It's as simple as pie, really. The frontal assault on Stormwind City had turned into a complete and utter clusterfuck that was making the Horde bleed warriors faster than a stuck pig bleeds out. Stormwind City sat pretty in a massive valley like a fortress designed by paranoid geniuses, with only two ways in or out: the seaport to the west and the land road to the south—essentially two chokepoints that could turn any attacking army into hamburger meat.
Naval warfare had never been the orcs' cup of tea—they were about as comfortable on water as cats in a bathtub—and Blackhand had been hell-bent on capturing Stormwind faster than you could say "conquest." So he'd thrown the idea of attacking through the western wilderness right out the window. In Blackhand's mind, taking down Stormwind should've been easier than shooting fish in a barrel—just steamroll those weak-kneed humans and call it a day. He'd figured it would take maybe a few minutes to crack this nut wide open.
Boy, was he wrong as a soup sandwich.
Instead, he'd been stuck banging his head against that outer wall for an entire week like a dog trying to catch its own tail, and he'd already lost more than 30,000 elite orcs—warriors who were supposed to be tougher than two-dollar steaks, now feeding the crows and making the whole valley smell like a slaughterhouse in summer.
And this was just the goddamn outer wall! According to his scouts' reports, Blackhand now knew there was a massive lake sitting behind Stormwind's outer defenses like nature's own moat—a water barrier that made the city more impregnable than Fort Knox. And behind that aquatic nightmare? The REAL walls of Stormwind City, probably built by madmen who'd studied every successful siege in history and decided to flip the bird to anyone stupid enough to attack.
But wait—there's more! The scouts had spotted canals running through Stormwind City like veins in a body, and the humans inside were working around the clock like busy little bees, fortifying every single block as if their lives depended on it—which, let's be honest, they absolutely did.
And if that wasn't enough to make a warchief want to drink himself into oblivion, there was apparently some massive fortress squatting in the northeast section of Stormwind City like a concrete middle finger pointed directly at the sky. That architectural monstrosity was the beating heart of the human king's domain, the crown jewel that would need to be cracked if they wanted to claim victory.
Blackhand was in deep shit, and he knew it.
The orcs had grand plans to conquer the entire world—every last inch of dirt, every blade of grass, every pathetic human settlement from sea to shining sea. But without reinforcements, and having bled so many troops in this godforsaken siege, how in the hell were they supposed to continue their campaign? They were burning through warriors like a house fire burns through dry timber, and at this rate, they'd run out of bodies to throw at the problem before they could even dream of world domination.
However, just when Blackhand was about ready to throw in the towel and admit defeat, his scout's latest report hit him like a bolt of lightning from a clear blue sky, filling him with the kind of excitement that made his blood sing.
For the humans, that massive valley was their ace in the hole—a natural fortress that should've made them untouchable as a porcupine in a balloon factory.
But for orcs who'd spent years climbing mountains that would make goats nervous, even the steepest, most tooth-rattling cliffs were nothing more than a minor inconvenience—about as challenging as a Sunday stroll through the park. And wouldn't you know it, there was a relatively flat mountain path winding around to the east of Stormwind City that could let them bypass all those hellish defenses and hit the city walls like a sucker punch to the kidneys.
Sure, the humans had thrown up some walls on the eastern approach too—they weren't complete idiots—but there was only ONE measly wall over there, not the triple-layered death trap they'd built on the south side with its three outer walls, plus that lake-sized moat, plus the inner fortress walls that looked like they could stop an earthquake.
If they attacked from the east, they'd be practically knocking on the door of that massive fortress—close enough to smell what the king was having for breakfast.
"Orgrim, you take a strike team and hit that eastern approach like a tornado in a trailer park. I'll keep banging on the front door to keep these humans busy chasing their own tails."
"Crystal clear, Warchief."
The overjoyed warchief was so pumped up with his brilliant tactical breakthrough that he completely missed the fact that his once rock-solid loyal adjutant now wore an expression darker than a thundercloud on a moonless night.
Once upon a time, Blackhand and Orgrim had been tighter than bark on a tree, closer than two peas in a pod. Many moons ago, when the Blackrock clan was staring down the barrel of complete annihilation by those murderous ogres, Blackhand and his right-hand man Orgrim had launched a desperate raid that was their last shot at survival. On the night before that make-or-break battle, Blackhand had helped Orgrim fish the legendary weapon Doomhammer out of a lava pool that was hotter than the hinges of hell—a feat that had pumped up the entire clan's warriors like they'd been injected with liquid courage, and they'd won that battle in spectacular fashion.
Unfortunately, during that heroic retrieval mission in the lava pool, Blackhand's fist had been scorched blacker than charcoal by the chaotic forces of nature, turning his flesh into something that looked more like granite than skin—hence the name that would follow him for the rest of his days.
You could say that Blackhand and Orgrim had forged a friendship in fire and blood that should've lasted until the end of time itself.
But that brotherhood had been shattered like glass on concrete because of Gul'dan—that manipulative snake who poisoned everything he touched. Orgrim had just received news that made his blood boil hotter than that lava pool: the guard he'd personally sent to escort Durotan and his wife had turned traitor! That backstabbing son of a bitch had defected to the Shadow Council and helped their assassins murder Durotan and his wife in cold blood, betraying everything Orgrim stood for.
When his men brought him Durotan's fangs as proof of the deed, Orgrim had nearly lost his mind completely, ready to challenge Blackhand to Mak'gora—the traditional duel to the death that would settle the leadership of the Horde once and for all. The urge to paint the ground red with Blackhand's blood was stronger than a hurricane.
But he'd held back like a man gripping a cliff edge with his fingernails!
The timing wasn't right—not yet. He didn't just want to put Blackhand six feet under; he wanted to tear Gul'dan's Shadow Council up by the roots and burn every last trace of their corruption from the face of the earth.
Fortunately, lady luck had smiled on him like sunshine after a storm. During one of his routine patrols, he'd stumbled across a half-orc female assassin named Garona—weak as a newborn kitten and about as threatening as a butterfly. He and his guards had snatched her up easier than picking fruit from a tree. The stench of Gul'dan's curse clinging to her was so overpowering that Orgrim could smell it from several tents away, thick as molasses and twice as nauseating.
Orgrim had been damn near ecstatic, knowing that if he kept working on Garona like a prospector panning for gold, he'd eventually strike the mother lode—the true location of Gul'dan and his Shadow Council nest of vipers.
Time! That's all he needed—just enough time to set his trap and spring it when the moment was perfect.
Until that glorious day of reckoning arrived, he'd have to keep his poker face on and play the loyal soldier, no matter how much it burned his gut.
Orgrim took his orders and marched his troops toward the eastern walls of Stormwind City near the Keep, and when they appeared like avenging angels descending from the mountains, he saw nothing but a pitiful handful of human spearmen who looked about as threatening as scarecrows in a cornfield. There weren't any ballistae or catapults in sight—hell, he couldn't even spot the javelin throwers that usually made orc lives miserable as tax day.
"For the Horde!" Orgrim bellowed like thunder rolling across the plains, and his roaring orcs followed him like a green avalanche, swarming toward that section of city wall with the unstoppable force of nature itself.
Unlike the outer wall of Stormwind City, which had been reinforced until it was tougher than a junkyard dog, this particular wall built on the cliff face was more decorative than defensive—about as useful as a chocolate teapot. From day one of its construction, nobody had been crazy enough to think that enemies could cross those mountains and scale those bone-breaking cliffs to reach this spot.
Even if some lunatic did manage to make it this far, they figured there couldn't be many of them, and the steep mountain approach would make it impossible to haul heavy siege equipment up there. Plus, there weren't enough trees in the area to build proper ladders, so the wall here stood only about sixteen feet high—tall enough to keep out your average human troublemaker, but not much more.
For humans without any climbing gear, this wall might as well have been the Grand Canyon—completely impossible to scale.
The fact that they'd managed to build it that high at all showed the builders had taken their job seriously as a heart attack.
Nobody in their wildest nightmares had imagined that enemies would actually show up here—especially not these unreasonable, physics-defying orcs who treated impossible obstacles like minor speed bumps.
Who needs ladders when you've got orc ingenuity? The first orc to reach the city wall just squatted down like a linebacker, laced his fingers together into a stirrup, and used pure brute strength to launch his companion skyward like a human cannonball.
An orc weighing several hundred pounds just "flew" over that sixteen-foot wall like he'd been shot from a circus cannon, landing on the other side ready to raise hell.
The cream of Stormwind's military had been led to the main gate by Lothar, following the action like moths to a flame. Not just Lothar, either—King Llane himself was there with most of his personal guard, plus every mage Stormwind could scrape together, all focused on the big show happening at the front door.
At this very moment, Stormwind Keep was emptier than a church on Super Bowl Sunday.
The only thing standing between the orcs and total victory was half a battalion of Royal Guards plus whatever random fighters they could throw together—less than 500 people total, which meant they were outnumbered worse than Custer at Little Bighorn.
The city guards had already been swept away like leaves in a hurricane, and now these 500 brave souls had to face down 3,000 elite orcs who were meaner than rattlesnakes and twice as deadly. Behind them cowered the queen, the young crown prince, and nearly a hundred families of high-ranking nobles—basically everyone who mattered in the kingdom, all packed together like sardines in a can.
"For the king!" The guards fought back with the desperation of cornered animals, every man knowing this was their last stand. They fought like their lives depended on it—which they absolutely did—and their years of strict training paid off, letting them go toe-to-toe with elite orcs without getting completely steamrolled. Unfortunately, they were outnumbered worse than ants at a picnic.
The brutally strong orcs could afford to make mistakes all day long—they had plenty of backup. But the relatively fragile humans? One slip-up, one moment of bad luck, and they'd be pushing up daisies before they knew what hit them.
Blood flowed from the main entrance of Stormwind Keep all the way to the throne room like a crimson river, painting the halls red as a sunset. After the savage battle, the place looked like a tornado had hit a butcher shop—twisted flesh and gore everywhere, brains splattered on the walls like abstract art, bodies torn into pieces that would make a coroner lose his lunch.
The Royal Guards had fought like lions, but they couldn't stop the tide of victory from flowing toward the orcs like water downhill.
In the throne room, Varian drew his short dagger with hands that shook only slightly, positioning himself between the orcs and his mother like a knight in a fairy tale. Behind him, the noble young men and women were screaming like banshees, their voices high and shrill with terror that cut through the air like broken glass.
Four full city blocks away, King Llane was racing back on horseback with his guards, riding hell-for-leather like the devil himself was chasing them, but he might as well have been on the moon for all the good it would do.
The last barrier standing between the queen and the little prince—the brave Sir Windsor, a man who'd never backed down from a fight in his life—was finally knocked down by a red-skinned orc wielding a hammer so massive it looked like it could cave in mountains.
Despair spread through the throne room like wildfire in dry grass, choking the air with hopelessness.
But just at that moment, when all seemed lost and the darkness was closing in, Varian Wrynn saw something that made his heart leap like a fish jumping upstream—it was light, brilliant and beautiful as a sunrise...the unmistakable radiance of arcane magic blazing like a beacon of hope!