Chapter 673: A Heroine?

Countless orcs surged from the snowy outskirts of the town, their war cries in the guttural orcish tongue unintelligible to human ears, as they charged towards the small contingent of sixty Lordaeron cavaliers. Their roars echoed across the snowfield, a terrible symphony of war.

Among the orcs, slender frost trolls with their pallid skin were also visible. Had it not been for the treacherous volley of spears that preceded their assault, the cavalry could have broken through using the speed of their mounts. Alas, the spears had found their marks, and now, seven in ten of the horses lay thrashing in agony, their lifeblood staining the snow.

The surviving knights had no choice but to form a circle with their mounts as a barricade, making a desperate stand.

In an open battle, a hundred orcs and trolls against sixty well-mounted knights could have an uncertain outcome. But when the knights were forced to dismount, trading their mobility for the protection of smaller kite shields in a makeshift circle, their fate was all but sealed.

Jaina was splattered with blood, her mind reeling in shock.

In the face of danger, some succumb to hysterical paralysis, their screams contributing to chaos rather than aid. Others display an exaggerated instinct for survival, clutching at any straw in a drowning man's desperation.

Then there are those who, after a moment of sheer panic, become eerily calm and decisive.

And atop this hierarchy stands a rare breed, those who can lead their peers out of certain doom. These are the born generals, the strategists, the true leaders among men.

Clearly, Jaina Proudmoore was one such natural-born leader.

It took her but a second to regain her senses and cry out, "To the chapel! The chapel is made of stone!"

The captain of the paladins caught on to Jaina's intent immediately.

Her assessment was spot on. Without proper defenses, their group would be decimated by an orc charge. Taking refuge in a cellar was futile; no cellar was large enough, and the orcs' ability to breach such confines was beyond most humans' imaginations.

A common wooden structure would crumble before the orcs; they needed no battering rams, just their brute strength was enough to tear through defenses that many would consider impregnable.

But the chapel was different. For reasons unknown, the town's chapel was constructed of solid stone, an unyielding fortress in its own right.

"Move! Follow this lady's lead!"

Jaina's call was a lifesaver. The orcs were fast, but the knights, spurred by her command, reached the sanctuary of the chapel just before the orcs could encircle them completely.

"Ugh!" Jaina felt bile rise in her throat again.

To the people of Lordaeron, the chapel was sacred, a haven for those seeking redemption in perilous times. Tragically, the orcs had transformed it into a gruesome slaughterhouse.

Though the corpses were frozen, the fresh scent of blood from the recent carnage assaulted Jaina's senses.

None of the cavaliers blamed the delicate-looking miss for her reaction; after all, she had just saved their lives. The uninjured knights quickly arranged themselves into a two-layered shield formation at the chapel's grand entrance, which was wide enough for four men abreast and twice the height of a man.

"Praise the Light! Thank you, wise lady!"

The orcs continued their ferocious onslaught, but the chapel's strategic position, requiring only the defense of the main entrance, was a godsend. There was a side door made of the same stone, so narrow that it would be impenetrable with just a pair standing guard.

The orcs launched their assault on the human soldiers within the chapel. Their massive hammers swung with such force that, despite the protection of shields, a knight's arm was shattered.

In retaliation, the orc paid with his life, pierced by at least seven knights' swords.

The gruesome battle raged on, knights being dragged back to the inner sanctum with their wounds, but the fallen orcs were far more numerous. These battle-hardened cavalrymen fought valiantly, slaying over thirty orcs in a matter of minutes, at the cost of seven lightly wounded and three severely.

Yet the horde outside was relentless, a surging sea of green that threatened to overwhelm them. The chapel now housed several hundred orcs at the least.

A one-armed knight pulled out a short-barreled firearm and fired a shot into the sky. Accompanying the piercing sound was a red flare that soared heavenward, visible even from miles away.

Observing Jaina's bewildered expression, the knight explained with a wry smile, "A gadget from Stormwind, called a signal flare, meant for calling aid to the Alliance. We may despise that damned Duke, but his trinkets sure come in handy."

Another knight, struggling to stand, added between heavy breaths, "Just wait, we'll soon have the elven women of Stormwind come to our rescue."

"Elven women?" Jaina hadn't quite caught on.

"The elven rangers serving under the Grand Duke Marcus of Stormwind," the knight continued. "Arrogant as they may be, their prowess in forest combat is unmatched. Our own reinforcements won't make it in time; our hope lies with nearby elven patrols. Without allies, we won't last till nightfall."

Biting her lip in determination, Jaina declared, "That's not necessarily true, not with me here."

"You!?"

As the knights looked on in disbelief, Jaina clenched her fists, lifting the hem of her mooncloth robe, revealing her fair legs as she stepped up on the chapel's bench.

"Watch for the trolls' spears!" a knight cautioned, but his words trailed off in awe as a shimmering, translucent barrier materialized around Jaina.

"By the Light, she's a mage!"

The knights at the forefront felt the warmth of fire from behind. Before they could turn, a cool female voice announced, "Fireball!"

With a thunderous blast, a massive fireball streaked across the sky above the shield wall and exploded amidst the tightly packed orcs.

Screams of agony filled the air as the orcs flailed in the flames, rolling on the cold ground in a futile attempt to smother the fire engulfing them.

Some orcs tried to help, stripping off their hides and beating them against the flames. It was no use.

Before the fire even began to wane, the burning orcs had met their ancestors.

Another fireball followed, and four or five more orcs were caught in its blast.

Their pitiful howls sent a wave of fear through their kin.