Whenever they entered the forest and encountered dire wolves, they usually faced not just one, but an entire pack. Those dire wolves would never politely step out to fight them one-on-one. They tended to attack together, and they were cunning enough to coordinate their attacks.
Small packs of dire wolves sometimes numbered only eight or nine, or eleven or twelve, while large packs could often number over a hundred. In fact, those large packs were usually the overlords of their stretch of forest.
The Orcs Vanguard Commander glanced back at the soldiers following him, a faint smile still on his face. Ever since they had crossed into the Kingdom of Quel'Thalas, he had remained thoroughly satisfied with his warriors' performance.
For the past seven days, an utterly loathsome, cold drizzle had fallen without letup, leaving every orc marching through Eversong Woods cursing the damned weather.
Yet his troops' morale remained high. They still firmly believed they could win, still endured the harsh conditions, and marched unwaveringly toward their objective along the muddy, slippery roads.
As the Burning Legion's Vanguard, its eyes, they carried very few combat supplies so they could travel light. Aside from essential armor and weapons, each carried only four or five days' worth of food and dried meat for their worgs.
The bosses at Burning Legion headquarters had told them that, as long as they maintained a suitable distance from the main force, they could receive its support at any time.
The bosses had also said that the high elves had spent years fighting those seemingly uncivilized Zul'Aman trolls with their exceptionally crude equipment without defeating them. Clearly, those high elves must either be easy prey or utter cowards afraid of dying.
Thus, the Orcs Vanguard Commander's orders were: Advance! Advance! Pay no heed to their rear