Fire Attack [Daily 10,000 Words-Please Subscribe]

With Thrall's order to use fire, the Orc camp erupted once more. Yet building catapults was no task for a single day, and reality forced the Orcs to adopt the most primitive—and most brutal—method.

Grease was packed into crude Clay Pots and distributed alongside torches made from oil-soaked rags to the bravest, most reckless warriors of the Warsong Clan.

"For the Horde! For Warsong!" roared the Orc centurion at their head, pounding his chest with his battle axe. "With fire, we will carve a path for the brothers behind us!"

No grand declaration could lessen the fatal nature of this mission. Every Orc clutching an oil jar and carrying a torch knew that what lay ahead was not the enemy, but death. Yet the fervor and glory burning in their eyes overwhelmed their fear of dying.

The next day, the horns of attack sounded once again.

The green tide surged toward the Night Elf camp once more, but unlike before, the charging ranks were far thinner, mixed with desperate warriors carrying deadly fuel.

"Aim for the ones carrying jars!" Shandris Feathermoon stood atop the watchtower and immediately spotted the anomaly, issuing the order in a shrill voice.

The rain of arrows grew denser and more precise, reaping lives like Death's scythe. The Orcs carrying oil jars became priority targets. One after another, they fell screaming beneath arrows, their Clay Pots shattering on the ground. Grease soaked into the earth or was ignited by stray flaming arrows, forming patches of blazing fire before the lines and briefly obstructing the charge behind them.

With every step forward, Orcs wailed and fell.

But the Orcs' valor exceeded the elves' imagination. There were always a few lucky—or perhaps unlucky—ones who, relying on their comrades' bodies to draw the arrows and a bit of luck,