Low, mournful blasts reverberated through the pitch-black night, sounding especially ominous and terrifying.
Just then, something strange happened.
All the enemy's torches suddenly went out, plunging the land back into darkness. A chaotic pounding of hooves followed, then turned away and faded into the depths of the night until it could no longer be heard.
"What the hell are they up to?"
The enemy had come surging toward the camp as if preparing to raid it, only to withdraw for no apparent reason.
Blackmoore had been frightened for nothing, and now he was baffled.
"You few, scout outside and see whether any enemies are hiding nearby," Blackmoore ordered his men.
Several scouts galloped out of the camp at his command, swiftly disappearing into the darkness.
Before long, they returned from different directions to report to Blackmoore: they had found no trace of the enemy within a kilometer or two.
Blackmoore let out a long breath.
Perhaps it was just an army passing through.
It could have been troops from Stromgarde to the east, or Gilneans from the west.
They might have marched here, spotted the camp, and mistaken us for bandits, prompting them to charge.
Then, once they got closer and realized we were Lordaeron regulars, they withdrew.
Although both kingdoms had left the Alliance after the Second War, they were still friendly forces, after all. They wouldn't rashly pick a fight with us.
Besides, I have four thousand men!
Surely no enemy would dare challenge a force this large.
He issued the order, and the officers began telling everyone to stand down and rest.
Cursing loudly, the soldiers trudged back into their tents to resume sleeping.
Before long, the camp slowly quieted down.
The soldiers fell straight back to sleep, and snores rose all around.
Suddenly, more than a