Vanguard

The Horde was bleeding, no doubt about it. As the grizzled old war dog with the most notches on his belt from fighting the Horde, Lothar knew this in his bones. Sure, the orc warriors were sporting shinier gear than ever before, but their fighting edge was dulling. The orcs that Stormwind had first faced were all battle-hardened veterans, the kind who ate nails for breakfast and spit out cannonballs. Any reckless attack meant a one-way ticket to the grave! Hesitate for even a heartbeat? You were dead meat! Lose a contest of strength? Say hello to your ancestors! According to Duke, these were elite soldiers who had just come off a brutal war with some mysterious race called the Draenei. They knew how to squeeze every last drop of advantage from a fight, and their raw fighting talent was off the charts. Facing such hardened veterans, Stormwind soldiers often found themselves on the wrong end of a one-to-ten casualty ratio.

But after the burning of Stormwind City and two harrowing sea landings, Lothar was hard-pressed to find large numbers of orcs of that caliber. Here on the South Flow Coast, Lothar estimated the casualty ratio had dropped to a more manageable one-to-three, largely because the orcs were short on warlock support, while the humans had brought every mage they could scrape together to the party. It was like a game of chicken, a critical point where whoever blinked first would lose everything. If the Alliance couldn't hold the line this time, the orcs would emerge from this crucible with a fresh crop of elites, tempered by blood and fire. Even a greenhorn laborer, who could only swing a wooden hammer, would transform into a terrifying, battle-hardened killing machine. In contrast, the well-trained Alliance forces, like the soldiers from Lordaeron and Gilneas, would see their ranks swell with seasoned warriors.

Almost there, just a little more. But Lothar had already thrown his best troops into the fray, and the Horde's heavy hitters were being kept busy by Uther and the elite Knights of the Silver Hand. Short of throwing himself onto the pile, Lothar was fresh out of ideas. No wonder Terenas was sweating bullets! If King Terenas hadn't had a sliver of sense left, realizing that sending in cavalry was about as useful as a screen door on a submarine in this situation, he probably would have ordered his remaining knights to charge, sending them all to their doom.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the tension, clear as a bell in the smoky air. "Uh, well, Deputy Commander Edmund sent me a message saying that if the battle situation is unfavorable and we're truly up against the wall, we can mobilize the 'Tactical Strike Force FFF Regiment.'" The speaker was Duke's butler, Makaro, looking a bit like a fish out of water in the war council. In terms of military might, Makaro was about as useful as a chocolate teapot. He didn't have any outstanding qualities in a fight, but his tact and diligence had made him Duke's most trusted voice. In many situations, he was even Duke's full-blown proxy, every word and action representing Duke's stance. His sudden appearance was like a breath of fresh air, a ray of hope in the stagnant, suffocating atmosphere of the Alliance command.

"What? Duke has another trick up his sleeve!?" King Terenas practically leaped across the table, grabbing Makaro's shoulders with a grip that could crush walnuts.

"Well, Your Majesty, this is just an experimental weapon. It hasn't been tested in actual combat, but my Lord said we could give it a try when necessary." Makaro, ever the cautious one, didn't spill all the beans. Even though Duke's original words had been, "Send them up to kill everyone when those guys are about to collapse," Makaro wisely left himself some wiggle room.

"What in the blazes is the FFF Group?" Lothar demanded, his brow furrowed in suspicion. It wasn't that he didn't trust Duke, but he wanted Makaro to lay it all out for everyone, plain and simple.

"Uh, it seems to be a strange language called Fire, Fire, Fire or something? In common language, it means 'fire, fire, fire!'" Makaro explained, looking a little sheepish.

Duke's backup plan was so audacious, it made Lothar's teeth ache just hearing about it. "Alright, alright, enough with the riddles! Just tell me how you want to cooperate. Do you want me to order the crossbows or cannons to be moved?" In the minds of Lothar and the other big wigs, this "comeback weapon" had to be something colossal, something terrifying.

Makaro simply waved a dismissive hand. "No, Your Majesty, we have a full set of preparations."

On the beach front, the Alliance was losing ground, pushed back step by agonizing step. Another line of defense, centered around a flimsy wooden fence, was utterly obliterated. High Lord Mograine, a living whirlwind of steel, dispatched an orc who tried to sneak up on him with a colossal machete. After cleaving the brute in half, he quickly scanned the defense line, grabbed a messenger who was standing nearby, and bellowed, "Form a defense team! Retreat to the sixth fence and regroup!" The soldier nodded, then raised his bugle, blowing two sharp, short blasts, followed by three long, drawn-out wails.

At the sound, every captain and middle-level officer shouted orders to their troops, gathering their soldiers into tight, small squares. They retreated in a staggered, disciplined manner, ensuring the orcs couldn't simply run them down. Turning tail and running would be suicide; one wrong step, and it would turn into a full-blown rout. No matter how fast a six-foot human could run, his short legs were no match for the two-meter-plus stride of an enraged orc.

The Horde tried to break through the retreating formations, but the Alliance soldiers stood firm, a wall of iron and resolve, holding their weapons steady, stabbing at any orcs who dared to approach. Even in retreat, each team raised their shields, linking them together, ensuring that every bone-jarring blow from the orcs was borne by at least three men at once. A small, disciplined shield wall, slowly but surely, moved backward.

The orcs, in their sheer, overwhelming numbers, kept throwing themselves at these retreating teams. If they got lucky, they could knock a warrior off his feet. Once a soldier went down, there was practically no chance of getting back up; the orcs would swarm him, ripping him to pieces. Fortunately, most of the Alliance soldiers managed to successfully fall back to the next line of defense.

Mograine looked up at the darkening sky, a profound sadness etched on his face. "This won't work! The entire coastal defense line will collapse before nightfall…" He glanced at the setting sun, a knot of worry tightening in his gut. The craftsmen were already working like mad, frantically adding new fences and arranging antlers, but these fresh defenses were nowhere near as sturdy as the initial, battle-hardened ones. If the Horde's relentless offensive couldn't be broken before dark, and the battle devolved into a brutal positional war, then the humans, already at a disadvantage in individual combat, would surely be crushed in a night battle.

At that moment, several dazzling flames erupted from behind Mograine, splashing down in the air, right in the center of the chaotic battlefield. Clearly, this wasn't some arcane spell or dark magic. When Mograine spun around, he saw a group of Edmund Duke's personal guard, soldiers of the Kingdom of Stormwind, standing at the next line of defense. It was a long, brighter light than any mage's flame. Dozens of fiery projectiles stretched out from a makeshift arrow tower, setting half the battlefield ablaze. The blinding glare of the flames made all other colors on the battlefield seem to dim, even outshining the fading sunlight.

Fear of fire is the most primal instinct of almost all land creatures. That fear, born in the primeval forests billions of years ago, when wildfires swept across the nascent world, had been deeply ingrained in the very genes of land-dwelling beings ever since. The Horde's frenzied, unstoppable attack came to a screeching halt. Mograine finally had a chance to breathe, and as he looked closer, he saw the markings on the strange Alliance soldiers: three consecutive, identical symbols.