"Dathrohan, at this rate, we'll completely clear out Andorhal in another two months at most!"
Uther was out on Lake Darrowmere, where the mages had already dispelled the poisonous mist. The two men stood in a small boat, watching the breathtaking "performance" in the skies over Andorhal through an Engineering Telescope.
The Wildhammer Dwarves, who had always been on good terms with the Order of the Silver Hand, had deployed their proud Gryphon Squadron. Hundreds of gryphons spread their wings and swept over Andorhal. As the elite Dwarf Gryphon Riders approached the undead below, they dropped the bags at their waists toward the ground.
Inside the bags were disposable large waterskins compressed by the mages with magic. Made from the skin of the common large perch, these waterskins were exceptionally stretchy, and each could hold five gallons of liquid. After filling them with holy water, the mages compressed them to the size of a finger, but their weight remained unchanged, so a single Gryphon Rider could carry no more than twenty.
Over the past month or so, the undead in Andorhal had been reduced by half under the Wildhammer Dwarves' unique "bombing" offensive and the ground sweeps conducted by the entire Silver Hand, along with some elite recruits transferred from Stratholme. Only the elite undead loyal to Araj the Summoner remained, hiding in the city center and clinging to life.
Dathrohan was a man of few words, a warrior and an utterly dependable companion. Seeing Uther's joy, he too showed a faint smile. Although the First Paladins had mostly come from the Kingdom of Stormwind, destroyed during the First War, after living in Lordaeron for over a decade, they had all come to regard this land as their homeland.
"Speaking of which, those recruits from Stratholme are remarkably good!"
Uther personally rowed the boat ashore. As soon as the two Grand Knights stepped onto land, attendants brought them their reins. Mounted on his warhorse, Uther enjoyed a rare moment of leisure. Dathrohan, who had arrived from Stratholme only three days earlier, nodded again at his remark. This time, he uncharacteristically offered a few words.
"Knight Dick handles these recruits roughly, completely unlike our old training methods. It's like... like the wolf packs we saw in Elwynn Forest as children. Once the young wolves grow up, the old wolves drive them out of the pack entirely, leaving them to form new packs. Cruel as it is, these lads grow quickly in battle!"
As one of the leaders of the Order of the Silver Hand, Dathrohan disliked talking, but anyone who thought him truly stupid was a naive fool. Uther naturally understood his implication. He stroked his beard.
"Ah, I know Knight Dick is using this method to prove his proposed plan is feasible. But... if he really did that, His Majesty Terenas would be the first to come after him. Paladins are elite troops capable of fighting many enemies alone. They must remain in the hands of this country's true ruling class. This already falls within the realm of royal authority."
Dathrohan shook his head. He held his reins, a greatsword engraved with Crusader Inscriptions strapped to his back. His old warhammer had been destroyed in the fierce fighting in Stratholme.
As Uther and Dathrohan talked on their way toward the Andorhal camp, two warhorses came charging from different directions, one after the other. Both riders were messengers wearing plumed helmets. Uther frowned and raised a hand, signaling both messengers to approach.
The Grand Knight glanced at the badges on the two riders' chests and first reached for Alexandros's letter. Uther rolled his shoulders and opened it, only to freeze after a single glance.
"What's wrong? What's wrong, Uther!"
Dathrohan sensed something amiss from his old friend's expression and patted his shoulder. Uther came back to himself, handed the letter to Dathrohan, then seized the messenger.
He demanded sharply, "Are you certain it was Arthas?"
"Yes, Knight Uther. We're certain!"
The messenger spoke through gritted teeth. "After Lord Mograine received the appeal for aid from Lordaeron, he immediately led all the knights and priests of the Holy Light Monastery to Lordaeron. But outside the city, they were ambushed by Arthas and a kind of demon resembling spider beetles. His lordship was gravely wounded! We suffered terrible losses! We could only retreat to the Holy Light Monastery!"
"Lordaeron... apart from a small number of citizens who escaped through the sewers, the other six hundred thousand citizens were all... all slaughtered!"
"What did you say?! Lordaeron... Lordaeron was destroyed?"
Dathrohan seized the knight's shoulders with both hands, squeezing until the sturdy arm guards creaked. But the messenger knight was clearly also lost in grief and despair. He wiped his reddened eyes and endured the intense pain without a word.
Even after Uther forcibly pried his hands away, the taciturn Grand Knight still struggled to believe it. But faced with the messenger knight's oath upon the Holy Light, Dathrohan and all the knights around him fell silent.
They could not imagine what kind of hell Lordaeron had become over the past three days. But one thing was certain: at this moment, order in Lordaeron... in this country, had utterly vanished.
The joy of Andorhal's imminent recapture disappeared completely, because they now faced an even worse problem. If Arthas, who had mastered some evil spell, transformed all one million inhabitants of Tirisfal into undead, then...
"Messenger! Go to Light's Hope Chapel immediately. Tell Gavinrad and the acolytes stationed there that we're in serious trouble! Have them all come here! If we can't stop the approaching undead, we'll all die here!"
Uther gave the order through clenched teeth. Without another word, the tear-streaked messenger mounted his warhorse and galloped toward Eastweald.
"Dathrohan, I need you to go to Hearthglen and find Isillien. This is no time to discuss ideological differences. I need you to take the paladins there to the border between Tirisfal and Darrowmere and hold back the approaching undead at all costs. We cannot let them join the undead in Andorhal!"
"Leave it to me!"
Dathrohan answered, cracked his whip, and headed north with his attendants.
Uther stared westward. He dared not imagine it: if Arthas truly marched east, could the Order of the Silver Hand and the local regiments alone really withstand an army of well over a million?
Had I... had I truly been wrong? Dick's absurd prophecy had actually... actually come true!
Thinking of Dick, Uther noticed the other messenger. His badge depicted a fist gripping a warhammer, the emblem of the Stratholme Regiment. He took a deep breath, calming his tangled thoughts, then took the scroll from the messenger's hand.
Uther unrolled it and skimmed it. The anger he had just suppressed flared again. He fixed a stern gaze on the messenger knight, who stood with his head high and chest out, and demanded loudly,
"Who gave him the authority to raise private troops without permission? I certainly don't recall allowing him to recruit new warriors in Eastweald!"
The messenger knight glanced at Uther. Though there was a trace of fear in his eyes, he gritted his teeth and answered firmly,
"Our commander said that by the time you received this letter, he would have that authority! He said... he said..."
"What else did that bastard say?"
"The commander said... if you have even a shred of wisdom left, you won't be foolish enough to face the coming war with the Order of the Silver Hand alone. He said West Darrowmere has no defensible natural barriers at all. The Order of the Silver Hand's only chance of victory is to join forces with the Wildhammer Dwarves of the Hinterlands and hold Chillwind Camp and the Bulwark to the death, then have Dalaran and Gilneas send troops to seal off Silverpine Forest, containing the war within Tirisfal and West Darrowmere. Otherwise, the entire Northern Frontier will become a land of death!"
Once he had finished the first sentence, the messenger knight poured out everything Dick had told him. Of course, afterward, he cast an uneasy glance at Uther. The Grand Knight before him was known to everyone throughout Lordaeron.
Hearing the messenger's words, Uther immediately constructed a complete defensive perimeter in his mind. Within minutes, he had played through the campaign several times and finally concluded that Dick's strategy was unquestionably one of the best available. Chillwind Camp was remote and easy to defend but hard to attack, while the Bulwark could receive a constant stream of support from all of Eastweald. If Dalaran's mages were willing to help, keeping Arthas confined to Tirisfal and Darrowmere would be entirely possible.
He stroked his chin and took another careful look at the paladin recruit standing proudly before him. He pondered for a moment.
"Recruit, what's your name?"
"I... I'm Herod, Recruit Champion of the Stratholme Regiment!"
The messenger knight was a little nervous, but also rather proud. Uther asked curiously,
"Recruit Champion? What kind of title is that?"
"Oh, that? It's a title only the strongest recruit can earn!"
Whether deliberately or not, the messenger knight displayed the three stripes woven from golden thread on his chest and said proudly,
"I'm the strongest recruit in this intake! I led my Champion Squad in slaughtering two hundred elite undead to earn this title!"
Herod was boasting. Though their squad was the strongest, they could not have killed two hundred elite undead. In fact, their final kill count had stood at 173, but that was already the highest among the hundred squads.
"Oh! Undead from Stratholme. You certainly deserve the name 'Champion'!"
Uther voiced his admiration. Then, while Herod was feeling very pleased with himself, he said with a smile,
"Then bring your Champion Squad to Andorhal. As you've seen, a fierce battle is about to take place here. I need champions like you!"
Herod was clearly tempted. This was an invitation from Uther the Lightbringer, after all. But in the end, he shook his head.
"I'd better not. The all-out assault on Stratholme is about to begin. At the oath-taking rally a week ago, I swore that I'd win the title of 'Champion' again this time. Then I'll be able to call myself a 'Stratholme Regiment Champion'!"
"All-out assault? What all-out assault?"
Uther froze for a moment, then saw Herod turn his horse around. Wielding his whip, he called back over his shoulder,
"Commander Dick has decided to eliminate the traitor Rivendare, who's entrenched deep inside Stratholme. The surprise attack officially begins at midnight tonight. I can't delay any longer. Goodbye, Grand Knight. You... you're a kind man!"
Uther stood where he was, listening as Herod labeled him a "nice guy." He was not angry. Instead, he turned his gaze eastward. Despite a lifetime of military service, the Grand Knight felt a trace of frustration at that moment.
A week ago... Arthas hadn't returned then... While we were celebrating our victory, were you still watching the darkness in the corners?
Dick... Dick Tang, could you truly be a messenger sent by the Holy Light to save us from this catastrophe?
"Phew..."
"Guards! Send appeals for aid to Dalaran, Gilneas, and Alterac immediately. Send a messenger to Hearthglen and have Dathrohan meet me at Chillwind Camp! And... transfer another thousand recruits from Tyr's Hand to the Stratholme Regiment!"
Aaaah! Brothers, give it a push! Get us into the top fifty on the new releases chart. At least let me show my face on the second page! If we make it, I'll throw everything else aside! Ten updates! If we make it, I'll post ten updates! If we reach the first page, I'll go all out, take two days off, and write like mad to give you brothers even more in return!!!