The axe hummed as it split the air, steel glinting into the beady eyes of
the assembled Orcs. There were about ten of them, and they stood in an
unruly battle formation below a small cliff, watching the weapon and its
wielder as they prepared for battle. Some of the larger Orcs carried huge
battle axes, some were armed with simple engraved staffs, and still others
were mounted on huge wolves and had plain yet deadly warblades clutched in
their large hands. All were prepared for battle, and all had their eyes
fixated on the huge creature on the outcrop.
Grom Hellscream was truly a sight to behold. Although he was ancient in his seasons, he was ever ready for battle. He carried a huge bearded axe in his hands, and although he wore very little armor, his green skin was as hard as seasoned leather. His long black hair was braided several times, and it whipped behind him as it was caught in the backdraft of his mighty swing. He was the second-in-command of the Orcish Horde, and a close compatriot to the young Warchief, Thrall. He was already in his seasoned middle age during the dark days of the First War between the Orcs and the humans, and now he was at least seventy years old. He was a role model for many of the lesser warriors of the Horde, and was also a skillful orator. He spoke, and his deep bass voice boomed like a wave over the assembled warriors.
"Brothers, I come with word from the Warchief. Thrall has consulted the wise Elder Shamans and has discovered that a large band of humans is on the march to the camps we have set up. The shamans say these humans bear hostile intent to us, and so we must protect these settlements with our lives. Those of you assembled here," he cast a fierce eye over his comrades, "are the best in your selected castes. You are to lead our small army to victory over the humans with all the strength and cunning inherent to us Orcs. Now, let me hear you, brothers! Will we crush the humans?"
A mighty roar arose and made the air shimmer.
"Will we make our Warchief proud?" screamed the mighty Orc.
The roar grew louder.
"Then go mighty warriors! Make yourselves ready, and do so with haste! The army marches at noon!"
***
Prince Arthas sat in his command tent, penning a letter to his lover, the beautiful Jaina Proudmoore. He had been on the march for two weeks, and had written a letter every other day. He had just finished writing the letter and was just about to put his seal on it when he noticed an ink smudge on the parchment. He stopped to wipe it off, then reviewed the entire letter. This is what he had written:
Dearest Jaina,
My days seem to grow ever longer when I am away from you.
We have been on the march for a long while now, and these camps
never seem to get any nearer. I fear for what we may find once
we arrive, however. These Orcs are rumored for being ferocious
beasts, and renowned warriors. I hope you think of me as often
as I do of you, and pray that I may escape this battle unscathed
so that I may return to see your divine face.
Forever yours,
Arthas
Arthas stamped the letter with his seal and exited his tent. As he strode across the camp, he saw many signs of a healthy settlement: peasants busily going about their tasks, archers and swordsmen practicing with vigor in the training arena, and stablehands shushing griffons and horses with the practiced hand of a veteran of their trade. Arthas also heard a sound that was unfamiliar to him; the cracks of firing muskets and the acrid smell of gunpowder As he heard these things, he realized their origin. The dwarves in their shop had been practicing with a new kind of "long rifles", a type of musket that gave their shots tenfold range. He paused for a moment to hear another volley of fire, and then moved on to the Archmage's tent.
Antonidas was a grizzled old man, but he exuded an air of brilliance and calm. Arthas always found conversations with the old man comforting, though he was seldom in a good mood. He was the head of the respected Kirin Tor, the ancient mage's guild in the human's golden capitol city of Dalaran. As such, he always had many pressing affairs to deal with and had little time to speak with the Prince under normal circumstances. However, he noticed the troubled expression on the young man's face as he shuffled toward his tent.
"Something troubles you, my lord?" said the old man, placing a gnarled hand on Arthas' shoulder.
"Please, do not address me by that title under such informal conditions, Antonidas. We have little need for frivolities here. Indeed, my mind is in turmoil, for my longing to see Jaina becomes greater each day. I know she sends me letters, but that alone does not seem to be enough."
Antonidas chuckled. "Oh, you young ones and your silly love. If only you had become a mage as your father wished, instead of rushing off to war, you would know nothing of young lady Proudmoore, and be it a great weight off your heart, Arthas. She truly loves you, I can tell you that. Wait a bit longer. We will nullify the Orc problem and you can again see your love and your father."
Arthas was about to say something when a great chorus of yells made him turn. A runner dashed into camp, white-faced and breathing hard. The Prince and the mage rushed over to him, supporting the young man as he slumped down. He spoke in panting gasps.
"My lords.do something.Orcs.headed this way.heavily armed.make ready!" So saying this, he fainted on the spot.
Arthas began to issue orders immediately. A simple bell they had erected was rung, herding all the peasants to an arms locker to be outfitted for battle. The Dwarven riflemen crouched on the bluffs above the camp, muskets pointed ahead to meet the oncoming enemy. Arthas and the swordsmen stood at the edge of the camp, whetting swords and hammers with grim expressions on their faces. Antonidas and his magi prepared spells with which to blast down the Orcs. Their horses skittered and shied as they smelled the enemy on the wind
As soon as all the orders were carried out and every man was in his place, the waiting began. The forest around the camp was silent and watchful, the men coughed occasionally but made no more sound than that for risk of giving away their position to the Orcs. The horses whinnied occasionally, and the crunch of their hooves on gravel was almost maddening to the men.
Arthas could take it no more and was just about to order a charge when the thunderous clap of gunfire shook the surrounding hills. The men heard distant screams and war cries and knew the thing that they had all dreaded: They were under attack.
Grom Hellscream was truly a sight to behold. Although he was ancient in his seasons, he was ever ready for battle. He carried a huge bearded axe in his hands, and although he wore very little armor, his green skin was as hard as seasoned leather. His long black hair was braided several times, and it whipped behind him as it was caught in the backdraft of his mighty swing. He was the second-in-command of the Orcish Horde, and a close compatriot to the young Warchief, Thrall. He was already in his seasoned middle age during the dark days of the First War between the Orcs and the humans, and now he was at least seventy years old. He was a role model for many of the lesser warriors of the Horde, and was also a skillful orator. He spoke, and his deep bass voice boomed like a wave over the assembled warriors.
"Brothers, I come with word from the Warchief. Thrall has consulted the wise Elder Shamans and has discovered that a large band of humans is on the march to the camps we have set up. The shamans say these humans bear hostile intent to us, and so we must protect these settlements with our lives. Those of you assembled here," he cast a fierce eye over his comrades, "are the best in your selected castes. You are to lead our small army to victory over the humans with all the strength and cunning inherent to us Orcs. Now, let me hear you, brothers! Will we crush the humans?"
A mighty roar arose and made the air shimmer.
"Will we make our Warchief proud?" screamed the mighty Orc.
The roar grew louder.
"Then go mighty warriors! Make yourselves ready, and do so with haste! The army marches at noon!"
***
Prince Arthas sat in his command tent, penning a letter to his lover, the beautiful Jaina Proudmoore. He had been on the march for two weeks, and had written a letter every other day. He had just finished writing the letter and was just about to put his seal on it when he noticed an ink smudge on the parchment. He stopped to wipe it off, then reviewed the entire letter. This is what he had written:
Dearest Jaina,
My days seem to grow ever longer when I am away from you.
We have been on the march for a long while now, and these camps
never seem to get any nearer. I fear for what we may find once
we arrive, however. These Orcs are rumored for being ferocious
beasts, and renowned warriors. I hope you think of me as often
as I do of you, and pray that I may escape this battle unscathed
so that I may return to see your divine face.
Forever yours,
Arthas
Arthas stamped the letter with his seal and exited his tent. As he strode across the camp, he saw many signs of a healthy settlement: peasants busily going about their tasks, archers and swordsmen practicing with vigor in the training arena, and stablehands shushing griffons and horses with the practiced hand of a veteran of their trade. Arthas also heard a sound that was unfamiliar to him; the cracks of firing muskets and the acrid smell of gunpowder As he heard these things, he realized their origin. The dwarves in their shop had been practicing with a new kind of "long rifles", a type of musket that gave their shots tenfold range. He paused for a moment to hear another volley of fire, and then moved on to the Archmage's tent.
Antonidas was a grizzled old man, but he exuded an air of brilliance and calm. Arthas always found conversations with the old man comforting, though he was seldom in a good mood. He was the head of the respected Kirin Tor, the ancient mage's guild in the human's golden capitol city of Dalaran. As such, he always had many pressing affairs to deal with and had little time to speak with the Prince under normal circumstances. However, he noticed the troubled expression on the young man's face as he shuffled toward his tent.
"Something troubles you, my lord?" said the old man, placing a gnarled hand on Arthas' shoulder.
"Please, do not address me by that title under such informal conditions, Antonidas. We have little need for frivolities here. Indeed, my mind is in turmoil, for my longing to see Jaina becomes greater each day. I know she sends me letters, but that alone does not seem to be enough."
Antonidas chuckled. "Oh, you young ones and your silly love. If only you had become a mage as your father wished, instead of rushing off to war, you would know nothing of young lady Proudmoore, and be it a great weight off your heart, Arthas. She truly loves you, I can tell you that. Wait a bit longer. We will nullify the Orc problem and you can again see your love and your father."
Arthas was about to say something when a great chorus of yells made him turn. A runner dashed into camp, white-faced and breathing hard. The Prince and the mage rushed over to him, supporting the young man as he slumped down. He spoke in panting gasps.
"My lords.do something.Orcs.headed this way.heavily armed.make ready!" So saying this, he fainted on the spot.
Arthas began to issue orders immediately. A simple bell they had erected was rung, herding all the peasants to an arms locker to be outfitted for battle. The Dwarven riflemen crouched on the bluffs above the camp, muskets pointed ahead to meet the oncoming enemy. Arthas and the swordsmen stood at the edge of the camp, whetting swords and hammers with grim expressions on their faces. Antonidas and his magi prepared spells with which to blast down the Orcs. Their horses skittered and shied as they smelled the enemy on the wind
As soon as all the orders were carried out and every man was in his place, the waiting began. The forest around the camp was silent and watchful, the men coughed occasionally but made no more sound than that for risk of giving away their position to the Orcs. The horses whinnied occasionally, and the crunch of their hooves on gravel was almost maddening to the men.
Arthas could take it no more and was just about to order a charge when the thunderous clap of gunfire shook the surrounding hills. The men heard distant screams and war cries and knew the thing that they had all dreaded: They were under attack.