Stormwind Wizard God-Chapter 639: Last Stand

As people age and their bodies begin creaking like rusty gate hinges, they often tackle problems with all the flexibility of a dwarven siege tank stuck in mud - completely different from their reckless youth.

Before Duke had been flung through the timeways like a mage's failed teleport, there was a psychological study that would make even the most scholarly gnome scratch his beard in wonder.

If a person doesn't attempt something that makes their knees knock louder than a goblin's wrench before age thirty, there's a 90% chance they'll avoid it like a plague-ridden ghoul for the rest of their natural life.

Take cliff-diving into Stranglethorn's shark-infested waters, for instance.

Antonidas, who materialized before Duke like a bad omen wrapped in wizard robes, looked positively ancient - more wrinkled than a week-old apple abandoned in Ironforge's deepest mines. Though his eyes still burned with arcane fire, his flickering gaze screamed suspicion louder than a banshee's wail: "Well, well, well... you Lordaeron folk show up NOW? Were you perhaps waiting for Dalaran to bend the knee so you could swoop in like vultures and claim the spoils? Duke, my dear boy, you didn't stumble back earlier or later, but came charging home precisely when Arthas decided to give dear old daddy the ultimate retirement plan?"

Duke's heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped murloc when he caught that withering stare.

Life doesn't hand out decades like a generous tavern keeper.

Ten years might zip by faster than a rogue's blade in young eyes, but to the elderly, it crawls slower than a turtle racing through molasses uphill in winter.

During his bone-jarring journey here, Duke had received an earful from Illucia about the continent's political cesspool that would make even Stormwind's sewers seem fragrant: how Lordaeron had gobbled up Alterac's former territories like a starving ogre at a feast; how Terenas, playing the role of overprotective papa bear, had stripped Uther of his holy titles faster than you could say "For the Light!" simply because the old paladin dared oppose Arthas's charming habit of massacring people; how Dalaran had slammed its doors shut tighter than a gnome's purse strings, refusing to export even the most bumbling apprentice mages; how King Galen of Stromgarde was rampaging around like a berserker who'd lost his ale; and how Gilneas had become more isolated than a hermit crab with trust issues.

A decade of backstabbing, scheming, and political maneuvering had been more than enough to torch every bridge of brotherhood that the Alliance had built during their glorious crusade against the Horde - burned them down to ash and cinders.

The only silver lining in this storm cloud was that Stormwind Kingdom and Khaz Modan had bounced back from devastation better than a dwarf bounces back from his tenth ale, and somehow the Alliance's military backbone hadn't completely snapped in half.

Facing Antonidas's accusation like a man staring down a charging elephant, Duke remained cooler than Northrend's frozen wastes: "Karazhan was surrounded by more void cracks than a shattered mirror in a funhouse of horrors. I finally squeezed through a gap and rushed back here as fast as my legs could carry me."

Mograine jumped into the fray faster than a paladin charging undead, desperately trying to oil these grinding gears: "Lord Antonidas, this isn't the time to point fingers like children fighting over the last piece of sweetbread! We can play the blame game until the cows come home AFTER we deal with this walking nightmare who claims he wants to transform our entire continent into his personal graveyard kingdom!"

Both Duke and Antonidas' eyelids twitched like nervous tics.

This wasn't the graceful near-immortality of the elves - oh no, this was the unholy mockery of death itself, allowing a parade of ghostly abominations to slaughter every breathing soul and rule over a kingdom of bones and rotting flesh!

Who in their right mind would attempt such madness except those Cult of the Damned lunatics who'd become so obsessed with cheating death that they'd lost their marbles entirely?

When faced with this ultimate battle between the living and the damned, petty squabbles between kingdoms seemed about as significant as arguing over who gets the last crumb while the house burns down around you.

Antonidas squinted until his eyes nearly disappeared into the wrinkled landscape of his face, lips curling like parchment in flame: "Are we seriously considering joining forces with those green-skinned savages?"

Aside from the naive, doe-eyed recruits who hadn't lived through the soul-crushing First and Second Dark Portal Wars and still harbored sympathy softer than fresh butter, no Alliance member would trust an orc further than they could throw a mountain giant.

"Cooperation? If we can't crush that father-murdering scum Arthas into dust, I'll consider shaking hands with the devil himself."

Antonidas opened his mouth to unleash another verbal barrage, but Duke's next words hit him like a mace to the skull, knocking the fight right out of him. freewebnoveℓ.com

"At the very least, orcs still draw breath and bleed red blood, don't they? Would you rather watch the Scourge butcher every last orc, then raise them as super-powered zombies to come knocking on Dalaran's pretty purple doors?"

Everyone's faces fell faster than a lead balloon.

Shortly after the Undead Scourge had erupted like a festering boil, the front-line commanders had learned some hard truths that chilled them to the bone: those who packed a punch in life would pack an even deadlier punch in undeath.

While civilian corpses shambled around with all the threatening presence of soggy bread, orc zombies hit with the force of fifty hammers and twice the attitude.

Allowing Arthas to massacre every orc now would be like handing him the keys to an even more devastating army - pure tactical suicide.

The Alliance leaders exchanged glances that spoke volumes, reaching consensus faster than goblins agreeing on explosive solutions.

Just as the bugler prepared to sound their horn, Duke interjected: "After you blow our battle call, take this beauty and give it everything you've got."

Duke conjured from thin air a massive horn that screamed "orc craftsmanship" louder than a war cry - all bone, leather, and intimidating curves.

"WAAAAAAAGH——"

Initially, the Alliance side responded without missing a beat.

But then confusion spread through the ranks like wildfire. This... this sounded suspiciously like the orcs' war horn echoing across the battlefield.

Every eye turned toward the trumpeter on the hilltop who was enthusiastically blowing the giant orcish horn, soldiers scratching their heads with the bewildered expression of sheep trying to solve advanced mathematics.

"Eyes front, you knuckleheads! The mastermind commanding this entire operation is Edmund Duke himself! Do any of you maggots think you can comprehend Lord Edmund's brilliant strategic genius?" The sergeants barked at their confused troops with voices that could wake the dead.

Meanwhile, on the central battlefield several kilometers away, chaos reigned supreme.

Four tribal champions were locked in mortal combat with Arthas, fighting like their very souls depended on it.

Thrall, Rexxar, Grom, and Orgrim - these four Horde legends were warriors capable of carving through enemy armies like hot knives through butter, each one a one-man apocalypse.

The quartet had Arthas surrounded like wolves circling wounded prey, confident they could pound him into paste through sheer overwhelming force.

Death Knights had first crawled from the Horde's darkest experiments. As one of Gul'dan's most twisted creations, Orgrim knew their capabilities like the back of his weathered hand - he'd seen their unholy tricks before.

However, as the Lich King Ner'zhul's most feared champion, Arthas wielding Frostmourne proved more dangerous than Orgrim's worst nightmares combined.

Animate Dead turned their fallen orc brothers into shambling puppets that attacked the four heroes with the relentless fury of the damned.

Unholy Aura supercharged nearby undead minions, making them faster and deadlier than rabid wolves on a blood scent.

But the most infuriating ability was Death Coil. Time and again, they'd smash through Arthas's armor, drawing black ichor that should have been blood, only to watch him unleash that cursed spell that would instantly drain the life from an attacking orc and heal his wounds simultaneously.

Initially, they'd assumed these were regular spells, and Orgrim had desperately ordered their newly-trained shamans to throw every Purge and Dispel in their arsenal, trying to disrupt Arthas's casting. They soon discovered with crushing disappointment that they were merely feeding fresh corpses to their enemy's growing army.

On a battlefield littered with the dead and dying, Arthas was virtually unstoppable - a one-man natural disaster wrapped in cursed plate mail.

But the most terrifying weapon in his arsenal was Frostmourne itself, radiating malevolent energy that made the very air taste of death and despair. Orgrim watched in horror as a shaman struck down by this accursed runeblade not only rose as a zombie but had his very soul devoured by the weapon, trapped forever in its icy depths with no hope of ancestral rest.

At first, Orgrim and Grom's superior combat skills allowed them to pressure Arthas like master craftsmen working hot steel, but this former prince of Lordaeron proved to be a prodigy with blade work that would make weapon masters weep. After a dozen brutal exchanges, he was matching both legendary warriors blow for devastating blow.

After fifty rounds of this deadly dance, if not for Thrall's lightning-quick interventions and Rexxar's beast companions throwing themselves into harm's way to block Arthas's killing strikes, at least one of the orc champions would have been measuring themselves for a coffin.

This couldn't continue - they were fighting a losing battle against an opponent who grew stronger with every fallen warrior!

Just when the four Horde heroes found themselves between the hammer and the anvil, a strange horn call that theoretically belonged to their people suddenly echoed across the blood-soaked battlefield.