Conquest

There were hundreds of thousands of bloodthirsty tribal warriors, their battle cries echoing across the mountains like thunder from hell itself.

It wouldn't take a fraction of this overwhelming horde to steamroll this pathetic excuse for a human kingdom. Hell, Orgrim had already identified the enemy's Achilles' heel through brutal reconnaissance - that laughably low wall choking off the valley like a string around a giant's throat!

Scattering to hunt for grub had been the orc way since time immemorial. Now that food was scarcer than hen's teeth, it made about as much sense as a screen door on a submarine to pile up such a massive army in one spot.

The million-dollar question was: who gets the honor of turning those dwarves into mincemeat?

Mother Nature hardwired most creatures to size up their enemies like they're measuring lumber. Orcs naturally looked down their snouts at these puny humans who barely reached their chests - never mind the dwarves who came up to their belt buckles!

In orc eyes, slaughtering those stumpy little ankle-biters would be like shooting fish in a barrel - easier than taking candy from a baby.

That's why every orc chieftain was practically drooling over this golden opportunity.

For a heart-stopping moment, every chief's eyes blazed with naked hunger. Staying put guaranteed victory, sure as death and taxes. Problem was, Warchief Blackhand and his powerhouse army were camping right here, which meant the lion's share of glory and loot would go straight to the Blackrock Clan. The other clans would be left holding the bag, watching the Blackrock boys feast while they gnawed on table scraps.

But striking out on your own? Now that was a whole different ball game.

Risk? Hell, when isn't life one big roll of the dice? Back in their homeland of Draenor (what the orcs called "our world"), every hunt was a dance with death. To orc thinking, risk was just part of breathing.

Each chief unconsciously stepped forward like moths to a flame.

Blackhand squinted his beady eyes and fired up what little gray matter rattled around in his thick skull.

Quick as lightning, the warchief made his call.

"Kilrogg! The sweet taste of conquering Ironforge is all yours, you magnificent bastard. I'm betting my left tusk that your Bleeding Hollow clan can live up to our tribe's blood-soaked reputation."

"For the Horde!" Kilrogg Deadeye hammered his chest like a war drum, the grizzled orc hero's face lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning.

Blackhand wheeled around to face Grom Hellscream, who'd shown up at the eleventh hour before the Dark Portal slammed shut: "Your Warsong tribe gets to paint the town red up north - that kingdom called Stromgarde is yours for the taking."

"Hot damn! My Gorehowl's been bone-dry for way too long." Grom's lips peeled back in a shark's grin that promised nothing but blood and mayhem.

Blackhand brought his massive fist down on the rickety wooden table, exploding a corner into splinters. "Rest of you sorry sons of bitches, saddle up. We're going over that mountain to give Stormwind's east wall a taste of hell."

Blackhand and Orgrim were counting their chickens before they hatched.

Unfortunately, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and reality has a nasty habit of kicking you in the teeth.

After the Horde burned eleven precious days having orcs dig wells and haul water like pack mules, finally clearing every last obstacle for their war machine's advance, Orgrim and the orc army behind him stood there slack-jawed and dumber than a box of rocks when they crested the mountains again.

Blackhand grabbed Orgrim by the throat and bellowed like a wounded buffalo, "Is THIS what you called weak as water defense?!"

The city wall was still that same 5-meter-high barrier the orcs had written off as a speed bump, but now the damn thing had sprouted more teeth than a hungry shark. Multiple barbicans squatted in front of it like concrete bulldogs, mirror images of the gatehouse that guarded Stormwind City's main entrance. A moat stretched five meters wide, yawning like an open grave.

But that wasn't the worst of it - massive earthen hills had mushroomed behind the wall like giant ant mounds, their flattened tops bristling with enough catapults and crossbows to make a porcupine jealous. Arrow towers shot up everywhere like deadly sequoias, their javelin-throwers perched to rain death on anything that moved beyond the moat.

"Hahaha! Those green-skinned sons of bitches must be shitting bricks!" Lothar howled from his arrow tower perch, watching the tribal army mill around like confused cattle.

Llane beside him wore a grin wide as the Mississippi: "All thanks to you, Duke. Without that stroke of genius you pulled out of thin air, we'd be deader than disco right about now."

Duke shrugged like it was no big deal: "Nothing to it - many hands make light work."

"Don't sell yourself short. You're my ace in the hole." Llane beamed.

Basic fortifications would've crumbled like a house of cards against the orcs' steamroller assault. So Duke, armed with knowledge from another time, played the ultimate trump card of "strength in numbers" against the green tide.

The plan was elegant in its simplicity. Any poor soul willing to break his back digging ditches for the kingdom could earn a golden ticket out of this hellhole - as long as he moved enough dirt to fill a cemetery.

The people went absolutely bananas.

Every soul in the city knew Stormwind was a sitting duck. The longer you stuck around, the better your odds of becoming worm food. If they hadn't been boxed in tighter than sardines with only the sea route offering a prayer of escape, the whole population would've stampeded out of there like the place was on fire.

Down at the docks, desperate folks were pulling every trick in the book and bleeding their life savings dry just to buy passage on an earlier ship.

Don't kid yourself with fairy tales about equality - cold hard truth was that the more clout and coin you had, the faster you could kiss this doomed city goodbye.

Hell, the blue-bloods didn't even have to rub shoulders with the common folk at the civilian docks. They could waltz right onto the spanking new Stormwind Navy vessels at the military port and sail away from this godforsaken death trap without breaking a sweat.

But now Duke's master stroke gave these doom-and-gloom folks a fighting chance they could sink their teeth into.

Put in some honest sweat, and you could punch your ticket to safety for yourself and everyone you gave a damn about.

The deal was sweeter than pie. Workers dug like their lives depended on it under the watchful eyes of Stormwind soldiers who were wound tighter than springs. Move 20 standard wagons worth of dirt and you'd earned yourself a ship ticket. Any tough-as-nails worker who put his nose to the grindstone for a day or two could pretty much guarantee passage for three or four souls.

This way, Duke didn't have to shell out a single copper piece to his workforce. He dangled safety like a carrot on a stick and worked pure magic - hundreds of massive earthworks sprouted around Stormwind City's east and north walls like mushrooms after rain. Then he rigged up sluice gates and, working with the city's existing canal system, carved out a moat that wrapped around the outer city wall like a deadly necklace.

Sure, the whole setup looked rougher than a cob and had more holes than Swiss cheese, but it beat the hell out of that original single 5-meter wall standing there naked as a jaybird.

Duke caught sight of Edwin VanCleef, who sported bags under his eyes darker than midnight and looked like he'd maybe caught 10 hours of shut-eye total in the past week. Duke's expression softened as he clapped VanCleef on the shoulder.

"You knocked it out of the park, Edwin."

"Master, you're being too generous." VanCleef ducked his head quick as a whip.

"The transport ship 'Poseidon' docking at noon today is your ride out of here - you and your whole stonemason crew. Pack your gear and head for Southshore to wait for me."

VanCleef's eyes went red as brake lights: "Master, I..."

Duke cut him off before he could get rolling, "What comes next is balls-to-the-wall combat time - not exactly a stonemason's wheelhouse. You get going first. The Stormwind refugees camped around Southshore are still waiting for the houses you're going to build them."

After wrestling with himself for half a heartbeat, VanCleef looked up with steel in his spine: "But I'm a man, damn it! I can throw down with the best of them!"

Duke let out a chuckle: "How many orcs you figure you can take down? If you want to show off in front of Anduin Lothar, you better at least make it to the major leagues first, don't you think?"

"I...I..." VanCleef's eyes burned red and swimming with tears.

"Go on, your sweet little Vanessa is counting the days till you come home." Duke's words hit the bull's-eye right in the heart of VanCleef, the tragic hero who'd raised hell for the stonemasons in days yet to come.

He dropped to one knee like a shot: "Thank you, Duke!"