Chapter 9

Long ago Zugorre had managed to control his natural orcish bloodlust, but then the demonic lust had torn asunder his diligence and mastery of himself. That was so long ago…yet the demon's gift to the orcs gave him strength and primal fury that led him through many battles.

Yet since the ending of the disastrous Second War, no new blessings of demonic blood had been given to the orcs, and that was partially why Fleshrender and his forces were here. To scout out the countryside, unite with guerilla fighting orcish warriors, and wreak havoc on the 'unprotected' belly of the Alliance.

The human village offered little resistance as the hundreds of orcish warriors poured through its streets, killing, maiming, and torturing the human citizens, splashing their red blood across their bodies as symbols of victory. The town's feeble defenses were overwhelmed in minutes. Too long had orcs been hunted by humans. Now it was their turn.

As the day went on the human army approached from the northeast, and the orcs and Alliance forces began to engage in minor skirmishes as the warlocks prepared the sacrifices they had found among the village's populace.

The demons would have sacrifices whether they liked them or did not care for them. Zugorre only hoped they still thought of their wayward soldiers who had failed them before. However, if the great demon lords remembered the orcs and were angered by their failure…then, pain and torture would await the remnants of the orcish race forever, a thought that terrified Zugorre, who always believed he would die a death in battle, a pain that would only last a few seconds, or perhaps minutes. The ends justify the means though.

Zugorre thought. When they see that we fight the humans still, still sound victories though our horns, still bathe in the blood of our enemies, and still worship them, then they cannot deny our usefulness to them.

Once in position in a small basin, Zugorre gave the order for a large detachment of troops to begin assaulting the Alliance's forces before they arrived in full force, to cut them down in piecemeal before they could prepare themselves.

Later in the day, around the fourteenth hour, the sounds of a large battle could be heard echoing in the small valleys just to the west of the town; orc battle horns sounded, and marching, screaming, and the whistle of arrows.

A grunt ran up to him just as he reached the ridge, and reported that Jagaz and his force had attacked before the time was ready, and now the town had fallen, the small detachment inside it no match for the larger force of human troops led by the blonde-haired, cursed paladin who had cut down many of his warriors. Zugorre, in a rage, cut down a grunt with his twin axes as he tried to explain what Jagaz Gutreaper had done, who had given in to his bloodlust and assaulting the enemy's camp in the uplands.

"Damn that orc to whatever hells the demons hold for him!" he cursed over and over, walking up to the sounds of battle.

In front of him, a wide-open field flanked by a pair of forests lay, orc troops, assembling in clumps while the shiny armor of the Alliance awaited them at the end of the plain. Suddenly, he was surrounded by grunts and a lumbering ogre who were moving toward the battle.

Quickly escaping from the throng of troops moving forward towards the colorful pageantry of the enemy's banners, Zugorre's face, though fired up with bloodlust and want to enter the battle himself, carried a huge frown on it. The sacrifices they had picked already would have to do.

As for now though, a battle called, and once again the Horde would sound its victories across this putrid land, and make its disgusting owners quiver in fear.

Outskirts of Strahnbrad

"Prince Arthas, Lord Uther requests your presence at the orc encampment immediately!" a shout from the bushes in front of him erupted. Suddenly, a knight, clad in the usual colorful pageantry emerged, bearing a scroll that read-only that all forces were to return to the main camp to prepare assault against the enemy.

Brushing back a long strand of golden hair from his dirtied and bloodied face, Arthas Menethil nodded. "Never a dull moment…" he muttered, "Let's get moving!"

Though a short distance, Arthas tired quickly. He had come all the way from the Capitol, Lordegarde, where he had been attending to the usual bureaucratic matters of the kingdom, and training under the Holy Light, not to mention that as soon as he had made it to the Alliance camp, he had been sent off to liberate the town of Strahnbrad.

"As if there was much left to liberate…" Arthas sneered, thinking of the flaming town, the smell of death and burning flesh that still hung around him and his men. Though not his first combat assignment, he still felt absolutely sickened and disgusted with the orcs.

The vilest of creatures they were indeed, deserving no less than complete purification from the world of Azeroth under the Holy Light. Having always been headstrong, and arrogant, Arthas had always considered his path to be the most correct one. It was something that inspired loyalty in some, and distrust in others.

He had been too young to serve in the Second War but had proved his worth through several conflicts that had ensued, cleaning up orc holdouts, the campaign into the troll homeland of Zul'Aman, chasing down bandits and renegades, and helping rebuild the shattered kingdom of Azeroth in the deep south.

With a tall frame and a heavy build, Arthas looked as much a warrior as a Prince, his eyes deep emerald green, and garbed armor a deep metallic silver rimmed with gold as bright as his own hair.