Lothar clapped young Bolvar on the shoulder with the kind of knowing grin that said, "Trust me, kid, this is gonna be good." "Let's move out. We'll hash out the juicy details later. If the wizard managed to hold off those orcs for this long like he promised, you better believe he's got a backup plan up his sleeve probably something devilishly clever or explosively messy."
"?" Bolvar's eyes practically popped out of his head, curiosity about to burst like a fireball on dry kindling.
"Go now!" Lothar barked, eyes sharp as a hawk's.
The Griffin Legion, bolstered by Bolvar's 300 cavalrymen, slipped through the forest at the mountain's base just ahead of the orc horde barreling down behind them. They crossed a river so shallow it might as well have been a puddle, carefully picking their way over the pontoon bridge and the rickety wooden structure they'd hastily built earlier.
The moist spring air carried the scent of earth and danger. Lothar's gaze lingered on the river's low water level, thoughts simmering beneath his calm exterior.
The orcs are coming.
Just as Lothar and the last battered Griffin warriors shuffled across the pontoon bridge and touched the opposite bank, the deafening roar of the orcs escalated—like someone had turned up the volume on their primal war cries to eleven. Their shrill yells stabbed at the ears of Lothar, Bolvar, and the others, rattling their nerves.
A green wave—far more terrifying and thick than the one that had roared over Redridge Mountains—poured from the woods they had just left. Between every gap in the trees, snarling orcs brandished weapons, the sheer number forcing Lothar to whip his head around just to take in the terrifyingly expanding battle line.
That relentless momentum? Still fully intact.
Young Bolvar, fresh and fiery, didn't quite register the weight of it yet. But Lothar and Seamus squinted at the chaotic mass of flags whipping in the wind. Their faces darkened.
"Damn it, those greenskins brought reinforcements."
Lothar couldn't make out every banner, but instinct screamed that at least 30% of them were fresh, unknown to him. He exchanged a grave glance with Seamus, a silent conversation flashing between them.
Retreat? Forget it. Military logic and the tacit agreement between commanders screamed: stand and fight.
The Griffin Legion assumed their grim rearguard duty once again.
Fifteen hundred soldiers formed three thick horizontal rows of five hundred men each, lining the riverbank just past the river beach.
The wounded, barely able to crawl, clambered down from their carts and leaned on their comrades to form a fragile fourth row, sheer will keeping them upright.
Then Lothar's sharp eyes caught something extraordinary. Duke—the mysterious wizard—had floated silently across the entire forest and now hovered just in front of him.
Lothar's breath caught. He knew that was the wizard's signature Slow Fall Technique, but the sheer precision of it? The finesse? This wasn't just skill. This was mastery on a level that sent chills down his spine.
"Greetings, Lord Wizard," Lothar stepped forward with a respectful nod.
"Sir Lothar," Duke's old voice was calm but tinged with approval. "It seems we've established an initial truce of sorts." He gestured to the troops lining the riverbank, placed a respectful distance from the river beach as Lothar had arranged. "You don't seem worried I might turn on you now?"
Lothar smiled wide and fearless, the kind of smile only someone who'd stared death in the eye multiple times could muster. "Worst case? I get killed again. For the same damn reason. But I don't think you'll hurt me. We're both human, something that counts for a little when the world's on fire."
"Yes," Duke said, with an unexpected warmth. "Because we are all human."
Funny how two men separated by at least twenty years and a lifetime of battles found instant common ground.
Lothar chuckled, eyes glinting. "How'd the fight with the spellcaster go? The result is obvious, but how bloody was it?"
Duke didn't answer with words. Instead, he lobbed the orc warlock's wicked skull-shaped staff toward Lothar, its evil aura dulling as if the blood of the beast it had slain had sucked some of its menace away—but it still screamed danger.
"Take it back to the high priest of Stormwind. I'm sure someone over there will be very interested."
Lothar, Seamus, and Bolvar inhaled sharply in unison.
The war of mages was an enigma wrapped in chaos.
Defeating an enemy? That was one thing.
Killing one? That was a whole different beast.
Twice as hard, thrice as dangerous.
And here was this enigmatic wizard, pulling off a wizard's version of beheading the generals and capturing the flag right under the noses of thousands of orcs.
Holy hell, what power.
Thinking on how Duke had nearly singlehandedly crushed two waves of orc assaults and saved the Griffin Legion, and now executed the opponent's powerful spellcaster on the battlefield…
The three commanders' respect for Duke shot through the roof.
But Duke's grand show was far from over.
The fastest orc vanguard had already reached the riverbank, eyes glittering with bloodlust, ready to splash into the water.
Lothar and the others felt their hearts leap into their throats.
This river was shallow—barely waist-high to humans, but for the tall, brutal orcs, it barely reached their thighs. Crossing would be a cakewalk.
If the orcs charged, they'd be in the Griffin Legion's faces within minutes.
The three leaders held their breath.
Duke smiled—a slight, knowing curve of his lips—and raised his right hand.
Suddenly, twenty-four wizard's hands appeared in the air, all mirroring the exact position of Duke's right palm. It was like some magical octopus had taken over the battlefield.
Six seconds of chanting passed. Long? Maybe. But in the grand scheme of a massive battle, just a blink.
Then, under Lothar's stunned gaze, twelve blazing fireballs shot crookedly into the sky and exploded like gigantic fireworks.
The other twelve streaked into the woods opposite the riverbank, instantly igniting the forest in a roaring inferno.
Those fireballs were a textbook demonstration of "dry wood and dry firewood ignite a raging fire." The flames spread with terrifying speed.
The orcs, drunk on demon blood and mad with fury, weren't completely mindless beasts. Instincts told them fire was to be feared.
In seconds, countless orcs transformed into living torches, shrieking as their skin blistered. Some rolled on the ground, others—led by a few smarter ones—dove headlong into the river to douse the flames.
Lothar gawked at the scene and finally asked, voice cracking a bit, "It's still spring, right? When we passed through those woods, it was soaked, humid as a swamp."
Duke rolled his eyes like a long-suffering teacher. "I can turn several miles into an ice field on a whim. Drying out a measly patch of forest? Child's play."
Seamus, Bolvar, and Lothar stood slack-jawed.
What kind of terrifying magical reservoir does this guy have?
Is this man really human?
Turns out, Duke was wielding the legendary Dwarven's Scorching Furnace. He couldn't melt the whole forest into ash, but steaming it dry enough to spontaneously combust? Absolutely.
This was the glory of inheriting the Arcane Fire Circuit from the Sun King. Not yet a full-fledged sky wizard, but three months of seclusion had fattened Duke's mana pool to a size that dwarfed most mages—some masters included.
Duke's fiery spectacle was spectacular. Judging by the carnage, at least two to three thousand orcs had been roasted crispy.
But, compared to Duke's previous well-laid masterstrokes, Lothar couldn't help twitch at the sight of thousands of orcs plunging into the river, scrambling for their lives, and escaping the flames.
Well played. Well played, indeed.