That's right. After dousing the flames licking their skin, those wild, unruly orcs staggered to their feet—looking like angry, soggy trolls—and burst out with ugly, guttural laughter directed straight at Duke.
The orcs were laughing.
Duke was laughing, too—but his laugh was deeper, heartier, like a jovial bear who just found a pot of honey.
Then Lothar caught it—the flicker in Duke's eyes wasn't amusement. No, it was something far more terrifying: the look of a man staring at a complete idiot, like a dad watching his kid try to put socks on a rooster.
What? Backup plan? Seriously?
Lothar's heart did an embarrassing flip. Yep. Backup plan. His gut screamed, I told you so.
"Did you hear that?" Bolvar, blessed with ears sharper than a hawk on espresso, was the first to perk up.
Seconds later, not just Lothar and Seamos, but every last weary soul in the battered Griffin Legion caught it—an ominous, distant rumble that made the hairs on their necks stand on end.
Duke spoke slowly, deliberately, like a man savoring the dramatic pause in a scary story: "Lothar, you'd better pull your men back another fifty yards."
Fifty yards? That was basically a tactical evacuation into the forest. In military terms, that's like ordering your army to dissolve into a pile of confused squirrels.
But Lothar's brain snapped into gear. He thought back to the suspiciously low river water just now. The spring floods were supposed to be swelling the river—not whispering a gentle "hold my beer" to gravity.
The answer hit him like a lightning bolt: Duke had secretly dammed the river upstream at Stone Tablet Lake. He'd turned a river into a bathtub, holding back all that water just for this moment.
And those East Valley Lumberyard workers? The ones hauling wood and shouting "Timber!" under Duke's secret orders? Yep—they'd built the dam.
Lothar shuddered with a mixture of awe and horror.
This wasn't just magic power—it was strategic genius wrapped in a robe of mystery and maybe a few questionable hygiene habits.
If Duke had wanted to betray Stormwind, no one would escape with so much as their bootlaces intact.
Grateful but wide-eyed, Lothar muttered, "Good thing this guy isn't an enemy."
He wasted no time ordering the retreat.
For the Griffin Legion, a disciplined, well-trained force, a tactical shuffle backward was child's play.
Ten seconds later, the battered warriors watched with twisted delight as nature and magic unleashed hell on the orcs who'd been laughing moments before.
A deafening roar echoed down the river—a monstrous tidal wave of water, debris, and pure wrath barreling toward the orcs.
This wasn't just a flood; it was an angry god throwing a tantrum.
The Bleeding Hollow Clan—the Horde's savage elite, led by Kilrogg Deadeye, the very definition of "don't mess with me"—was caught mid-charge. These were battle-hardened berserkers, veterans of countless brutal campaigns, tasked historically with taking down the dwarves of Ironforge themselves.
Yet now, those fierce warriors were helpless against the raw fury of the flood.
Their green banners fluttered desperately but were no match for the roaring wave of destruction. The flood swallowed them like a ravenous beast devouring a feast, tossing sharp wooden stakes into the mix like deadly toothpicks skewering any orc unlucky enough to be caught.
Not all elite clans were present, but losing this vanguard was a devastating blow that Kilrogg would feel for a long time.
Duke scanned the carnage thoughtfully: Blackrock, Broken Palm, Dragonmaw—all the heavy hitters in the Horde's brutal lineup—were here, and many were being swept away like leaves in a storm.
History had shown that Stormwind alone could never hope to defeat the Horde outright. No, it took seven human kingdoms, dwarves, and elves combined to push back the tide.
Duke's role? Bleed the enemy dry. Make every drop of orc blood count before the final showdown.
Today was the first brutal step.
Orcs shrieked and flailed, trying to outrun the watery grave, but orcs on land aren't exactly graceful swimmers—they splashed and thrashed like drunken hippos. The flood wasn't just water; it was death, and those wicked wooden stakes turned the river into a macabre barbecue pit.
Within heartbeats, the once-mighty orc army was scattered, broken, humiliated.
And if that wasn't enough, massive human warships floated downstream, sailors beating drums and flinging javelins, turning lucky survivors into orc kebabs.
Lothar was left speechless, staring at the horrific, almost surreal scene.
Duke spun around casually and declared, "Go. The Griffin Legion needs enemy heads to bring honor to their comrades."
Lothar felt a pang of disappointment. These drowned, panicked orcs weren't the worthy foes he craved.
Bolvar stepped up, slapping Lothar's shoulder armor like a coach rallying a team: "We all know how dangerous these greenskins are. Nobles who've lost Elwynn Forest need a punching bag. Let's not make the Griffin Legion the scapegoats for their fury."
Yes, Lothar was a brilliant general—but diplomacy? Politics? That was a nightmare worse than facing a dozen enraged orcs wielding morning stars.
Tactically, the Griffin Legion had done everything right. So what if Redridge Pass was lost? The Stormwind soldiers were outmatched in forest combat. The angry nobles needed a target for their frustrations.
And who better than the "poor fighting" Griffin Legion?
Lothar's jaw clenched. He couldn't bear the thought of his men being blamed after such sacrifice—after their pensions were already docked for daring to survive.
But if they brought back enough orc heads... well, that was the kind of proof that silenced critics.
He raised his sword with fiery resolve: "Griffin Legion, forward! Show these green-skinned monsters the true meaning of pain!"