"Hold firm! Keep the line! All paladins, shields on my command!" Mograine hammered several undead fiends to the ground, charged up a low hill ahead, and raised his Holy Hammer high as he shouted.
Humm! Golden Holy Light descended from the heavens. Its steadfast radiance enveloped every paladin, condensing into shields as solid as stone.
The undead in the Northern Lands of Lordaeron had already amassed in force. Under the control of some will, they had launched an attack on Stratholme that morning.
The battle had raged from dawn until now. Corpses littered Stratholme's southern outskirts, and chunks of rotting flesh lay scattered across the wilderness.
The Silver Hand army corps stationed outside the city had also suffered heavy losses. More than twenty percent of its class practitioners could no longer fight.
Individual undead creatures were not particularly strong. An ordinary soldier could kill three or more of them. But when an army corps faced a tide of tens of thousands of undead, even the strongest individual's strength would eventually be exhausted.
The first class practitioners to fall had exhausted themselves in the relentless fighting, only to be dragged down by the swarming undead and devoured.
At dusk, the third wave of undead arrived right on schedule.
The paladins holding the front line used what little strength they had left to activate their Holy Pacts and unleash Shield of Vengeance.
Mograine and Dathrohan stood at the very front. At this point, the battle no longer needed overarching commands. If they failed to stop this wave, nearly a thousand Silver Hand soldiers would be consumed by the undead scourge along with Stratholme.
"They're coming! They're coming again!" a soldier roared.
"This is where we win or lose! For the Holy Light! For Lordaeron!" Mograine's dark golden beard trembled slightly. Golden cracks