Rend

If you can kill with one arrow, never waste a second. Behind him, Rend Blackhand's heart was doing a frantic jig in his chest, bleeding profusely.

Compared to those red dragons, who were basically forced labor with wings and whose usefulness was as clear as mud, wolf riders were the Horde's bread and butter, their core fighting force.

War wolves had been tearing up battlefields alongside orcs for at least ten thousand years, practically family. They were the orcs' most loyal companions, their best hunting buddies, and their fiercest warriors.

In past dust-ups with humans, as soon as things got up close and personal, the wolf cavalry – a terrifying blend of orcs and their snarling war wolves – could often achieve a casualty exchange ratio of more than one to five, sometimes even one to ten, against human cavalry. Wolf riders were, without a doubt, the pride and joy of the Horde.

Unfortunately, war wolves weren't exactly easy on the grocery bill. A strapping adult war wolf could tip the scales at over a ton and stand more than three meters tall. Even their backs were a good two meters off the ground!

And their appetites? Legendary. Feeding one war wolf could easily consume enough rations to sustain at least four of the top ten adult orc warriors from a powerful clan. Only the truly mighty clans, those who controlled the most lucrative hunting grounds, could afford to keep these furry, ravenous beasts.

The only thing humans had that could even dream of standing against them was the heavy cavalry from Lordaeron. These guys rode super-sized horses, affectionately (or terrifyingly) known as the "Lights of Lordaeron," capable of hauling three tons of cargo. These equine giants, also weighing over a ton, looked like a bizarre cross between a horse and an elephant.

They moved with a thunderous gait, their hooves shaking the very earth. While they couldn't sprint for a marathon, their power in a short burst was so utterly terrifying, they could send a charging war wolf flying like a rag doll. No matter how you sliced it, the war wolf was a treasure to the Horde. If this wasn't a desperate pursuit battle, why in the blazes would Rend have even considered sending out his precious wolf cavalry?

"Alright, we thought we were just strolling through an abandoned position," Rend probably grumbled to himself, "but who knew we were practically charging headfirst into a hornet's nest?" Almost at the same instant, Rend wanted to order his wolf cavalry to pull a U-turn and beat a hasty retreat. Too late!

The Thandol Bridge wasn't exactly a tight squeeze for a leisurely stroll, but for a full-blown cavalry charge, it was about as wide as a goblin's smile. The wolf cavalry behind them already felt the cold dread creeping up their spines, wanting to turn tail, but it was like trying to turn a battleship in a bathtub – not happening.

The next moment, after unleashing every last arrow from their pre-loaded crossbows, Duke's Mage Hands floated directly into the air, a shimmering cloud of arcane energy. All 256 of them, a veritable swarm of disembodied limbs, blasted out the most potent Frostfire Arrows they could muster. Some clans in the Horde had weird resistances, like the Blackrock Clan's knack for shrugging off fire, or the Frostwolf Clan's impressive immunity to frost.

But Duke, being Duke, was too lazy to play twenty questions with each orc. He just went straight for the Frostfire Arrow, the universal solvent of orcish well-being. "No matter what resistance you've got," Duke probably thought with a smirk, "you're just a wolf. You can't have all-class resistance like a warlock or a mage, can you?"

The Frostfire Arrow, a mesmerizing blend of frost white, flame red, and arcane purple, became the ultimate Grim Reaper, madly scything down the lives of the wolf riders on the narrow bridge. Some were obliterated in a colossal explosion, splattering scorched flesh and blood across the stone. Others were encased in instant ice, life freezing solid in their veins. Still others simply disintegrated into nothingness under the arcane light. Not a single wolf rider escaped unscathed after being hit.

Almost simultaneously, a strange, almost ethereal buzzing sound emanated from the north bridgehead position. The arrow flew with a whisper, not a twang. This ghostly silence could only mean one thing: Ranger-General Sylvanas had arrived.

The jade-skinned, slender elf woman moved like a phantom, maintaining blistering speed under the cover of battlements and trenches. She didn't need to worry about optimal shooting range; any patch of cover was her personal firing platform for delivering a deadly arrow. Unlike her sister's more traditional tactics, Sylvanas's approach was brutally practical. With arrow consumption skyrocketing, she'd ditched the lightweight, silent wooden arrows unique to elven rangers. Instead, she'd opted for the longer, iron-tipped arrows commonly used by archers in the Arathi Highlands.

They packed a better punch, piercing armor with ease, but they lacked the stealth of the elven wooden arrows, which remained nearly silent after release. To compensate, and to add a little extra psychological warfare, Sylvanas had simply asked Stromgarde's craftsmen to whip up a batch of simple whistles. Attached to her arrows, they'd emit a strange, unnerving buzzing sound once fired. This little whistle might throw off accuracy for lesser archers, but for Sylvanas, as long as the target was within a hundred meters, it was barely a blip on her radar. Besides, it was just for dealing with cannon fodder.

"Protect the vital parts!" the wolf riders screamed, their voices hoarse with terror, as they heard the unique, chilling buzz of those incoming arrows. They frantically brought their machetes up, trying to shield their throats. After days of this brutal game, they'd learned that the elf ranger on the other side was their personal nightmare.

A dark, gray-black light flashed, and an arrow, impossibly, pierced clean through the broad-bladed machete in a wolf cavalryman's hand. It then buried itself in the unlucky brute's neck, before, with a spurt of blood, hitting the shoulder of the wolf cavalryman next to him.

With a dull THUD, the second wolf rider was knocked onto the third, just as a Frostfire Arrow slammed into that guy's head. SPLAT!

The heads of two orcs exploded like overripe melons. Almost simultaneously, the second arrow arrived, piercing clean through a war wolf's eye, entering from the left, exiting from the right, and then burying itself in the throat of a second wolf. Three orcs and two wolves, instantly dead.

"Hero of the elves!" the wolf cavalry leader snarled through gritted teeth, a mix of grudging respect and burning hatred. Sylvanas had transformed into a high-speed, self-propelled artillery piece, unleashing a seemingly low-key, but in fact no less terrifying, hail of firepower than Duke's. Her iron arrows were the scythe of the Grim Reaper, relentlessly reaping the lives of the orc wolf riders. Two strings per second.

Three arrows on one string. The only thing that could possibly slow Sylvanas down wasn't her own incredible firing rate, but the sheer shortage of arrows. However, if Sylvanas actually waited until all the quivers stashed in every corner of the position were empty, the orcs' morale would probably have already collapsed into a puddle of green goo. The sharp arrows, whistling from the battlefield with a chilling "woohoo" sound, like Duke's magical attacks, became the orcs' death warrant.

Even so, the wolf cavalry, at this moment, showed why they were the Horde's core fighting force. Casualties were astronomical, a mountain of dead and dying. Yet, with no visible enemy, the wolf riders maintained their terrifying morale, charging forward like a freight train with no brakes. They weren't afraid of death. Even if they were shot or blown to smithereens, the war wolves beneath them still bravely lunged at the human positions, their eyes scanning for the two elusive enemies hiding in the dark.

Suddenly, a shift. Changes rippled through the human position. Above the void, burly elemental creatures were making a grand entrance. These colossal beings, previously existing only in whispered legends, appeared in mid-air like phantoms. Space distorted on a massive scale, twisting and shimmering, and within that distortion, water elemental giants – about three meters tall, all body and arms, but no heads or hands – solidified into reality, one by one.

The frost mage's unique spell: Summon Water Elemental! The million-dollar question was, why did Duke have so many water elementals? When Antonidas had summoned water elementals to fight Gul'dan's demon army, he'd only managed a few dozen. But Duke? A staggering 108!