Siege 2

Amidst the rumbling of the earth, the green frenzy of the orc horde split into three distinct prongs, like a very angry, very green, very pointy trident. Sharp battle axes gleamed fiercely in the sun, reflecting off their brutal edges. Looking down from the sky, it was a truly terrifying sight: a colossal trident had seemingly sprouted from the very heart of Elwynn Forest, poised to strike Stormwind.

Lothar raised his left hand slightly, then brought it down with a quick, forceful chop.

"THUMP, THUMP, THUMP!" After a strange, groaning sound of capstans loosening, ten massive baskets of rubble were flung from the ten catapult towers positioned behind Lothar, towers that loomed even higher than the tallest outer city wall.

The irregular gravel, packed tightly in its pocket, scattered in mid-air, making a chilling, almost human-like whistling sound as it descended. A few agonizing seconds later, under the relentless pull of gravity, the gravel instantly enveloped a large area of the surging green tide below, like a sudden, violent hailstorm made of jagged rocks.

It wasn't like the orcs hadn't seen catapults before; they practically invented the art of flinging large objects at things. But they had never seen them used like this. Normally, these fist-sized pieces of gravel wouldn't even warrant a glance from a hardened orc warrior. But now, propelled at terminal velocity, that gravel had transformed into a deadly, skull-crushing weapon.

The face of any unlucky orc who took a direct hit deformed first, then their cheeks and jawbones simply disintegrated under the colossal impact, taking their extended fangs with them. The sheer force of the blow brought their head and burly body to a screeching halt, then sent them recoiling backward in an instant. In this horrific process, their skull was instantly pulverized into countless fragments, held together only by flesh and blood, their brains splattering, and their neck bones snapping like dry twigs.

After the orc was violently blown back, their body hit the ground, cold and lifeless.

Most of those hit either died instantly, their internal organs smashed to smithereens by the heavy impact, their vomited blood mixed with large amounts of internal organ fragments, making death only a matter of time. It was a gruesome, messy affair.

The humans' long-range firepower was so shockingly fierce that even Chieftain Blackhand and Orgrim narrowed their eyes, a flicker of grudging respect (or perhaps just indigestion) crossing their brutal faces.

But this was just the warm-up act. Lothar drew his sword and slammed it down to the ground, a signal for the next wave of hell.

A collective whoosh sounded simultaneously from the three-layered city wall and the gaps between the walls.

Normally, it's hard to associate a humming sound with a darkening sky, but after this ominous hum, the entire sky above the battlefield seemed to dim, as if a giant shadow had been cast over it.

Orgrim instinctively raised his head, his eyes widening. He saw a massive black rain rising above the colossal human city. He immediately recognized it: the despicable humans were flinging javelins. Again.

This was the greatest blasphemy to the brave tribal warriors, a cowardly, irritating tactic.

Many orc soldiers weren't dying in glorious battle, but from these strange, disgusting javelins. Once shot, if you pulled too hard, the javelin head or a fragile part of the shaft would inevitably remain embedded in your body. In the scorching weather, even if you managed to dig out the javelin head with a dagger, the wound would quickly fester and rot.

Orgrim had personally witnessed several proud warriors being dragged to a slow, agonizing death in this infuriating manner.

"Damn it! If only we had a shaman..." Orgrim could only mutter in his heart, a bitter taste in his mouth.

The traditional shamans of the Horde had been replaced by more evil and sinister warlocks, thanks to Gul'dan's machinations. Now, there wasn't even a single shaman capable of performing healing in the entire Horde's expeditionary force. What made Orgrim even more furious was the piece of news he'd received.

His best friend, Durotan, Chieftain of the Frostwolf Clan, had visited him just two days ago with his wife, Draka.

A few months prior, because he'd dared to suspect Gul'dan of a treacherous deal with the devil, Gul'dan had orchestrated Durotan's exile, using Chieftain Blackhand to banish Durotan and the Frostwolf Clan from the Horde to the remote, icy wasteland of Alterac Valley.

But two days ago, Durotan had returned, bravely telling him of Gul'dan's ultimate betrayal.

Orgrim had vowed that Gul'dan's actions would be punished, and had even sent one of his most trusted guards to see Durotan and his family off, ensuring their safety.

Gul'dan had been missing recently, a ghost in the wind, not seen in public for over two months. Orgrim had demanded that Blackhand punish Gul'dan and the Shadow Council, but Blackhand had ruthlessly, dismissively refused.

This refusal only fueled Orgrim's simmering dissatisfaction. All he needed was one more spark, one more reason, to explode...

Looking at Blackhand's clumsy, idiotic command of the battle, Orgrim felt a wave of nausea.

A torrential rain of javelins descended upon them, and the orc brigade charging in the front seemed to hit an invisible wall head-on. In an instant, they fell down in massive numbers, like wheat being harvested by a very angry, very efficient reaper.

The grass was a bloody mess, littered with the bodies of orc soldiers, impaled to the ground.

Before the battle, Orgrim had strongly advised that the soldiers should be equipped with thick enough shields; after all, siege warfare was a whole different beast from a field battle. But what had Blackhand said?

"The invincible orc warriors are not afraid of this vile javelin!"

This was simply using orc soldiers to fill a death pit that could never be filled! It was a waste of good, green flesh!

The Dark Portal had inexplicably closed, Gul'dan was missing again, and the orc expedition had no backup. The warriors of the Horde were dying one by one, and Blackhand was still squandering the lives of the warriors like this!?

Orgrim gnashed his fangs, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

"The city is broken!?" A surprised shout suddenly came from the front lines.

Orgrim instinctively felt that something was wrong. It was too easy. How could the defense line that humans had painstakingly set up for so long be broken so easily? The heavy losses in the town before Stormwind were still fresh in Orgrim's memory, a bitter pill to swallow.

Blackhand waved his rocky fist triumphantly, a smug grin on his face, and bellowed, "See! The warriors of the Horde are invincible!"

Nearly a thousand orcs surged in through the wooden gate that had been knocked open, and Orgrim immediately realized his gut feeling was right. As a large number of orcs rushed in, a steel fence, as thick as an orc's thigh, suddenly slammed down from the gate, trapping them.

The very next moment, flames shot up into the sky, a fiery inferno.

Suddenly, the entire battlefield was filled with the desperate, agonizing howls of thousands of orcs screaming at the same time, a symphony of pain and terror.

Yes! That was the urn used to lure the enemy, a cunning trap. It was filled with whale fat, a highly flammable substance. When a large number of orcs had rushed in, the human soldiers had simply lowered the enhanced "thousand-pound gate" and set the whole thing on fire...

The orcs were indeed brave warriors, but facing a ten-meter-high, steep wall and thousands of javelin throwers and spearmen waiting in battle array, any climb was doomed to be futile, a suicide mission. Countless torches were thrown down, easily turning the entire captured section of the city into a hell of fire, a fiery oven for the trapped orcs.

The screams of the ambushed orcs were so chilling, so utterly desperate, that they even stopped those orcs outside who were still trying to climb the city wall with crude wooden ladders. It was a sound that curdled the blood.

"Hahaha! Well cooked!" Although the smell of burnt barbecue, sickeningly sweet and metallic, still wafted into his nostrils through the face towel he'd prepared in advance, King Llane still seemed very excited, loudly praising Duke's brilliant, utterly devious plan.

The tragic loss made the chief's face as black as the bottom of a pot, a mask of unadulterated fury.

"Retreat!" Rarely, Blackhand actually ordered a withdrawal, a sign of just how badly this had gone.

Then, for seven consecutive days, the Horde launched fierce, relentless attacks on Stormwind, leaving behind at least three thousand corpses every single day. However, the best result the Horde achieved was merely capturing the second city wall. It was a meat grinder, and the orcs were the meat.

The situation took a dramatic turn for the better on the eighth day.

"We found a way to capture Stormwind City!" a triumphant shout echoed through the orc ranks.