The bitter wind howled across the snow-covered peaks of Dun Morogh, carrying with it the acrid scent of orcish cookfires and the distant clang of metal on metal. Prince Kael'thas Sunstrider pulled his crimson cloak tighter against the mountain cold, his emerald eyes narrowing as he studied the sprawling enemy encampment below.
"It's the Bleeding Hollow Clan, one of the strongest Orc clans," Kael'thas murmured, his breath forming crystalline clouds in the frigid air. Even speaking their name seemed to leave a bitter taste on his tongue.
The Bleeding Hollow Clan—a name whispered in terror throughout the Eastern Kingdoms. They had carved their bloody reputation in the steaming jungles of Tanaan, where death came silently on poisoned blades and hallucinogenic darts. Masters of ambush and assassination, they were equally feared in the shadows of night and the chaos of open battle. Their warriors bore ritual scars that formed intricate rings across their green flesh, each marking a life taken, a village burned, a family destroyed.
When the Second Orc War had erupted like a festering wound across Azeroth, the Bleeding Hollow Clan had surged northward with Orgrim Doomhammer's unstoppable horde. City after city had fallen before their relentless advance—Goldshire's wheat fields trampled under iron boots, Lakeshire's peaceful docks stained crimson, Redridge's mountain passes echoing with the screams of the dying. They had seemed truly invincible, an unstoppable tide of steel and fury, until the frozen peaks of Dun Morogh had finally broken their momentum.
The average altitude here soared beyond 4,000 meters, where the air grew thin and sharp as a blade. Year-round snow blanketed the treacherous peaks, and temperatures plummeted nearly 20 degrees below the temperate forests surrounding Stormwind City. For orcs who had spent five grueling years adapting to the sultry heat of southern Azeroth, this frozen wasteland proved as deadly as any dragon's breath.
Among all the diverse orc clans that comprised the Horde, only the legendary Frostwolf Clan possessed the genetic hardiness to thrive in such brutal cold. Raised in the perpetual winter of Frostfire Ridge on distant Draenor, they alone understood how to wage war when each breath could freeze in one's lungs. Yet they had been cast out during the First War—exiled by Gul'dan's paranoid fury for their stubborn opposition to his demonic corruption. Their fate remained shrouded in mystery, their wherabouts unknown even to their own kind.
Dun Morogh's merciless environment had proven the Bleeding Hollow Clan's undoing. The sub-zero temperatures sapped their strength and numbed their reflexes, while the blinding snow rendered their jungle-honed ambush tactics useless. This realm belonged to the Bronzebeard Dwarves and their ingenious Gnome allies—hardy folk who had spent centuries learning to not merely survive, but flourish in this harsh mountain kingdom.
The Bronzebeards ruled from mighty Ironforge, their capital city carved deep into the living stone of the mountain itself. Vast forges roared day and night in the Great Forge, their flames hot enough to melt the very bedrock while master smiths crafted weapons and armor that could rival even the legendary works of the titans. Meanwhile, the Gnomes had built their marvel of engineering, Gnomeregan, a sprawling underground metropolis where brilliant minds pushed the boundaries of technology and magic in ways that would make even the greatest mages gasp in wonder.
When the orcish invasion force had finally reached these frozen peaks, both races had immediately grasped the tactical reality. Rather than face the numerically superior Horde in open battle, they had implemented a brilliant defensive strategy—withdrawing every last citizen behind their impregnable walls and sealing the gates with massive steel barriers that could withstand the impact of siege engines.
Warchief Orgrim Doomhammer had originally intended to capture both cities in a swift, decisive assault. Yet Ironforge and Gnomeregan were not mere surface fortifications that could be overwhelmed by superior numbers. They were living mountains, hollowed out over centuries of patient excavation, with only narrow gates and heavily fortified passages connecting their vast underground realms to the outside world. No matter how many warriors the Horde possessed, they could not simply storm such defenses—the entrance choke points could be held by a handful of determined defenders against thousands.
The harsh reality of Dun Morogh's environment had sealed Orgrim's strategic dilemma. The region's scarce resources could not sustain an army hundreds of thousands strong, while each passing day allowed the northern human kingdoms precious time to organize their resistance and gather their forces. With heavy heart and grinding teeth, the Warchief had been forced to abandon the siege and continue his campaign northward, leaving only the Bleeding Hollow Clan behind to maintain the blockade.
Chieftain Kilrogg Deadeye understood his impossible mission all too well. With the strength of a single clan—even one as feared as the Bleeding Hollow—breaching either city remained a fantasy. Instead, they had settled into a waiting game, confident that the defenders' supplies would eventually dwindle. The tactic was elegantly simple: starve them out. When the last grain stores ran empty and the final water barrels ran dry, even the most stubborn dwarf would be forced to surrender.
Yet an entire year had passed since the siege began, and still the great gates remained sealed, showing no sign of imminent capitulation. What the orcs failed to understand was the fundamental nature of their enemies. Dwarves and gnomes were creatures of the deep earth, accustomed to months of isolation during the harshest winter seasons. Like prudent squirrels, they hoarded vast stockpiles of preserved foods in their underground storehouses. The siege could continue for five years, ten years even, and still they would not starve.
The Bleeding Hollow Clan's forces were spread across the frozen wasteland in a carefully planned formation. Approximately ten thousand orcs comprised their total strength—a formidable army by any measure. Five thousand warriors had established more than a dozen fortified camps around Ironforge's main entrance, their positions chosen to prevent any possibility of escape or relief. They had felled entire forests to construct massive siege engines: towering catapults capable of hurling boulders the size of houses, razor-sharp ballistae that could punch through plate armor at incredible distances, and crude but effective siege ladders for scaling the formidable walls if direct assault became necessary.
Another three thousand orcs maintained a similar stranglehold on Gnomeregan, positioned over a hundred kilometers away to ensure that the two allied races could not combine their forces or coordinate their defenses. The remaining two thousand Bleeding Hollow warriors served as the clan's logistical backbone, scattered throughout Dun Morogh's vast wilderness. They operated mining camps to gather precious metals, logging operations to provide construction materials and fuel, and hunting parties to supplement their dwindling food supplies.
High on a craggy mountain peak north of Ironforge, Thane Kurdran Wildhammer surveyed the enemy positions through eyes blazing with righteous fury. His weathered hands gripped his war hammer until his knuckles turned white, and his jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth ground audibly together. Every fiber of his being screamed for vengeance.
"Your Highness, how should we fight this battle?" His voice was a low growl, barely containing the volcanic rage building within his chest. The sight of those orcish banners fluttering mockingly in the mountain wind made his vision blur red with fury.
The Bronzebeards were more than allies to the Wildhammers—they were blood brothers, bound by ancient oaths and shared heritage that stretched back to the dawn of dwarven civilization. When the three great clans had first delved deep into Khaz Modan's mountain heart, they had sworn sacred vows that transcended mere politics or territorial disputes. Only the Wildhammers possessed the right to quarrel with their Bronzebeard kin, and even then, such conflicts were matters of honor resolved between equals. No outside force—whether human, elf, or especially not these savage green-skinned invaders—had any right to raise weapons against Magni Bronzebeard's people. Not even their estranged Dark Iron cousins would be tolerated if they dared threaten Ironforge during such dark times.
Captain Lanathel, her silver hair whipping in the mountain winds, studied the tactical situation with the calculating eye of a veteran officer. She had served as deputy to General Salorian of the Silvermoon City Guard for nearly two centuries, commanding troops through border skirmishes with forest trolls, occasional human raiders, and the ever-present threat of Amani incursions from Zul'Aman. Her strategic mind quickly began formulating plans.
"Your Highness," she said, her melodious voice carrying clearly despite the howling wind, "I suggest we first eliminate the scattered orc forces at the logging camps and mining operations. We should also target the guards stationed at the crucial mountain passes—the routes to the Wetlands, Loch Modan, and the Searing Gorge."
Her emerald eyes gleamed with tactical brilliance as she continued. "If we can sever the Bleeding Hollow Clan's supply lines and control the key transportation routes, we effectively trap them here in the Dun Morogh snowfield. Cut off from reinforcements and resources, they will face a simple choice: starve and freeze to death in this frozen wasteland, or take desperate action."
She gestured toward the distant Ironforge gates with an elegant sweep of her armored hand. "Desperation will likely drive them to launch an all-out assault on Ironforge and Gnomeregan. Such a reckless attack would provide us the perfect opportunity to strike from behind while they exhaust themselves against impregnable defenses."
"Alternatively," Lanathel concluded with a predatory smile, "if they choose to abandon the siege and attempt a breakthrough in any direction, we can concentrate our entire force to intercept them. The Bronzebeards and Gnomes will surely sally forth to join the pursuit once they realize their ordeal is ending. Caught between hammer and anvil, trapped between our aerial assault and their ground forces, not a single orc will escape this mountain alive!"
Kurdran's eyes lit up with savage approval, and he slammed his fist against his palm with a sound like thunder. "Aye, lass! That's brilliant tactical thinking! These damned green-skins have terrorized my mountain kin for far too long. They've spilled Bronzebeard blood and defiled sacred dwarven lands with their very presence. By my ancestors' beards, I swear I'll send every last one of them to whatever dark hell spawned their miserable race!"
However, Prince Kael'thas shook his head slowly, his expression grave with the weight of larger strategic concerns. "The plan has merit, but it would require too much time—at least a full month from beginning to end. Unfortunately, we cannot afford such a lengthy campaign."
The prince's green eyes grew distant as he calculated the movements of distant armies like pieces on a vast chess board. "Marshal Lothar's forces have already reached the Arathi Highlands and are advancing south at forced march pace. Meanwhile, the Kul Tiras Second Fleet has successfully landed at Menethil Harbor and begun their inland advance. Within a month—perhaps less—they will have traversed the entire length of the Wetlands, crossed through Loch Modan, and entered the Searing Gorge from the north."
Kael'thas turned to gaze southward, though the Burning Steppes lay far beyond the horizon. "Simultaneously, the combined Stormwind Fleet and Kul Tiras First Fleet have sailed around the continent's southern coast and will reach Stormwind City within a fortnight. I gave my solemn word to Marshal Lothar that we would coordinate our assault timing, and I will not break such a sacred oath, especially not when the fate of all Azeroth hangs in the balance."
His voice grew heavy with the burden of command as he continued. "Our grand strategy depends on precise timing, Thane Kurdran. The northern and southern Alliance armies must strike Blackrock Mountain simultaneously—Lothar's forces attacking through the Searing Gorge while the southern army assaults the Burning Steppes. This coordinated pincer movement will prevent the remaining Horde forces from escaping to their Dark Portal. We cannot allow a localized battle here in Dun Morogh to disrupt the larger war effort!"
Kurdran's gruff features creased in a frown of understanding mixed with frustration. "Aye, Your Highness, you speak true. The bigger picture must take precedence, much as it pains me to admit. So what course of action do you propose?"
Kael'thas's lips curved in a smile that somehow managed to be both reassuring and predatory. "Before the orcs discover our presence, we concentrate our entire force for a devastating night assault on their main encampment at Ironforge. We coordinate with the Bronzebeard defenders to break the siege in a single, decisive blow, then immediately march to assist the Gnomes in liberating Gnomeregan."
"After both cities are freed," the prince continued, "we depart immediately for Stormwind to fulfill our commitment to Marshal Lothar. The remaining scattered orc forces in Dun Morogh can be left to the Bronzebeards and Gnomes—they'll have little trouble mopping up demoralized stragglers."
Kurdran's weathered brow furrowed deeply with concern. "Your Highness, with all due respect, we command only a thousand warriors, while the orcs have five thousand entrenched around Ironforge alone. I don't question our individual superiority—every dwarf and elf is worth three orcs in battle—but the enemy will fight desperately when cornered, and we'll inevitably suffer significant casualties."
The Thane's voice grew heavy with emotion as he thought of his people. Every Wildhammer was irreplaceable, and every gryphon represented years of patient training and bonding. The mountain dwarves lived in harmony with nature and cherished all life—even the smallest loss would weigh heavily on his conscience and his clan's collective heart.
Kael'thas's smile widened, and his eyes glittered with mysterious confidence. "Fear not, noble Thane. I possess a method that will terrify the Bleeding Hollow orcs so completely that they'll lose all will to fight. When they see us coming, their only thought will be desperate flight!"
Kurdran leaned forward eagerly. "What method is that, Your Highness?"
The prince's smile became almost playful. "Tell me, Thane Kurdran—who do the orcs fear above all others?"
Kurdran's response came without hesitation. "Does that even require thought? You, of course! You slew Warchief Orgrim Doomhammer and the death knight Zuluhed in single combat. You reduced the troll city of Zul'Aman to ashes and cinders. In the great naval Battle of Silvermoon City, you personally annihilated the entire Horde fleet. You obliterated the fearsome Dragonmaw Clan down to the last warrior, and commanded our forces to victory at the legendary Battle of Lordaeron—"
The Thane paused mid-sentence, his eyes suddenly widening with realization. "Wait... no, that's not quite right, is it? Your personal martial prowess, impressive as it is, wouldn't inspire that level of absolute terror in hardened orc warriors."
His voice dropped to an awed whisper. "They don't fear you specifically... they fear what fights beside you. They fear the Red Dragons. They fear the entire Red Dragonflight!"
## The Night Attack
Night descended upon Dun Morogh like a suffocating blanket, bringing with it an unnatural darkness that seemed to swallow light itself. Thick storm clouds rolled across the sky, blotting out every trace of star and moon, creating perfect conditions for what was to come. The very air seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.
Deep within the largest orcish encampment directly facing Ironforge's mighty gates, Chieftain Kilrogg Deadeye stood motionless before a crude animal skin map stretched across his command tent's central support pole. His single remaining eye—the other lost long ago to a prophetic ritual that had shown him his own death—stared at the geographical markings without truly seeing them. The weight of impending doom pressed down upon his broad shoulders like a physical burden.
The Horde was finished. The bitter truth could no longer be denied or rationalized away.
Three days ago, a blood-soaked messenger had staggered into camp bearing news that shattered the last illusions of victory. Orgrim Doomhammer—the mighty Warchief who had seemed as inevitable as the tide and as unstoppable as an avalanche—was dead. The supposedly invincible army of two hundred thousand warriors had been not merely defeated but annihilated so completely that barely a handful of survivors remained to carry word of the catastrophe.
The news had spread through the Bleeding Hollow camps like wildfire, igniting panic and despair in equal measure. Warriors who had never known defeat suddenly found themselves contemplating mortality. Shamans who had called upon the spirits for generations discovered their connection to the elements growing weak and uncertain.
Yet even worse than Orgrim's death was the subsequent revelation that had arrived with additional refugees: the Dragonmaw Clan, masters of the mighty red wyrms, had been utterly destroyed. More terrifying still, the Red Dragonflight itself had openly joined the Alliance, bringing their ancient power and terrible wrath to bear against the Horde.
The implications were too horrible to fully comprehend. No number of orc warriors, no matter how brave or skilled, could stand against the fury of adult dragons. The Red Dragon Queen's might was legendary even among the orcs of Draenor—stories told of her power to reshape landscapes with her breath, to command the very elements themselves, to burn entire armies to ash with a single exhalation.
"Chieftain," interrupted a nervous guard, his voice barely steady, "the Blackhand brothers have sent another messenger."
Kilrogg's weathered features twisted into a snarl of contempt. "Rend Blackhand? That arrogant whelp!" The chieftain's voice rose to a roar that could be heard throughout the camp. "Tell him he is not Gul'dan! He is not his father Blackhand the Destroyer! He is certainly not Orgrim Doomhammer! He has no right whatsoever to claim leadership of the Horde! If he thinks he can simply declare himself Warchief, he's living in a fantasy!"
After receiving word of Orgrim's death, the surviving Blackhand brothers had returned from their naval expedition with claims that defied all belief. They boasted of slaying the mighty Gul'dan—Gul'dan the terrible, master of shadow magic, corruptor of clans, manipulator of elements that bordered on divine power. The same Gul'dan who had held Blackhand the Destroyer himself as a puppet dancing on fel-energy strings.
Kilrogg spat contemptuously. The combined might of both Blackhand brothers couldn't equal a fraction of their puppet father's strength, let alone that of the near-godlike warlock who had controlled him. If Gul'dan was truly dead—which remained highly questionable—it certainly hadn't been these two greenhorn pretenders who accomplished the deed.
"Chieftain," the guard continued hesitantly, "what are your orders? The clan grows more restless by the hour. Word has spread that Alliance forces have already reached the Wetlands, and within two weeks they could be here in Dun Morogh itself!"
The guard's voice trembled slightly as he voiced what every orc in the camp was thinking. "With the Warchief dead, sir... do we still follow his final commands to maintain this siege? Many of the warriors are asking if we should... if we should prepare to withdraw."
Kilrogg paced back and forth like a caged wolf, his heavy boots creating a steady rhythm against the frozen ground. The decision that would determine his clan's fate weighed heavily upon him. After what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, he finally spoke.
"We withdraw. At first light tomorrow, we break camp and march south."
The guard's expression brightened with obvious relief. "To Blackrock Mountain, Chieftain? The Blackhand brothers are demanding all remaining clans rally there. They claim the mountain fortress is impregnable, that its height and fortifications will allow us to hold off the Alliance indefinitely!"
"No." Kilrogg's voice carried the finality of a funeral bell. "We march to the Dark Portal. We return to Draenor—to home."
The guard's eyes widened in shock, but Kilrogg continued before he could protest. "The Blackhand brothers are worse than unreliable—they're delusional. Blackrock Mountain might be tall and well-fortified, but it won't hold against the combined Alliance forces, especially not with dragons supporting them. The smart choice, the only choice for those who wish to see another sunrise, is to go home while we still can."
Whether that meant retirement and peaceful exile, or regrouping to plan another invasion attempt, could be decided later. For now, survival took precedence over everything else.
Just then, an orange glow began filtering through the tent's leather walls, accompanied by distant shouts and screams from outside the camp. The light grew brighter and more intense with each passing second.
"By the spirits," gasped the guard, "what is that?"
Before Kilrogg could respond, panicked voices began rising from the camp beyond:
"Red Dragon! An enormous red dragon!"
"It must be over a hundred meters long! A fully mature adult!"
"The Red Dragonflight! They've come for revenge!"
"We're all dead! The dragons have come to burn us all alive!"
"Run! Everyone run before we're all incinerated!"
The sounds of absolute panic followed—running feet, shouted orders that no one heeded, equipment being abandoned as warriors fled in terror. Yet notably absent were the sounds of organized resistance or battle commands.
Kilrogg's heart sank like a stone into the depths of despair. He had feared this above all else. Not defeat—defeats could be overcome, reversed, learned from. But when warriors lost the courage to fight, when the fundamental pride that defined orcish nature crumbled into cowardice, there was no recovery possible.
"It can't be," he muttered, though even as he spoke the words, doubt crept into his voice. "The Red Dragonflight shouldn't be here. If they intended revenge for Lordaeron, they would have struck immediately. Why wait until now?"
Despite his reservations, Kilrogg moved with the fluid grace of a veteran warrior, bursting through his tent's entrance to survey the chaos unfolding around him. What he saw confirmed his worst fears while simultaneously raising new questions.
A magnificent red dragon soared through the night sky above the camp, its scales gleaming like polished rubies in the firelight of its own breath. The creature's wings beat with thunderous power, creating downdrafts that scattered sparks and debris across the camp like a localized tornado.
Yet something seemed... off. The dragon's flight pattern appeared awkward, almost clumsy, like a fledgling learning to navigate the air currents for the first time. It wobbled uncertainly, nearly crashed into a mountain outcropping, and had to correct its course several times to maintain altitude.
Moreover, while certainly large and impressive, this was clearly not the hundred-meter behemoth the panicked orcs were describing. It was perhaps forty meters from nose to tail—substantial certainly, but nowhere near the legendary size of truly ancient wyrms like Alexstrasza herself.
"Silence!" Kilrogg roared at the top of his lungs, his voice carrying with the authority of decades of command. "Everyone calm down! Stop this shameful panic immediately!"
He continued bellowing over the chaos: "It's not the entire Red Dragonflight, you fools! There is only one dragon! ONE!"
Some of the nearer orcs heard his commands and paused their headlong flight, but the damage was already done. Fear had taken root too deeply, and most warriors continued their desperate retreat without even glancing back. Those who did pause looked up only long enough to confirm the dragon's presence before resuming their flight with even greater urgency.
"It's finished," Kilrogg whispered, his warrior's heart breaking as he watched the dissolution of everything he had spent his life building. "We're completely finished."
Physical defeat was merely an occupational hazard of warfare. Every orc clan had endured countless defeats throughout their brutal history—enslaved by the mighty gronn, dominated by cyclopean ogres, subjugated by the arakkoa bird-men, driven from their lands by the draenei. Yet through all these setbacks, they had maintained their essential orcish identity: the glory of honorable combat, the pride of facing death without flinching, the unbreakable spirit that defined their people.
But when that spirit broke, when warriors fled rather than fought, when survival became more important than honor... what remained was no longer truly orcish.
High above the chaos, Thane Kurdran raised the ancient horn of his ancestors to his lips and blew a battle call that echoed off every mountain peak for miles around. The sound was answered by the wild cries of five hundred gryphons and the shrill shrieks of five hundred dragonhawks as they dove from the concealing darkness of storm clouds.
"Wildhammers, attack!" his voice boomed across the battlefield like thunder given voice.
The combined aerial force of Quel'Thalas and Aerie Peak descended upon the fleeing orcs like the hammer of an angry god. Gryphon riders wielding ancient war hammers crackling with storm magic swept down in precise formations, while dragonhawk riders armed with enchanted bows rained death from above with impossible accuracy.
The orcs, caught completely off-guard and already demoralized to the point of panic, offered virtually no resistance. They had turned their backs to the enemy in their haste to escape, presenting perfect targets while being unable to mount any coherent defense. The aerial assault became less a battle than a one-sided slaughter.
Kurdran himself led the charge, and his performance was nothing short of magnificent. After reforging the legendary Doomhammer with the combined skills of Azeroth's greatest smiths and the blessing of the storm lords themselves, his power had transcended anything previously achieved by mortal gryphon riders.
Each swing of his weapon summoned lightning from the very heavens. Bolts of pure electrical fury arced between enemies, creating a devastating chain reaction that could fell a dozen orcs with a single strike. When he hurled the hammer, it transformed into something approaching divine wrath—the Hammer of the Thunder God itself, moving at the speed of thought to strike down enemy after enemy before mystically returning to his grasp.
Storm winds swirled around him as he fought, lifting him and his gryphon mount higher and faster than should have been possible. Lightning wreathed his body like living armor, and his eyes blazed with the power of the tempest itself. He alone accounted for more enemy casualties than entire squadrons of conventional warriors.
Not far away, Vereesa Windrunner demonstrated why the Rangers of Quel'Thalas were legend throughout the known world. Mounted on her magnificent dragonhawk, she wielded Titanstrike—the legendary rifle crafted by the titan-forged keepers Mimiron and Thorim themselves—with devastating precision.
The Timewalker Ranger's enhanced reflexes allowed her to fire at rates that defied conventional understanding. Each thunder-fire bullet, imbued with temporal magic, traveled at ten times the speed of sound, creating sonic booms that shattered the night air. The projectiles moved so fast that even the quickest orc reflexes proved utterly inadequate.
Titanstrike lived up to its divine heritage. The rifle's power was so immense that direct hits were invariably fatal, regardless of armor or natural toughness. While Kurdran's hammer could curve and seek multiple targets through storm magic, Vereesa's superior firing rate actually allowed her to eliminate enemies even faster than the legendary dwarf warrior.
Captain Lanathel and Lady Liadrin provided a fascinating study in contrasts as they waded through the enemy ranks. Lanathel, fighting with sword and shield in classical elven military style, might not have possessed the raw speed of her ranged companions, but her vampiric enhancement granted by the Life-Binder's Flame made her incredibly resilient.
Every wound she inflicted drained vitality from her enemies while healing her own injuries. As the battle intensified, her pale skin flushed with stolen life-force until it glowed with an inner crimson radiance. A faint mist of vaporized blood surrounded her like an unholy aura, creating an effect both beautiful and terrifying that made even brave orcs hesitate before engaging her.
Liadrin represented the opposite extreme of the spectrum. Blessed by both the Holy Light and the powers of nature and dreams, she appeared as a vision of divine justice made manifest. Golden radiance surrounded her like a personal sunrise, and her very presence seemed to inspire hope in allies while filling enemies with supernatural dread.
Her combat style blended traditional paladin techniques with druidic magic in ways that should have been impossible. Orcs who struck her shield found themselves entangled by thorns that erupted from the very ground, while those hit by her mace often fell into enchanted slumber or became lost in waking nightmares that left them helpless.
She even found time between her own combat actions to heal wounded dwarf warriors with channeled Holy Light, ensuring that the Bronzebeard forces could fight at peak effectiveness without concern for minor injuries.
Yet for all the impressive displays of martial prowess around him, the most spectacular performance belonged to the red dragon soaring overhead. Despite his initially clumsy flight patterns—which grew noticeably more graceful as he gained experience—his combat effectiveness was absolutely devastating.
The mysterious pendant hanging around his serpentine neck and the flaming longsword gripped in his right claw seemed to significantly enhance his natural breath weapon beyond what should have been possible for a dragon of his apparent age. His flames burned hotter and longer than those of comparable young red dragons, approaching the intensity normally associated with much older and more powerful wyrms.
Against enemies who had already lost the will to fight, he became the ultimate instrument of destruction. Each controlled exhalation of Life-Binder's Flame could incinerate dozens of orcs simultaneously, turning their desperate flight into a literal baptism by fire.
The battle's outcome was never truly in doubt, but its psychological impact would resonate far beyond the immediate tactical victory.
The sounds of combat echoing across the snowy peaks could not possibly escape the attention of Ironforge's vigilant sentries. Within minutes, word had raced through the mountain city's corridors and reached the throne room where King Magni Bronzebeard held court.
Ten minutes after the first clash of weapons, the massive gates of Ironforge—sealed and barred for an entire year of siege—crashed open with a sound like thunder splitting stone. The metallic groaning of ancient hinges echoed across Dun Morogh as thousands of dwarven warriors poured forth like an avalanche given purpose and direction.
Leading the charge were two of the most renowned chieftains in Bronzebeard history, their weapons glinting in the firelight of the ongoing battle above. The first was immediately recognizable by his massive frame and the legendary warhammer he wielded with such devastating effect.
"Our Wildhammer cousins have come at last!" he bellowed in a voice that carried across the entire battlefield, his words filled with such joy and relief that even hardened veterans felt their eyes moisten.
This chieftain wore masterwork armor that gleamed like polished silver, and his steel helmet was crowned with the traditional feathers that marked his high rank. As he charged toward the nearest group of orcs, something extraordinary occurred—his entire body began to expand and transform.
The ancient dwarven ability known as Avatar manifested in all its glory. Where moments before had stood a dwarf who barely reached a human's waist, now stood a warrior who could look a tall man in the eye. His muscles bulged with supernatural strength, his bones thickened to support the increased mass, and his skin took on the texture and hardness of living granite.
When he reached the fleeing orcs, his enhanced warhammer strikes sent warriors three times his original size flying through the air like broken dolls. Yet more impressive than his strength was his durability—when desperate enemies struck back, their weapons simply bounced off his stone-like skin without leaving so much as a scratch.
Behind the melee champion came waves of dwarven footmen, their formation tight and disciplined despite their eagerness for battle. These were not hastily recruited militia, but professional soldiers who had spent the long months of siege training relentlessly, honing their skills to razor sharpness while waiting for this moment of liberation.
Supporting the infantry advance came the pride of Ironforge's military: the legendary dwarven riflemen. Each carried a precision-crafted firearm that represented the pinnacle of their people's engineering expertise. During their year-long confinement, they had practiced their marksmanship until they could place shots with supernatural accuracy even in poor lighting conditions.
The second chieftain leading this relief force demonstrated shooting skills that bordered on the magical. His rifle seemed to fire independently of normal limitations—no visible reloading, no apparent concern for ammunition supplies, just a steady stream of perfectly aimed shots that never missed their intended targets. Each bullet found its mark with lethal precision, proving that a year of preparation had not been wasted.
The mountain's vast mineral wealth ensured that ammunition was never a concern. Ironforge's forges had worked continuously throughout the siege, producing not just bullets but also the finest weapons and armor that dwarven smiths could create. Every warrior who emerged from those ancient gates was equipped like a elite champion.
Yet even as the dwarven forces swept across the battlefield with mechanical precision, all eyes inevitably turned skyward to watch Thane Kurdran's incredible display of power. The reforged Doomhammer had not merely enhanced his natural abilities—it had transformed him into something approaching a force of nature itself.
Lightning danced around his form as he rode his gryphon through aerial maneuvers that defied physics. Each movement generated crackling energy that arced between nearby enemies, creating a devastating network of electrical death. When he threw his weapon, it moved with intelligence and purpose, seeking out targets with supernatural awareness.
The hammer struck with the force of concentrated thunderbolts, and its path through the battlefield was marked by the charred remains of fallen enemies and the acrid scent of ozone that lingered in the frigid mountain air.
As the one-sided battle raged below, the red dragon's flight patterns gradually improved from awkward fumbling to graceful aerial mastery. What had begun as clumsy wing-beats and uncertain altitude control evolved into smooth, predatory swoops and precise targeting runs. The transformation was remarkable to witness—like watching a newborn learn to walk in a matter of minutes rather than months.
From his position on a nearby mountainside, Prince Kael'thas observed the dragon's performance with growing fascination. The creature's enhancement seemed far beyond what should have been possible for a dragon of its apparent age class. The mystical pendant glowing around its neck and the enchanted sword gripped in its talons were clearly artifacts of significant power, but their combined effect was truly extraordinary.
Each breath of flame that erupted from the dragon's maw burned with intensity that rivaled ancient wyrms who had lived for millennia. The Life-Binder's Flame—normally a power associated with the most mature red dragons—poured forth in torrents that could melt steel and reduce entire squads of orcs to ash in seconds.
Yet there was something almost playful about the dragon's approach to combat, as if this devastating display of power was merely a learning exercise rather than a life-or-death battle. The creature seemed to be experimenting with different flight angles, testing the range and intensity of its breath weapon, even practicing aerial maneuvers between attacks.
"Magnificent," Kael'thas murmured to himself, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Simply magnificent."
Below in the midst of combat, the sharp-eyed dwarven rifleman chieftain paused between shots to call up toward the aerial battle. His voice carried clearly across the battlefield despite the chaos of ongoing combat.
"Hey there, Kurdran!" he shouted, his words tinged with both admiration and gentle mockery. "Where in the name of Khaz Modan did you find that dragon of yours? His flying technique is absolutely hilarious to watch!"
The comment drew chuckles from nearby dwarven warriors who had also noticed the dragon's initial clumsiness, though none could deny the creature's effectiveness once it found its aerial footing. There was something endearing about watching such a powerful being learn to master its own abilities in real-time.
Kurdran, hearing the jest even above the sounds of battle, couldn't help but grin. "Aye, he's a bit rough around the edges!" he called back while his gryphon wheeled around for another attack run. "But I'd rather have a clumsy dragon on our side than the smoothest flying enemy!"
As the Alliance forces pressed their overwhelming advantage, the psychological effect on the remaining orc defenders became increasingly apparent. What had begun as panicked flight was transforming into complete psychological collapse. Warriors who had fought bravely in dozens of previous battles now cowered behind whatever cover they could find, their weapons forgotten in their desperate need to escape.
The sight of a red dragon—even a single young one—had triggered deep-seated trauma that went beyond rational military assessment. Every orc in the Horde had heard the stories from Lordaeron, where the Red Dragonflight had turned the tide of battle with such devastating effect that even the mention of dragons could reduce veteran warriors to trembling children.
Chieftain Kilrogg, still standing amid the chaos of his collapsing command post, watched his clan's complete disintegration with the hollow eyes of a leader who had lost everything that mattered. The Bleeding Hollow Clan's fearsome reputation, built over decades of successful campaigns, was evaporating like morning mist before the sun.
"Retreat!" he finally bellowed, his voice cracking with the bitter taste of defeat. "Full retreat! Every orc for himself!"
It was the final admission that organized resistance was impossible. The clan that had once struck terror into the hearts of Alliance forces across two continents was now nothing more than a collection of individual survivors seeking only escape.
The Alliance forces showed no mercy to the fleeing orcs. This was not merely a tactical victory to be achieved—it was righteous vengeance for a year of suffering inflicted upon innocent dwarves and gnomes. The aerial units pressed their pursuit relentlessly, ensuring that the enemy rout became as complete as possible.
Gryphon riders swooped down on isolated groups of fleeing orcs like eagles hunting rabbits. Their war hammers and axes fell with mechanical precision, while their mounts' talons and beaks added to the carnage. The gryphons themselves seemed to sense the righteousness of their cause, fighting with unusual ferocity and intelligence.
The dragonhawk riders proved equally devastating, their supernatural grace allowing them to navigate the treacherous mountain terrain with ease while raining arrows on enemies below. Each shot was precisely aimed to maximize casualties while preventing any possibility of the orcs regrouping into effective fighting units.
Behind the aerial assault, the dwarven ground forces advanced with the inexorable certainty of an avalanche. Their year of forced inactivity had left them eager for combat, and they pursued the enemy with the methodical thoroughness that characterized their people's approach to everything from mining to warfare.
The riflemen in particular took savage satisfaction in picking off distant targets, their superior marksmanship allowing them to eliminate fleeing orcs at ranges where return fire was impossible. Each shot represented not just a tactical success, but personal revenge for the hardships endured during the siege.
As the battle progressed, the red dragon's performance continued to improve dramatically. What had begun as uncertain experimentation evolved into confident mastery of aerial combat techniques. His flight patterns became fluid and graceful, his breath weapon attacks grew more precise and devastating, and his overall tactical awareness sharpened with each passing minute.
The transformation was so rapid that experienced warriors watching from below began to whisper among themselves. Dragons were known for their intelligence, but this level of accelerated learning bordered on the supernatural. It was as if the creature was not merely gaining experience, but somehow accessing knowledge and abilities that had been dormant until awakened by the heat of battle.
The mysterious artifacts he carried clearly played a role in this enhancement, but there seemed to be something more at work—some deeper connection between the dragon and the magical forces of Azeroth itself that was manifesting under combat conditions.
Victory's Price
As dawn began to break over the blood-soaked snow of Dun Morogh, the scope of the Alliance victory became fully apparent. Of the five thousand orcs who had been besieging Ironforge, fewer than a few hundred had managed to escape into the wilderness. The remainder lay scattered across the mountainside, their green blood staining the pristine white snow in stark patterns that would remain visible for weeks to come.
The casualty count among Alliance forces was remarkably light—a testament to both superior tactics and the enemy's complete loss of morale. A few dozen wounded dwarves required healing, and several gryphons and dragonhawks had sustained minor injuries, but no fatalities marred the victory celebration.
Yet even as they surveyed their triumph, the Alliance commanders knew that this was merely the first step in a much larger campaign.