"Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!" Lord Duke Edmund, the self-proclaimed King of the Sea, Archmage extraordinaire, and Deputy Commander of the Alliance, was currently recovering from his injuries in the cabin, sounding like a banshee with a stubbed toe.
"You're bending over backwards for that wild elf from Quel'thalas, and for what? As a powerful mage who should be wrapped in cotton wool, as a magistrate of the Stormwind Kingdom, and one of the Alliance's biggest fish, you ought to be looking for a proper noblewoman to settle down with. Instead, you're chasing after some tree-hugging wild child and getting your lights punched out!"
Gavinrad, ever the blunt instrument, was using Holy Light to mend Duke's wounds.
Duke bared his teeth, but didn't bother arguing with Gavinrad. It wasn't that Duke agreed; it was just that arguing would be like talking to a brick wall.
Gavinrad the Dire, the most promising of Stormwind's new crop of nobles, had been dragged kicking and screaming by Lothar to Archbishop Faol's big shindig, where he'd been strong-armed into becoming one of the first seven paladins. Unfortunately, among that hallowed septet, Gavinrad was barely above the bottom of the barrel, Windsor, and even Bolvar, who Duke practically strong-armed into the holy order, outshone him.
Among the original five paladins, Gavinrad was about as noticeable as a gnat on a dragon's backside. Later, in the Battle of Andorhal, he bought the farm at the hands of Arthas, who'd gone full-blown Death Knight.
It wasn't that Gavinrad was a total pushover. If Uther, the heavyweight champion, was a perfect 100, Gavinrad was a solid 82. A decent fighter, for sure. It was mostly because the rest of the first-gen paladins were walking legends, practically superheroes.
His natural fighting chops weren't exactly setting the world on fire, and combined with his head full of aristocratic hot air and a less-than-burning devotion to the Holy Light, he never really made waves.
As a bodyguard, though, he was solid as a rock, giving Duke peace of mind.
Even though Duke knew Gavinrad meant well, sometimes the man's words hit harder than a mace to the face, like when he said:
"Lord Edmund, if you need to blow off some steam, I'd actually suggest you…" Gavinrad glanced at Vanessa, then continued, dead serious: "Find a nice, local girl, like Vanessa here. She's on the payroll, after all, and…"
Vanessa, seeing red, vanished in a puff of smoke, Shadow Stepping behind Gavinrad faster than a greased lightning bolt, dagger aimed squarely at his kidney.
But a Paladin, especially one packing Holy Light, was tougher than a two-dollar steak, and Vanessa's training was still in its infancy. Gavinrad, barely breaking a sweat, pivoted like a seasoned dancer, a fist glowing with Holy Light connecting with Vanessa and sending her, and her measly dagger, flying across the room like a rag doll.
"Oh, if Vanessa doesn't want to, forget it. But my personal tutor back then was my maid. And while I haven't tied the knot myself, she's still my… special friend. My lord, you know how it is with noble marriages – gotta be careful as a cat on a hot tin roof."
Across the room, a fuming Vanessa, picking herself up, snarled, "You big oaf! You haven't seen the last of me!"
"Whoa, hold your horses! Vanessa's my maid!" Duke protested.
"Of course, sir, I'll be careful as a surgeon with a butter knife not to put a scratch on her." WHAM! (Another punch sends Vanessa sprawling.)
"Alright, alright, I get it! I'll find a nice noble lady, settle down, have some little Dukes. Just… can we please drop the subject of my love life, like, forever?"
"Understood, my Lord."
Beyond his aristocratic head-in-the-clouds attitude, Gavinrad was, at his core, a decent paladin. But that was the long and short of it. Duke would trust Windsor with the family's private army in a heartbeat, but Gavinrad? Not on your life.
In the days that followed, Duke and Alleria's relationship settled into a rhythm. It was… well, normal. Not too hot, not too cold, just right. They navigated each other's orbits with a natural ease. The only fly in the ointment was Alleria's persistent habit of treating Duke like he was still in diapers.
Lothar, ever the joker, would rib Duke every now and then, claiming he'd cornered the market on the two most stunning elf rangers but couldn't manage to bag either of them.
The calendar flipped to November 11th.
Lothar found that even a jester with a flaming backside couldn't get a chuckle out of him.
The Griffin Sentinels, those feathered spies near the wetlands and the craggy peaks of Ironforge, limped back, looking like they'd been put through the wringer. The Horde had sent out search parties thicker than flies on a carcass, ambushing them left and right.
Proudmoore's fleet also came limping home.
And Duke's Naga scouts.
They all sang the same mournful tune: bad news, by the bucketload.
The Horde had swallowed up more than ninety percent of Khaz Modan, the dwarven kingdom, and were now using the dwarves' own mines to churn out their own ships. And these weren't your grandpa's wooden transport ships; these were massive, ugly iron beasts, clunky as a cow on roller skates, but capable of stuffing thousands of orcs into their bellies.
These iron behemoths would ferry the Horde across the waves like a bat out of hell, their sights clearly set on Southshore, or, more precisely, the west coast just outside of it. For days, countless tribal recon boats had been buzzing around like angry hornets, trying to intercept the Naga and murlocs, poking and prodding the west coast's defenses.
Not a single tribal recon ship had bothered with Southshore itself, which now looked about as appealing as yesterday's leftovers.
It looked like if the Horde managed to land and dig in on the west coast of Hillsbrad, they'd be sitting pretty, smack dab in the middle of nowhere and everywhere, equidistant from Gilneas, Dalaran, and Alterac. Then the Horde would hold all the cards, free to strike in any direction they pleased.
If the Alliance could move like greased lightning, they might be able to meet the Horde head-on and hit them where it hurts.
"Alright, everyone, listen up!" Lothar bellowed, his voice rattling the rafters. "Round up the troops! Ditch anything that isn't bolted down – if we make it out of this alive, we can send for it later! Right now, speed is the name of the game! Move it! Move it! Move it!"
As his other lieutenants scrambled to gather their forces, Lothar turned to Duke, the kings looking on with grim faces. "Sorry, kid," Lothar said, a heavy sigh escaping him, "but your Southshore defense line looks like it's going to be about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. The Horde's got a new chieftain, and he's playing chess while we're still playing checkers."
Lothar gave the young Duke a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. He wasn't alone; a chorus of comforting glances followed, everyone knowing Duke had poured his heart and soul, and probably a few kidneys, into building that Southshore defense line.
Alleria, representing the elves, was also at the meeting. She practically vibrated with the urge to rush over and give Duke a hug.
Just then, Duke, who'd been quiet as a mouse, piped up.
"Captain Lothar, are we seriously going to let the Alliance's best and brightest go toe-to-toe with the Horde out in the wide-open wilderness, like a bunch of sitting ducks?"
Lothar's face soured faster than milk in the sun. "What else can we do? We can't exactly tell the Horde where to park their boats! It's impossible to stretch a defense line along the entire Hillsbrad coastline right now. If the Horde lands on the west coast, they'll just waltz right around your fancy Southshore defenses, and all our troops will be caught in a death trap, surrounded and wiped out like flies!"
Lothar laid it out for Duke, half-explaining, half-lecturing, like a seasoned general schooling a greenhorn.
At that moment, both Lothar and Alleria saw a mischievous grin spread across Duke's face.
"Why don't we just invite the Horde to Southshore for their own funeral?" Duke snapped his fingers, and Windesel, who'd been standing by like a loyal hound, instantly caught on. He strode out of the command post, two bright red flags already waving high in his hands.
Then, in the blink of an eye, what had been nothing but rolling green hills in the distance suddenly bristled with countless, menacing fortresses, springing up like mushrooms after a rain.
Lothar and the rest of the brass were left standing there with their jaws on the floor.