How strong are orcs, really?
Before this fateful day dawned, the pampered noble boys and girls cooped up in Stormwind Fortress had no earthly idea. Originally, their doting parents had planned a swift, discreet evacuation. But then came the unspoken rule: no noble dared to stick their neck out and evacuate their children early, not when the queen herself hadn't left, and certainly not when Prince Varian Wrynn, the kingdom's sole legitimate heir, was still very much present.
It was a classic case of monkey see, monkey do, or rather, royalty stays, so everyone else stays. Even the queen and the prince were hunkering down in Stormwind Fortress, so who in their right mind would dare to send their own children away first? As a result, almost every noble family had sent their female relatives and underage children to Stormwind Fortress. To put it politely, they were "living and dying with the country." To put it bluntly, they were high-value hostages, ensuring everyone else stayed put.
Of course, it was a different story for the adult children, who were conveniently entrusted with "important tasks" and sent to Southshore on the other side of the sea to set up an "evacuation point." Very convenient indeed.
No one, not a single soul, had ever conceived that Stormwind Fortress, supposedly a safe, impregnable rear-area stronghold with defenses as solid as a rock, would ever come under direct attack!
When the shrill, ear-splitting alarm bells finally shrieked through the fortress, most people didn't just panic; they went full-blown, hair-on-fire, screaming-like-a-banshee panic.
"Your Majesty, you should take His Royal Highness the Prince and evacuate immediately! At the very least... at the very least, you should find a hiding spot!" The captain of the Royal Guard, a man whose face was usually carved from stone, pleaded, his voice trembling.
"Retreat?" The queen's voice was a steel whip, cutting through the fear. "Retreat where, exactly? Hold the line. Either we hold on until His Majesty returns, or we're all killed by these filthy orcs before then. I am the Queen of Stormwind Kingdom! I will never hide in some secret room, only to be dragged out and butchered like a rat from a gutter by these green-skinned barbarians!"
What the queen said was the brutal truth. There was literally nowhere to run. Stormwind Keep was nestled in the northeast of Stormwind City, deep within the innermost part of the entire valley. In its original design, this was the last stand, the final bastion. If they couldn't defend this place, then they were utterly, irrevocably doomed.
While Stormwind Fortress was strategically located, no matter how formidable a fortress was, it needed enough soldiers to man its walls. Right now, the defenses were practically empty, manpower stretched thinner than a starving goblin's wallet. The entire Stormwind Fortress was little more than a grand facade, a pretty shell.
Now, all the noble women and the kingdom's precious heirs were watching her, their pale faces reflecting her every move. If she, as the queen, took the lead in scurrying into a secret room, then even if Llane miraculously returned in the future, the people's morale would be shattered, and the king's authority would be gone, reduced to dust. Rather than face that ignominy, it was better to stand firm, stubbornly, in the throne room, facing whatever came head-on.
If they were truly invaded, then Stormwind would be well and truly screwed!
The queen, with the help of her trembling handmaid, dressed meticulously, every movement precise despite the looming dread. She then took Varian, who, despite his youth, carried himself with an equally elegant, stoic grace, and together they sat upon the thrones in the great hall. Around her and the little prince, hundreds of noble women and children huddled, their faces ashen, their eyes wide with terror.
Every single soul in that room was listening, their breath held tight in their chests.
Outside the fortress, the sounds of orcs roaring and weapons clashing were terrifyingly clear, each brutal clang and guttural bellow echoing through the stone walls. It was as if the grim pointer of death was spinning faster and faster, and the sounds representing death and destruction were getting closer, louder, and horribly clearer.
Then, when the ground began to tremble with the heavy, rhythmic thud of hundreds of footsteps, completely unlike the measured tread of military boots – when the brutal, primal sound of feet rising and falling, as if from an ancient, untamed wilderness, reached their ears – this heart-wrenching fear had already penetrated the eardrums of all the women and children, burrowing deep into the darkest corners of their hearts.
"Waaah..." Soft, terrified sobbing began to spread through the throne hall, a chilling counterpoint to the growing roar outside.
"Enough!" The queen rose proudly, her voice ringing with defiance, cutting through the sobs like a blade. She held the queen's scepter firmly in her left hand, and with her right, she clasped Prince Varian's left hand tightly. "If destruction and death are our inescapable fate, then we shall accept it calmly! If we are not destined to die, then we cannot let today's gaffe become our lifelong shame!"
The young prince, his small hand clutched by his mother's, held a gorgeous, yet tiny, dagger in his right hand, his knuckles white.
Everyone listened nervously, their ears straining for the sounds outside, their eyes fixed on the guards arrayed before the main door of the throne room. There, the king's most trusted knight, Sir Windsor, led the last twelve royal guards, a meager but determined line. And Sir Windsor was clutching the 'King's Guard' sword, the very blade that had become famous just a few days prior, now a beacon of grim hope.
The very floor of the throne room was shaking, trembling as if a cup of water was being carried by a clumsy waiter. Every heart in the room quivered slightly, mirroring the vibrating floor.
The sounds of fierce fighting and rough, guttural roars were getting closer and closer, a terrifying countdown.
Until a fierce, scarlet giant hammer, radiating an aura of brutal power, smashed open the fist-thick, iron-clad wooden door of the throne room. It was a monstrous hammer, coated with fresh blood, glistening internal organs, and scattered body fragments. The giant hammer was shaped like a perfectly standard cube, and scarlet blood beads rose and fell from its square surface, making Varian feel that it was less a weapon and more a bloody throne held aloft, dripping with gore.
As the door of the hall collapsed with a terrible, splintering wail, a ferocious giant, seemingly ripped from the pages of an ancient nightmare, appeared in the doorway. He had dark red skin that rippled with bulging muscles, and four wicked fangs jutted from his protruding jaw – the outermost ones long and curved, the inner ones slightly shorter, like a very aggressive, very toothy grin.
"Ahhh—"
This horrifying appearance alone was enough to send many noble ladies into fits of screaming, their shrieks echoing through the hall before they promptly fainted from sheer terror, collapsing like sacks of potatoes.
"KILL!" Windsor bellowed, his voice a roar of defiance, and all the guards surged forward, a desperate, valiant charge.
Orgrim grinned, a disdainful, almost bored smile twisting his brutal features. He raised his right shoulder pauldron, decorated with thick, jagged fangs, slightly, and a black gust of wind had already whipped up at his elbow, a prelude to the coming storm.
So fast!
The guard who first made contact with Orgrim had just enough time for that one thought to flash through his mind when he stared, wide-eyed with amazement, at the hammer. It was getting bigger and bigger, filling his entire field of vision in less than half a breath, a looming, inescapable doom.
His movements were correct, perfectly standard and concise, pushing the limits of human capability. However, in front of such an inhuman strongman, he was utterly paralyzed by terror, able only to open his mouth helplessly, watching the opponent's giant hammer hurtle towards his face before his own sword could even begin its arc.
"BANG!" It seemed as if time, which had once stopped, suddenly resumed its relentless flow, crashing back into reality.
The huge 'Doomhammer' struck the guard's forehead with the sickening force of a whack-a-mole game gone horribly wrong. With a wet "puff," the overwhelming force tore through his helmet from top to bottom, penetrating the guard's skull. Then, the terrifying impact completely shattered his cervical vertebrae, causing his neck to fold completely into one grotesque piece.
The remaining force, still undiminished, continued its downward trajectory.
The next moment, the guard's facial features distorted beyond recognition, and all the ribs in his chest cavity, directly beneath his head, were piled up into a grotesque ball. His brain, eyeballs, and other unspeakable things that had nowhere to drain were spurted out from every hole in his head with a sickening "whoosh" sound the moment his skull was shattered.
The giant hammer continued to sink, smashing the guard's head into his chest and almost flattening half of his body into a bloody pulp.
The soldier, who had been a strapping 1.90-meter-tall man, twitched once, then collapsed to the ground, now a horrifying, squashed dwarf. The extremely violent blood splattered across the pristine marble floor of the throne room, and a few spots of bright red even sprayed onto a thirteen-year-old girl not far away, who was suffocated by the sheer, overwhelming terror.