"Who's there?"
Galen's warning sent the surrounding knights scrambling toward the tree he had pointed out, but there was no one in sight—only a hastily scrawled message etched into the dirt:
"Ambush ahead. Retreat immediately!"
An ambush? Galen crouched to inspect the ground and spotted a single, shallow footprint. If his eyes weren't sharp, he'd have missed it.
"Orc trap?" he murmured. Whether true or false, he needed to warn Marshal Lothar—and fast. After all, Lothar commanded this campaign, not him. Besides, even if an ambush awaited, who could stop his knights?
Spurring his warhorse, Galen galloped back to the clearing.
High above, the hidden Chromie watched, a wry smile on her childlike face. She'd left that warning only because an—or rather, the—fel-smelling warlock had nearly stumbled onto her hiding spot. Better to tip off the humans than let Lothar die—after all, history had to unfold. With a small gesture, the message in the dirt vanished.
When Galen rejoined the camp, the battle had ended. Priests healed the wounded while soldiers finished off lingering orcs. Lothar rested on a fallen boulder, his massive sword planted beside him; Medivh sat nearby in quiet meditation.
"Marshal Lothar!" Galen called out, urgency in his voice. "Teron slipped away into the woods."
Medivh's eyes opened. "He's strong—and his magic is unusual. My Frostfire Bolt barely slowed him. He must know some secret art."
Galen nodded toward the clearing. "I also found traces of others—then only this warning."
"A trap?" Lothar leapt to his feet, concern creasing his brow. Stormwind's forces had taken heavy losses. If an ambush struck now, the exhausted soldiers—barely thirty percent of their original strength—would be slaughtered.
"Shaw!" Lothar barked. From the shadows emerged the cloaked scout-master.
"Send every tracker within ten miles," Lothar ordered. "We abandon the spoil but carry our fallen. Fall back northwest—now!"
Without hesitation, the Lion Legion—the elite of Stormwind—assembled. Soldiers used their shields as makeshift stretchers to carry both wounded and dead. They grabbed only their weapons and the orc ears that marked their kills, then formed up for retreat.
Galen watched as Jonathan Marcus, the vanguard commander, marshaled the remaining 1,500 men into a tight formation. Behind them, some 1,000 noble household troops joined the four thousand-strong main force. Despite a near one-to-one casualty ratio against 5,000 orcs, Stormwind still held the field—thanks to Medivh's diversion of Teron and Galen's systematic elimination of warlock squads.
An hour into the march, Shaw returned. "Marshal, no orc tracks east or south of our rear within ten miles."
Galen felt the scout-master's cloak-shrouded gaze flick briefly toward him. Whatever lay ahead, Galen was confident in his abilities—and in the Heart of Origin's many tricks.
Lothar patted Shaw on the shoulder. "Continue scouting. Keep us safe."
He then turned to Galen. "Who do you think left that warning?"
Galen considered. In southern Eastern Kingdoms, only humans or jungle trolls held power—and the trolls had been driven from Elwynn to Stranglethorn. Yet he recalled the ringed peaks of the Twilight Grove—where the Emerald Dream's entrance lay, watched by green dragonflights.
"Perhaps not orcs," he said. "Perhaps another force is watching these lands."
Lothar nodded slowly. "Whatever the case, we move now. Better to break their ambush than wait for it to spring."
Suddenly, a distant rumble rolled through the forest—gunfire? Horns? The sound of war renewed.
They exchanged determined glances. The retreat would not be a rout. Stormwind had survived this day, and would live to fight another dawn.