Under Blackhand's vehement objections, the orcs had no choice but to launch another assault on the stronghold at Spineback Mountain. Another battle began, and countless orcs were forced to pit their flesh and blood against the Holy Light Clerics' weapons, which were far beyond the technology of this age.
The fighting was as spectacular as it was brutal. But no matter how courageous or grief-stricken the orcs were, beneath the storm of attacks, they could only leave behind heaps of their comrades' mangled bodies.
Orc corpses piled more than two meters high throughout the valley. The soldiers who attacked later felt sticky blood squelch beneath every step. Even the savage orcs could not bear that sickening, cruel sensation, and most of those who survived vomited violently after leaving the battlefield.
The ordinary soldiers of the orc tribes found this meaningless fighting increasingly unacceptable. This was not for the Horde. They were simply being sent to their deaths.
The senior orc chieftains looked increasingly grim as well. Great numbers of clan warriors were dying, every clan's population was shrinking rapidly, and the gains were negligible-not even as substantial as what small raiding parties had brought back.
The orc forces that had crossed Spineback Mountain sent back reports of victory almost every day. Meanwhile, the main army had lost tens of thousands of lives in one tiny valley. How could the orc chieftains be satisfied with that? More and more of them began to believe Durotan had been right. Rather than fight to the death here, they should bypass this hellish stronghold and carve out territory for their tribes elsewhere.
Amid this growing discontent, Blackhand had no choice but to seek out Gul'dan. The two sat facing each other in an otherwise empty tent. Blackhand strode forward and sat in a chair