Stormwind Wizard God-Chapter 607: The Horde’s Day of Reckoning

Meanwhile, the Horde was about to get served a reality sandwich with a side of despair.

To twist the knife in the orcs' already wounded pride, the Alliance had the brilliant idea to broadcast their magical livestream directly to the Horde forces—because nothing says "psychological warfare" like making your enemies watch their leader get his green hide handed to him in real-time.

In the cursed wasteland, the Horde's main force was already feeling as useful as a chocolate teapot. Trapped like rats in a cage with nowhere to strike, their morale had been circling the drain for weeks. Now, with news that their retreat had been cut off and their chieftain had been served up like Sunday dinner, panic spread through the tribal camps faster than wildfire in a powder keg.

"Hogwash! This has got to be some Alliance smoke and mirrors! They're pulling the wool over our eyes with fake magic!" The former shamans—now twisted into orc warlocks—scrambled around like headless chickens, desperately trying to pump up their warriors' fighting spirit.

Unfortunately, their pep talks had about as much effect as spitting into a hurricane.

Here's the rub: the Horde's main force was built around two powerhouse clans—the Bleeding Hollow clan commanded by Kilrogg Deadeye and the Shattered Hand clan led by Kargath Bladefist. These two war machines had returned from the killing fields sharper than a serpent's tooth, and they packed more punch than a mule's kick.

Even the heavy hitters like the Thunderlord, Bonechewer, Laughing Skull, Redwalker, and Dragonmaw clans couldn't hold a candle to these battle-hardened monsters. When it came to individual warrior quality or coordinated combat, the gap was wider than the Grand Canyon.

Just when clans like the Thunderlord were looking to find some backbone by rallying around their Bleeding Hollow and Shattered Hand brothers, they discovered that even these legendary warriors were shaking in their boots worse than leaves in a thunderstorm.

The bloodthirsty berserkers of the Shattered Hand Clan hung their heads like whipped dogs, silent as the grave.

The elite warriors of the Bleeding Hollow Clan dropped to their knees and wailed like banshees:

"Ancestors preserve us! It's that demon spawn again!"

"Edmund Duke! Wasn't it enough that you butchered Warchief Blackhand and sent Warchief Orgrim packing? Now you want to add our third Warchief to your trophy collection?"

"We're done for! Finished! Cooked! Nobody can stand toe-to-toe with that devil Duke!"

The lesser clans like Thunderlord and Bonechewer had only risen to the top of the heap after the recognized juggernauts had been swept off the board. After all, only two years had passed since the mighty Blackrock and Warsong clans had ruled the roost—most orcs still remembered when those names struck fear into enemy hearts.

Now, through the gossip mill, every orc learned that Edmund Duke was the grim reaper himself—the monster who had wiped the Blackrock Clan clean off the map, sent the Warsong Clan running for the hills with their tails between their legs, and put two great chieftains six feet under or in chains. Seeing Ner'zhul sprawled out like roadkill in that massive magical mirror, the orcs' fighting spirit didn't just collapse—it evaporated like morning dew.

Word of the orcs' complete meltdown reached Nethergarde Keep faster than you could say "retreat."

"Hot damn! This is our golden ticket! Time to knock the Horde into next week! Let our 'Lightning Tank Legion' spearhead the charge!" Muradin Bronzebeard was bouncing around like a kid on Christmas morning, itching to recreate the glory days of the Searing Gorge campaign.

"You've got it." Any commander worth his salt knows to strike while the iron's hot, and Anduin Lothar made the call without missing a beat.

"Hold your horses! We can't go charging in like bulls in a china shop. The Dark Portal's got more danger than a nest of vipers." Duke's voice crackled through the magical communication, stopping Lothar dead in his tracks.

"Dangerous? But this opportunity won't wait for us... Duke, you better give me a reason that'll stick."

Time was burning daylight, and Lothar couldn't let this golden goose slip through his fingers. Even if the Dark Portal got its second wind, so what? As long as they could give these trapped elite orcs a beating they'd never forget, it would knock the Horde's morale into the Stone Age.

Duke paused for a heartbeat, then delivered his reasoning: "Ner'zhul can still puppet the Dark Portal from a distance, and I haven't cut all the strings controlling his soul yet. That portal's packing more magical juice than a lightning storm, and I'm worried about what might crawl through. You can't put all your eggs in one basket."

Suddenly, the magical communication started crackling like bacon in a pan before cutting out completely.

"What in the Sam Hill was that about?" Muradin demanded.

"Nothing to lose sleep over. Karazhan sits on a space rift more unstable than a house of cards in a windstorm—magical communications go belly-up all the time. Back in the day, tracking down Medivh was like finding a needle in a haystack. We'd often have to send runners on foot. During the worst episodes, Karazhan would lock down tighter than Fort Blackrock due to space fluctuations. Going a year or two without contact was par for the course." Lothar was shooting straight, and since he was calling the shots, nobody pressed the issue.

However, when it came time to gear up for the assault, tempers started flaring.

When everyone saw Lothar strapping on his battle helm with that "let's dance" look in his eyes, they weren't having any of it.

"Now hold on there, Lord Lothar, you're the head honcho! This ain't the Searing Gorge campaign where our front lines got chewed up and spat out. Why does the commander need to get his hands dirty?" General Hass stepped in with a knowing grin, blocking Lothar's path.

Turalyon chimed in with dead seriousness: "If we need you to personally wade into battle just to mop up some scattered enemies, it makes us generals look like we couldn't organize a barn dance."

"Darn tootin'! Commander, you've already earned enough glory to choke a horse—let us young guns grab some of the spotlight! Hahahaha!" Muradin threw his hat into the ring with gusto.

Lothar's expression darkened like storm clouds. "Muradin, get over here. Everyone else can play the 'young buck' card, but you, you old coot—you're pushing a century and still trying to act like spring chicken in front of me."

Among dwarven folk, Muradin was still wet behind the ears, but remembering he was old enough to be a great-grandfather in human years made him shrink back like a scolded pup: "Alright, alright, I'll eat crow."

Seeing his officers dig in their heels, Lothar had no choice but to bow to their wisdom: "Turalyon takes a thousand cavalry and sweeps in from the east, Hass leads the Gryphon Riders in a western flanking maneuver. Both wings probe their defenses—if the orcs aren't as scattered as we think, don't charge headlong into a meat grinder. Muradin provides covering fire."

Turalyon and Hass snapped sharp salutes: "Understood, sir."

Only Muradin looked like someone had kicked his dog—his dreams of a glorious tank charge crushed flatter than a pancake.

Across every front, the Alliance struck back like a coiled spring.

In the Redridge Mountains, Reginald led Duke's personal forces out of their stronghold and hammered the Blacktooth Grin clan so hard they were crying for their mammies.

In Tirisfal Glades at Brill, while Uther was trading blows with Grom Hellscream, Mograine marshaled his troops for a counteroffensive that would send the Warsong Clan to meet their ancestors.

Victory reports would be flooding in from all theaters before the sun set twice.

Nobody could have predicted that Duke was about to step in the biggest mess of his career.

Sure enough, Duke and his crew had beaten Ner'zhul like a rented mule, but while they were putting the finishing touches on their work, something went sideways in a big way.

"No, no, I don't want to die! I don't want to die! Stay back—don't come any closer!" The third-generation Warchief was more yellow-bellied than a coward's dog, showing less spine than an orc whelp.

Even the paladins Gavinrad and Tirion couldn't hide their disgust at such a pathetic display.

Beating a Warchief this spineless felt about as satisfying as winning a race against a three-legged turtle—nothing like the glory of Lothar's victory over Blackhand or Turalyon's triumph against Orgrim.

"I don't want to die! I don't want to die!" Ner'zhul thrashed around like a fish out of water, trying to crawl away from the devil Duke on his belly.

Duke's grin was colder than a witch's kiss: "Relax, we're not going to kill you. I'm just going to lock you up..."

"Lies! I don't believe a word from you, you butcher who's sent millions of orcs to their graves!"