Chapter 86: Wen Laisa's Determination |
The doomfires rose from the impact craters one after another, swinging their burning fists to tear gaping wounds through the Alliance's battle lines.
Thick black smoke billowed upward, nearly blotting out the entire sky.
“Damn it—!”
Turalyon raised his longsword, the Light blazing around him as he urged his armored warhorse forward, ready to charge and shred those doomfires—
“Watch out—!”
Alleria's dragonhawk swept in from the side, and Turalyon looked up to see a stream of shadowflame pouring down from the heavens above.
Alleria's dragonhawk extended its talons, grabbing Turalyon's pauldron and yanking him from the saddle. The warhorse was reduced to charcoal in the shadowflame, not even a whimper escaping its throat.
The black smoke cleared.
In the sky, dozens of black dragons blotted out the sun.
The largest among them led the pack, its wingspan vast enough to shroud half the sky. It opened its jagged maw and unleashed another torrent of shadowflame, carving a charred trench through the Sons of Lothar's lines.
The black dragons had arrived.
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Wen Laisa opened her eyes in a daze.
At the final moment of her fall, the dragonhawk had shielded her.
The great beast's wings wrapped around her body as it plowed a bloody furrow through the dense ranks of orcs, finally crashing into the mountain rocks.
A dozen orc corpses were crushed beneath it.
The dragonhawk's eyes were still open, but its golden pupils had gone vacant. Warm blood spread from under its body, soaking half of Wen Laisa's form.
She crawled out from beneath the dragonhawk's corpse.
A wound on her forehead bled freely, the blood smearing over her left eye. She wiped it with her sleeve, painting half her face red.
Her right leg had been cut by something—it hurt when she walked, but the bone wasn't broken.
She tried moving her fingers. They still worked.
The orcs were closing in.
A dark mass of them surged from every direction.
Blood still dripped from their axes, and shreds of flesh clung to the fangs of their wolves.
They watched her like a bird trapped in a cage.
Wen Laisa raised her bow.
The first arrow pierced the throat of a roaring orc.
The second nailed into the palm of a warlock mid-cast, causing his shadow bolt to explode in his hand and blast him to pieces.
The third, the fourth, the fifth—every arrow found its mark with deadly precision. Not a single shot missed, and for a moment, none of the orcs dared to advance.
The green-skinned monsters halted before the corpses. Some stepped back; others clenched their axes but refused to move forward.
They stared at this blood-soaked high elf, at those blazing sky-blue eyes.
“Come on!” Wen Laisa's voice was hoarse but sharp. “I am Quel'Thalas's arrow! I am the Windrunner's bolt—I'll pierce every filthy throat among you!”
Her voice echoed off the mountain rocks, and for a moment, it truly intimidated the encircling orcs.
A towering orc centurion pushed through the crowd, roaring in Orcish, threatening the others to advance.
Wen Laisa reached for her quiver—and found it empty.
She turned and began to climb.
The cliff face was nearly vertical. She hooked her fingers into cracks in the rock, dug her boot tips into every protruding ledge, pressed her body against the cold stone, and climbed upward, ever upward.
Almost at the top. Her fingers were already touching the horizontal ridge at the edge.
A shadow bolt exploded above her.
The ridge shattered, and gravel slipped from her fingertips.
Her body leaned backward, her hand grasping at empty air—catching only the wind.
She fell.
Midair, she looked back at the entire battlefield.
A portal had already opened behind the orc lines. That massive green vortex was like another Dark Portal raised on its side, with demons pouring through.
Doomfires swung their massive arms, scorching tracks across the Alliance's formations.
The black dragons' shadowflame wove into a black web of fire above the battlefield, each breath carving a burning trench into the earth.
The Light flickered in the distance, brightening and dimming like a lamp on the verge of being snuffed out in a storm.
She looked down at the gathered orcs below. They craned their necks, raised their axes. They waited for her to land, like hunters waiting for fruit to fall from a branch.
Wen Laisa suddenly thought of Allen Prestor.
Was he doing well in Dalaran?
Would he have enough money for Stella and the others?
Were there any shameless women hanging around him...
Had he written to her?
Had her letter reached him? Had he received it? Would he reply?
Did he think of her...
If only she'd said a few more words to him when they last parted.
If only she'd written all these things she wanted to say in that letter yesterday.
If only—Allen, I'm sorry. I can't give you the final payment for protecting Dalaran.
She closed her eyes.
The wind howled past her ears, stretching the weightlessness of her fall into a long, long silence.
Then images surged up like leaves scattered by the wind, fluttering one by one from the depths of memory—
“Uh, I'm from Baldur's Gate. Just call me Allen.”
“Noble warrior, greetings. I am Allen Prestor from the Kingdom of Alterac. This is my guard, Wen Lei.”
“Uncle Wen Lei, I bought you some gloves. Haven't you been wearing that pair for days now? Aren't they dirty?”
“Next, I'll bring justice to these victims. I'll personally kill that bastard... Stalvan Mistmantle.”
“Morgan, I know that pursuing justice is the most important thing to you. But if you can take care of your wife and daughter along the way, that's what true strength is.”
“Don't worry, Stella. I'll definitely make you a ton of money.”
“Hey, what's going on? How did you know to pick me up here? Telepathy?”
“Varian! You're finally awake. Get up—Stormwind is in chaos!”
Ah, why...
Why was she remembering, at the moment of her death, only Allen's promises to others, only the moments when Allen saved others?
With Allen, she only had countless ordinary moments, trivial daily life.
I...
Wen Laisa opened her eyes again. Mid-fall, she twisted her body to face the orcs waiting below, craning their necks.
Her hand gripped the dagger at her waist.
I don't want to die. I absolutely will not die. I haven't yet...
With a roar, Wen Laisa swung her dagger down toward the orcs closing in, like a falling meteor.
“DIIIIIE!!!”
With her roar, the moment she drove the dagger down—
BOOM!!!!!!
A thunderbolt struck.
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