Orgrimm Location

After a bargaining session that lasted longer than a goblin's attention span, King Terenas finally caved, accepting Duke's "preferential package." It was a steal, really: only 1.6 million Arathor gold coins per month, with half of it payable in cold, hard cash, and the other half graciously allowed to be put on the tab. All outstanding debts could be mortgaged with precious artworks or shiny gold trinkets. In exchange, Duke promised 300 FFF flamethrower teams, guaranteed to be replenished if damaged under normal use (as long as the flamethrowers themselves didn't kick the bucket), and all the fuel a war could ever need.

Ilucia, bless her earnest heart, was utterly bewildered by Duke's wheeling and dealing. "Teacher, uh, Duke," she stammered, her brow furrowed in confusion, "why in the blazes are you doing this?" She'd just watched Duke twist a valve under a tank, and suddenly, a massive torrent of finished fuel had gushed out of the colossal tank next to it. The sheer volume made Ilucia think of exaggerated words like "the floodgates opened" and "a raging river." She blinked, her gaze falling upon the strange, glowing runes etched onto the flamethrower. As long as the valve was pressed, the inscriptions pulsed with a vibrant yellow magical light. "Or are these mysterious inscriptions the biggest cost of producing the FFF Artificial Dragon Breath Launcher?"

Duke, caught off guard, actually blushed for the first time in recorded history. He glanced at the "inscriptions" – which, to anyone who could read common, were actually crude, blocky Orcish characters – and let out a strangled cough. He quickly adopted his most serious, stern teacher's demeanor. "Well, those are for anti-theft purposes, you see. If the inscription is damaged, it messes with the transmitter. Of course, the biggest secret isn't actually that."

"Then what is…?" Illucia pressed, her curiosity piqued.

Duke gently patted Illucia's head. "I'm glad you haven't spilled the beans about the Dragon Breath Sprayer's secrets. Truth be told, I'm thinking way beyond this war. This conflict? It's going to end with humanity on top, no doubt about it. The only question is how big our victory is, and how much each country has to bleed for it. So, I've already started planning for the aftermath, for the post-war period."

"After the war!?" Illucia's eyes widened, round as saucers, in utter shock. What kind of foresight was this? With the orcs still breathing down their necks, the entire continent still knee-deep in the muddy trenches of war, and every human struggling to see past the next sunrise, Duke was already plotting the balance of power for Lordaeron, the Alliance's strongest member, after the dust settled… If this was true, her own father, the calculating Lord Barov, wasn't even playing in the same league as Duke.

Duke gazed into the distance, his black eyes becoming impossibly deep, like the endless, star-studded void. Illucia felt as if she could never truly fathom him, yet she was drawn into his depths, utterly captivated. The large hand resting on her head brought a strange, comforting warmth. For so many years, not even her closest kin had shown her such affection. Her father was a cold, calculating man, seeing only the bottom line. Her mother was perpetually lost in the labyrinth of magic. And her two younger brothers were like sharks in a womb, already cultivating their own power, sharpening their teeth to devour each other in the future… And then there was Duke, the young wizard who claimed to be her master, offering her the warmth she had longed for but never received.

In her heart, Illucia let out a silent sigh. Oh, if only Duke were my husband. Peace of mind, safety… But he'd never want me. The price my father would demand… even a king couldn't afford it. Illucia knew her bastard father's true colors. For the sake of the family's interests, he would undoubtedly use her marriage to squeeze every last drop of benefit for the Barov family. Illucia lowered her head slightly, another silent sigh escaping her lips.

Meanwhile, in the Horde camp at Sepulcher, Grom Hellscream let out a deep, guttural sigh of his own. For the first time, he felt the crushing weight of responsibility on his shoulders. He'd originally figured that out of the 400,000 orcs on the western front who'd crossed the sea, as long as 200,000 made it ashore, they'd be able to wipe the entire human race from the northern continent. With the help of those new transport ships, cobbled together by the goblins, the Horde had successfully landed 320,000 orcs, 250,000 of whom were combat-ready warriors.

Grom had thought it was a sure thing, a slam dunk. Who knew those puny humans would suddenly pull out some fire-breathing contraptions? He didn't know what that stuff was, but once you got your hands on that sticky goo, your whole body went up in flames. Except for the Blackrock Clan, who had a natural high resistance to fire, most other orcs who got a taste of it were dead meat. To save the precious food brought from the transport ships, Grom had been forced to order the wounded soldiers to lead the charge in every attack, to act as living shields, consuming the enemy's fire.

The only silver lining was that the humans didn't have too many of those flamethrower devices, and their range wasn't exactly impressive. Even from an arrow tower, they could only spray about 20 meters. On the ground, it was even closer. First, they'd use long-range weapons, like catapults, to soften up the enemy, and at the cost of sacrificing some poor souls, they could still drag the humans into close-quarters combat. But every time they were on the verge of victory, about to wipe out the last of the humans, that disgusting flame weapon would pop up again, snatching victory from their grasp. The Horde always fell short, every single time. Now, the area around Sepulcher had become a meat grinder, with tens of thousands of Alliance and Horde warriors dying there every single day.

Noticing the faint footsteps behind him, Grom asked without turning his head, "What's the situation in the rear?"

The blademaster Samuro materialized from the misty air. "Gul'dan has conjured more of our kin from the Dark Portal. Their fighting spirit might be a bit… diminished, but at least their numbers are back up. Now, the two brothers, Rend and Blackhand, are leading 300,000 orcs to attack the Arathi Highlands."

"Hmph! Even I can't crack that bridge, how in the blazes are those two brats from Blackhand going to do it?" Grom was a force of nature, but when he ran into a guy who could shrug off three of his axe swings without dying – a guy whose name sounded like "Militia Captain," was written as "Prince of Stromgarde," and whose last name was Trollbane – Grom couldn't stand up to the enemy.

"No! It's not just an attack from the bridge. Now Gul'dan suggests filling up the strait first."

"Fill it up? Didn't you say before that couldn't be done?" Indeed, the Horde had tried before, but any rocks or dirt they dropped would just be washed away by the relentless current. After a few days, the turbulent channel hadn't narrowed an inch, so the Horde had thrown in the towel.

"No, Gul'dan got the inspiration from the humans' blockade of our transport ships. He told Rend Blackhand, 'Before, the rocks weren't big enough. As long as we smash down big enough rocks, we can still block the strait.' Rend did as he was told, and is now reinforcing the area where the Alliance blocked the strait."

Grom's jaw dropped in utter shock. "Well, I'll be damned! I have to say, humans are a clever bunch. It's a crying shame we finally have Gul'dan to give us some decent advice."

"It'll take about two weeks to seal the strait and create a passage for the army to cross."

"Alright then, I'll keep mankind's main force pinned down right here." Flames burned in Grom's eyes, a fierce determination. After realizing that crossing the sea wasn't a viable option, the orcs learned they could fill the strait to cross, and this new endeavor became their sacred mission, their highest directive. Along the entire strait that separated the north and south continents, now more commonly known as the Thandol Strait, the 200-kilometer-long battle line was swarming with orc laborers, pushing colossal rocks, desperately trying to fill the sea.

"108, 109, 110…" Lirath, perched high above, her bowstring humming, called out the numbers as she picked off orcs across the river. But then, she frowned. The dragons were coming again. More red dragons, more Dragonmaw Clan orcs. And the Alliance? They were helpless against them. After all, the Alliance lacked a strong air force capable of standing toe-to-toe with the Red Dragons. The number of human griffins was already pitifully small, and they were at an absolute disadvantage in terms of quality. To fight rashly would be suicide. In Duke's mind, the only ones who could deal with the orc cavalry without harming the red dragons were the Night Elf Hippogryph Riders, far away on another continent.

"What a crying shame…" The Night Elves' stubborn neutrality meant they wouldn't lift a finger in this war. Duke had no choice but to let Alleria, Sylvanas, and Lirath lead 300 rangers each, working their tails off to counter the Dragonmaw Clan's agile, hit-and-run tactics across the entire front line. However, the entire bay was being filled up at a speed visible to the naked eye. Duke felt like he'd shot himself in the foot. If he'd known this would happen, he would have just let the Horde's transport ships cross the strait. Maybe then, the Horde would still be foolishly gathering ships, trying to cross the sea the old-fashioned way. Duke's flamethrower was useless here; they had the genuine article – dragon's breath. Duke, Alleria, and the Alliance bosses in Stromgarde all felt the brutal reality of fighting a war without air superiority.

"Duke, my gut tells me you've seen something coming. What are you waiting for?" The Great Demon Alleria, taking advantage of a moment when no one was around, cornered Duke directly. Duke, ever the nimble one, had deftly dodged her first attempt with a Flash, then used an Ice Barrier to thwart her next move. But even he couldn't escape the clutches of another devil. Sylvanas, like a ghost from a nightmare, dropped from a tree the moment Duke's Ice Barrier's absolute defense faded, reaching out to grab his ear.

"No, no! I surrender!" Duke yelped, throwing his hands up in mock defeat.

Outside the grove, Gavinrad, who was theoretically his bodyguard, let out a casual whistle, indicating he saw nothing, heard nothing. In the woods, the Windrunner sisters, their eyes glinting with mischief, chanted, "Resistance will be punished severely! Confess and you will be treated leniently!" They were using Duke's own words against him, and he was utterly mortified.

Duke, however, stood firm, unyielding. "Hmph! Someone still owes me a truckload of 'good brothers.' Until that debt's paid, there's no deal." But his feigned indignation only lasted so long. After all, this was a serious matter concerning the Windrunner family, so Duke didn't drag out the suspense.

"It's been eight days since the Second Battle of the Crossing, and we haven't seen Orgrim's banner. That's not like Orgrim. I'm seventy percent sure he's personally led his army across the sea."

"So… where is he?" Alleria asked, her voice tight with anticipation.

"If I'm not mistaken, he should be here with no more than 50,000 elite Horde soldiers…" Duke unfolded the map he carried, pointing to the Hinterlands. The two Windrunner sisters looked a little unhappy.

"This is a mixed bag, good and bad," Duke paused. "The good news is that the Horde will definitely tick off another branch of dwarves living in Aerie Peak – the Wildhammer dwarves. The Wildhammer dwarves are thick as thieves with the griffins that breed in Aerie Peak. Their griffon riders are pretty famous too. Now we don't have to worry about not having an air force."

Alleria's expression darkened. "The bad news is that the Horde has gotten behind the Alliance's main force." To the west lay Silverpine Forest, to the east the Hinterlands, and to the south the Arathi Highlands. The Alliance was practically surrounded on three sides.

"No, I'm not worried about that. The Wildhammer dwarves are tough as nails. As long as we send enough reinforcements, they'll be able to hold off the Horde. The real problem is, if this elite tribe can't go west…" The two sisters followed Duke's finger as it moved northward, towards the heart of the Kingdom of Lordaeron. If they passed through Seradan in the Hinterlands, they could go north over the mountains and arrive at the holy city of Stratholme.

"The Horde is going to attack Stratholme?" Sylvanas asked tentatively, her voice barely a whisper.

"No. They can't take down Stratholme. Right now, Archbishop Faol of the Alliance is churning out paladins in Stratholme like hotcakes. Half of the Knights of the Silver Hand are stationed there, and Stratholme's defenses are on par with Lordaeron City itself. As long as the Horde can't crack it in a short time, they'll be besieged and wiped out by the endless stream of humans rushing to defend the holy city."

"Then what…?"

"I'm worried about your hometown, Quel'Thalas."

At this, the two sisters stared at Duke as if he'd just sprouted a second head. Alleria put her hands on her hips, puffing out her chest like a proud rooster. "The entire forest of Quel'Thalas is protected by a magical shield, Duke. Those stupid trolls won't be able to break in even if they spend another ten thousand years trying."

Sylvanas also struck a similar pose, hands on hips, chest puffed out, clearly signaling that her elder sister was right on the money.

"Have you forgotten that the Horde actually has warlocks?" Duke countered, a knowing look in his eye. "The books in Karazhan have a rough description of your forest's magical defense system. If you're relying on rune stones, all it takes is enough power to corrode the rune stones in a few key places, and the magic shield protecting the entire forest will be nothing more than a bad joke."

As Duke spoke, the rosy white faces of the two Windrunner sisters drained of all color, turning as pale as death. As Ranger Generals of Quel'Thalas, they certainly knew the secrets of the forest's magic circle. The daily maintenance of the rune stones was carried out right under their noses. If the Alleria sisters didn't know Duke so well, they would have pegged him for a troll spy. Duke's final words extinguished the last glimmer of hope in the Windrunner sisters' hearts.

"According to my calculations, the worst-case scenario is that the trolls decide to throw in with the Horde, and then Quel'Thalas will face a catastrophe." Deep down, the Windrunner sisters desperately wanted to disbelieve Duke's grim inference. But along the way, when had Duke ever been wrong about the big picture? Their slender bodies trembled.

Duke stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on each of their shoulders. "You've done more than enough for the Alliance. Go back and warn Quel'Thalas before the whole situation goes belly-up. And remember to evacuate your parents and your third sister to Silvermoon City. It's the only safe haven there."

Alleria bit her lip, her eyes filled with conflict. "What about the defense line along the strait?"

Duke shook his head. "Everyone knows we can't hold it. In fact, ninety percent of the people in the entire Arathi Highlands have already pulled back to Stromgarde. Even if we give up the Arathi Highlands, the Alliance can still hold on for a long time. We don't have to worry about the Horde seizing the opportunity to invade Hillsbrad Foothills. After all, the Thoradin Wall is there." The Wall of Thoradin was a colossal fortress and city wall, built by Emperor Thoradin himself to ward off the trolls. The stones used were the hardest granite, solidified by the very essence of the earth itself. Heavy catapults could barely leave a shallow dent on its surface. There, you could truly be a one-man army against a horde.

Duke smiled calmly. "Go back. As a good friend, and as the commander-in-chief of the Alliance, I agree that you should take all the rangers back with you. Your homeland needs you more than the Alliance does right now." At this moment, the saintly moral integrity inherited from Medivh shone brightly. Didn't the Alliance need the sharpshooters of the high elves? Wrong! Stromgarde, which was about to bear the brunt of the Horde's red dragon riders, was practically begging for the elven rangers' help. Both Duke and Alleria knew this perfectly well.

Yet, Duke still gave Quel'Thalas a heads-up about the impending threat and let them go. Of course, Alleria had volunteered to bring the elite of the Windrunner family to help, and if she wanted to leave, the Alliance had no reason to stop her and her people. Duke's gesture was to avoid putting Alleria in a tough spot, using his authority to allow her rangers to depart. As one could imagine, once the rangers left, Duke would be facing a grilling from King Thoras of Stromgarde. Alleria's face flushed. She was the one who had volunteered to help. Now, when she and her troops were needed most, she was the one who wanted to pull out. If Duke had been more ruthless, if he had concealed the Horde's movements, or kept his deductions about the war's direction to himself, then Alleria, who had been exploited for so long and only realized at the last minute that she'd been dragged in as the main force, might have been able to be ruthless herself. But with Duke being so utterly noble, Alleria felt her defenses crumbling, little by little.

"I… I… I…" Alleria stumbled over her words, repeating "I" three times without finishing a single sentence. The more carefree Duke's smile became, the more uncomfortable Alleria felt.

"You should head back first, and use your influence, and that of the Windrunner family, to see if you can shake those arrogant wizards out of their sweet dreams. Then, save as many as you can, alright?"

Alleria shuddered. She had never imagined that Duke would have factored in all the corruption within Silvermoon City into his calculations. The thought of having to argue with the Silvermoon Council's cabal of mages, who would only drag their feet, made Alleria feel utterly overwhelmed.

At this moment, Sylvanas clapped her sister on the shoulder. "Sister, you can take the main force back. I'll stay with the combat team His Majesty the Sun King promised to the Alliance. I'll even pull double duty for you. Or… do you not trust my archery skills?" Looking at her smiling sister, Alleria finally realized this was the best possible outcome. As a Ranger General, her influence in the country was far greater than her second sister's. As long as she brought the main force of the Windrunners back, there was still plenty of room to maneuver. Seeing the fierce determination etched on her sister's face, Sylvanas smiled. "Well, I've got to go back and have a little chat with the folks who stayed behind first." With that, she tapped the ground with her toes and vanished on the spot. All that was left was a mortified Alleria.

Perhaps it was because she had first met Duke when he was just a teenager that Alleria, deep down, refused to acknowledge his incredible growth. Every time she saw him, she wanted to act like the strong, elder sibling, to playfully bully him. Unfortunately, no matter how much she resisted, she had to admit it: Duke was no longer the little Duke she knew. From his physical presence to his sharp mind, to his network of powerful allies, Duke had completely transformed in less than a year (or so it seemed), becoming a truly pivotal figure in the world of Azeroth.

Pursing her lips slightly, Alleria seemed to have made up her mind. The next second, Duke suddenly found a warm, plump female body pressed against his back. "Good brother, good brother, good brother…" There wasn't the slightest hint of affectation. Instead, as the orchid-like scent, mixed with a hint of shyness, wafted from behind his ear, Duke's entire ear turned a fiery red with embarrassment. By the time Duke reacted, the heroine of Quel'Thalas, Alleria, had already vanished into the wind.

Duke touched his ears, muttering to himself, "This time, there shouldn't be any tragedy, right?" Duke was a little confused. He had changed history too much. In the previous life, Alleria had lost her youngest brother, Lirath, and both her parents in the combined invasion of orcs and trolls. This had cemented her hatred for the orcs, leading to her becoming the fierce heroine of the Alliance Expeditionary Force, who later crossed the Dark Portal to the world of Draenor. Duke didn't know how history would twist and turn this time. Since Alleria was so good to him, and their relationship was so… unclear, Duke couldn't bear to let her family suffer such a tragedy. "Well, it all depends on how Orgrim plays his cards."

At almost the same moment, Orgrim encountered a strange creature in the Hinterlands. Based on the scouts' reports, he'd thought they'd stumbled upon some ogres, though these particular brutes were smaller and moved with an unnerving elegance and quietness he'd never seen in those hulking creatures before. But as a fading ray of sunlight caught one of the figures stepping forward, Orgrim saw that the creature's skin was green, the same color as most of his warriors, and the same shade as the surrounding trees. That explained why they hadn't noticed these guys before – their skin color was perfect camouflage among the leaves, especially when they were swinging through the branches like these creatures were doing. He also noticed that the creature was slightly taller than him, leaner than an ogre, and more balanced in its build. The creature didn't have overly long arms, disproportionately large hands, or a massive head. As he met the fire glinting in the creature's dark eyes, the figure suddenly lunged, stabbing Orgrim with the spear in its hand, a clear sign of their cunning.

"We are not your enemies!" Doomhammer roared, his voice tearing through the tranquility of the night. He knocked the spear away with one hand, only then realizing that the spearhead was made of shaved stone, incredibly sharp. "I want to see your leader!"