Chapter 83: Watchtower |
With Allen’s barely audible “bang,” a commotion rose from the far end of the street.
Bound in layers of arcane chains and iron shackles, Kel’Thuzad suddenly seemed to lose all support, his body going limp as he slumped forward.
The battle mages escorting him fumbled to catch him, then shouts of alarm broke out.
“He’s dead! He’s dead!”
Ansrem snapped his head around, his gaze falling on Allen.
Amy stood behind Ansrem; she saw it—saw the silent shape of Allen’s lips, saw his fingers twitch slightly inside his sleeve.
She didn’t say a word, only averted her eyes and stared at the wobbly signboard across the street.
Allen met Ansrem’s gaze and shrugged helplessly. “Sorry, maybe I went a bit too hard earlier.”
Ansrem stared at him for a few breaths, then sighed and said nothing more.
A dead Kel’Thuzad was still a threat.
Once the defense of Dalaran was settled, he had to find Kel’Thuzad’s corpse and destroy it.
He couldn’t let whatever messy thing in this timeline resurrect him into a lich.
“Allen!” Morgan’s voice came from behind.
He and Stella finally arrived, both breathless from running.
Allen grabbed Morgan’s arm and hauled him into the inn. “Morgan, you made it! Hurry, help Paval and the others—they’re all wounded.”
Morgan didn’t ask questions.
He strode into the door that had been blown off its hinges and stood among shattered glass and upturned tables.
He closed his eyes and clasped his hands at his chest. Golden Light welled up from his palms, at first a faint, flickering glow, then growing brighter and fuller, like a tiny sun cupped in his hands.
The light spread outward, passing over the fallen personal guards, passing over Paval, stained with blood.
It was warm and gentle, like sunlight filtering through leaves on a spring afternoon, like a mother’s hand on a fevered brow.
Wounds knit under the glow, pale faces regaining color.
Paval’s chest rose and fell, and a muffled moan escaped his throat.
Jaina watched as color returned to his face and finally let the tears fall, choking out, “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”
She turned her head toward Allen, who stood in the doorway, and spoke in an even softer voice. “Thank you, Allen.”
Arthas stood to one side, watching Morgan sheath the Light, watching the personal guards sit up one by one, bewildered as they touched their faces and arms.
His fingers clenched and unclenched. He hadn’t learned healing spells, so why hadn’t he tried using the Light sooner?
He was the Prince of Lordaeron, yet here he stood, watching others save people, watching others shine, like a candle forgotten in a corner.
Like a supporting character.
His gaze landed on Allen.
That was the man Jaina liked.
Arthas suddenly felt that, beyond the title “Prince of Lordaeron,” he seemed to be inferior to that person in every way.
And as Prince of Lordaeron, the people had placed so many expectations on him—expectations he wasn’t sure he could bear.
For the first time, he didn’t have to answer to any of those expectations; he could quietly remain a supporting character at the side.
The princess of Kul Tiras did not look to him; he didn’t have to shoulder the duty of saving her.
Everyone naturally awaited Allen Prestor to save everything.
He had to do nothing, bear no responsibility.
That feeling...
Allen stood and turned, noticing Ansrem still standing where he had been.
The old man had not followed the battle mages away; he simply stood there quietly, as if lost in thought.
“What’s wrong, Archmage Ansrem?” Allen asked. “Aren’t you going to help the other archmages defend Dalaran?”
Ansrem shook his head, his face showing fatigue. “Mr. Prestor, the Cult of the Damned’s agreed-upon diversion time has long passed. No one attacked Dalaran. Nothing happened. Archmage Antonidas wishes to see you.”
A silent thunderclap detonated in Allen’s mind.
Nothing happened.
How could nothing have happened? Didn’t the Horde and the black dragons want the Eye of Dalaran?
He lifted his head, scanning Ansrem’s face, Amy’s face, the battle mages at the corner cleaning up the battlefield.
A kind of unease gripped his heart like never before.
He remembered Kel’Thuzad’s hysterical state in the inn.
He had long wondered why Kel’Thuzad would be so frantic. Even if the Cult of the Damned was wiped out, why wouldn’t he take other measures, flee instead of coming here to get revenge on him?
And now nothing happened today either...
Could it be that Kel’Thuzad already knew nothing would happen today, that he had been abandoned?
Not only had the group he painstakingly built been destroyed by me, but someone he valued dearly had abandoned him... leaving him utterly despondent?
If it wasn’t Kel’Thuzad, then who else infiltrated Dalaran, coordinating with the black dragons to seize the Eye of Dalaran?
Was it Ansrem? Allen glanced at Ansrem, then at Amy.
This was the first time he’d encountered a situation so completely detached from the game’s script, and Allen felt deeply uneasy.
What exactly did the enemy intend to do?
Suddenly Allen remembered the vision he’d seen that day, the murmuring old orc.
He had said there wasn’t enough time.
They must—must what?
Wait, the Horde sent so many troops to Azeroth, which means they can open portals to Azeroth at will.
So... do they really need the three artifacts to open the Dark Portal leading to Azeroth?
Allen’s vague memories crystallized. The three artifacts were needed to open a different Dark Portal!
Where did that Dark Portal lead?
Their repeated failures to find the three artifacts had driven them to desperation; what might they do next?
Allen snapped his head up.
If stealth failed...
Would they... launch another massive frontal invasion of Azeroth?
-----------------
Blasted Lands.
The Blasted Lands had been restless lately. The orcs intensified their harassment of the Sons of Lothar, those green-skinned lunatics surging like tides wave after wave, heedless of casualties or cost.
But the Sons of Lothar, enduring endless harassment, had nonetheless completed the construction of the Watchtower.
It was a gray stone fortress perched on the choke point of the Blasted Lands, like a crouching beast clamping down on the throat that led from the Dark Portal to Azeroth.
Towers bristled with the latest gryphon landing platforms, and inside the walls were stockpiles of food and arrows enough to last half a year.
On the training field outside the walls, a silver-haired High Elf was drawing a bow at a training dummy.
Her motion was so fast it blurred; the first arrow pinned the dummy’s throat, the feathered tail still humming. The second arrow followed the first’s trajectory and drove deeper into the stake. Third, fourth, fifth—arrows filled every lethal spot on the dummy’s chest, abdomen, and limbs.
She lowered her bow, silver hair damp with sweat clinging to her pale neck.
She wore light leather armor, sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
Wind blew from the depths of the Blasted Lands, stirring her disheveled silver hair.
A fast horse galloped up from the direction of the Watchtower, hooves beating a brisk drum.
The messenger was a young Stormwind soldier.
He pulled up at the edge of the training ground, swung down from his mount, clutching a bundle of letters and newspapers to his chest, about to run toward the fortress.
“Messenger!” Wen Laisa put away her bow and hurried over.
Her voice was clear and carried the High Elf’s grace. “Any newspapers or messages from the north? Anything from Menethil Harbor?”
The messenger turned and saw those sky-blue eyes looking at him; his face flushed scarlet.
He fumbled in his arms and produced a stack of crumpled newspapers and several letters. “Yes, yes! Lady Windrunner! From Menethil Harbor, and Stormwind—these are the recent editions!”