The battlefield that had once rung with the clash of steel and the cries of war was now littered with the corpses of fallen orcs. Yet, among the slain lay none of the stronger breed—those that remained were alive and vigilant, standing in grim silence, guarding the area. Their skin was a deep, greenish-black, their forms broad and muscular, clearly superior to the ones who had perished.
At the heart of the carnage stood a towering orc, magma-like energy faintly pulsing around him. His right hand looked like it had been hewn from solid black rock, and an enormous war hammer rested across his back. His eyes burned with fury as he surveyed the scene.
"Useless trash!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the trees. Without hesitation, he kicked one of the corpses at his feet, sending it flying through the air like a ragdoll.
"Warchief, they won't get far. Everything is under control."
The voice came from a hunched orc cloaked in shadows, leaning on a gnarled staff. His posture was crooked, and he wore the distinctive hood of a spellcaster. From beneath the hood, two green eyes gleamed with unnatural light, and numerous bony spikes jutted from his hunched back.
If Galen were here, he would have recognized him instantly—Gul'dan, the dark sorcerer of the Shadow Council. And the furious orc beside him, clad in iron and magma, was none other than the current Warchief of the Horde, Blackhand.
"Gul'dan," Blackhand growled, his breath steaming, "I want to drink the blood of those stunted dwarves already!"
"Soon, Warchief," Gul'dan replied smoothly. "Kilrogg has already taken a warband to pursue them across the mountains. With so many wounded, they won't be moving fast."
This entire battlefield had been a lure, a trap laid in anticipation. Just twenty miles away, hidden deep within the swamp, lay the true orc encampment. The plan had been sound. But things had not gone as expected. Medivh had proved too powerful—he had obliterated the camp commander with ease, sowing chaos among the orc warriors and reducing their coordinated resistance to mere disarray.
Worse still, instead of resting and regrouping, the human forces had pulled back immediately. The sudden change of strategy had thrown Gul'dan's careful plans into disarray. Even so, the orcs had the advantage of speed and terrain. They moved like predators through the wilderness, scaling ridges and cutting through underbrush with ease. They would catch up.
"Move out!" Blackhand barked. "We will run them down!"
With that, he turned and led his warriors into the forest, a dark tide of steel and flesh following in his wake. Gul'dan, however, remained, flanked by a small coven of warlocks. He moved slowly toward the area where the orc spellcasters had been gathered before, their bodies now little more than scattered chunks of flesh crushed underfoot—victims of Galen's earlier rampage.
His face twisted with rage.
They had been pulverized beyond any chance of resurrection.
"Collect their souls!" Gul'dan snapped. "We may yet wring some use from them."
Though the dead warlocks were only of middling rank, their souls might still serve some darker purpose.
"And that human mage..." Gul'dan's eyes narrowed. "He hasn't contacted me since the portal opened. Worse, he severely injured Teron. Something's not right."
He turned to his shadowy council. "Send Garona. His mage tower lies to the southwest. Find out what Medivh is up to."
Garona—his personal creation, a half-orc, half-draenei assassin—was perfect for the task. Trained from birth in silence and death, she was the best tool for uncovering secrets.
Once the soul harvest was complete, Gul'dan and his entourage vanished into the shadows, following Blackhand's war host.
"Enemy attack!"
The cry shattered the brief calm like lightning splitting a tree. Galen had been discussing troop formations with Lothar when the shout rang out, followed immediately by a monstrous roar.
Galen and Lothar exchanged glances—no more words were needed.
"Battle stations!" Lothar commanded, wheeling his horse around and galloping forward, Galen close behind him.
As they neared the front lines, the distant noise intensified—first a murmur, then a wave of clamor and crashing steel that engulfed them. Shouts, screams, and the thrum of chaos rolled in like thunder.
At the head of the column, the vanguard had just reached the boundary between the Swamp of Sorrows and Deadwind Pass. They had nearly made it—just beyond the canyon lay safety. The arcane turbulence of Deadwind Pass, a place infused with wild magical energy, made it a natural barrier. Medivh's mage tower, Karazhan, stood tall in that bleak region.
If they could just get through, they'd be protected.
But fate had other plans.
At the entrance to the canyon, a massive boulder blocked the pass. Orcs poured down from the southern cliffs like a green tide, crashing into the vanguard with wild ferocity.
Even worse—orc warriors were now scaling the cliff faces to their left, clawing their way up like insects. Galen arrived just in time to witness dozens of them reaching the top, shrieking with glee, brandishing axes and blades.
Then—they jumped.
One after another, orcs hurled themselves off the cliffs, raining down upon the human ranks like a storm of flesh and steel.
Lothar's eyes widened. He had underestimated their mobility. The scouts had focused on the flat terrain behind them—he had not anticipated the orcs crossing the mountains directly and arriving ahead of them.
"Archers—prepare!"
He forced himself to stay calm. A commander must never lose composure. Thousands of lives depended on his clarity.
"Loose at will!"
A dark cloud of arrows soared skyward, fired from over three thousand bows. The missiles descended in a deadly shower. Many orcs fell, pierced through vital organs, yet most simply ripped the shafts from their bodies and continued forward, bellowing with bloodlust.
Even mortal wounds could not slow the green wave. There were too many. The sight of so many roaring berserkers shook even the most hardened soldiers.
"Infantry—form up!" Lothar shouted. "Leave the immobile wounded. We can't carry them any further!"
Priests had already done what they could—those gravely injured were stabilized but still unfit for combat. The rest had recovered enough to fight. And they would have to. There was no choice.
The veterans—men who had survived countless campaigns—knew what was required. Without hesitation, they locked shields, tightened formation, and prepared to meet the storm head-on.
"Medivh!" Lothar turned, desperation creeping into his voice. "Now would be a good time to bring down a few more meteorites!"
He looked toward the Guardian of Tirisfal, the only man who might still turn the tide.
Galen, thinking quickly, shouted, "Master Medivh, can you raise an earthen wall in front of us? Or ice—anything to slow them down!"
"An earthen wall!" he repeated, eyes sharp.
They would need more than steel and valor to survive what came next.