Troll

It turns out that the Warchief, the mighty Orgrim Doomhammer himself, could sprout so many cross-shaped blue veins on his forehead in an instant, his face turning a shade of purple usually reserved for bruised plums. He looked like a cartoon character on the verge of exploding.

Orgrim, in a fit of pure, unadulterated rage, grabbed Zul'jin by the scruff of his neck with one hand, lifting the troll Warlord clear off his feet!

"Didn't you say that trolls are the kings of the forest, you overgrown twig-eater?!" Orgrim roared, his voice shaking the very trees. "That nothing in this blasted forest can be hidden from your people's reconnaissance?! Then what in the name of the ancestors is this?!" The spittle that Orgrim sprayed out as he bellowed almost gave Zul'jin a facial, a truly disgusting baptism of rage.

Following Orgrim's trembling, accusatory finger, Zul'jin, for once in his life, had nothing to say. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights, or rather, a troll caught in a very embarrassing spotlight. Clearly, barely fifteen minutes ago, his most trusted scout had reported to him that the road ahead was as clear as a goblin's conscience, with no traps or enemies, and that there wouldn't be a single sentry until they were practically breathing down the enemy's necks, within three kilometers.

A while ago, many troll scouts had been captured because they'd gotten too close to human camps. Zul'jin, in his infinite wisdom, had always believed it was because they'd simply gotten too close and blundered into some fancy human magic traps. Just like the thousands of years of war between the trolls and the elves, the trolls still hadn't figured out what the long-eared freaks' magic was actually for. The only two things the trolls could truly rely on were their sheer numbers and their ridiculously strong vitality.

But now, this? This was clearly beyond the realm of magic. This was something else entirely.

The pulsating red lights, screaming "Alarm! Alarm!", stretched from the front lines all the way to the horizon, like a demonic Christmas light display. These strange metal creations were shouting loudly, their mechanical voices grating on the nerves, and the sheer, irritating momentum of their noise was enough to wake up even a hibernating bear from the deepest sleep.

The Horde now had two choices, both equally unappetizing: one was to retreat, which would hit morale harder than a two-by-four to the face; the other was to keep running like a bat out of hell and smash into the human camp within two hours. As long as they could stick to these humans like glue, even if there would be some physical losses, Orgrim firmly believed that his one hundred thousand orcs and trolls coalition could easily chew up and spit out this annoying little tail.

"Gul'dan! I need you to contact Zuluhed, pronto!" Orgrim barked, turning to the evil warlock king who was hovering not far away, looking utterly bored.

Gul'dan, ever the picture of oily humility, bowed his head. "As you command, Warchief," he purred, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes.

The warlock's wrinkled fingers drew a few runes, glowing with malevolent, evil energy, in the empty air. Following the shimmering mirror that appeared in the void, Orgrim saw his deputy, Zuluhed, looking like he'd just woken up from a bad dream.

In the ghostly image, a gust of strong wind was whipping through the air. It was Zuluhed, clinging precariously to his adult red dragon mount, looking like he was having a very bad day.

Feeling the uncomfortable, jarring mental connection, Zuluhed frowned, but he still took the initiative to speak, his voice a gravelly rumble. "Warchief, the humans seem to have received the alarm, but they don't seem to be afraid of our attack. Or maybe they're just too dumb to know how many of us are coming. They only sent less than a hundred cavalry out of the camp. But the long-eared strong man," he added, a hint of grudging respect in his tone, "seems to be in the camp. I just shot a dragon cavalryman who got too close, too cocky."

At this point, Zul'jin suddenly had a lightbulb moment, a rare flash of insight. "Yes! The humans never seem to have used more than two hundred people to catch my scouts! And the thing they use to report the incident seems to be able to spray something that we can't wash off, something that sticks to the trolls' bodies, something that glows like a goblin's eyes in the dark!"

Orgrim's mind, usually as subtle as a hammer to the face, started putting pieces together. He didn't understand this newfangled human contraption. Looking at the alarm devices scattered everywhere in the mountains, emitting the same irritating red light and repeating the same monotonous, electronic sentences, Orgrim quickly got over the initial shock and settled into a simmering, familiar rage.

"Go ahead and get me one of those things," Orgrim growled, pointing at one of the glowing robots. "I want to see it up close."

Zul'jin, relieved to have a task that didn't involve being yelled at, vanished into the night. Even though he didn't absolutely recognize Orgrim's dominance in his heart, it was clearly the troll's screw-up this time, and he knew it.

In less than three minutes, Zul'jin reappeared, grunting with effort, carrying a metal creature that was constantly "struggling" in his grasp, its red light flashing frantically on its head, as if it were a living thing, a very annoyed one.

Orgrim, with a simple, brutal swing of the Doomhammer, smashed the thing to pieces. CRUNCH! His actions left Zul'jin dumbfounded, his jaw hanging open.

"If I had known," Zul'jin grumbled, "I would've just broken it into pieces and brought it here. Saved myself the trouble."

"No, there's a difference, you simpleton," Orgrim snapped. "In that case, I wouldn't know if you brought all the parts, would I?" Orgrim looked carefully at the wreckage, poking at the bits and pieces with his hammer, but he soon felt even more unhappy at being so thoroughly bamboozled.

Most of them were parts that he couldn't understand – round bits, long bits, bits with teeth, and a few glowing crystals that hummed with magical energy. It was like trying to understand a gnome's shopping list.

"Gul'dan," Orgrim demanded, "can you sense something mysterious, something that can communicate with these things?"

"No, Warchief," Gul'dan replied, shaking his head humbly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "I can only sense things like crude totem poles that react when they enter a certain range. These... these are different."

A passive sensing device. The unhappiness on the Warchief's face became even more obvious, a storm brewing behind his eyes. In Orgrim's view, these human gadgets were like the huge, clanking machines of the dwarves – they looked good on paper, but were utterly useless in a real fight. They looked scary, but in fact, they could be dealt with with a good old-fashioned hammer and axe. In the final analysis, they were no different from the simple traps used by orcs for hunting. It was like tying a bell on a string. If a fool steps on the string, it will immediately jingle. Simple, effective, but hardly a stroke of genius.

"All troops, charge at maximum speed!" Orgrim roared, raising the Hammer of Destruction high in his hand, its dark metal gleaming ominously. "Let's show these humans what a real army looks like!"

Thirty kilometers away, Alleria stared at the red dragon hovering almost above the horizon, a tiny speck against the vast night sky. "Will Orgrim take the bait?" Alleria asked Duke softly, looking at her exhausted sister resting on a camp bed with pity, Sylvanas snoring softly.

"He will," Duke replied, a triumphant, almost smug, smile on his face, brimming with confidence. "Hook, line, and sinker."

Soon, the two looked towards the huge but empty camp. There were many humanoid figures in the camp, but unfortunately, they were all scarecrows wearing armor, stuffed with straw and false bravado. The only cavalry team that had actually traveled eighty kilometers a day to get here was actually a three thousand-man cavalry team, a mere fraction of the supposed force.

However, with one man leading two horses, plus a large number of carriages to carry supplies, they had managed to build a massive camp that could accommodate thirty thousand people with only three thousand. It was a masterclass in visual deception. The big pot of boiling soup, the cook distributing black bread, the soldiers patrolling – it all looked like a bustling, large army. Only the people in the know understood that the 'soldiers' only came out to pretend when the dragon was a little closer, putting on a show.

Even the elite soldiers of Stormwind, the ones who were actually there, were utterly exhausted, their bodies screaming for rest. In fact, the real main force was still fifty kilometers behind, taking their sweet time.

A triumphant smile, wide and knowing, appeared on Duke's face. The Horde was getting closer, like a moth to a flame. Duke's army of 'demon spirits' faithfully fed back all kinds of information, a constant stream of intel. Except for the old-style Mobile Alarm System robot from Gnomeregan that had been smashed by Orgrim at the beginning, all the robots within a twenty-kilometer range were modified versions, adjusted by Duke's system elves, practically humming with new purpose.

Of course, not every 'demon spirit' was a high-end robot. Duke had installed a simple control system that had evolved from Morse code, a basic but effective communication network. Not all 'demon spirits' revealed their faces; most of them were cleverly disguised as small trees, passive enemy detection systems fixed in strategic locations, blending into the scenery like a chameleon.

Although simple, it was more than enough for the System AI to summarize all the messages transmitted and count the number of tribes that had arrived in a certain area through sensing.

Getting closer!

Getting closer!

Closer!

When the Horde's army finally appeared on the horizon, a green wave of fury, and began to charge, Duke waited until the Horde entered a two-kilometer range before he raised his hand. At his signal, the three thousand cavalrymen, with a thunderous roar, quickly turned tail and ran away, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust.

Orgrim was going mad. He was absolutely seeing red, steam practically coming out of his ears. Duke's troops were clearly under his nose, right there for the taking, but it felt like he was raising his hammer to get into close combat, only for Duke to suddenly dart into the range of the javelin. He'd raise the javelin, only for Duke to sprint into the range of the catapult. And when he'd pull the catapult, the enemy had already vanished, leaving him with nothing but a mouthful of dust and a burning sense of frustration.

The Warchief almost vomited blood, his face a grotesque mask of pure, unadulterated fury.