Lothar's army advanced in a classic formation—what tacticians called the "priest-tank-damage" trinity. This was bolstered by a mix of ranged units—archers and musketeers—and flanked by swift cavalry designed for harassment and encirclement. It was a versatile composition, suitable for most battlefield scenarios.
He was ready to strike.
The orcs had cleared all obstacles surrounding their camp and erected several tall watchtowers. Any large force approaching would be spotted long before it reached striking distance. A night raid would provide no advantage; human soldiers lacked the vision and familiarity with terrain that the orcs enjoyed. Broad daylight, then—it would be a battle fought in the open.
The main force of Stormwind's army was the First Legion—eight thousand strong. Lothar deployed the vanguard of three thousand in thirty square formations, each moving in disciplined unison.
They wore the standard armor of Stormwind—shining silver plates edged in noble blue. Tower shields, larger than the men themselves, gleamed in the front ranks. Behind them marched pikemen with steel spears, and behind them came the sword-and-shield infantry, fully encased in heavy armor.
It was a tide of steel.
This was Stormwind's pride—its finest troops. Their unit designation traced its lineage back to the age of Thoradin, the first king to lead the humans south. The Legion had stood for over a thousand years.
Lothar, riding with the central column, began advancing with the rest of the army. Behind him followed several thousand noble retainers under the command of Duke Marcus, Stormwind's reigning duke.
So this is it. It's finally starting.
Galen couldn't help but glance at Lothar. Aren't you going to say something? he wondered. Something like, "Today is a good day"?
But the Lion of Stormwind was not a man of speeches—he was a man of action.
As Galen's thoughts drifted, his own unit began to prepare. They warmed up their warhorses and checked their gear. The scent of battle was in the air.
The army descended from the high ground onto the open plain. This was the border between Reverse Crest Valley and the Swamp of Sorrows. To the north loomed the Redridge Mountains. The terrain near the orc camp was firm and dry—perfect ground for heavy infantry.
In the orc camp, the morning routine ground to a halt. Fires were abandoned. Hunters dropped their game. Every head turned westward.
A silver flood was pouring toward them.
"Enemy attack!"
"The humans are coming!"
"This time they look serious! Hahaha!"
"I hope they last longer than the last lot! I barely got warmed up!"
The orcs roared with laughter and anticipation. They threw down their food and seized weapons—great axes, iron clubs, and jagged maces. They had been stationed here for over a year, endlessly patrolling and gathering supplies. At last, there was a fight.
The sun was dipping behind the mountains. The sky dimmed. Red clouds pressed low over the land, and in the fading light, Stormwind's advancing soldiers looked as though they were gilded in gold.
Weapons in hand, the orcs surged out of their camp with savage joy. They snarled and shouted, forming a roaring wave of green muscle and iron.
The vanguard reached the middle of the field.
"Lion Legion! Halt!" bellowed the officer in charge.
"Raise shields! Form ranks!"
The front line slammed their tower shields into the ground. The next line rested their spears atop the shoulders of those in front, aiming through the gaps. The third line extended their spears over the top. On the flanks, sword-and-shield troops took position to guard the formation's sides.
In moments, the humans had formed a solid tortoise-shell spear phalanx—gleaming points bristling in all directions.
The orcs didn't hesitate. They charged headlong into the formation.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Before the lines clashed, Medivh struck. Three massive firestorm meteors streaked from the sky and crashed into the orc ranks, splitting their charge in half.
Where the meteors landed, the orcs were vaporized. Ashless. Gone. Shockwaves hurled bodies across the field. The grass caught fire.
"It's their spellcaster!" an orc roared. "Get the warlocks! Now!"
"Keep charging! Kill them all!"
Even scorched by magical fire, the orcs pressed on through the burning craters.
"Archers, musketeers—fire!" came the order from Lothar.
The center army, still a hundred meters behind the vanguard, began its assault. Arrows and musket balls filled the air. Orc javelins responded in kind, and the battle was fully joined.
CRASH!
The orcs slammed into the human line. Some used their massive shoulders and armored bulk to try and shatter the wall of tower shields. The front line bent, but held. The pikemen behind immediately struck through the gaps, impaling the attackers with practiced precision.
Thrust, retract. Thrust, retract. They had trained for this.
Some orcs, even as they died, managed to strike with their heavy weapons—shattering spears and creating openings for others.
CRASH! The second wave struck. Sword-and-shield infantry engaged them in close combat, while others hammered away at the already stressed tower shields.
CRASH!
Great hammer—eighty damage.
CRASH!
Warhammer—twenty.
Each blow dented the defenses further. The defenders behind the shields winced from the impact. Some had blood seeping from between their fingers. Eardrums rang. Bones ached.
Then came the third wave. It was chaos at the front. Blood soaked the earth. Shields shattered. Soldiers fell. The air was filled with screams and the clash of steel.
Medivh, preparing his next spell, remained vigilant for enemy casters. But he showed no concern—he alone was worth a battalion of mages.
The orcs had few ranged fighters. Most were brawlers. Their warlocks weren't yet in place, so the sky was dominated by human arrows and musket smoke.
Lothar watched as a massive orc, impaled by three arrows, continued charging until a final shot to the heart felled him.
SWOOSH!
BOOM!
Suddenly, several green fireballs arced through the sky and slammed into the battlefield. One struck directly atop a vanguard formation.
The entire unit was annihilated.
In its place was a deep crater.
And from that pit rose a figure—a burning golem of stone, wreathed in green flame.