"The hour of the Light has come!" Uther the Lightbringer roared, and his warhammer shattered the skull of another troll with a dull crunch. The great paladin stood in the very heart of the battle, like a cliff amidst raging waves. An empty zone formed around him—not a single troll dared to come closer.
The power of the Holy Light, flowing through his veins, made him not just a warrior, but a super-warrior. Of course, he could not split mountains with a single blow, and a regular blade could still harm him. But the difference between him and a mere mortal was colossal. For any of these trolls, a clash with Uther ended before it could even begin.
Under the onslaught of the paladins and heavy cavalry of Lordaeron, the troll vanguard, which a minute ago had seemed unstoppable, faltered. Elven arrows, now not containing but finishing them off, found more and more targets in their disordered ranks.
One of the trolls, a veteran with ritual scars on his face, realized that their attack had choked. With a furious roar, he threw aside one of the paladins and, brandishing two huge axes, rushed headlong toward the main target. Toward Uther. With a predator's instinct, he sensed who was the heart of this steel machine.
The Lightbringer, seeing the giant rushing at him, only gripped the handle of his hammer tighter. His face remained completely calm, as if it was not an elite warrior running towards him, but a child with a stick. On the head of his hammer, dazzling energy began to gather, ready to crash down on the enemy at any moment.
But the troll veteran didn't manage to take even a couple of steps. Suddenly, a whistle pierced the air, and from the flank, from where the reinforcements had just arrived, a lightning bolt of pure gold shot in his direction. It was a warhammer, woven entirely from the magic of the Light. Before the hunter could even raise an axe for defense, the magical weapon crashed into his face.
The tall body fell to the ground like a headless sack. The stump of the neck was charred, as if cauterized with red-hot metal. But the spell's effect did not end there. The Hammer of Retribution, having pierced its target, exploded in a blinding flash, scattering and incinerating a dozen trolls around.
The corner of Uther's lips twitched in a barely noticeable smile. He turned and with one lazy, yet precise, movement of his hammer, knocked down a troll trying to sneak up from behind, after which he crushed its skull with a crunch.
Prince Arthas burst onto the battlefield in all his glory. At the head of his twenty knights of the Secret Order, he wasn't just breaking through—he was cutting through the troll formation like a red-hot blade through silk.
His hammer blazed with such a ferocious Light that it was painful to look at. Each of his swings sent two, or even three, savages to the next world. Their vaunted regeneration was useless against him and his knights. Why do you need regeneration if a blow tears off a head or crushes a spine? This was not a battle, but an execution.
With every fallen troll, panic in their ranks grew. Finally, unable to withstand the onslaught from one side and the surgically precise strikes from the other, the vanguard broke. With screams of horror, they rushed back into the saving shade of the forest, leaving behind hundreds of corpses.
The dazzling radiance that enveloped Arthas slowly faded. He rode up to Uther, who, leaning on his hammer, showed no signs of fatigue whatsoever.
"Forgive me, Master, I was a bit delayed."
"You arrived just in time, Arthas," the Lightbringer replied. Compared to the carnage of the Second War, these trolls were nothing more than an annoying hindrance to him.
"Order the soldiers to clear the battlefield," the prince directed. "Gather the wounded. Burn the trolls. And have the priests check everything for the presence of voodoo magic. We don't need an epidemic of some corruption on top of everything else."
They headed towards the command tent. Upon entering, Uther immediately paid attention to the Ranger-General. His eyebrows furrowed when he saw the black patterns on her neck.
"What is wrong with Lady Windrunner?"
"A curse, possibly from their high priest," Arthas explained briefly. "I can remove it, but it takes time."
Soon, all the key commanders—humans and elves—gathered in the tent. The atmosphere was heavy.
Sylvanas, to whom the help of Priestess Lilian had returned some strength, stood up first. Her face was pale, but her voice had regained its former steely firmness.
"Thank you for the help of Lordaeron. There will be no extra words, let's get down to business. Judging by the reports of my scouts and what we see, the number of the enemy significantly exceeds our initial estimates."
"How many of them?" Uther asked directly.
Sylvanas fell silent for a moment, scanning the faces of those present. Then she uttered a single word that hung in the air like an executioner's axe.
"Twenty. Thousand. And their number continues to grow."
A heavy silence hung in the tent. Twenty thousand. Against their two-thousand-odd. A ratio of ten to one.
Sylvanas's voice, when she spoke again, was devoid of all emotion—a bare, cold statement of fact.
"The defense of this outpost is meaningless. We will not hold back their next assault. We must retreat behind the Ban'dinoriel. There, under the protection of the great barrier and the fortress walls, we will have a chance," she ran her finger over the map, pointing to the nearest stronghold inside the borders of Quel'Thalas. "We repelled this attack with almost no losses. But the next one will be the last. We need to leave while we have the chance."
"I have one question, General," Uther interrupted her. He was not looking at the map; his gaze was fixed on the elven leader. "We still do not understand their main goal. Why gather such an army here? If they want to plunder and kill, they could have bypassed your fortifications and struck a dozen other, less protected places."
"This also worries me," Sylvanas admitted. "But I do not have enough personnel to cover all directions. My Farstriders are scattered along the entire border. Fortunately, there are portals in other fortresses. If they attack there, we will be able to quickly transfer reinforcements."
Arthas, who until then had been silently studying the map, suddenly raised his head.
"No... that is incorrect. Their attack has a purpose. And it is right here."
All eyes in the tent turned to him. Uther, Sylvanas, Lor'themar—all waited to see what the prince would say.
"You mentioned you have a shortage of fighters. The trolls, your eternal enemies, know this better than anyone," he began, and his voice sounded calm, almost academic. "If I were their commander, I would have played this game differently. A feigned attack here to pin down your main forces. And the main blow—in another, weaker place. They have ten times more warriors; they could have done it."
"Agreed," Sylvanas nodded. "Whoever is leading these savages, he cannot be a fool. It is foolish to beat one's head against our strongest position when there are simpler targets."
"Precisely. But they are not attacking other fortresses. They have been trampling around here for several days, gathering more and more forces. This means that this is not a diversionary maneuver. This is their main goal." — Arthas's gaze slowly moved from the map to Sylvanas, to the black patterns of her curse, and all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.
"Lady Windrunner, I think I've figured out what they're trying to achieve."
"And what is that?"
"Their goal is not the fortress. Not the land. And not plunder." — the prince paused. — "Their goal is to lure you and your Farstriders out from behind the protective barrier."
Arthas's answer stunned everyone. The elves exchanged disbelieving glances.
"That sounds... absurd," Sylvanas was the first to break the silence. "Is the goal of their war to suffer even greater losses by fighting our elite in open terrain?"
"It sounds absurd if you think of them as soldiers. But it fits perfectly with their strange behavior if you think of them as fanatics," Arthas retorted. "They would not have spent so much effort and time if their goal was a simple raid. They would not have used several of their witch doctors as bait... unless the target was worth such sacrifices."
He looked at Sylvanas again.
"They are here to either kill you and destroy the cream of your rangers, or... to capture. I think their high priest is looking for a worthy sacrifice for his Loa. And the Ranger-General, a mighty warrior—is a very, very worthy sacrifice in their sick system of values."
The elven commanders thoughtfully bowed their heads. The behavior of the trolls was indeed different from the usual. Usually, they chose the weakest spots for an attack, but this time, after waiting for them to gather all their forces, they chose the most impassable place.
The prince's words, however wild they sounded, were acquiring a frightening logic.
"But how can you be sure of this?" the Ranger-General asked after a long silence. Her eyes studied him carefully.
"Right now—no way," Arthas answered without hesitation. "But we can check it. Give them a little test. If they bite—it means I'm right."
Something new flickered across Sylvanas's face. Disbelief was replaced by a predatory, interested gleam. She, a master of ambushes and traps, appreciated the audacity of the idea.
"And how do you propose to 'check' them?"
A meaningful smile appeared on Arthas's lips.
"They used bait to lure you into a trap. Well... we can play the same game with them. In the end, dead bodies are not so interesting to their gods. Trolls prefer living sacrifices."