The Betrayed Choice
Arthas had never felt so exhausted. Only after leaving Hearthglen did he realize that his strength had been completely depleted by days of fighting without any rest. He guessed he must have been unconscious on horseback for a while, because when he opened his eyes, his mentor was helping him down from his horse.
"Arthas? Child, what's going on?"
"Uther," Arthas said with all his might, "Uther!" He reached out and grabbed Uther's arm guards. "Undead, Kel'Thuzad summoned the dead to fight... and many are in... crisis, a lot... contaminated food... has been sent out."
Uther's eyes widened. Arthas swallowed hard, then tried to tell Uther about Nathanos's solo defense of Hearthglen, but his pupils suddenly dilated, as if he had foreseen something unseen. Indeed, he had, thanks to Nathanos, whose words had brought him back to reality—to Stratholme together— Arthas had almost forgotten that place; half the grain transported from Andorhal was destined for there. If they didn't stop it soon...
... Arthas struggled in bewilderment, knowing that if he went to save Nathanos, he would be too late to stop the plague outbreak on the other side. Two voices were now in his mind: one telling him to go to Hearthglen, and the other telling him to sacrifice Nathanos to save Stratholme.
He needed help from both sides, but he was overwhelmed with other commitments. He also realized that Uther's Order of the Silver Hand could only go to one place, as an army was surrounding Hearthglen. He dared not even imagine what awaited him in Stratholme; perhaps the situation there was even worse.
"What's wrong, Arthas?"
"Stratholme!" Arthas blurted out, shocked by his own voice. His consciousness had made the choice for him. Tears stung his eyes. Arthas never imagined he would lie to Uther, and more importantly, he had betrayed Nathanos and the people of Hearthglen who were fighting a bloody battle.
How could I...?
'Fool, think of Stratholme, Arthas. Think of how many people you need to protect there. Compared to their lives, the people of Nathanos and Hearthglen are nothing.'
'But he's my best friend, and when I become King, he'll likely be my advisor!'
'He never truly reached a consensus with you. Leaving him will allow you to do more and save more lives.'
The voice sent a shiver down Arthas's spine. He didn't know whose voice it was, but he thought it was his own true thoughts urging him on.
' Nathanos! I'm so sorry, so very sorry!'
Seeing Arthas so terrified and distressed, Uther was shocked. What could have made this energetic young man so panicked? It must be something bad, but Uther didn't know Arthas's true thoughts at that moment.
"I understand. There's an emergency in Stratholme. I'll summon the Order of the Silver Hand to their aid immediately," Uther said, placing his hand on Arthas's shoulder as he sobbed. "You've done well, child. I'm proud of you. Now, get some rest."
"No!" Arthas cried. He struggled to his feet, barely able to stand, and with Will he suppressed his exhaustion, reaching out a trembling hand to grab Uther. "I have to go with you. I'm alright, let me go!"
Nathanos lost track of how long he had been fighting. Without stopping, he drew arrows from his quiver, nocked them, and aimed at the charging enemy. His arms trembled from exhaustion.
Wave after wave of Undead armies surged forth. The people who once thrived on this land were now reduced to this state. Lifeless, they attacked relentlessly, an endless stream. Their assault came so swiftly that Nathanos hadn't even had time to deploy specific battle plans; his only wish was to repel the Undead army and gain a moment's respite.
The shouts and cries of battle blended perfectly with the chaotic and bloody scene. In such circumstances, it was impossible to give orders to the soldiers on the battlefield; everyone had only one goal: kill the enemy and survive. Nathanos knew this well, and he could only rally his soldiers with impassioned words. He repeatedly shouted things like, "Arthas will surely bring reinforcements from the Silver Hand; these monsters are no match for the Holy Light!" This had some effect, providing the valiant soldiers with a sense of calm and unwavering faith. It was only through this that the defenses of Hearthglen could stand firm. But how long could this last? Nathanos couldn't help but ask himself. He could only pray that Arthas would return quickly, before the defenses were breached.
He raised his weary arms once more, aiming at a large Undead. Just then, horns sounded from behind the Undead army, a melody that seemed to herald the end of the world. What should have been a sunny day was instead shrouded in dark clouds, with the faint rumble of thunder.
"No, winter doesn't have weather like this." Nathanos continued listening to the sound. It was slowly growing louder; it was the sound of tracks dragging and crushing stones. Nathanos remembered it. Many years ago in Ironforge, he had seen the Dwarf's tanks, those things moved on tracks. At this moment, Nathanos hoped he was wrong, otherwise...
The sudden appearance of several wooden barrels from the sky confirmed Nathanos's conjecture—they were catapults.
"Get down!" Nathanos shouted, but his voice was drowned out by the clanging of weapons. The barrels behind the defensive line burst open, revealing not gunpowder, but a green gas. Several soldiers collapsed to the ground, clutching their necks, clearly unable to breathe, after smelling the gas.
"It's poison gas! Stay away from those green things!" Nathanos shouted, as more barrels came hurtling towards them, catching the Hearthglen defenders completely off guard. Soldiers collided as they dodged, and countless died in the trampling across the narrow pass. They were doomed at this rate. Nathanos surveyed the battlefield; someone had to step up now!
He took a deep breath, the stench of blood keeping him alert. The next moment, he tossed aside his bow and arrows, gripped his sword, and charged into the enemy ranks with his two hounds. The Undead at the forefront gaped, wielding battle axes, ready to tear Nathanos to pieces.
"Get out of my way!" he roared, easily cleaving his opponent's body in two with a single sword strike. Blood trickled down his face, but this was not enough to stop him. Among the Undead army was a necromancer, controlling the corpses around him.
"Stop him from casting the spell!" Nathanos commanded his two hounds. They immediately began weaving through the crowd, moving so fast that the Undead could not catch them.
The necromancer was chanting incantations to urge the Undead to attack when suddenly two creatures rushed towards him. His dim eyes widened in shock, and in his panic, he quickly dodged the attacks from the left and right. Distracted, he didn't even notice that Nathanos was only five steps away.
"Go to hell!"
The psychic heard someone roaring in front of him. When he turned around, he only saw a jagged, long face approaching his own, and then... nothing more!
This location was a small hill. Nathanos spun his weapon, wiping out the Undead around him before raising the Nightblade high. His position was visible to many.
"Warrior of Lordaeron! Charge!"
The people, emboldened by Nathanos's stirring battle cry, pressed forward with renewed vigor.
There are only three ways to deal with catapults. The first is to attack with ranged weapons, but Hearthglen lacks the means for that. The second is to hide behind the walls, but this is tantamount to waiting for death, especially since the enemy catapults are using poison gas. The third is to launch a proactive attack. Catapults are heavy weapons with very low mobility, and their close-range firing range is limited; simply rushing to their front lines will destroy them. This is Nathanos's choice at this moment, and it will inevitably result in enormous casualties...