Anyone who had ever stayed up all night knew that the hours from four in the morning until sunrise were the coldest time of day. They were also when the body was most exhausted, most chilled, and the will was weakest.
Feeling the room grow colder, the young commander gently scooted his chair back. Exhaustion and frustration left the strong-willed warrior unwilling even to stand. Instead, he reached out from beneath his blanket and tossed the last piece of firewood into the nearly extinguished fire. The disturbed hearth crackled, sending up a few sparks.
Suddenly, the closed door swung open. The exchange of hot and cold air made the young man shiver involuntarily. Coming in without knocking to ask permission? He turned, ready to give his impetuous messenger a good scolding and teach that green recruit from Blackwood Town a thing or two about the chain of command.
Unfortunately, the visitor didn't give the troubled commander a chance to vent his frustration. The young prince shoved the door open and broke the quiet of the room with a slightly childish voice.
"Lord Maxwell, the messenger standing guard in the hallway just told me you haven't rested all night?"
"Your Highness."
Although he was currently the highest-ranking commander in the entire camp, he still treated the young member of the royal family with respect and courtesy. This was the boy who had made a tangible contribution to the Kingdom of Lordaeron through his cleverness, even if he was unlikely to become the next king of Lordaeron.
That was right. After the kingdom's "maneuvers" following the Harvest Festival, but before all the Gnoll prisoners were sent to this battlefield, the commander in chief had learned from Archbishop Alonsus Faol who had come up with the entire Gnoll plan: the blond boy before him, not yet ten years old and barely tall enough to reach his waist.
At first, Maxwell had scoffed at the boy's far-fetched plan. But once the battle had been underway for a while, he had to admit that it had done a fine job of protecting the young warriors who were experiencing their first battle. It had also greatly benefited their position.
And what of the extra food they'd used? What did a little of that cheap stuff matter?
In the commander's eyes, he would gladly spend ten times as much if it meant bringing every fine young man who fought for the Kingdom of Lordaeron home safe and sound. After all, he was a soldier, not an official responsible for managing supplies and the kingdom's wealth.
In a general's eyes, anyone clever enough to help him win with strategy while protecting the soldiers under his command deserved his respect, even if he was still a child with peach fuzz on his lip. What a shame he wasn't Prince Arthas. The young man shook his head inwardly as he looked at the child hailed as a genius.
The boy nodded to the commander, who had risen to salute him, then casually pulled a chair out from beneath the long table. Bracing himself with both hands, he sank into its soft cushion.
"I've read the letter Teacher Faol sent. Father's decision can't be overturned, so we have to do something."
Watching the prince make himself right at home, the young commander gave a wry smile and said gravely, "Every Troll trapped in Zul'Aman is a fearless warrior fighting for survival. If the Gnolls weren't holding the front line for us, the kingdom's casualties would already be far beyond anything we could imagine."
He glanced at the boy, who had tilted his head, then lowered his gaze and continued. "My initial assessment was wrong. The Trolls' resistance and the intensity of the fighting have exceeded my expectations. If we commit even more troops, our casualties will rise significantly. I'm also worried about those Gnolls."
"The Trolls are still so spirited because they have hope. What will happen if they learn their clan leader lost to us and fled into the forest? Once that happens, with nowhere left to retreat, will they summon the courage to fight to the death, or surrender to us?"
"You mean...?"
Maxwell's expression changed drastically. He stared at the boy in disbelief, his voice tinged with astonishment. "That's too risky. It's practically a gamble!"
The boy propped his chin on his hand and looked at Maxwell, seated at the head of the table. "Give them despair, then give them hope. Someone who has fallen to the bottom of a well and is struggling to survive will grab at any barrel that might keep him afloat—even if the rope holding it is in the hands of the enemy who pushed him in."
"Our original goal wasn't to wipe them all out. It was to stop them from attacking us from behind while the kingdom fought the Orcs who destroyed Stormwind City. After this battle, the Gnolls are no longer numerous enough to threaten the kingdom, and Zul'Aman's elite forces have been all but depleted. As long as we keep them in this state, then the purpose of the war will have been—"
"If we accept their surrender, who will stop the Trolls from plotting revenge against the kingdom after our soldiers leave this forest? At their speed through the woods, it would only take them about half a month to reach the territory where the Amani Trolls roam."
For the first time, the usually well-mannered young man interrupted the prince. Shaking his head emphatically, he thought that the other really was an innocent child who hadn't seen much of the world.
"Trolls aren't like those scattered bands of Gnolls. We've been bitter enemies for thousands of years. I could never trust those bloodthirsty green-skinned monsters."
Alvin wasn't angry that the other had rudely interrupted him. It was a perfectly normal reaction from a kingdom's general. Still, he didn't agree with the man's view. He only smiled faintly, like an ordinary child about to play a prank.
"That's why we need a little plan to separate the Mossflayer Trolls in Zul'Aman from the Amani Trolls in the Ghostlands. And while we're at it, we can cause the green-skins in Zul'Aman a little trouble, so they won't be able to turn their attention elsewhere so easily."
"How could that be possible?"
The young warrior stared at him in bewilderment. The boy's lips curled into a shy smile as he said softly, "I think the High Elves of the Ghostlands might be happy to do us a small favor, if we can provide them with a Troll guide."
As he spoke, the hand tucked into his jacket pocket closed around a ring that shimmered with a faint emerald light.
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