In the darkest and most ancient part of the eastern forests, where not even the golden light of Quel'Thalas penetrated, the air was heavy and smelled of rotten leaves, damp stone, and blood. Here, among giant trees entwined with vines like snakes, lay the ruins of Zul'Aman—the fallen capital of the once-great Amani troll empire. Today, the cyclopean steps leading to the ruined gates were crowded with thousands of dark-green warriors.
"At last... we are home... Zul'Aman..."
Before this armada, at the top of the stairs, stood a one-eyed and one-armed troll. His body was covered in scars, but he held himself not like a cripple, but like a king who had returned to his domain. With long, clawed fingers, he stroked the moss-covered stones with reverent tenderness.
While the old chieftain was indulging in his memories, another, younger and taller figure silently approached him from behind. An aura of coarse, untamed magic emanated from this troll.
"Zul'jin," he said, and his voice was like the scraping of stones. "The pointy-eared general has been caught."
The melancholy in Zul'jin's single eye instantly evaporated, replaced by cold cruelty. He instinctively touched the stump of his left arm.
"Oh, really... That is good news," he hissed. "The shame with which they branded me will soon return to them. Doubled."
"Hmph. We sacrificed three witch doctors to catch this fish," — unconcealed dissatisfaction sounded in the voice of the Hex Lord Malacrass. It was obvious that he was not thrilled with the need to obey this, in his opinion, old loser.
"Ha! We will have more witch doctors," Zul'jin smirked. "But how many such generals do the pointy-ears have? Without their Farstriders, who are they?"
He spoke of the losses with cold indifference. The witch doctors belonged to small tribes whose chieftains had dared to object to him. Now their heads adorned his throne. For Zul'jin, the end justified any means. And his goal was not just victory, but the complete destruction or capture of Sylvanas Windrunner and her elite troops.
At that moment, a breathless scout emerged from behind the trees.
"Chieftain Zul'jin! Hex Lord Malacrass! Reinforcements have arrived for the pointy-ears! Humans!"
"Humans?" Malacrass snorted contemptuously. "Just a herd of pigs, clad in tin cans."
"Do not underestimate them," the chieftain frowned. His experience as a guide for the Horde during the Second War had taught him a lot. "The failure of that Horde is their own fault, but one cannot deny the strength of humans. They are no longer the weak creatures they were thousands of years ago."
"The elves have sat for thousands of years behind their magical fence, imagining that the world revolves around them," Zul'jin continued, and unconcealed contempt sounded in his voice. "Luxury and peace have penetrated to their very bones. These are no longer the desperate warriors who stood to the death during the great wars. They have become... soft."
Having listened to the scout's report, he turned to Malacrass.
"Our Loa have not yet fully awakened. They need blood. They need a great sacrifice for the Amani empire to regain its former glory. And this Windrunner with her rangers is just the first step."
"You value these humans too highly," Malacrass objected again.
"I do not value them!" Zul'jin snapped. "I study them! Humans survived the orc invasion. They know what real war is, unlike the pointy-ears. That is why humans are more dangerous now. But their life... it is short. Shorter than the elves', shorter than ours. One or two generations will pass, and they will become weak and disunited again. Then our hour will come. And today is just a test of strength. A small step toward our revival."
Zul'jin was not just a cruel chieftain. He was a genius of predatory warfare. A true hunter never attacks a beast when it is in its prime. He waits. He exhausts it, inflicts small wounds, gives it no rest. And only when the prey weakens, when its fangs are blunted and its muscles are tired, does he deliver the mortal blow.
Malacrass, although he had no sympathy for Zul'jin, was forced to admit he was right. He temporarily suppressed his dissatisfaction.
"Alright. Let's assume you're right. What is our next move?"
"The human reinforcements surely have those glowing priests of theirs. When they realize they cannot lift my curse, the pointy-ear will have only one way out. Retreat."
The chieftain of the Amani tribe picked up from a stone his wrist blade, a bizarre weapon that replaced his hand.
"Order the scouts to watch their rear. As soon as they falter and begin to retreat, our entire army must immediately rush forward. Tear down their barrier and burn the outpost to the ground."
"And what if Sylvanas tries to leave alone, abandoning her own?" Malacrass suggested.
A fierce light flashed in Zul'jin's single eye.
"That is precisely why you will send Halazzi with the scouts."
At the mention of this name, Malacrass nodded understandingly. Halazzi, the Lynx Loa, was the patron of the most deadly assassins in their army. His followers, fast and ruthless like their god, were ideal hunters.
"Now," the chieftain smirked, "the real hunt begins."
...
"What?! Use the general as bait?!" — Lor'themar jumped to his feet, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. — "This is madness! Who knows how many ambushes they have set on the path to retreat!"
"Calm down, Lor'themar," Arthas's voice remained unflappable. "I and my knights will accompany Lady Sylvanas."
He understood the elf's reaction perfectly. The trolls had surely already placed both scouts and small ambush parties in the forest to intercept the general if she decided to flee. But the risk of a general retreat, when a twenty-thousand-strong army is chasing you, was incomparably higher. First, it was necessary to blind the enemy.
Sylvanas, who had been silently observing the dispute until then, stopped her deputy with a gesture. She looked directly into Arthas's eyes.
"You said you could lift the curse."
"Yes. But not now. If I do, the high priest will feel it immediately. And then they will throw everything they have at us, without regard for losses. With a tenfold superiority, they will sweep away this outpost, and we won't even have a chance to retreat."
"Therefore, we must act more cunningly. First, we will prepare the main forces for a retreat in complete silence. And then you, Lady Windrunner, and my detachment will openly advance, pretending that we have not unraveled their plan and are simply evacuating a wounded general."
"Their scouts and assassins, who are surely already sitting in the forest, will not just watch as such a valuable target leaves. They will attack. And when we destroy them, the main troll army will be blinded for a time. This will give our main forces the window they need for a safe retreat."
"But how will you ensure the general's safety?" Lor'themar did not relent.
"I am a paladin, Lor'themar. Protecting others is my job," Arthas explained patiently. "My knights will be with me. I am sure there will be no serious threat to life. But," he did not dissemble, "this is a trap. And in any trap, there is risk."
"Enough, Lor'themar," Sylvanas interrupted him. Her voice was weak but firm. "Is there a better plan in our situation?" — she winced in pain, but immediately added, — "Besides, I am not yet completely helpless."
The elf fell silent. Arthas's plan was risky, but logical. Besides, if the crown prince of Lordaeron himself was willing to risk his head by acting as bait, what objections could he have?
Arthas understood his feelings. But he also understood that there were no alternatives. Silvermoon had not sent a single battle mage. And the two archmages from his detachment, though powerful, could not open a portal capable of transporting two thousand warriors. It was technically impossible. The only chance for salvation was to make the enemy believe they were leaving on foot and to destroy those who would be watching them.
"In addition," Arthas added, "it is better to lay your remaining mana crystals at key defensive points. My mages will turn them into powerful magical mines. This will give the main group additional time to retreat."
At these words, bitterness was reflected on the faces of Sylvanas and Lor'themar. The humans, who had learned magic from the elves, would now cover their retreat with the help of this same magic. What a humiliation.
Had a squad of battle magisters from Silvermoon been sent here, they would have arranged a firestorm for these trolls, not fled with their tails tucked.
However, now they had not a single one of their own magisters. And the human mages were not familiar with the complex magical network of Quel'Thalas. They could not connect to it to organize a quick and mass teleportation of troops. They were strangers here.
At that moment, Sylvanas's fury at the rotten council in the capital reached its limit. If not for this young prince, she and the flower of the nation, her Farstriders, would already be being dragged to the altar of some savage little god.
Arthas, seeing their condition, was only grateful to fate that he was dealing specifically with Sylvanas and Lor'themar. Any other elven commander, blinded by pride, would have already sent him to hell, and he would have had to think about how to save only his own people.
Having explained the plan to Uther, he received full approval.
"At this moment, this is the only way out," the Lightbringer nodded. "I will lead the main forces. Act according to the plan."
He gave Arthas's breastplate a fatherly punch with his gauntleted fist. The sound came out hollow and clean.
"Take care of yourself, my student. May the Light be with you."
"And with you, Master," Arthas smiled and went to prepare for the hunt.