The Scales of War

As everyone had expected, the Ironforge Dwarves' stubborn resistance had slowed the Orcish main force. The howling blizzards of Dun Morogh and the vast temperature difference between it and Searing Gorge had dealt a heavy blow to the Orc army, whose supply train had yet to catch up—

One-fifth of the Orc warriors had been rendered combat-ineffective by the harsh climate alone. On top of that, the Orcs had suffered their worst noncombat losses since arriving in Azeroth.

As creations of the Titans, Dwarves were naturally passionate about stone and architecture. Their extraordinary talent for construction had turned all of Dun Morogh into an iron fortress. All sorts of small forts lay hidden behind the endless snow, watching over every major route through the snowy mountains.

Compared to the Dark Iron Dwarves, who had only Blackrock Spire as a defensive structure, the Ironforge Dwarves scattered across Dun Morogh were like a turtle wrapped in layer upon layer of armor, greatly slowing the Orcish main force's advance.

Yet in recent days, the Alliance command in Hillsbrad Foothills had received more than just the good news that the Orc army was advancing slowly. The relocation of the foothills' residents, the central handling of food supplies, and the kingdoms' preparations for war—one unforeseen or anticipated problem after another kept everyone at headquarters on edge.

People everywhere felt a deep attachment to their homeland. Before they had truly seen the threat drawing near, the civilians who had lived in peace around Hillsbrad Foothills for a thousand years were fiercely opposed to the Alliance's relocation order.

Beyond sentiment, the more important issue was that relocation would affect the expected harvest of farmers who had sown their fields in spring. When their interests were harmed, those in power were always the easiest people to blame. Most common folk would not stop to consider whether the authorities had their long-term well-being in mind; they would only oppose them more fiercely and argue at greater length.

As a result, the relocation plan for the scattered civilians of Hillsbrad Foothills alone took half the summer. In the end, the Alliance leaders, led by Terenas, had no choice but to compromise with the civilians who refused to leave their homes and fields. The Kingdom of Lordaeron would pay the largest share, with the other kingdoms contributing a set proportion of the gold, to buy the unripe crops from the relocated civilians at last year's prices.

If even the relocation plan affecting only civilians had run into so many obstacles, then it was obvious that food policies involving nobles and wealthy merchants would be even harder to enforce. Whenever war came, there were always people tempted by the enormous profits to be made from reselling food. They did not care whether their actions hindered the war effort, nor did they worry that their race might be defeated for lack of supplies.

Those who stuffed their pockets with wealth steeped in blood, tears, and accusations were often members of families or individuals with deep roots in mainstream society. They included the nobles of the various kingdoms and merchants wealthy enough to rival nations. They had powerful forces at their disposal and extensive networks of connections to ensure they would not suffer for it.

Even the kings of the various kingdoms had little recourse against these parasites within the Alliance. Fortunately, the Kingdom of Lordaeron had begun making secret preparations a year earlier. The food stockpiled in Stratholme, Andorhal, and Lordaeron City was enough to meet the needs of the entire Alliance army for several years.

As for mobilization, even the Kingdom of Lordaeron, which had always been the most committed to the Alliance, had reservations this time. After all, not every civilian would rush out to play the hero before the flames of war reached their own home. As a result, the Alliance army's numbers had fallen short of Anduin Lothar's expectations, and so had the speed of its assembly.

The most notable example was King Genn Greymane, ruler of Gilneas. The peninsula where Gilneas stood was easy to defend and difficult to attack, while Biting Reef barred large ships from entering by sea. Believing the matter had nothing to do with him, Greymane had sent only a token squad of soldiers.

Compared with the elite rangers Alleria had brought, this small Gilnean squad of support troops had no advantage in either combat skill or discipline. Within the Alliance ranks, they were little more than a reserve force with almost no fighting ability.

However, Lothar and the other Alliance kings had never placed their hopes in Gilneas, which had been shaped by isolationism since the previous generation of kings. Everyone understood that the Alliance's main strength would be the armies of the Kingdom of Lordaeron and Stromgarde, along with the Kul Tiras navy.

The Kingdom of Alterac, nominal owner of Hillsbrad Foothills—the future main battlefield—and a small contingent of Wildhammer Dwarf Gryphon Riders were assigned as reserves, not true main forces.

While the humans spent nearly half a year fortifying their defenses, a small band of Orcs, guided by some unknown force, entered the abandoned fortress of Grim Batol in the northeastern Wetlands. This was the former home the majority of Wildhammer Dwarves had abandoned, facing a highland where large numbers of young Red Dragons roamed.

"Such incredible power!"

The young Warlock held a small golden disc in one hand and let out a deafening roar. A violent surge of energy swept around him, making his pitifully crude robe flap wildly.

Golden light spilled from the little disc, illuminating the fortress's vast interior, as well as two enormous shapes concealed in the shadows—

Their bodies, over a hundred feet long, nearly filled the deepest part of the fortress. Huge wings wrapped tightly around their massive frames, and their dark red scales took on a faint purplish hue in the dim light. Tiny flames flickered in their slightly open mouths and beneath their folded wings, but the fierce heat and wild power they once possessed were gone.

Dragons—and two of them!

The two enormous Red Dragons had their eyes half closed, their pale golden irises filled with boundless fury. They wanted nothing more than to devour the two Orcs before them, but the Dragon Soul had robbed them of almost all their strength, leaving them like fat lambs laid out on a chopping block.

That Goblin hadn't lied. This was a true artifact! Feeling the dreadful power gathering in his hand, Nekros seemed, for one brief moment, to be holding the entire world in his grasp!

"Such terrible power." The young Warlock had lost all reason and composure, leaving Zuluhed, standing beside him, utterly disappointed. He shook his head slightly and muttered, "Worse than I imagined."

Suppressing the urge to fire a Chaos Bolt into the other Orc's forehead, the old chieftain swung his staff and tapped it against the rocky floor, drawing the other's attention.

"Send more hands to speed up the hatching of those dragon eggs. From this day on, our clan will be known as the Dragonmaw Clan. We are mighty Orcs who can choke the life out of dragons!"

The great war between humans and Orcs was about to erupt, and the scales of war had already begun, without anyone realizing it, to tip in one side's favor.