Wisdom

Facts, those stubborn little things, once again proved that Alleria had, with a truly impressive consistency, underestimated Duke's cunning. Or, to be more precise, she'd utterly failed to grasp Duke's unparalleled mastery of the linguistic dodgeball.

On this fateful day, more than five thousand gleaming, clanking, decidedly un-elven robots strode across the border of Quel'Thalas, a border that was, by this point, largely a suggestion rather than a controlled territory. They marched with the purposeful, slightly clunky gait of mechanical behemoths, their metallic feet thudding against the sacred elven soil.

The Windrunner sisters, witnessing this bizarre parade, were not just stunned; they were utterly flabbergasted, their jaws hitting the forest floor with a collective thwack.

"This... this is even possible?!" Alleria stammered, her gaze darting frantically between the advancing metallic army and Duke, who stood on the other side of the border, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Why, pray tell, not?" Duke retorted, striking a pose with his hands on his hips, a smirk playing on his lips. "A toy, my dear General, simply accidentally wandered across the border. Is there a law against that? Besides, which one of your keen elven eyes saw that these magnificent contraptions belonged to me? They are, quite clearly, the proud products of elven ingenuity!"

Alleria, in a move that was both exasperated and undeniably charming, rolled her eyes so hard they almost got stuck. Her expression was a masterpiece of complicated emotions: profound relief warring with a desperate urge to either laugh hysterically or burst into tears of sheer frustration.

Why, you ask?

Did he think she was born yesterday? Did he honestly believe she hadn't noticed the words 'Quel'Thalas 10086th Border Guard' emblazoned in the human common tongue on the armored shells of these decidedly not-elven robots?

Of course, no self-respecting elf would ever stoop to such a pedestrian serial number, nor would they deign to use any language other than their own elegant High Elven. And as for these clunky, decidedly dwarf-style automatons? They would clash with the pristine, ethereal cityscape of Silvermoon City like a goblin in a ball gown.

Silvermoon City did have combat puppets, yes, but those magical constructs, with their graceful, almost entirely rounded curves, practically screamed arcane elegance! These things screamed "built in a dusty workshop by a grumpy dwarf with a wrench."

In any case, not a single human soldier had crossed the border. To avoid even the faintest whiff of suspicion, Duke had even pulled Daniel, his embedded human mage, back to his side. It was a perfectly executed, utterly infuriating word game, and Duke had played it like a grandmaster.

Duke, of course, wouldn't have lifted a finger for the damn Sun King, who was clearly still living in a fantasy land. No, he was doing this purely for the Windrunner sisters, or, to be more precise, for Alleria, who had clearly gotten under his skin in the best possible way.

Alleria knew, deep down, the price Duke had paid for this elaborate charade. He'd set up a fully automated robot production line in the dark, dusty depths of Karazhan, and the perpetually overworked Khadgar, bless his diligent heart, had naturally been roped into helping Duke with the grunt work. To transport so many goods, Duke had been forced to become a one-man delivery service, teleporting back and forth like a madman.

Duke wasn't exactly built like a tank yet, capable of transporting no more than a ton of people or goods at a time. Even so, he was exhausted, feeling like a dead dog dragged through a thorn bush all day, his muscles screaming in protest.

However, the grateful, utterly relieved look on Alleria's face? That was more than enough payment.

The Horde had to be fought, and a little bit of flirtatious heroics with a beautiful general could be accomplished at the same time. Nothing, Duke mused, could be more perfect than that.

On this day, the troll army, which had originally held an overwhelming advantage, found themselves in a world of hurt.

All thanks to the robots.

Most of the trolls unfortunate enough to be "tagged" by the robots ended up as pincushions. The Horde was absolutely losing their minds over the robots' infuriatingly effective warning function. No one, not even their shifty-eyed shamans, had expected that the combined power of these seemingly idiotic mechanical creations and the elven rangers would be so devastatingly effective.

Those seemingly stupid mechanical creations wandered aimlessly through the Eversong Forest, like lost tourists. But then, bam! A high-speed paint arrow would suddenly erupt from a robot, splattering a troll lurking innocently in a tree, marking it for death.

In jungle warfare, where both sides were playing for keeps and wanted nothing more than to put an arrow in the other guy's eye, the most crucial thing was to find the enemy first. It was a deadly game of hide-and-seek.

In previous battles, survival hinged on a delicate balance of stealth and keen observation. Judgment, experience, and a hefty dose of luck were all indispensable. Miscalculate any one of them, and you were a goner, just another casualty for the forest floor.

The sudden, utterly absurd appearance of the robots completely shattered this delicate balance.

First off, the robots weren't afraid of death. They were mechanical creations, for crying out loud! If one got blown to smithereens, it could just be dragged away. On-the-spot repairs? Forget about it. Duke, ever the tinkerer, had practically lived in Karazhan, practicing engineering all night, fiddling with a mobile version of the waste recycling robot 74A. This glorious contraption would automatically seek out the "killed" robot carcasses in the forest, recycle their wreckage, and break them down into the necessary engineering parts. It was a grim, yet efficient, circle of life and death.

Without a single worry about their own metallic hides, the robots naturally went to their glorious, paint-splattering deaths with gusto.

The Elf Ranger Squad, hanging back like wary shadows, let the robots lead the charge in a grand, clanking procession.

Like this one time, a robot suddenly shrieked.

"Help! There's a pervert!" it blared, after magnificently spraying a troll on a tree with a burst of neon-green paint, only to be instantly cleaved in half by a flying axe.

Its sacrifice was worth every bolt and gear, because in the very next second, the paint-splattered troll was shot clean through the head by an arrow from a perfectly positioned elven ranger. Talk about instant karma.

The rangers, despite their grim faces, couldn't help but look a little embarrassed by the robots' peculiar choice of battle cry. But it was undeniable: the robots' reconnaissance was terrifyingly effective.

They even managed to sum up a rule that was both hilarious and utterly grim.

"There's a pervert." Translation: There was one lone troll.

"There are a few perverts." Translation: No more than five trolls.

"So many perverts." Translation: About ten of them, give or take.

"No, there are too many abnormalities. I have to give up treatment." Translation: More than fifty trolls, and the rangers needed to beat feet, now.

It must be said, with the utterly unconventional help of these robots, Alleria, with only less than three thousand rangers, managed to hold a staggering fifty thousand trolls in a deadly dance. She even managed to spare over three hundred slightly injured rangers to organize the desperate evacuation of the rear. Talk about making lemonade out of lemons.

"Don't panic, everyone! Hold on tight! Reinforcements from Silvermoon City will be here soon!" Alleria called out, her voice strained, forced to spout absolute nonsense that she herself didn't believe for a second, just to keep the terrified civilians from stampeding.

There was no way in the Light's name that reinforcements from Silvermoon City would arrive so quickly. Not a snowball's chance in the Twisting Nether.

Unless Anasterian suddenly decided to pull his head out of the sand and send out the standing army of Silvermoon City, it would take at least three days just to assemble the troops. But would the Horde, those green-skinned engines of destruction, give them three days? Not on your life.

That night, the main force of the Horde arrived, a green tide of fury. Unlike the trolls, who had made a beeline for Eversong Forest, the orcs, with a cunning that surprised many, also sent a detachment to attack Windrunner Village and Windrunner Tower, the ancestral home of the Windrunners, on the southwestern edge of Eversong Forest.

Thanks to Alleria's advance notice, however, every household in the village had been ready to retreat early that morning, even though the stiff-necked officials from Silvermoon City had previously forbidden the Windrunner family from evacuating to Silvermoon City in advance.

It's not illegal to pack your bags and get ready to bolt, right?

As soon as Silvermoon City finally, grudgingly, gave permission to evacuate, the elves in the entire village, moving with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine, dumped their belongings onto the elven transport ships that had been prepared in an orderly manner. They evacuated completely in just two hours, leaving the orcs to kick at empty houses.

The orc detachment, returning empty-handed and undoubtedly grumbling about their wasted time, could only run back and follow the main force as a rear guard, nervously watching their backs for any possible attack from Duke.

However, the valiant efforts of the rangers, even with their bizarre robot allies, only achieved a delaying effect. It was like trying to hold back a tsunami with a teacup.

The Horde's green frenzy, an unstoppable force of nature, still overwhelmed all resistance. In just three days, the Horde reached the Eastern Temple, a mere hundred kilometers south of Silvermoon City.

The elves, now fighting with their backs against the wall, relied solely on the temple's powerful magic defense system to withstand the Horde's relentless assault. But as the Horde brought in a large number of two-headed ogre mages, lumbering giants with surprising arcane might, the situation began to deteriorate faster than a goblin's reputation.

At this critical juncture, Prince Kael'thas, who had hurried back from Dalaran, saw the hastily assembled army of twenty-five thousand people. His own army.

Looking at the ragtag troops his father and the Silvermoon Council had cobbled together for him, Kael'thas's face turned ashen, as if he'd just seen a ghost.

"Are you kidding me?!" he roared, his voice incredulous, echoing through the makeshift command tent. "This is the army I was asked to fight against one hundred thousand tribal troops?! Are you out of your minds?!"

Most of the twenty-five thousand troops were local garrisons, pulled back from scattered front lines, their morale lower than a gnome's belly button. Unlike the rangers who had been fighting tooth and nail on the front lines, these garrisons were poorly trained, most of them having already been chewed up and spit out by the orcs. And most importantly, Kael'thas suddenly discovered, with a growing sense of dread, that there was a serious, glaring lack of warriors among these troops.

A warrior. A real, honest-to-goodness warrior who could stand in the front, hold the line, and actually hold the fort! He was looking at a sheepdog without any sheepdogs, just a bunch of terrified sheep.