Lost Lion

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Volume 3: Chapter 12

***Dun Morogh - Brewnall Village ***

Gretta Ganter was no fighter—in fact, she was as far from a fighter as anyone could be. By the Maker, she was a simple fisherwoman! Yet somehow, during the invasion, she discovered she could handle an axe and that her ideas and suggestions for survival weren't half bad. Before she knew it, she'd become the leader of her band of survivors, and she'd been doing just that—helping them survive against these orcs.

Still, a dwarf could only go so long without food or ale. Their supplies were dwindling and their injuries were piling up. Gretta knew that it was only a matter of time before the Horde, as she'd learned they were called, would catch up to them and finish them off. Many of her kin had made peace with that grim fact, determined to take as many of the enemy with them as they could. But then, last week, Prince Brann himself made contact with them, and that changed everything.

Now, instead of running and hiding, they were now going to be doing the hunting by setting an enticing trap for their pursuers. After all, seven hundred "helpless" dwarves made a very tempting target for those bloodthirsty brutes. She and many of her folks were eager to pay the orcs back after all they had done, but Lord Brann's order was to strictly act as bait and retreat from the field. Still, there were a lot of risks involved with that; she could only hope Lord Brann's friends were as capable as he claimed.

"Clumsy fellas, aren't they?" Tristane Shadowstone, a hunter from Gretta's village, muttered with her voice only hitching slightly. "I mean, ye can hear their heavy footfalls even from here—not tae mention the birds they're disturbin'."

The dwarven huntress was sneaking careful glances toward the area where their scouts had reported the Horde's approach. The path was clear, and the forest looked empty, making it obvious something large was moving there. But try as she might, Tristane couldn't spot any sign of Lord Brann's friends. If they were nearby, they were definitely well hidden. She scanned the other dwarves who'd volunteered to act as bait. They were clearly tense, aware that a battle was about to begin, but doing their best to feign ignorance of the danger.

"They're gettin' closer now," Tristane warned Gretta, her tone serious.

Gretta nodded to her fellow dwarves, signaling them to get ready. Though she trusted Lord Brann's words, she hadn't yet met these supposed allies of his. If it came down to it, she'd signal a retreat to save her people if Brann's plan proved to be folly.

The tense silence shattered with the loud blast of a familiar war horn.

"That's the signal!" Gretta called, spotting the greenskins emerging on the main road leading toward her village. They were as ugly as she remembered—at least two dwarves high and rushing forward with a cocky swagger. They weren't even trying to be subtle. "Do as Lord Brann instructed!"

Following Brann's orders, the dwarves rushed to form a line, locking their mismatched wooden shields together into a sturdy shield wall.

"Brace yerselves!" Gretta bellowed as the ground shook under hundreds of charging orcs.

"For Ironforge! For Khaz Modan!"

"For Khaz Modan!" the dwarves roared in return.

The orcs seemed to recognize the battle cry, answering with a thunderous shout of their own.

"For the Horde!"

Some of the orcs raised dwarven flintlock guns taken as trophies, while others hefted spears, ready to throw. Gretta knew all too well the devastation a single thrown spear could cause—many dwarves had fallen to those brutal strikes.

"Hold!" she commanded as the orcs let loose, flintlocks cracking and spears whistling through the air. Then, as the sound of gunfire echoed across the field, she heard someone shout a single word that turned her world gold.

+++ Marauder Upchuckle - Moments Ago +++

Upchuckle was amused as he watched the dwarves lock their flimsy shields together even as he sprinted in a dead run for their position. It was a futile attempt to hold back the might of the Laughing Skull but he appreciated the effort. He took the time to glance to his left and right and admired his warriors charging forward like an unstoppable green tide. Some of them held the trophies from past kills—a strange, loud weapon, though hardly as satisfying as a good axe. He smirked, expecting to see the dwarves' shields splinter apart under the assault. Instead, something entirely unexpected met his eyes.

A golden dome of light suddenly appeared and encased the dwarves in it.

Upchuckle slowed his pace as he struggled to place why the light seemed so hauntingly familiar. His skin prickled uncomfortably, and he noticed his warriors shifting uneasily too. Suddenly, more golden domes appeared—two, three, five in total, covering the dwarven ranks like a shield of divine protection.

And then it hit him, the realization flooding of who was behind it made him laugh uproariously and confuse his fellow clan mates.

"Draenei!" Upchuckle pointed out to them in a tone filled with mirth.

It took them a moment for his two thousand warriors to grasp what he said before they all broke into laughter that was half-mad, half-manic. The draenei had not only eluded the 'great' Blackhand purge and 'wise' warlock Gul'dan hunt, but they had somehow found their way here in this new world too! His glee mounted as he raised his great axe, prepared to give the order to break their ancient foes. His clan always felt that it was a waste to use the draenei bones to build a road. A statue—one great big one the size of a gronn—would have been better!

Just as he opened his mouth to command the charge, a shaman nearby grabbed his arm with unusual urgency.

"Marauder Upchuckle!" the shaman grabbed his arm. With a delighted expression on his face, he gestures to his surroundings.. "There's magick in the works here!"

Upchuckle looked pointedly with a deadpan expression at the golden domes. "I know! It's them!"

"No, not them!" the shaman insisted as his smile grew wider.

"Oh? What—" Upchuckle's question was cut short as the ground trembled beneath his feet. He turned to demand an answer from the shaman when, without warning, a massive ice wall erupted in front of him.

"What?!"

The icy barrier wasn't perfect, but it stretched, jagged and unyielding, in all directions, completely encircling his forces. Upchuckle's mind raced as realization settled in. This wasn't just a dwarven defense; it was a trap for them. Not only were his warriors pinned in, but there was that unmistakable tingle that crawled up his spine, like the feeling he got when in the presence of the draenei's battle sorcery. Then suddenly, dark and menacing clouds rolled over the clear sky, swallowing the daylight and casting an unnatural shadow over the battlefield.

"Oh, what clever draenei." Upchuckle chuckled at the sheer audacity of his enemies' attack. But he was a leader now, and he had to show some semblance of authority. "Guard your—!"

His warning came too late. Shards of ice, jagged and sharp as small daggers, began raining down upon his warriors.

"Bwah?!"

"Hauggh?!"

"We're being attacked?"

The sky opened up with a relentless icy onslaught in the face of this barrage Upchuckle was the first to laugh, soon he was joined by his other warriors. The irony of it all was not wasted on them; they had come all this way to hunt what they were certain were easy prey, and here their prey was, attacking them in a manner least expected. Nor was the fact that his people had missed the draenei presence on this land.

Still, the draenei and their dwarven pets already had their fun; it was now their turn. He turned toward his lead shaman only to see the shaman was already in motion. The Laughing Skull shaman was chanting something obscure with arms outstretched, his voice quick but filled with glee. Other shamans gathered nearby, chanting in unison, their faces twisted in amused grins. Unfortunately, the shaman was taking too long with whatever they were doing when a second color joined the dark ominous clouds.

Upchuckle saw tinges of red flickering through the dark blue cloud for a few moments before it spat out fiery orbs the size of an orc's fist, moving in conjunction with the icy shards. In his mind's eye, he compared the bright red flames to the sickly green ones once conjured by Gul'dan's warlocks—but color made little difference. The fire, just as deadly, set upon his warriors.

While they attempted to shield themselves from the ice, fire was far less forgiving. Several groups of unfortunate orcs who had huddled together to guard against the icy storm, laughing at the draenei's attack, suddenly found themselves ablaze. The fiery spheres exploded on contact, splattering molten embers across skin and cloth. Warriors broke formation—some desperately rolling in the snow to extinguish the flames while others dropped their weapons to beat down the fire spreading over their clothing. Those witnessing it all openly grinned at their fellow warriors' misfortune.

"Shaman!" Upchuckle roared. As funny as it was to see, he couldn't let the draenei attack go unanswered.

The shaman, as if urged by him, clapped his hands together and formed a massive current of lightning coiled around them. The crackling bolts surged toward the icy walls, shattering them into fragments. More importantly, a larger portion of the lightning arced upward, lashing at the storm clouds, breaking them apart with a crackling roar. Freed from the elemental prison, Upchuckle's warriors smiled in sadistic glee at the dwarves who dared to ensnare them.

He too grinned viciously, thoughts of trophies and bone carved idols forming in his mind. He could already see himself flaying their flesh and feasting from their skulls.

"Ragggh!" An impatient grunt roared, charging the dwarves.

The sight sent a ripple through the warriors as they surged forward. There were only so many dwarves, which meant there wouldn't be enough trophies for everyone. But then, the head of an eager grunt jerked to the side as an arrow lodged itself into his skull, sending him tumbling sideways to the ground. Upchuckle's eyes widened as more of his warriors collapsed around him, bodies punctured by arrows. He whipped his gaze to the left, toward the source of the deadly barrage. Were the Rangari draenei here too? After all, those magical arrow bolts were those draenei's favorite type of weapon.

Suddenly, a deep horn blared—a sound that didn't belong to any dwarves or draenei that he knew. The sound originated from deep within the nearby forest where his scouts had sworn that there were no enemies. From the shadows emerged hundreds upon hundreds of armored figures appeared almost as if from thin air. They were about three hundred paces away, clad in metal from head to toe, and almost outnumbering his warriors two to one.

Upchuckle's eyes gleamed with excitement. These were not draenei. They were armored like them, but the shape was all wrong. This… this was a new foe. He licked his lips in anticipation of the challenge! In his mind, the dwarves and draenei were forgotten; these new warriors were the ones he wanted to face.

Then, one of the armored figures, bearing a great sword that would make any Blademaster proud, stepped forward and leveled the blade toward his orcs. His voice boomed across the field, amplified by sheer force of will.

"For the Alliance!"

The words resounded like thunder, and moments later, thousands of voices joined in unison, shouting with unyielding force.

"For the Alliance!"

Upchuckle's blood surged, his heart pounding with a near-manic ecstasy. No commands were needed; his warriors charged forward, hungry for new blood. To his delight, the metal-clad enemies met them head-on, their formation surging like a gleaming tide of metal.

"Wait for us, Upchuckle!" the shaman's voice called out in envy.

But Upchuckle barely registered the words. He intended to show off his newest trophy and be the envy of all the clans. They were the Horde—the undefeated, the unstoppable! Every warrior beside him felt it, the raw anticipation mingling with bloodlust as they closed in on the armored foe. There was only one way to release the electric thrill building in his chest.

"For the Horde!" he bellowed, his voice ringing out over the battlefield.

"For the Horde!" came the answering cry from his clansmen, their voices a fierce chorus, their axes raised high as they prepared to clash with this new enemy.

***Brewnall Village outskirts - Callan ***

"—Horde!"

"Hold the line!" I roared as I ran out to meet the charging orcs. "Stay with me!"

I had to make sure that no one was overrun by the enemy.

"HUA!" The three thousand Alliance soldiers behind me shouted back in unison.

We were less than a hundred yards apart now. For a moment, it felt as though the Bronze had returned, as time seemed to stretch. My thoughts raced as I assessed the Horde's composition. They had two thousand ground forces, and no wolf riders, as Alleria scouts had confirmed. Although their numbers were likely smaller after our magical attack as a few hundred orcs had peeled off to engage the dwarves. Luckily, the dwarves were sticking to the plan and hiding behind their shield wall to avoid being an easy target.

Normally, charging a crazed orc head-on would be suicide. Pound for pound, orcs were stronger and bulkier than most soldiers. But that was for the regular army. The Alliance Legions were trained to engage an orc alone and come out victorious. Their training was more grueling than regular soldiers'. More was expected of them, but that didn't mean we couldn't cheat.

As we closed to within ten yards, I saw the opportunity.

"Now!" I shouted, raising my shield arm to reveal a primed flintlock pistol. A thousand arms rose in unison, and we all fired at the rushing orcs at point-blank range.

The gunfire was deafening. A thousand shots staggered the front lines of orcs, knocking some back and dropping others. It didn't kill them all, but it slowed their charge, which was exactly what we needed. Unfortunately, the pistols were of goblin make, and they could fail at any moment. I felt the blast in my hand, a shockwave that could have taken my hand off if I hadn't cast Power Word: Shield on myself and those nearest to me beforehand.

But guns weren't our only weapon. Dozens of arrows flew over our heads, striking the orcs with deadly precision. Alleria's archers made sure the orcs were further disoriented. That brief delay gave our soldiers the edge, allowing us to slam into the orcs and throw the first strike.

I gripped my runeblade with both hands, channeling the Light into the blade. The runes glowed golden, and I swung, cleaving through the first orc to meet me. My attack shattered his stone axe and split his skull open. Against any other horde clan, there would be anger and indignation of our dirty play. The Laughing Skull orcs were different.

Laughter suddenly erupted from the orc frontline fighters, spreading evenly through their ranks like a ripple across still water. A mild confusion settled over my forces—who would laugh like madmen in the midst of a life-or-death battle?

"Ignore it!" my voice boomed, cutting through the tension.

That sharp reminder snapped my soldiers back to focus, dispelling any unease the orcs' unsettling mirth might have stirred.

After my first strike felled the first orc the next orc came at me quicker and forced me to raise my shield to deflect his the hit on my shield, I retaliated with a quick, low swing of my sword, letting the blade tip cut through the snow on the ground before slashing upward. The strike caught the laughing orc between his legs and cut him all the way to the pelvis.

"Harrah haahahraha!" The orcs next to the dying orc laughed at the unfortunate way he was killed..

I slid the runeblade easily from his pelvis and met another oncoming orc head-on. This orc was a bit slower, giving me the time I needed to empower my attack with the Light. To my surprise, the orc wielded a glowing green weapon of some kind and brought it up to block my strike. Unlike before, when our weapons met, his axe did not give way like the others. It took me a moment to realize his war axe was enchanted—or perhaps infused with Fel magic. Fel magic ranked up there with the Light and Arcane, so when my runeblade met his fel-infused axe, it didn't shatter.

I quickly stepped back as the fel axe-wielding, laughing orc, his blood-red eyes glowing, swung at me, hoping to catch me off guard. The attack missed me by a hair's breadth. I went on the offensive, thrusting my blade toward his head and forcing him to back off. We locked eyes for only a second before clashing again. I exchanged five head-on strikes with him, and on the sixth, used my father's technique to bounce the runeblade off the orc's axe. Even as his head flew through the air, there was no expression of pain—his face remained locked in a wide grin, his mouth open in a soundless laugh.

I could only take in the sight for a moment before another laughing orc eagerly met me in combat. Pulling my sword back, I ducked low to avoid the incoming blow and swung low, cutting off the orc's leg. His armored shin guard did little to stop my runeblade, which sliced through it like a hot knife through butter. He fell back, still laughing and clutching his dismembered leg. I approached him and stomped my plated boot down onto his throat, caving it in and putting him out of his misery.

After dispatching two more orcs, I gained a brief reprieve as some of the orcs began to actively avoid me. That short break in the fight allowed me to quickly assess my forces, who were locked in a massive melee with the enemy.

Orcs were generally both strong and fast, so their combat doctrine focused on swinging from point A to point B as quickly as possible. It may sound simple, but in execution, that wasn't always the case. On their savage homeworld where even the plant life would try and kill them, the orcs had honed this ability to near perfection. That was why the orcs had titles for masters of such simple martial styles: Blademasters. It was also why the late Grom Hellscream could kill a pit lord with a single swing of his axe across two separate timelines; he was such a Blademaster.

That was not to say humans couldn't do the same. Varian was proof of that when he took down that massive mechanical unit at the Broken Shore in the future. No, we could. It was just that it was harder and required much more time and dedication to get to that level. That was why they invented the shield, but our human constitution could never allow us to withstand an orc's blows for too long. Thankfully, whether it was because of the Titans or the Old Gods, humans were blessed with more agility and comparable speed. As my father once said to a different version of... well, me: don't try to take them on with pure brute force. They were stronger, so we had to be smarter.

We couldn't be like the famous Earth boxer, Muhammad Ali, and "float like a butterfly." The compact fighting space between us didn't allow for such footwork, but bleeding a little momentum here and a quick counter strike there? Yes, that could work. And so, the Alliance Legion was trained to incorporate agility into their fighting style. Many Alliance soldiers came to hate their elven trainers for this, but all that hard work and effort paid off.

Perhaps it was my time in the field, but I was able to keep track of the chaotic battlefield. With pride, I watched as Alliance footmen parried orc blows while others timed their strikes and deflected heavy orc attacks, instead of tanking them head-on with their shields. Some danced out of the way of a swing before using their superior agility to land two strikes for every orc swing. Of course, it wasn't without casualties on our part, as some footmen were too slow and received body blows that would be fatal… or at least, they would have been if we didn't have our next "cheat."

Secure behind our lines were fifty priests out of the two hundred who sailed with us. Many of them had just graduated from being acolytes, and while they couldn't cast fancy spells like 'Barrier' or offensive spells like 'Smite,' they were able to use healing spells and use them well. Sure, it was only one spell at a time per person, and they could probably use it about twenty times before exhausting themselves, but twenty times fifty meant that they could throw out one thousand life-saving heals. Of course, some wounds required more healing than others, but I worked out the math, and it was about that much.

Against a large enemy force, it was the great equalizer. Against an outnumbered foe, however, it guaranteed victory.

I watched the reaction of an orc who had just cut down a footman, only to laugh in confusion when his sure-kill strike was negated by a priest's heal. That seemed to enrage the orc, and he attacked with renewed fervor. But after the fifth blow—one that should have killed the footman—he became more cautious. More instances like this were happening up and down the line, and the once-roaring laughter of the Laughing Skulls began to taper off. In its place, an almost palpable sense of confusion started to spread across their side.

It was one thing for an orc to fight, but when their kills began to rise again, that was when even the dumbest orc would sense that something was amiss. Unfortunately for them, it was too late. The orc battle line had spread as far as it could without compromising their formation. Likewise, due to our superior numbers, we had enough forces to not only reinforce our line but also contain their flanks from breaking away. The orcs had fallen for our trap, and as if in unison with my thoughts, a mage released an arcane ball of light that exploded like a signal flare.

By now, the Laughing Skulls definitely knew that something was wrong. What I could only assume to be their leader yelled something in Orcish. It wasn't a retreat, but their warriors were no longer trying to attack. Instead, they slowly began to step back in an effort to disengage and assess the situation. It was a smart move, but there was no way in hell I was going to let that happen.

"Press them!" I bellowed as I pushed forward and renewed my assault.

The backline orcs had the luxury of trying to spot the trap, but the frontline had to engage our forces. However, it was too late. Hidden just outside of their scouts' range, waiting for the right moment, was the hammer strike that would finish off the orcs. Five hundred heavy cavalry knights, drawn from every kingdom, appeared from behind the orcs' rear. These knights were the best of the best. Their warhorses were reinforced with thicker steel plating and enchanted for durability. They had learned from the victories and defeats of Stormwind and Stromgarde, using that knowledge to strengthen their weaknesses.

But that wasn't the only improvement. The lances that were once good enough for trolls had been made thicker, heavier, and longer. The nine feet standard length had been increased to twelve for the added reach. The thought behind this was simple: Not only did it keep them out of the orcs' longer reach, but after the tip was broken off, there would still be considerable length left to impale the same orc once again.

Wielding the new lances, Aloman and Tirion Fordring led the Alliance knights, shoulder to shoulder, in a near-perfect line. As fast as an orc could run, horses were faster. From their hidden position, not half a mile from here, they had been building up maximum momentum for the impact. The knights were our hammer, and we were the anvil. Anything caught between the two would be shattered.

I sensed the shift in the orcs' line as if they wanted to turn and defend themselves, seeing us as the lesser threat. That was something I could not allow. So, I gathered the Light to myself until I felt like I was about to burst.

"For the Alliance!" And with that, I unleashed a powerful Halo spell which swept out from my body like its namesake.

All the laughter died then as the orcs nearest to me were green skins burned and became disfigured from the attack. But like most offensive Light spells, there were two sides to it. The soldiers closest to me were healed en masse. Taking advantage of the orcs now reeling in shock from the unexpected magical assault, I gathered up the Light once more and unleashed a second Halo spell. This time, those who had already been hit before died by the dozen, while others were so weakened that the footmen were able to finish them off.

I saw their leader's eyes snap to me, and I could tell the moment he realized the threat in front of him was just as great as the one at his back.

The orc leader stood out from the rest. While most of the orcs were just shirtless grunts, this one wore more armor and wielded an overly large fel-magic-infused axe. He started laughing again, but this time it was laced with bitterness and resignation before he shouted something to his grunts. The grunts roared and laughed before throwing themselves at the footmen. The leader himself rushed at me and was almost upon me when I unleashed a third Halo spell. Again, dozens died, and hundreds more were injured, but the leader, though his skin bore visible burn scars from my attack, didn't lose any speed as he charged at me.

His axe clashed with my sword before he pulled back, and I did the same. In the next moment, we attacked once more, exchanging a series of blows to measure each other's strength. He was good—really good—but the orc leader here was no Grom Hellscream. I was able to easily match him speed for speed, strength for strength, but his rushing style of attack made him careless. Both of us knew who would be the victor of the fight after just the first few exchanges. When Aloman and Tirion's knights finally slammed into the orc rearmost lines that sealed their fate.

As I knew it would, the Horde forces shattered, the instant death of five hundred orcs to the knights' lances reduced the orcs force by a quarter. Some seeing the hopelessness of the fight tried to flee, but they were intercepted and overwhelmed by the soldiers on our flanks. Others were run over or trampled by the knights themselves. A battle that would normally take an hour, had we continued to fight with only footmen and grunts, was over in a matter of minutes thanks to the cavalry.

The orc leader saw how everything unfolded but did not issue any more orders to his warriors. Instead, he turned to me with one last defiant cry and bull-rushed me, abandoning any semblance of defense. While those Halo spells were taxing, they didn't come close to draining even a quarter of my reserves. I could have finished him off with a Penance volley, maybe even Holy Word: Chastise or a Holy Smite if I wanted to be done with it. A multitude of spells ran through my mind, but perhaps feeling merciful due to how perfectly the trap had worked, I decided to square off with him using nothing but steel.

I took a side-guard stance and charged at the oncoming orc leader with a battle shout of my own. The leader's eyes widened before he let loose a final war cry. I felt his swing before I saw it, and by the time it was arcing down, I had already sidestepped it and unleashed my own strike. While his fel axe smashed into the ground, leaving an indent from the strength of his blow, my runeblade cut him from the shoulder, diagonally through his heart, before going through his bones but stopping just shy of exiting him.

At this point, the orc forces were either dead or dying, so I wasn't in any hurry to join the cleanup.

The orc leader began to sway forward before tightening his grip on his axe with his remaining good arm since I had sliced through the muscles in his left arm. His head lowered to look at me, and to my surprise, I saw not only clarity in his eyes—the reddish sign of bloodlust was gone—but genuine respect as well. Then, with his eyes never leaving mine and while still bleeding profusely, he pushed off his axe and stood on his shaky legs without assistance. I wondered if he was going to try some final desperate attack, so I stayed on guard, but instead, he suddenly pounded his good fist against his split chest.

"Throm-Ka!" he said, with surprising strength.

I had to physically stop my jaw from dropping at the gesture. The meaning of those words eluded me, but I got the gist of the feeling. Though I didn't have to, I nodded in his direction.

"Well fought," I said in acknowledgment.

The orc leader then let out a laugh one last time before the life faded from his eyes. His body, now empty of spirit, fell forward like a puppet with its strings cut. I couldn't understand what made me move, but I caught him before his heavy body hit the ground and gently lowered him. For good measure, I healed his physical body so that it at least mended together before closing his open eyes.

Oddly enough, they appeared at peace.

Sighing, I stood and surveyed the surroundings. The dwarven forces I had used as bait didn't seem to have suffered any casualties. The five templars that I'd assigned to them as insurance must have done their job well. Speaking of my forces…

The soldiers were moving from downed orc to downed orc, giving each a final stab to make sure that they were dead. With this, we had destroyed one of the two major Laughing Skull forces in western Khaz Modan. Saidan Dathrohan and Archmage Modera were responsible for crushing the second force to the northeast of Gnomeregan. Well, they had the bulk of the Alliance Legions, so they should outnumber the Horde forces two to one. That would buy us time to get our brand new elven siege weapons in place for the liberation of Gnomeregan, before the Laughing Skull realized something was truly fubar'ed.

Looking around, the outcome could be called resounding success, but the sight of hundreds of fallen Alliance footmen dampened my mood. Gathering my strength, I closed my eyes and pooled the reserves of Light within me, to an overwhelming level. Dense, golden light began to visibly pool at my feet. On paper, it was considered light casualties, acceptable even but they still died because of my plan, so that made me responsible. Thankfully, I had been given the ability to shoulder such responsibilities. With the intention of raising all the fallen soldiers, I unleashed the Light at my feet and cast the mass resurrection spell.

I watched as nearly two hundred pillars of light pierced the area around me. It wasn't everyone, but bringing two-thirds of the fallen back to life was much better than I had hoped. That was when I noticed the battlefield seemed to quiet, and I belatedly realized many of these soldiers had never seen me perform such spellwork. They were completely surprised by the unexpected light show and as the dead became living once more many began to stare in my direction with reverential awe.

Knowing what I had to do, I grabbed my runeblade, infused it with Light so that the runes glowed, and raised it high into the air.

"Victory!" I roared. "Victory for the Alliance!"

The response was as large as I imagined it would be.

"VICTORY FOR THE ALLIANCE!"

TBC...

AN:

First of all, thank you to Icura who help me edit this. Even though he is busy with his own stories and playing Virtues of a Terrestrial Republic. Thanks hoss!

Secondly thanks to all of my patron supporter, you ever growing support and continues generosity helps me to continue doing what I enjoy. Again, thank you!

And so the first major offensive strikes happened against the Horde, who still doesn't know they have lost the coast and their scouts. After this day is over, most of the Laughing Skull Horde that was was hunting Dwarves in the Western part of Dun Morogh and the only threat left is the goblins . :D That say, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter as much as I wrote it, had to tweak stuff back and forth and look, if you don't believe the Laughing Skull is insane, they helped destroy their home world just to give Ner'zhul the finger. With them ON IT! I always saw the Laughing Skull like the Joker, or rather, to be more precise, the Comedian from Watchmen. The whole thing is all a big joke to them and I hope I portrayed it well. That say, see you in the next chapter!

Once again, please considering supporting us on patron at "icuraandvahn" , Thank you!

Finally, as always, CC and discussions are always welcomed!