The overwhelming might of the 200,000-strong allied army had largely swept Ashenvale clean of its demonic infestation. The remaining pockets of Legion forces, however, had been consolidated by Mannoroth and, according to the Shadow Wardens' intelligence reports, were now concentrated within a secluded valley in the southeastern region of the forest.
When Galen returned to the sanctuary of the Tree of Life, the Alliance's top commanders had just concluded a strategy session. "Galen, your arrival is impeccably timed," Derek Proudmoore announced, holding up a sealed scroll. "The night elves' emissary has just delivered a missive from their leadership, inviting us to Mount Hyjal for crucial discussions."
He continued, outlining the night elves' proposal, "Their request is for us to position our main force at the western approach to Mount Hyjal, establishing a joint defensive encampment there. Their own armies will assume responsibility for securing the remaining sectors."
"Doesn't that strike you as advantageous?" Galen mused, recalling the formidable terrain of Mount Hyjal. Towering cliffs and treacherous precipices dominated the landscape, rendering ground-based assaults virtually impossible without direct aerial transport. By strategically securing a few key mountain passes, the entire region could be effectively sealed off. The night elves were offering to shoulder the burden of defending the majority of the entrances, leaving the allied forces with the comparatively simpler task of guarding the west. A decidedly comfortable assignment.
"Derek," Galen declared, his voice carrying the weight of command, "I hereby appoint you as the overall commander of the Alliance's Mount Hyjal contingent. The entirety of the Alliance's forces, including the vassal armies under my banner, will be under your direct command. Ensure that we uphold the Alliance's hard-earned prestige in the eyes of our ancient allies!"
Turning to the resourceful dwarf, he continued, "Brann, the artillery regiment falls under your purview. You will immediately lead them to scout our designated defense zone. Exercise meticulous care in selecting optimal firing positions. When artillery support is required, I want to witness a relentless barrage, a carpet of shells blanketing the enemy. Spare no ammunition; blast those demons back to the abyss!"
"Aye, leave it to me, Highlord!" Brann Bronzebeard boomed, thumping his chest with characteristic enthusiasm. In the absence of intricate levers and enticing dungeons, Brann's reliability was surprisingly steadfast. Initially, Brann's interest in Kalimdor had been lukewarm. The grim news from Northrend, relayed by returning dwarven scouts, spoke of his brother Muradin's demise at Arthas's hand, fueling a burning desire in him and Magni to lead their forces north and exact vengeance upon the Lich King. It was only when Galen revealed that Muradin had, in fact, survived and was thriving in Northrend that Brann's adventurous spirit rekindled. Whispers of countless buried ancient ruins scattered across the continent of Kalimdor had also piqued his interest. After these pointy-eared tree-huggers win their little tree-hugging war, he'd reasoned, who's to stop me from digging up a few treasures? Consequently, he had not only come himself but had also cunningly persuaded the gnomes and Wildhammer dwarves to join the expedition.
"Chief Engineer," Galen addressed the gnome leader, "the airship squadron is under your command! Kurdran," he continued, turning to the grizzled Wildhammer chieftain, "you are in charge of the gryphon legion!"
"No problem at all, Galen! But what about you?" Kurdran inquired, his brow furrowed with concern. "Do you have other pressing matters to attend to?"
Galen's gaze drifted towards the southeastern horizon. "I still have a hunt to undertake. What kind of impression would I make arriving at Mount Hyjal to meet our ten-thousand-year-old neighbors empty-handed?" The sheer size of the Alliance's army had already undoubtedly impressed the night elves. The next step was a demonstration of their elite combat prowess. And what better trophy to showcase the Alliance's might than the severed head of Mannoroth?
Galen selected a small, elite strike force: Theronus, Gandalf, and Aragorn, accompanied by a hundred hand-picked paladins. With a decisive nod, they departed. Aragorn led the paladins, forming an impenetrable wedge that carved through the dense demonic presence. Where the formation passed, only consecrated ground and the mangled remains of demons remained. Galen and the two mages followed closely, soon reaching the depths of the southeastern canyon. Once a verdant woodland, the area now festered with Fel corruption, a desolate wasteland of petrified trees and bubbling Fel lava. Low-level demons proved no match for the paladins' purifying Holy Light, and the valley was swiftly cleansed.
Thump! Thump! Thump! A tremor shook the ground, heralding the arrival of a familiar, monstrous figure. At least ten meters tall, his bulk rivaled that of a centaur, the tiny wings on his back were mere vestigial appendages, utterly incapable of lifting his immense frame. He wielded a massive double-headed glaive, its razor-sharp blades wreathed in emerald green flames. Mannoroth the Destroyer, Doom Lord supreme, Archimonde's formidable right hand, had arrived.
Galen paused, a strategic calculation flickering in his eyes. With a wave of his hand, he swiftly evacuated the hundred paladins from the canyon. "Insects," Mannoroth boomed, his voice a guttural rumble, "you display a modicum of intelligence, recognizing your utter impotence against my might!"
Heh, Galen thought dryly. Do you truly believe I'm that foolish? A decade of painstaking recruitment has yielded barely a hundred paladins. I would hardly squander them as cannon fodder. Though each is capable of felling a doomguard with a single blow, you, too, are capable of the same.
Mannoroth's fiery gaze swept over the four figures before him, the Fel flames licking higher around his horned head. "Just the four of you? Come then, face your doom together!"
"Nay, Mannoroth," Galen countered, a sly smile playing on his lips. "We are not four, but fourteen!" As his words echoed through the canyon, streaks of pure white light descended, materializing into ten formidable figures flanking Galen and his companions. Orgrim Doomhammer, Eitrigg, Varok Saurfang, Grom Hellscream, and Darion Mograine – five veterans of the old Horde. And Go'el, Aggra, Garrosh Hellscream, Yorin Deadeye, and Zorah Saurfang – five of the new generation's most promising warriors. Fourteen in total, including Galen and his three mages.
"Hahahaha! Is that all you could muster? This pathetic rabble? You truly believe you can defeat me with these failures? Have you all come here seeking a swift and pathetic death?" Mannoroth roared with contemptuous laughter. "Let me see… is that the vaunted Hellscream among you? His blood… belongs to me… no! Accursed Holy Light!" Mannoroth recoiled, his massive frame shuddering with rage and a flicker of fear. "This damnable Holy Light has tainted my very essence!" He spat, his fury reignited. "But it matters not! You may purify one, but can you cleanse the hundreds of thousands of lesser orcs who still bear my mark?"
Mannoroth's taunts had little effect on the younger generation of orcs, their discipline holding firm. But Grom Hellscream, the first to succumb to the demon blood's allure, could not contain his simmering rage. The weight of his past sins, the monstrous acts committed under the Legion's influence, still haunted him. Galen's call to the Mag'har orc clan had been his chance at redemption, and he had answered it without hesitation. "Mannoroth," Grom snarled, his voice a guttural promise of violence, "today marks your final day!" He lunged forward, but another figure moved with lightning speed. Grom raised his ancestral battle-axe, Gorehowl, and with a mighty swing, called down a bolt of crackling blue lightning from the heavens. The energy slammed into Mannoroth's immense, fleshy form, searing his skin black.
"Insects! You possess a modicum of courage! But your efforts are futile!" Mannoroth bellowed, swinging his double-headed glaive in a wide arc, then pointing it skyward. A rain of fiery meteorites began to plummet from the heavens – Meteor Fall, a spell Doom Lords wielded with deadly proficiency.
"Scatter!" Galen roared, his voice cutting through the chaos. Years of battle had honed their instincts. The assembled warriors swiftly dispersed, each seeking cover and a strategic vantage point to strike at the lumbering Doom Lord. However, the initial formation had been shattered. With a guttural cry, Mannoroth charged, his immense bulk hurtling towards Go'el, the shaman who had dared to strike him with lightning. The ground trembled violently beneath his advance. Go'el, caught off guard, could only summon a massive earth elemental as a desperate shield. Boom! The hastily conjured elemental, a mere shadow of the powerful earth elemental lord bound to Go'el, shattered instantly under Mannoroth's brutal impact. The shockwave slammed into Go'el, sending him flying, his body crashing against the distant canyon wall.
"Go'el!" Aggra cried out, her voice filled with alarm.