Making Moves

Seeing Duke's face, which looked like he'd just swallowed a lemon whole, Llane had a sudden, blinding flash of insight. He clapped Duke on the shoulder, a firm, reassuring gesture. "I believe you," he declared, his voice ringing with conviction.

I believe you. Just three simple words, yet they hit Duke like a ton of bricks – the good kind. This wasn't just the casual trust of a grunt in the trenches; this was the rock-solid faith of a king, a trust that came with the full backing of an entire nation's might. Llane wasn't just talking the talk; he was walking the walk, putting his money where his mouth was.

"Tom," Llane commanded, turning to General Seamus, his voice crisp. "I need you to take an elite regiment and a few of our greener recruits to hold the line at Southshore. Can you pull it off?"

Under normal circumstances, General Seamus would have spat on the ground and told Llane to go jump in a lake. Sending fresh-faced rookies to the meat grinder while keeping the main force in reserve? That was the kind of bone-headed strategy that got generals strung up by their own bootstraps. But Seamus, bless his battle-hardened heart, now saw the writing on the wall clearer than a polished shield. Llane was deliberately holding back, playing a long game for the "Battle of the Hinterlands" that Duke had so ominously hinted at – a battle that was looking more likely than a goblin trying to shortchange you.

Seamus, a man who knew when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em, simply nodded. "Consider it done, Your Majesty. I'll even pull the Griffin Legion back as a strategic reserve, just in case."

Abendis, meanwhile, looked like he was caught between a rock and a hard place. He shot a glance at Llane, then at Duke, his mind replaying Duke's string of improbable miracles. He let out a helpless sigh. "Alright, I'll pull my elite regiment back too. But don't come crying to me when the orcs start knocking on the gates with a battering ram made of bad intentions."

"Thanks," Duke replied, a grim satisfaction settling over him. With Llane and Abendis's full-throttle support, plus the promise of emergency backup if things went sideways, he figured they had enough firepower to give the Horde a real run for their money.

Duke then turned to his deputy, Windsor, his expression all business. "Since the Horde is trying to sneak transport ships through the North-South Continent Strait, it's a safe bet they'll try to pull an air raid on Stromgarde's southern defenses. At the same time, if those ships make it through, they'll launch a full-scale landing operation targeting the Hinterlands. I need Admiral Trollbane to think outside the box and send more support from Stromgarde, and fast."

The Arathi Highlands and the Hinterlands were separated by a mountain range so high, it practically scraped the sky. And those mountains? They were crawling with elemental creatures, meaner than a gronn with a toothache, ready to jump anything that moved. Mobilizing troops through that terrain was a nightmare, far worse than transporting them by sea. This was their one shot, their golden window of opportunity. If they dragged their feet, it would be too late – the fat lady would have sung, and the curtain would be down.

Duke's order to Windsor wasn't just a suggestion; it was the real deal, the most formal transfer order a deputy commander of the Alliance could issue. This kind of directive didn't just get whispered through magic; it was delivered by screaming griffin riders, the highest level of command within the Alliance. Thoras Trollbane, the King of Stromgarde, could, of course, refuse out of sheer stubbornness or selfish motives. But the downside? His beloved Stromgarde would be left high and dry, crying in its ale.

Even after Duke had laid out his plan, a cloud of worry still hung over the room. Everyone knew that air power could chew through ground defenses like a hungry griffin through a goblin. They'd all seen griffins in action; their ground attack capabilities were terrifying. The problem was, the Alliance didn't exactly have griffins coming out of their ears. The seven human kingdoms combined probably only had two or three hundred, mostly used for scouting. No king in his right mind was going to send his precious griffins into a meat grinder on the front lines. Besides, where in the blazes would the Horde get a large-scale air force?

But Duke's expression was as unyielding as a mountain. Llane and the others exchanged puzzled glances, their brows furrowed in confusion. They wouldn't stay puzzled for long.

They soon found out. While they were busy playing whack-a-mole with waves of orc attacks at Southshore, using their unparalleled art of war to keep the green tide at bay, something was going sideways at the Thandol Bridge defense line. From the looks of it, the Horde had slipped into the North-South Continent Strait earlier than expected. Stromgarde's defense line, however, was centered around the Thandol Bridge, meaning their army was a step behind Southshore in getting into battle formation.

"SWISH—" A massive projection vehicle, looking like a giant's slingshot, hurled a basket full of human-head-sized rocks towards the orc transport ships clustered in the middle of the strait. The orc ships hadn't even fully entered range yet. It was clear the orc laborers inside were either scared out of their wits or just plain stupid, because a whole mess of transport ships were just sitting there, dead in the water, just outside the range of Stromgarde's long-range weapons.

"Hahahaha! Well, I'll be damned! The Horde actually sent transport ships! I thought this whole defense line was just a waste of good lumber!" The soldiers from Stromgarde roared with laughter, their voices echoing across the water. Over their long stint guarding the Thandol Bridge, the people of Stromgarde had put a whole lot of crossbows, catapults, and cannons to good use. They'd actually managed to train up some surprisingly good engineers, artillerymen, and crossbowmen. It was an unexpected bonus, a silver lining in the cloud of constant vigilance. These folks, after all, were just farmers a few months ago.

King Thoras Trollbane, a man who knew his way around a battlefield, was no fool. As the first human kingdom among the six northern nations to get wind of the orcish assault, King Thoras had always taken the green skins seriously. So, when Duke's official transfer order and notification landed on his desk, Thoras didn't bat an eye. He agreed to Duke's request, obeyed the transfer order, and sent a freshly reorganized five-thousand-man infantry regiment to Duke. On top of that, he frantically mobilized a horde of crossbows and five archer battalions to the Thandol Bridge defense line, setting them up in a deep, layered formation to deal with the "air strikes" Duke had so confidently predicted.

"Air raid? What air raid?" The soldiers and officers of Stromgarde were utterly bewildered. They just followed orders from the Alliance's deputy commander, even if those orders seemed to come from a madman. All archers and crossbowmen were to be spread out, dispersed like dandelion seeds in a hurricane. Same for the crossbows; best to cover them with a mountain of branches and leaves before firing, to keep them hidden.

What in the name of the Light is this nonsense? This completely turned the military common sense of their era on its head. Humans weren't like elves; unless they were seasoned hunters or elites with three years of training under their belts, most human archers couldn't hit the broad side of a barn. They couldn't tell where an arrow would fly if it was more than twenty meters away. They had to rely on a few sharpshooters to lead the charge, then unleash a massive, covering volley into a general area to make up for their abysmal individual aim. It was common knowledge in human military circles that scattered archers were about as effective as a wet noodle in a sword fight.

Now, the archers of Stromgarde were spread out, confused as a goblin in a library. What made it even more baffling was why most of the contraptions placed on the edge of the cliff were either half-assembled or broken, with only a decorative crossbow left, and a whole bunch of... straw men wearing Stromgarde soldier armor? It was like a bad joke, but nobody was laughing.

It didn't take long for their confusion to evaporate, replaced by a cold, hard dose of reality. That damn Horde really did have an air force!

"Look!" an archer shrieked, his voice cracking with disbelief. Along with his cry, countless eyes turned skyward, spotting a multitude of black specks appearing against the rising sun. In just a few heartbeats, these black spots swelled rapidly in their vision, transforming into monstrous black birds, wings spread wide and flapping with terrifying power. They were so huge, even from that distance in the sky, that the soldiers could only imagine their true, gargantuan size.

"Calm down! Calm down! Stay at your posts! Everything is exactly as Deputy Commander Duke expected!" an unknown officer bellowed, his voice cracking with a desperate urgency that somehow cut through the rising panic. Miraculously, the agitated, terrified army quickly snapped back to attention, their fear momentarily replaced by a strange sense of awe.

Edmund Duke. A name whispered with reverence and dread. This name represented the bloody heads of over two hundred thousand orcs, and it also represented the unwavering victory of the Alliance. Thinking of the bizarre, seemingly nonsensical arrangements they'd been ordered to make, the soldiers suddenly had an epiphany: their commander, Duke, that mad genius, had already seen this coming! Soldiers didn't have that kind of long-term vision, but as long as they knew this wasn't some random ambush, but a battle they were prepared for, they wouldn't fall apart so easily. They were ready.