out. Lead us into battle, row toward victory."
I jokingly saluted.
"Ma'am, yes ma'am!"
Veni frowned, trying not to smile.
"What's with that quiet bleating! I can't hear you! Are you going to win?"
"Yes, ma'am!"
Venidan snorted.
"I'm not scared at all! Where's the snarl???"
"They're toast! They're all gonna die!"
At that moment, we just burst out laughing, unable to contain ourselves. What's important is that I really did feel better.
And so the Pepelats took off. All this time, the mechanical bird had been tracking the enemy base so that, if necessary, a preemptive strike could be delivered, but it wasn't needed—we made it before they started. The Scourge forces are clearly preparing for an attack, judging by the active movement around the catapults and the heap of Ghouls and Zombies gathered at the base exit; we can't wait any longer.
Sprawled in the pilot's chair, I felt a weight on my helmet. And when a dark shadow looked down at me from above, I laughed. The raven looked with one eye, turned, and looked with the second. It seems the Magister is also here to offer support. I'm all for it.
"Allow me to inquire as to the reason for your amusement, apprentice," the raven inquired curiously.
Having finished laughing, trying not to shake off the teacher's familiar, I explained:
"In literature, pirates are often depicted with a parrot sitting on their shoulder. And ravens—with witches. It turns out to be quite curious, Magister."
The bird's owner thought for a moment, then replied:
"No, on the shoulder, a familiar risks damaging its tail, which would get crushed against the chair. In any case, we all support you. Calm down and do your job."
That really did make it easier. I wanted to ask about life in the village, but now isn't the time to clutter my head with extra information. But after the battle, I'll definitely ask how things are. Right now, we are approaching the enemy.
"Thank you, teacher. Cloak mode—on."
The Pepelats was swallowed by an illusory haze that merged with the cloud-covered sky. This way we can get closer to the enemy. Meanwhile, activity continued at the Undead base. Ghouls, four Abominations, surrounded by a crowd of Zombies and skeletons raised from the general pile, were frankly being stupid and crowding at the base exit, waiting for the order to attack. After all, the Undead are frankly a bit dim, just like my golems. No Spiders are visible, nor Gargoyles; that's good. I suppressed the thought of covering all this stuff with missiles—first the helicopter pads; we need to ensure aerial supremacy. The ground forces won't run far; reconnaissance will find them, highlight them, and then we'll hit them with missiles or magical fire from the turrets.
I pressed a key on the pilot's helmet. Loudspeaker, so I don't have to run back and forth every time. Essentially a voice duplicator in every compartment, pure magic. Not too loud, but audible everywhere.
"Attention, this is the ship's Commander speaking. I have good news and bad news. The bad news—we'll only arrive at the site in two minutes. The good news—we'll soon start burning this filth. Hold on to something."
Having said that, pleased with myself, I continued to monitor the course. I don't know why, but I feel an almost childish delight. No doubts, no fear; I'm looking forward intently, impatiently fiddling with the keys of the missile block. It's about to start; now we'll hit 'em! Hm, that's an idea. Prepare the bomb bay!
"Don't panic," I warned the crew. "There's an opportunity; I'll add some treats for them."
The Pepelats changed its route. Ultimately, besides the turrets and missiles, I have mines too! And we can surprise the so-conveniently-bunched-up dead with a real Manly Rain (tm). I had to delay a bit while the compartment was being prepared, but it's fine; we're making it. Now I'll show you how a threat from the skies works!
The Pepelats approached from the side where the Undead had gathered and began to slow down. Good, excellent. Approaching exactly as needed; there's no wind.
"And now—dance! Mines away."
I can't see it, but mechanical spiders showered down from the open hatch onto the crowd of dead. Some of them will be destroyed upon landing; the rest will jump onto the nearest source of necro-energy and explode. If whoever is controlling all these Undead isn't a complete idiot, they'll spread them out, but the damage will be significant. Okay, no time for fun. The Pepelats has been knocked out of Cloak, and I see five markers running from the central town hall toward the helicopters. No need to rush; do you want to live forever? The gods' curse makes me laugh!
"Launch!"
The ship didn't even shudder, but forward, toward the helicopters lined up in a row, went smoky trails. Which hit the machines, tossing and tearing them apart. Heh-heh-heh-heh. And now for the pilots—you were running quite purposefully. Helicopters can be repaired or new ones built, but specialists are hard to find. Especially helicopter pilots.
A separate strike of about half a Salvo was bestowed upon the warehouse. I realized it was a warehouse by the huge and very bright flash, from which all the nearby dead caught fire. Ha! There it is, the best job in the world! Diesel, or whatever you use for fuel, you're out of it!
I switched to the bottom view to see how the Undead were doing. About half the Undead crowd has been ground up by the mines; the rest are rapidly scattering. Good. The Undead can be as durable as they like, but magical fire and the power of an explosion literally tear them apart, leaving only craters flashing with magic and random effects. Mana-bomblets are like that, heh-heh. Are there Gargoyles or Spiders at the base? No Gargoyles or Spiders, not a single one came out. Splendid, so we'll continue to pound the land with... Hm. And the Pepelats looks like a Cybran "bug"... In any case, you shouldn't have stayed without anti-air, you shouldn't have.
But the meat wagons weren't damaged. Need to fix that. Em, what? I even zoomed in on the image, not fully trusting what I was seeing. The pilots and a guy in plate with a huge axe—all Dwarves—piled into the catapults. Aimed directly at me.
"Seriously? What kind of Baron Munchausens are these? All of them."
Yes, seriously. In the next second, the catapults shuddered, sending the laborers straight at the Pepelats. And does it matter that the ship has a protective field? Apparently, the enemies thought of that too, as the ziggurats fired a Salvo of magical flame. Yes, the towers were silent not because they couldn't fire, but because there had been no order. Unexpected.
And yes, I was caught off guard. I can't help it, but the fact that all these towers hadn't fired the whole time I was shooting helicopters and bombing the dead made me think they were just towers, not full-fledged turrets. But even more amusing is that they didn't glow in the magical sense. As if they were inactive. I don't know whose idea that was, but it was very, very good.
The barrier on the Pepelats was not particularly durable and collapsed under the fire of the Spirit Towers, especially when the dwarves flew gleefully into the barrier, swinging their axes. Two bounced off the field, but the third landed straight on the engine, hugging it. Only to immediately release his grip and vanish below, smoking. On that occasion, I even swerved to the side to find the insolent fellow and shoot at him with the turrets. Obviously, these were the most experienced and dangerous undead dwarves. Purple flashes covered the enemy, forcing them to fall and burn, but they moved no more. Wonderful. That'll teach you to paw the Pepelats with dirty hands.
A beep sounded, signaling the readiness of the rocket pod. Reloading complete; the Salvo could be repeated. And now the catapults. Which were ready for a Salvo again, and three more dwarves were sitting in them. This was no longer funny.
"Launch!"
We fired simultaneously; another wave of gray trails headed down. The rockets ground the catapults to dust, vaporizing them and scattering debris, but this time, three dwarves reached their target. Yes, I tried to maneuver, but these characters accelerated themselves with something resembling a rocket. Exactly, Munchausens. And while two ended up a level lower, the third—judging by the camera, the very same leader with the two-handed axe—flew right to the cockpit level, bared his teeth, and plunged a dagger in, causing it to pierce the wall with a screech as if it were paper. The dwarf hung on the hull, then drove his axe into it. The side held up better this time, but the clang was still quite loud.
"Mother of...! This freak is pick..." Recovering from the shock, I tried to orient myself quickly: "Third floor! A Zombie is breaking inside!" And then I finally got my bearings: "Boarding! Dwarf with a two-handed axe! Third floor! Breaking onto the bridge!"
Whether I liked it or not, I was still the pilot, and four ziggurats were pounding us. More precisely, Spirit Towers, but that didn't matter now. What mattered was that purple magical flame struck the nearest tower, melting it along with the remains of the rockets. The structure stood for a few more seconds and even managed to fire one shot before folding inward. Half a Salvo for one stone tower—a bit much.
A thumping sound echoed; the dwarf was still trying to get to me. Judging by the characteristic cracking and grinding, he was furiously hacking with his axe. Then, for some reason, he clearly continued with the dagger. Finally, it pierced the wall, and a voice rang out from the hole:
"Here's Johnny Steel, girl! Get ready!"
I flipped him the bird, sealing the hole with an additional layer of magical ice. Let him pick at that for a while; I couldn't stop maneuvering. I needed to pull the ship away; we had dealt damage, the task was done. Now the main thing was not to wreck the Pepelats. We'd deal with this fellow later. And inflict more damage in the process. Still, the Armor dissipated hits well; a Spirit Tower was poorly suited for destroying siege engines. But that didn't mean soaking up damage was a good idea. Repairs could be quite expensive; after all, the Pepelats was plated with high-quality steel. Which was pierced again by a strike from a dagger glowing with magic. Damned cheaters.
"You should get out of here, right now," I tossed at the dead man. A glowing blue eye flickered in one of the holes. "Your operation is a failure; I'll level the base very soon. I won't deny that the amplified Salvo of stored energy was dangerous, but the shields will recover, and you won't be able to repeat the trick."
Not that I particularly believed in my own persuasion skills, but it was worth a try. The dwarf laughed raspily.
"You are mistaken. If I can capture this machine, the defense of the living will be broken. Pitiful humans are no match for dwarven machinery."
"I'm an elf," I snorted.
But such trifles didn't seem to bother him.
"A tiny elf," the dwarf didn't lose his stride, "in a helmet. No one will notice the substitution. Especially since once you join us, you won't have to worry about growing up anymore. Surrender, I won't cut you painfully. I promise comfortable working conditions, career growth, and lots of travel. Who else will offer you something like that? All you have to do is die."
I ignored him; there were more important things to do.
"Launch!" another tower collapsed, this time after a Salvo of concrete-piercing rounds. It turned out the Goblins had all sorts of warheads. Especially their demolition teams, who were also builders by trade.
"Fine then," irritation seeped into the dwarf's voice, "I'll make you suffer if you want it so badly."
A chill wafted from outside, and an icy wind began to enter the room through the holes, causing the temperature in the compartment to drop rapidly. The Mana-shield flared, providing protection, but it was still a problem—I needed to breathe. I would have to pull the ship away and deal with the intruder. I couldn't pilot properly and fight while literally breathing liquid ice at the same time!
Clank-clank-clank—using the dagger and axe, the dwarf descended lower and apparently found a hatch, as the next screeching blow landed exactly on it. It didn't break through, but the bastard was persistent.
"Just go to hell."
"I'm already there, the only way is up!" someone yelled back at me through the crack.
Breaking the hatch with several blows, the dwarf ripped it off with a jerk. I, of course, simply sent an ice wave toward the sound. To hell with the destruction; I just needed this jerk to stop bothering me. And anyway, where were the reinforcements? A wave of grave-cold magic struck back. The Mana-shield sparked from the constant, not strong but unpleasant impact; I held my breath, trying to ignore the burning of the cold on my skin. A crash rang out. I sent a second wave, restoring the shield. Now I could finish what I started.
"Not a bad attempt, heh. I almost appreciated it."
At that moment, a horizontal strike from an axe—huge for me—passed right at neck level, stopped by the shield. The chair creaked and shuddered but held. Good chair, reliable. And I was able to see the rune-covered axe of a Death Knight. Which began to glow, draining Mana from the shield. Faster than I would have liked.
"Burn out of here!"
The flash of magic in the ice-fog-covered room went almost unnoticed. The dwarf caught the spell in the face, charred a bit, but only bared his teeth.
"Nowhere to run! Die! Accept death like a man!"
"She will only accept punishment from the Holy! Burn, you insignificant creature!"
It flared so brightly that the helmet's polarization kicked in. The ice fog partially dissipated, and the pressure of the axe on the shield vanished. Outside stood a furious Dartaola, her eyes glowing with bright light as she crossed blades with the dwarf. The white light of the elf woman clad in not-so-new plate Armor and the dwarf, whose eyes glowed blue, in heavy dark Armor covered in unholy runes. Beautiful.
"If I survive, I'll sketch this."
"Pilot!" Dartaola growled. "Don't get distracted! Save them all!"
Alas, I wouldn't get to enjoy the fight; she was right. I still had another Spirit Tower, a slaughter, and a bunch of Undead left unfinished. So I decided to ignore my surroundings—the fact that breathing was hard due to the icy air and the battle raging in the cockpit.
"Salvo."
And I coughed on the inhale. Even if the shield prevented Death Magic from wounding me, the temperature in the room was now well below freezing, the humidity was off the charts, and I had to breathe this. My lungs were simply burning; every breath was very painful. This bastard didn't care—he was already dead—but for the living, it was sharply uncomfortable. And yes, I wasn't wearing my own helmet, but a pilot's helmet, which lacked a closed breathing system. I'd need to fix that.
The Spirit Tower crumbled into rubble, finally crushing the Undead base's defenses. Pleasantly, the fight in the cockpit had also ended. Glancing to the side, I could see daggers plunged into the dead man's arm joints and the Death Knight's head lying separately. It seemed Venidan had managed as well. She sat right on the floor, soaking it with blood; Dartaola was currently healing a hole in her side. A flash of magic, and the Rogue exhaled.
"Thanks. DaVi, how is it?"
"Fine—khe! Khe!" I couldn't speak; my lungs refused to work, and I frankly started to choke.
I was simply shaken out of the pilot's seat, my helmet ripped off with a jerk. My ears!
"Finish it, I'll take care of her," the Paladin demanded, then added to me, "you know, I doubted you'd hold out."
I had enough strength to raise my hand and show the middle finger—for the umpteenth time. Everything around me began to glow, and breathing became easier. The fog before my eyes cleared, and I saw a strained smile. Not a bared-teeth grin, not a smirk. Dartaola just smiled tiredly, as if she had heard something funny but no longer had the strength to laugh.
"We actually found a common language with your mother, you know. A good woman who understands that someone will crawl into the deepest hole and sincerely worries about you. She even asked me to look out for you if I met you. I don't like you. You ignore requirements and rules, do whatever you want without being punished. An arrogant, self-assured Wizard whom everyone indulges. And for what, I ask?"
"And that's why you promised to beat me up so I'd crawl deeper?" I rasped mockingly, ignoring the last part.
The laughter broke off abruptly and turned into a cough. Still not fully recovered. Apparently, she realized this too, and another flash of light made life finally pleasant.
"I was able to solve the problem of you and your people. You could at least be grateful."
The Paladin stood up, lifting my body from the floor with one jerk. Judging by the roar of engines and rockets, Venidan was truly leveling the Undead base. The hatch was blown out, so all sounds freely entered the room.
"I'm healing you and looking after you. And I saved your life..."
I didn't listen further... Go to hell, you hysteric. I would have fought him off if I hadn't been distracted. One way or another. I just didn't want to wreck the room with magic. If we had lost the Pepelats in this battle... it wouldn't have ended well. Yes, the gauntlet had partial control of the ship... Partial! And weren't you the one who said you were coming with us to help? Well then, just do your job!
I watched the end of the cleanup from the living quarters, which were undamaged. The stairs to the first floor were ruined, as was the room itself; the second level was partially trashed during the fight. This was where the two other intruders had leaked in, and Dartaola and Venidan had taken the fight. Nothing critical; magic would repair minor damage easily enough. Using the same principle as building a ziggurat. And the corpses needed to be cleared out.
"Break their weapons. The soul is bound to the blade; they might still get up."
The Paladin, having escorted me, went to do the work. Naturally, neither of us said "thank you."
The base and the Undead were ground into mere crumbs. Using reconnaissance data, they struck until it stopped glowing with magic. They especially actively bombed the ziggurats and Spirit Towers, which turned out to be sacrificial altars and points for spreading Cursed Land. No one went down for trophies; moreover, a squad of six old, still wooden golems was sent down with orders to finish off everything that glowed with necromancy. And without the possibility of return.
What happened next? The battered Pepelats flew back. I didn't participate in the conversation with the captain; I slept it off, though not before charging the mechanisms and removing a finished Mana condenser from the assembly.
I built this thing based on Medivh's knowledge and from his own materials. The good news: like a Human Mage, the device would collect and condense Mana from the environment into crystals—take and use. The bad news: without rare materials, I simply had nothing to build a double from. Yes, there was enough expensive and valuable metal and crystals for a second gauntlet, but that was it. There had been too little time to properly gut the workshops. If there's time, we'll go back and finish the job. Or I'll find money for higher-quality materials, as an option. In any case, that will all be later.
In the end, I managed to sleep, fix the stairs, and stare at the assembling mechanisms of the second gauntlet when... Dartaola entered the room. And not in Armor, but in a dress. Not particularly expensive, but clearly clothing for peacetime.
"And what did you forget on my ship?" the last episode had dampened my desire to have any common business with her. "We did the job; you don't need to stay anymore. Go where you wanted, do what you wanted."
She shrugged.
"My presence there is not required now. Now that the Undead base is destroyed, they will manage on their own. And I can return to the task given to me by the Order. Tracking you. It would be sad if you escaped the justice of the Holy, including by reason of death."
And while Venidan might blurt something like that out just for a joke, this one was speaking completely seriously. It truly saddened her that instead of repenting, I might just die for nothing.
"And you also don't have a healer on board," she reminded me, "and there are a couple of suicidal types crawling into the deepest hole. Your mentor promised to inform my people that I am fine and continuing to carry out the order. In short, we are flying to turn you over to your parents. Heal up and get ready to apologize and ask for redemption."
What a Paladin-brain... Though, in truth, she did save my life... If Jaina's fleet is still at Hillsbrad, which is in Southshore, then the flight won't be far at all. This is southern Lordaeron, the most peaceful zone, untouched by the Undead. From here, there are sea trade routes to Gilneas, Kul Tiras, Stormwind, and the lands of the dwarves. And there will surely be resources there to repair the Pepelats. The ship took some hits, but nothing critical. And it wouldn't be bad to carry out a couple of modernizations. In short, even sitting in the room, I can do a bit of planning and sketching for my own pleasure.
We reached the port by evening, and even I whistled.
"Impressive. The busty one can do it when she wants."
I assume it's because I had never seen full-scale fleets before. And in Stratholme, there was little time to look at ships. So seeing a cargo port full of various ships, including those anchored outside the harbor, turned out to be... a very impressive experience. Venidan is still piloting, so I can look out the cockpit window at the sight of a generally peaceful city preparing to send off a sizable fleet. Numerous carts and people are moving along the roads toward the city. And around the main city, a tent camp is set up and barracks stand. Likely, these are refugees.
"Ahem, and where are we going to land?"
I looked at Veni and shrugged. Good question; the city is medieval, dense, and no landing pads are provided. So we surveyed the city. Smaller than Stratholme. If that was an outright medieval metropolis, this is more of a transport and logistics hub. Much more modest walls, but at the same time a fairly large port with warehouses. Southshore as it is. Rather dense construction. No walls, but enough defensive towers, and there's a castle.
Defense in case of uninvited guests. Orc reservations were nearby here, left over from the Second Orc War. Then Thrall raised an uprising and vanished into the sunset, and now it's relatively safe here. It's good the soldiers didn't start firing, though the roar of the engines should alert absolutely everyone. Maybe they have dwarves flying in on their machines sometimes? Who knows.
We managed to do a "victory lap" over the city when the landing issue resolved itself. Outside the city, a purple beam shot into the sky, then another. Presumably for our benefit; I don't see any other flying machines.
"Oh, looks like we're headed there."
And indeed, when the Pepelats landed slowly, they were already waiting for us. General Boobs and my parents. Mom had changed. She had swapped her dress and apron for a Mage's robe. Not Kirin Tor, but it was clear she had returned to her previous place of work. Father, however, kept his strict choice of clothing. Jaina stood separately with a staff in her hands, looking at the damaged machine. Seeing me in the window, she pointed a finger and waved. I waved back, smiling.
At that moment, I let my body remember that I was still a child and just stopped caring about everything. Stopped caring, tumbled down the stairs, and flew like a joyful cannonball into my parents' arms.
"DaVi, you're alive! You're okay! Where were you? We were so worried!"
Well, almost okay. I've fully recovered and I think I shouldn't tell them about the dwarf and what happened on the bridge. And that the outer hatch was simply ripped off—damned warriors.
"I'm fine and so glad to see you! Really, really!" giving simple and clear answers came to me automatically; in the end, no one expected a precise, detailed report from me.
I pulled out of the embrace a minute later and turned my attention to Lady Proudmoore. Jaina doesn't look very well. Dark circles under her eyes, noticeable fatigue. She had to do a great deal. And she will have to do even more. The Wizard sighed.
"Arthas was displeased that you never showed up, you know. If you had been delayed another day, we wouldn't even be here anymore. Where were you?"
I sighed. A valid complaint. But I was saved from answering. A crow perched on my shoulder, which caused a smirk.
"Lady Proudmoore, unfortunately, we were bound by circumstances beyond our control. A trap was set in Karazhan, and we were not able to leave it right away," he added to my parents, "I conducted an examination; she is in perfect order, do not worry. While I regret the time lost, in the end, Davilinia fulfilled the task set by His Highness, even if she could not arrive on time."
Jaina, receiving such an answer, nodded.
"Thank you, Magister; I offer my apologies for the sharpness; the situation is indeed difficult. In the end, Scholomance was taken by the combined forces of Mages, Paladins, and royal troops, so the damage was not significant. It proved difficult to keep Arthas from searching for Mal'Ganis; that Demon is clearly trained in Teleport. But we managed to get information through the Kirin Tor, and he agreed that going to Northrend would be extremely foolish. Especially when the people need him. In short, everything ended quite well."
I smiled. Good, if that's the case.
"I see the fleet is ready."
Jaina took a couple of steps, pointing to the bay, to all those ships and a lot of scurrying people.
"Yes. It was an effort made by all of us, but we are ready to depart. All these refugees... I would like to take more people on board, but there are difficulties with how many we can feed. Especially now, when more and more refugees are coming in a steady stream..."
Mom added:
"And when they are full of Infected, Lady Proudmoore. All available Mages are working on this, as are the forces of the Paladins, but there are simply too many people. And 'do-gooders' offering food lead to outbreaks of the Plague of Undeath. We can wait no longer, Lady Jaina. Not now."
Now that I've been found, heh. They are holding me and won't let go, and I don't mind, actually. Jaina wasn't thrilled, but in the end, she didn't argue. Instead, she noticed something else.
"It seems your ship is damaged. Did something happen?"
Judging by my parents' questioning looks, they were interested too.
"Well, we destroyed an Undead base, one of the southernmost ones, near Andorhal. This should reduce the pressure on the region, at least for now. In any case, the machine can be repaired."
And we also checked—all the surrounding graveyards have been ransacked; presumably, the Undead dragged Kel'Thuzad away with them too. Alas, we were too late here.
Jaina nodded curtly, as if agreeing with her own conclusions.
"We have some surplus materials we can share for the ship's repairs. Now I suggest moving to a better place. You are likely hungry."
Oh yes, hunger is a pressing problem.
"Thanks, we're all for it," I smiled, "but the Pepelats should be moved to another spot. We shouldn't leave the machine unguarded."
We spent the evening in the inn that had become Jaina's headquarters. Besides her, there were specialists from Kul Tiras, Gilneas, Stormwind, dwarves and gnomes, Paladins, and the 7th Legion. In short, Jaina approached the matter on a grand scale, recruiting a lot of people. Naturally, all these people need something to eat, resources gathered for the expedition—not just weapons and food, but materials for building on-site. And many of them were not at all against hearing news and telling tall tales. Frankly speaking, we were able to relax quite well and didn't head off to sleep until well after midnight.
My parents were glad to see me, stayed close, but didn't stop me from being independent, listening to our adventures. Dartaola hit it off with the Paladins; Venidan was just letting loose as much as she could. Like it was the last time, yeah.
The metaphor turned out to be horribly literal when, during the night, I was literally doubled over in a coughing fit. Fever, nausea, my vision blurred, and the feeling didn't particularly want to pass. I tumbled out of the room and, with tearing eyes, surveyed the literal panic.
"The elves have fallen ill!"
"DaVi, how are you?"
I looked up, rubbing my eyes, noting the size of the chest and its owner. Jaina.
"Terrible. My body is burning; everything is swimming before my eyes. All of ours, right?"
Jaina nodded.
"All the elves. Everyone is sick. I will find out right now who is responsible for this..."
Elves, elves, elves. Elves. It took a few seconds to understand what it could be. The Sunwell? Possibly that was it; I know little about its operation after the corruption and before the destruction. I asked:
"Can you bring a bluish Mana crystal from the Pepelats' cockpit? I think—hope—it will help."
The Wizard's hand flared, and a small stone of her own formed on it amidst circles of runes, which I immediately chewed, driving someone else's Mana through my body. There, now it felt better. Yes, this is definitely poisoning of the magical channels, what a nasty thing. When I straightened up under the Wizard's questioning gaze, I nodded.
"I'm better. It seems it has begun. The Sunwell is poisoned, and the dark energy is poisoning us, all the elves. They need Mana. Pure, unpoisoned Mana. The less we take from the Sunwell, the safer we'll be."
And I should hurry. Before the situation completely spirals out of control.
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