With personal greetings and introductions behind them, the atmosphere in the hall shifted—business was at hand.
Lothar straightened his back, his tone turning serious. "In the latter half of this year, Orc activity on the borders has surged. Just two weeks ago, I clashed directly with a clan calling themselves the Shattered Hand. Their individual combat prowess surpasses that of our common soldiers. I only managed to push them back by employing a tight three-man formation!"
Galen nodded in agreement. "Orcs are, by nature, stronger than our infantry. Outside of the higher-ranked knights, most of our soldiers don't stand a chance one-on-one."
His mind drifted briefly to the game: the brutish Grunts had a base HP of 700—far outclassing the 420 health points of his own human footmen. On the battlefield, it was never a fair fight in single combat.
"But," Lothar added, leaning forward, "I've noticed something. These Orcs—while strong—fight without coordination. There's no formation, no tactics. They charge like wild beasts, overwhelming by numbers alone."
That was a key insight. Under Blackhand's rule, the Horde fought with raw power, not strategy. And it was only due to Stormwind's superior battlefield coordination that they'd managed to hold the line this long. Things wouldn't stay this way forever, Galen knew. Once Doomhammer took control, the Horde would fight with both might and cunning—sweeping across the kingdoms like wildfire.
Still, for now, this disorganization was a vulnerability.
"I've received reliable reports," Lothar continued, "that there's a sizeable Orc encampment northeast of the Swamp of Sorrows—at least five thousand strong. I've brought over ten thousand elite troops with me from Stormwind. It's time to strike, decisively."
A major campaign was about to begin.
It was an unacceptable threat to leave an enemy war camp so close to their territory. Regardless of numbers, allowing such a base to exist so near the border was a strategic liability. It had to be destroyed.
By September, the first year after the Dark Portal's opening, the spring wheat harvest had concluded. With granaries full, horses well-fed, and supplies abundant, Lothar was ready. He had with him over ten thousand Stormwind elites, another three thousand noble household troops, and six hundred reinforcements from Stromgarde and Lordaeron. Together, they formed a formidable host.
Their route would take them through the rugged wilds of Duskwood, crossing the steep ridges from west to east to reach the marshy lowlands of the Swamp of Sorrows.
The borderlands had suffered long enough. Villages burned, citizens kidnapped—Lothar had spent months racing from one skirmish to another, always reactive. Now, at last, he had a target. He would strike first.
And this time, he came prepared.
With the harvest secure and Stormwind's heartland stable, logistics posed no concern. Even better, Stormwind's spymaster, Bartonia Shaw, had thoroughly scouted the enemy camp—layout, troop disposition, patrol paths, terrain. Nothing was left to chance.
Fourteen thousand against five thousand.
Lothar didn't plan to sneak around. The size of the force made secrecy impossible, so he embraced it. He organized the troops and marched boldly down the main road, daring the Orcs to respond.
But overconfidence was not in Lothar's nature. He knew the danger these green-skinned invaders posed better than anyone. So Shaw and her royal agents went ahead, quietly eliminating enemy scouts along the way, blinding the camp before the battle even began.
By dusk on the third day, they reached a high slope just five kilometers from the Orc encampment.
The Orcs, it seemed, were unbothered. Shaw reported minimal scout presence—she suspected they didn't even have a proper reconnaissance corps.
Galen disagreed silently. He knew the Shadow Council employed elite assassins—Garona, a half-orc, being one of the deadliest among them. But if the enemy had let their guard down here, it was an advantage to seize.
He joined Lothar and Medivh on the ridge. From this vantage, wisps of green smoke rose lazily from the tents below. The Orcs were boiling water for breakfast.
Galen passed his telescope to Medivh, who raised an eyebrow with interest.
"A clever device," he murmured—acknowledging the telescope.
Then, his gaze lingered on the Orcs. "Perfect war creatures."
A chill ran down Galen's spine. That second comment wasn't Medivh speaking. That was Sargeras—admiring his future pawns. For a moment, Galen debated fleeing then and there.
Lothar frowned. "Medivh, don't sing their praises. This camp will be wiped out by dusk."
His voice brimmed with the fury of half a year's worth of grief and rage. Border towns razed, children taken—there would be no mercy.
Galen turned his focus back to the camp. He scanned the crude flags—none bore the marks of the major clans. That was a relief. As long as it wasn't the Blackrock or the Warsong, this should be manageable.
Soon, hunting parties returned, dragging swamp crocodiles and tigers. The camp came to life as warriors stirred from their tents, sharpening blades, laughing over kills. All signs pointed to an accurate count—around five thousand Orcs, just as the scouts had reported.
Lothar issued the order prepare to strike.
Galen returned to his post. Uther, Dathrohan, and Tirion were waiting. Their mission was clear—over four hundred knights and fifty paladins would strike the enemy's right flank like a holy spear.
To the left, Gavinrad's Iron Horse Brotherhood would launch a coordinated assault.
And Lothar himself, ever the lion, would lead the main force in a direct charge.
The battle for the Swamp of Sorrows was about to begin.