The path north ran along the main tract of the kingdom's Eastern Lands and was completely safe. Along the road, curious peasants and townspeople gathered from time to time, following the column with gazes of admiration and awe.
The detachment of more than seven hundred men moved in almost complete silence, broken only by the rhythmic clang of armor and weapons. The armor gleaming in the sun and the sharp tips of the spears spoke silently of the might of Lordaeron's army.
But the vanguard drew special attention. Twenty horsemen whose equipment differed strikingly from the usual blue-and-gold uniforms of the royal troops. They were clad in coal-black plate armor with silver trim, and blood-red cloaks fluttered behind their backs.
It is unknown why, but even at a distance, a tangible pressure emanated from them, a mixture of menace and impeccable discipline. These were the "Secret Swords."
The other paladins in the detachment, without conspiring, kept a slight distance from them, looking at these silent warriors with unconcealed surprise and respect. By their aura and bearing, it was clear: in all of Lordaeron, only the Knights of the Silver Hand could compete with them.
And this was no exaggeration. Each of the "Secret Swords" had gone through the most brutal selection from the best fighters of the royal guard. All of them were masters of the blade, whose individual skill was not inferior to that of a paladin.
But unlike the paladins, whose strength was in defense and inspiration, these were created for another purpose. Their task was the effective extermination of the enemy. On the battlefield, they were killing machines.
After the main selection, the candidates entered a hell of special training. Those who survived and were not broken became his knights. And they swore allegiance to him alone, Prince Arthas.
It is worth noting that the creation by a crown prince of a personal army, not directly subordinate to the crown, is a flagrant violation of all laws of the monarchy and a direct path to civil war.
But King Terenas trusted his only son too much. The old ruler felt that his time was running out, and secretly he not only approved but even contributed to Arthas's strengthening, hoping that before his death he would manage to see his heir become the greatest king in the history of Lordaeron.
Thanks to the high speed of the march, by the end of the second day, the detachment had reached an elven fortress-outpost, carved into a mountain pass. This was the only land passage into Quel'Thalas, which humans had long called the Elfgates.
The fortress was strikingly different from the rough and practical human castles. It had not been built, but rather grown from the stone itself; its elegant spires and soaring bridges seemed to defy the laws of physics. Everywhere, fine patterns depicting leaves and the sun were visible, and in the embrasures, instead of coarse grates, stood magical crystals shimmering with a soft light.
Everything here spoke of antiquity, magic, and that slight arrogance with which elves looked upon the younger races. This was not just an outpost, but a work of art, declaring by its very appearance: "You are entering another world."
The attached mages presented the guards on the walls with pre-agreed magical signs, and the massive gates slowly opened.
They were met by a tall commander, surprisingly broad-shouldered for an elf. He saluted and addressed them in impeccable Common tongue:
"Greetings, Prince Arthas, Lord Uther. I did not expect you to lead the reinforcements personally. On behalf of Quel'Thalas and the Farstriders, I thank you for your help. My name is Lor'themar Theron, I am the deputy to the Ranger-General. She sent me to escort you."
Lor'themar Theron. The Prince remembered his biography. During the Second War, when the orcs almost burned down Lordaeron, Quel'Thalas sent a small detachment to help, and Lor'themar was part of it. Even then, he stood out among his kinsmen. He was not a ranger from a noble family but had risen to the top solely through talent and courage, earning the boundless trust of his general, Sylvanas Windrunner. He was one of those rare elves who saw humans not as useful barbarians, but as equal allies. A pragmatist to the core, for whom the result was more important than empty pride. That is also why Uther remembered him.
The Lightbringer nodded approvingly in greeting.
"Greetings, Lord Lor'themar," the young paladin replied politely. "I hope we have arrived in time."
"More than, Your Highness. We have already repelled several attacks by these savages, but many of my rangers are wounded." — genuine fatigue was audible in the elf's voice. For the small population of the elves, every warrior was worth their weight in gold.
"I have brought with me thirty priests, led by the high cleric from Stratholme. They will provide aid to your wounded."
Lor'themar breathed a sigh of clear relief:
"Glory to the Sunwell! This is the best news in recent days. We have a catastrophic shortage of healers."
Arthas looked around. The walls of the fortress were almost empty.
"Lord Lor'themar, are you that bad off for personnel?" he asked, frowning.
The elf smirked bitterly:
"Call me just Lor'themar. We have pulled almost all forces that were in the southern forests to the eastern front. And there has been no help from Silvermoon, nor is there any."
'Just as I thought,' the prince concluded to himself. 'The capital has simply abandoned its border guards to their fate.'
"So that there are no unspoken issues between us," Lor'themar continued, looking directly into Arthas's eyes, "we now have one and a half thousand fighters on the front line. More than a hundred are wounded, but fortunately, there are almost no dead. The trolls have not yet been able to break through our defensive lines."
"I have brought five hundred veteran footmen, a hundred knights, a hundred dwarven riflemen, ten paladins, and two archmages," Arthas reported in his turn. "Not counting the healers."
"This is a serious reinforcement. It will allow us to stabilize the front. Thank you again, Prince," the elf nodded. The support sent by Lordaeron was even greater than he had expected.
His gaze briefly slid over the twenty knights in black standing behind Arthas, but he tactfully remained silent, assuming it was the personal guard of the heir to the throne.
"Enough talk. We need to head to the front line," Uther intervened. His stern face expressed no emotion. "The true picture of a battle can only be seen with one's own eyes."
"Agreed," the prince supported him and turned to the elf. "Lor'themar, how much time to the front?"
"About two hours. If we hurry, we will arrive at our positions before sunset," he answered.
"Excellent," Arthas mounted his horse without delay. "Soldiers of Lordaeron, we march!"
In response, a low, powerful rumble swept through the ranks—the knights struck the hilts of their swords against their shields as a sign of readiness.