Last Stand

Any attempt to describe war by someone who hasn't stared into its gaping maw is as worthless as a three-dollar bill and twice as pathetic.

Duke, in his boundless naiveté that would make a Sunday school teacher blush, once harbored the foolish notion that he could save every last soul from here to Timbuktu. But Lothar, with the patience of a saint and the subtlety of a sledgehammer, took it upon himself to knock some sense into Duke's rainbow-colored delusions.

It was a haunting, spectral vision that hit Duke like a freight train loaded with nightmares—almost like a moving picture show from hell itself, projected straight into his poor, unsuspecting brain.

The land was a charred, desolate wasteland that made a moonscape look like a garden party. Thick, black columns of smoke clawed at the sky like the devil's own fingers, choking the very breath from the air and making everyone wish they'd never been born with lungs. Once-fertile fields lay abandoned, their bounty replaced by the skeletal remains of broken houses and shattered tiles stretching to the horizon like a jigsaw puzzle made by a madman. The streets were a grotesque tapestry woven from the bodies of the dead—a quilt nobody in their right mind would want warming their bed.

There were sturdy farmers, their hands still calloused from honest labor and now colder than a banker's heart; frail, wizened old folks, their eyes wide with terror even in death, looking like they'd seen the devil himself doing a jig; pregnant women, their bellies swollen with life that would never draw breath—dreams cut shorter than a leprechaun in a limbo contest; and children, no older than ten, their small forms silenced forever, snuffed out like candles in a hurricane. Most had been brutally beheaded, their blood, now dried and black as tar, painting a grim testament to the desolation and unspeakable tragedy of the scene that would make a horror novelist throw in the towel.

Duke could almost hear the ghostly echoes of screams, the guttural howls of agony that would make a banshee jealous, and the desperate cries that had lingered there in their final moments like smoke from a house fire that just won't quit.

Regardless of age, gender, or whether they could even lift a butter knife without throwing out their back, everyone had been dragged, without so much as a "how do you do," to the village square and systematically slaughtered like cattle at a stockyard. It was a cold, calculated genocide that made Cain and Abel's little spat look like a friendly disagreement over checkers—aimed at wiping the human race off the face of Azeroth faster than you could say "green menace."

Games were just glorified make-believe, about as real as a politician's promise. No matter how vividly one tried to describe it, it was never enough to convey the soul-shattering impact of such a horrifying reality that would make grown men weep like babies and babies weep like... well, babies, but louder.

Lothar, his face etched with more grim experience than a tombstone carver's résumé, walked over and gently clapped Duke on the shoulder with the kind of paternal affection usually reserved for breaking bad news. "Your plan, my boy, is a stroke of genius that would make Einstein tip his hat. But you're still greener than grass in springtime and twice as naive."

Duke's jaw hung open like a barn door in a tornado, as if he wanted to argue, to rage against the injustice like Don Quixote tilting at windmills, but in the end, the words that clawed their way out of his throat like angry cats became: "At least let me go with you to see off the soldiers! Please, Lothar, I'm begging you like a dog for table scraps!"

Lothar paused, his gaze piercing Duke's soul like a hot knife through butter. He held Duke's eyes for a long moment that stretched like taffy, then simply uttered one word, heavy with more unspoken meaning than a mime's entire career: "Done."

The sun had already dipped below the horizon like a gold coin dropped in a wishing well, and the moonlight in the sky was hazier than a drunk's memory, casting a mournful pallor that would make a funeral director proud, as if weeping for Stormwind City, which had stood for a thousand years like a stubborn mule, yet was now teetering on the brink of oblivion like a house of cards in a windstorm.

A massive contingent of troops gathered in the open space outside Stormwind Fortress like ants at a picnic, except these ants were armed to the teeth and madder than wet hens. Ten thousand soldiers, their faces grimmer than a tax audit, stood solemnly in the shadow of the mighty fortress, forming a vast, silent square formation that looked like death's own chess board.

Torches had already been lit on the walls between Stormwind's city districts, their flickering flames casting long, swaying, fiery red rays of light onto the square formation below like the devil's own disco ball. The light danced across their armor, making the iron and steel gleam with a chilling, clanging brilliance that would make a blacksmith weep with joy and terror in equal measure.

It was a terrifying fusion of iron and blood that would make a butcher shop look like a flower garden.

It was a stark reflection of hatred and unbridled fury that burned hotter than a jalapeño's revenge.

It was a volcano of anger, simmering like a pot of beans on Sunday dinner, ready to erupt and consume everything in its path faster than gossip in a small town.

The suicide squad, the doomed legion, had assembled like the world's most depressing family reunion. They stood in stark, silent anticipation, awaiting the order to charge into the abyss like lemmings with a death wish and the equipment to make it happen.

If you looked closely, you'd notice that most of these brave souls were already wounded, their bodies more patched up than a hobo's overalls, testament to the relentless war that had been grinding them down like coffee beans in a mill.

Some bore light injuries that would make a paper cut look serious, others were grievously afflicted like they'd been through a meat grinder set to "chunky." In serious cases, some even had broken arms dangling uselessly like wet noodles. In worse cases, a piece of intestine—a gruesome reminder of a recent wound that would make a battlefield surgeon lose his lunch—was simply held in place by their own trembling hands like they were trying to keep their guts from spilling out like candy from a broken piñata.

The continuous, brutal wars had drained the mental strength of every priest in the city, leaving them more hollow-eyed and exhausted than insomniacs at a coffee shortage convention. Medical supplies had vanished ten days ago, disappearing faster than free beer at a college party.

Left to their own devices, most of these men would surely die, given the primitive medical knowledge of this brutal age that made leeches look like cutting-edge technology.

But if they were going to die, by the Light that shines brighter than a thousand suns, they would die meaningfully—not like dogs in a ditch, but like lions in the arena!

Suddenly, a sharp, crisp command cut through the heavy silence like a hot knife through butter: "His Majesty Wrynn has arrived! Salute like your lives depend on it—because they do!"

There was a cacophony of clattering that sounded like the world's worst marching band, a ragged symphony of metal on metal, as ten thousand men snapped to attention simultaneously with the precision of a broken clock. Their injuries visibly hampered them like trying to dance with two left feet and a peg leg. In a normal state, Lothar's elite soldiers would have moved as one, a single, unwavering entity smoother than butter on hot toast.

Duke, trailing behind Llane, Anduin, and Bolvar like a lost puppy, felt a sudden, profound sadness well up in his chest heavier than a lead balloon filled with concrete.

Llane, resplendent in his golden helmet and golden armor that shone brighter than a new penny, stood at the main entrance of Stormwind Fortress, his facial muscles twitching like a nervous tic, a testament to the immense burden he carried that would make Atlas himself throw in the towel.

Anduin Lothar stood beside the king, his voice like a thunderclap that would make Thor jealous, booming across the assembled army: "Warriors of the kingdom! His Majesty Wrynn comes personally to bid farewell to his warriors like a father seeing his sons off to war! Silence, every man jack of you!"

Nearly ten thousand men once again snapped to attention, their feet clicking together with a sound like a thousand hammers striking stone in perfect, terrible unison.

Walking down the ramp, Llane, Duke, and the others moved slowly, deliberately, past the front of the grim queue like mourners at their own funeral.

What kind of faces were these!

There was no vitality, no spark of life, no energy left in them—they looked deader than yesterday's newspaper and twice as grim. Every face was etched with the pallor of death, a ghostly white that spoke of exhaustion and despair deeper than the Grand Canyon.

However…

Every single pair of eyes, sunken and shadowed like they'd been punched by the ghost of Christmas past, revealed an astonishing, fiery fighting spirit that burned hotter than the flames of hell, a burning, unholy fire of defiance mixed with raw hatred and murderous anger that would make a rabid wolverine look cuddly!

In every pair of pupils, there was a glint of grim resolve sharper than a razor's edge, the fierce determination to die bravely, to take as many of the enemy with them as possible and make every death count like votes in a rigged election.

Yes! Every man knew he was marching to his grave like it was a Sunday stroll to church.

But before their lives were snuffed out like candles in a hurricane, before their last breath left their bodies like air from a punctured balloon, they would deliver a fatal, devastating blow to the invaders, in the most savage and brutal way imaginable that would make a Viking berserker proud.

Duke's throat tightened like a noose, a lump forming in his chest bigger than a goose egg, a bitter taste in his mouth that made medicine seem sweet.

Llane looked at the familiar, yet strangely unfamiliar faces, one by one, and couldn't help but be moved deeper than a philosopher contemplating existence. He almost reached out to pat the shoulders of every soldier in the first row as he walked past, but in the end, he managed to control himself, his hand trembling like a leaf in a hurricane, as he walked to the pre-built platform that looked like a gallows dressed up for a party.

Llane raised the large bowl, brimming with potent dwarf gin that could strip paint and kill brain cells, high above his head like he was offering it to the gods themselves. The soldiers, in a unified motion smoother than synchronized swimming, followed suit, raising their own large bowls filled with the fiery spirit that burned like liquid courage.

King Llane's clear voice, though tinged with sorrow deeper than the Mariana Trench, carried far and wide:

"Azeroth has been invaded, and humans have been butchered like cattle at market day! But by the Light that burns brighter than a thousand suns, you are here! You have raised your swords against these damn greenskins like David facing Goliath! I, and you, will meet our maker in this hellish war, perhaps tonight, perhaps tomorrow, but sure as death and taxes it's coming. But it matters not, for we are buying our children a future, a chance to breathe free like eagles soaring over amber waves of grain!"

"My only regret, as Llane Wrynn, is that I cannot stand shoulder-to-shoulder with you this night like brothers in arms! But it matters not a hill of beans. Go forth, my brave warriors, and raise more hell than the devil himself! When next we meet, I shall either boast that Stormwind is ours once more, or I shall tell you that I, too, fell in the charge, just as bravely as you do—fighting like cornered wildcats!"

"Now, by this draught that burns like liquid fire, may your blades be sharper than a serpent's tongue and your axes heavier than the weight of justice, and may you send more Orcs to their dark gods than they can count on all their fingers and toes! To victory that tastes sweeter than honey, or to a glorious death that legends are made of!"

With those words ringing like church bells on Sunday morning, Llane resolutely tilted his head back and drained the full bowl of liquor in one gulp that would make a sailor proud, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow like a cork on water.

Watching Llane's moving display that would bring tears to a statue's eyes, Duke, Anduin, Bolvar, and the others all raised their own bowls and drank the fiery liquid that burned a path down their throats like molten lava seeking the center of the earth.

It had to be said, this dwarf gin had a strange, almost volcanic heat that would make dragon's breath seem like a gentle breeze. The hot torrent rushed into Duke's throat, flowed down his esophagus like liquid fire, and exploded in his stomach like a stick of dynamite, sending a burning sensation through every inch of his body that made him feel more alive than he'd ever felt.

Duke, who wasn't much of a drinker and had the tolerance of a church mouse at a wine tasting, reeled for a split second like he'd been hit by lightning, then snapped back to attention straighter than an arrow, planting his feet firmly on the ground like he was growing roots.

"Sir Edmund!" An old soldier, his head swathed in bloody bandages that looked like he'd been through a blender, his left sleeve flapping emptier than a politician's promise where an arm should have been, stepped out with more courage than sense. He raised the wine in his dish high, offering a salute to Duke that would make a general proud. "I heard it was you who cooked up this whole operation slicker than a whistle, so I'd like to ask one last question, if you don't mind a grizzled old codger speaking his piece."

A murmur of anticipation rippled through the assembled soldiers like wildfire through dry grass.

Duke straightened his shoulders, the scent of dwarf gin clinging to him like cologne made of liquid courage, but his eyes clear as crystal and twice as determined. "Ask away, old warrior! I'll give you the straight scoop, no sugar-coating or beating around the bush!"

The old soldier grinned, his teeth caked with more dirt than a grave digger's shovel but his spirit shining brighter than polished silver. "I'm a rough man, Sir, rougher than a cob and twice as stubborn! Don't know a thing about magic, don't understand your fancy plans that would make a scholar's head spin. All I know is my wife and children died in this damn war, torn from me like pages from a book, and I ain't got a thing left to lose—not a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. I just want to know… tonight, how many Orc lives can I buy with my death? What's the exchange rate on vengeance?"

This wasn't just the voice of one grizzled veteran who'd seen more battles than hot dinners; it was the raw, desperate question echoing in the hearts of every single one of the ten thousand warriors who were about to march to their doom like moths to a flame, but armed and dangerous.

They weren't afraid of dying—death held no more terror for them than a bad case of hiccups! The burning question that gnawed at their souls like termites in timber was: Was it worth it? Would their sacrifice mean something, or would they die for nothing like dogs in a ditch?

Duke trembled, not with fear but with righteous fury, a primal roar tearing from his throat that would make a lion step back in respect. "One for ten, and that's a conservative estimate! And I swear on my very soul, on everything holy and a few things that ain't, I will bring the Orc Warchief's head back to raise a monument to your sacrifice, brothers! I will lift your spirits to the heavens where they belong, and your names will be remembered longer than taxes and twice as proudly!"

The old soldier roared with laughter, a raw, guttural sound that was more defiance than mirth, more battle cry than amusement. "Hahaha! I figured breaking even with one was a good deal, maybe two for profit like a shrewd merchant! But the Warchief's head?! That's striking oil in your backyard! Hahaha! I'd die happier than a pig in mud!"

He resolutely drained the wine in the large bowl in his hand like he was drinking liquid courage, and with a sharp crack that rang like a gunshot, he smashed the earthenware to pieces on the ground with the finality of a judge's gavel.

Behind him, ten thousand soldiers followed suit like synchronized swimmers of destruction, and the air was filled with a deafening cacophony of shattering earthenware, a symphony of grim resolve that would make the angels weep and the devils applaud.

Llane's eyes welled with tears that would make a river jealous, his hand rising like he was reaching for heaven itself, trembling like a leaf in a tornado. "Let's go, and may the Light have mercy on our enemies, because we sure as hell won't!"