It's time to be heroes.
The thing about smart people is that all their voice is spent in their own head. Stupid people talk a lot to convince themselves of things they're not sure of. Intelligent people don't bother; they already know.
Jadoth's plan wasn't too bad, really. The bombs near Grommash Hold are just big flashbangs--if Vinterson is to be believed--designed to stir people into a panic and send them running to their homes in the Drag. They'd get stuck here, crowded in these gates, and that's when the real fun would begin.
Even when he was telling me his entire plan, he neglected to mention this part. He knew he wanted to kill people. Maybe he didn't know just why he did.
It's pointless thinking about it, of course. Especially when time is of the essence. I let him go so I could do this.
Poised at the top of the Drag Gates, I slowly lower the bomb--a cluster of explosives with a glowing green heart of Plague--into the wagon Vinterson's positioned below via a thick rope.
"I say," Vinterson calls up from below, "you're aware we're well within earshot of the dear Warchief and his pack of slavering bipedal hounds, yes? Perhaps a bit of haste would be in order?"
Clarice lows in agreement, clearly restless. She's lost her best friend once already, not keen to do it again.
I ignore him and his kodo. We don't know what'll happen if I slip and drop this. Or if I even set it down a little faster than it wants to go.
Well, that's not entirely true. We do know what happens. We just don't know what'll make it do that.
Regardless, the Plague bomb settles comfortably in the back of the kodo cart, a fat green baby tucked safely in its crib. I grab the rope and slide down to join it, sitting with it in the back while Vinterson settles at the wagon's head, taking Clarice's reins.
I look over my shoulder. The crowd is starting to get to a high fever pitch. Angry, restless, positively bloodthirsty for any sight of a pair of long ears that might walk among them.
But, for the moment, they're still focused on their Warchief.
"All right," I say, "take her out at a trot. We'll loop through the Valley of Strength, head out through the Azshara gates and drop this as far away from any sign of life we can. Then it won't matter if Jadoth blows it."
"Agreed," Vinterson says. "The Scourge's purestrain wasn't designed to be airborne. It dissipates in a strong breeze. Almost a pity, though, isn't it?" He sighs. "Northrend's become a veritable ghost town--pardon the pun--since the Lich King fell. We may never have a chance to have this kind of power in our hands again."
Something in his voice, a wistfulness one usually reserves for memories of old girlfriends, makes me raise a brow at that statement.
I'll ask later. For now, all that matters is getting out. Hellscream's speech will be winding down soon and the crowds will disperse. All we need to do is move out nice and easy and hope that--
"THERE SHE IS!"
That doesn't happen.
The sound of a gunshot. A bullet goes whizzing past my ear.
At this point, it hardly seems necessary to look, but I do anyway. Kor'kron Enforcers, rifle-toting, wolf-riding, elf-hating and coming out of the gates to the Valley of Strength in force.
"Son of a..." I hiss. "Turn around. We need to find another way."
"Around?" he asks. "But the only way is through the crowd."
"I'll think of something." Though I kind of wonder what exactly I'm going to think of to get us out of this as the Kor'kron spur their beasts forward. "Just GO!"
"Give us a ladylike turn, Clarice! Show us your pirouette!"
Clarice lows like she knows exactly what to do.
She swings her massive bulk around, causing the cart to fishtail. In another moment, she's off, lumbering toward the Valley of Honor. Slowly, at first, but she's picking up speed.
Regardless of the crowd of assembled orcs looming into view.
"We need to scatter them," I hiss. "This is supposed to be bloodless."
"Really, detective, we've blown up Shadow knows how many buildings. One would think Bomzik wouldn't even--"
"JUST DO IT!"
He sighs dramatically. Not half as dramatically, though, as the laugh he gives as he rises out of his seat and pulls a vial out of his coat. He hurls it into the crowd, watching it shatter in an eruption of green gas.
"RUN! RUN, LITTLE CHILDREN! YOUR MOTHERS WERE RIGHT! YOU'VE ALL BEEN DREADFULLY NAUGHTY AND THE WINEMAKER HAS COME TO COLLECT!"
That's not the most effective threat I've ever heard.
But you wouldn't know it, from the crowd's reaction.
"HE'S HERE! IT'S TRUE! HE'S ALIVE!"
"SAVE US, WARCHIEF!"
"FIRST GRAVES, NOW THIS?!"