The brutal efficiency of the Alliance assault continued unabated within the ravaged King's City. With the last of the skeleton archers atop the crumbled city walls reduced to dust, the Allied legions surged into the urban heart.
At the city gates, grotesque Abominations, their stitched flesh and multiple limbs a testament to the Scourge's dark artistry, lumbered forward to fill the void left by their skeletal predecessors. They formed a grotesque bulwark, their putrid bodies intended to halt the Alliance advance.
However, these high-tier abominations proved to be little more than fleshy obstacles against the overwhelming might of the two paladin legions. Under the radiant charge of the Knights of the Silver Hand and the Knights of the Temple, these lumbering behemoths were cleaved apart like butter under a hot knife. Towering warhorses, clad in gleaming armor and radiating holy light, carried paladins wielding warhammers and greatswords. The undead that dared to stand in their path were instantly immolated, transformed into grotesque, humanoid torches by the searing touch of the Light. The paladins advanced with relentless momentum, as if traversing an empty wasteland.
Alongside the two prominent paladin orders, another contingent of knights fought with notable valor. Leading them was a middle-aged man with a thick, black beard, his greatsword a blur of motion as he guided his knights in a steady, unwavering advance, keeping pace with the legendary Gavinrad and Uther.
"That is…" Galen murmured, a flicker of recognition stirring within him. The bearded general's face seemed familiar, yet his name eluded him.
"He is Baron Othmar Garithos," Calia Menethil replied softly, having observed the battle with quiet intensity from the rear. "The former captain of our father's Royal Guard, and later commander of the Royal Knights of Lordaeron, stationed at the Barrier of Tyr's Hand!"
"Galen? So it is he!" A flicker of memory returned to Galen's mind. He recalled seeing the stern-faced knight guarding Terenas's side a decade prior, during Orgrim Doomhammer's assault on Lordaeron's walls. Their interaction had been brief, and the younger Galen had shown little interest in the names of Lordaeron's generals at the time. Yet, in the annals of history, Baron Othmar Garithos' name would resonate with a peculiar notoriety.
As the saying went: "Brave champion, but a combat trash; Widely known Othmar; Wise and martial Grand Marshal Garithos." Baron Garithos was a figure whose name would be uttered in the same breath as the likes of Kael'thas Sunstrider, Lor'themar Theron, and even Queen Azshara, albeit for vastly different reasons.
"Calia," Galen said, his gaze still fixed on the advancing baron, "once you ascend the throne, you must be wary of this man. He possesses ambition, but alas, his aspirations far outweigh his capabilities. He may prove a competent charging general, but should he ascend to a position of true decision-making power, it will spell tragedy for Lordaeron."
Indeed, Galen knew that his own rise to the rank of marshal, commanding vast armies, was a confluence of luck and inherent strength. Baron Garithos might possess some talent in military strategy or battlefield command, but his arrogance, conceit, recklessness, prejudice, and fervent human chauvinism were character flaws that would ultimately contribute to the collapse of Lordaeron's final resistance and the extinguishing of its last hope in a different timeline.
"This baron harbors thoughts beyond his station. I have long suspected it. His valiant fighting now is but a thinly veiled display!" Calia nodded sagely, indicating her own astute assessment of the ambitious nobleman. "Stripping him of his military authority after such a performance will only prove more challenging."
"It's not as if there isn't a way…" Galen muttered under his breath, a subtle glint in his eyes.
"What was that, Galen?" Calia inquired, her attention piqued.
"Nothing of consequence, Calia. Judging by the current situation, we should be able to cleanse King's City of the Scourge before sunset. It's merely that the extensive use of artillery, while minimizing our casualties, will necessitate a complete reconstruction of the city. Let us speak of your coronation soon!"
While his words addressed Calia, Galen's mind was already formulating a different plan for Baron Garithos – one that involved a less public stage. This fellow is a paladin, surrounded by loyal guards. Assassination amidst this chaos would be… messy.
Charge, break through, and charge again! The two paladin legions had carved a swathe of holy destruction deep into King's City, and the fighting now devolved into brutal, close-quarters street combat.
"Uther, you secure Lordaeron Palace! I will clear the residential districts!" Gavinrad roared, his hammer crackling with holy energy.
"Understood! May the Holy Light protect you!" Uther replied, his own aura blazing with divine power.
Surrounded by tens of thousands of shambling corpses, Uther and Gavinrad parted ways, each leading their paladins down different avenues of the besieged city. Cavalry was ill-suited for the narrow, winding streets, but the Kingdom Avenue of Lordaeron was exceptionally wide, easily accommodating three kodo beasts abreast. With the ground trembling beneath their armored hooves, Uther and his Silver Hand knights thundered south along the grand thoroughfare. The legions of walking dead that attempted to block their path were simply crushed under the relentless steel torrent. Countless skeleton ghouls were pulverized into heaps of broken bones and rotting flesh beneath the impact of the charging warhorses.
Galen, leading a contingent of Stromgarde infantry, became the third major force to enter King's City. He cast a swift glance at the diverging paths of the Silver Hand and the Knights of the Temple, his eyes then narrowing with a sudden, decisive glint. He spurred his forces onward, following the thunderous advance of Uther and his paladins! The Royal Palace was his objective. Securing it would grant him the lion's share of the military glory in this final push.
As the hundreds of thousands of Alliance troops poured into the city, systematically clearing each district of undead, the remaining Scourge forces began a desperate retreat towards the magnificent Royal Palace, seeking its formidable walls for a final, futile stand.
The Royal Palace of Lordaeron was a testament to the kingdom's former glory and influence. As the leader of the Alliance, Lordaeron City had once been the economic and cultural heart of humanity. It was with such confidence and power that King Terenas Menethil had commissioned the construction of this vast and opulent edifice.
Uther halted his charge before the imposing gates of the Royal Palace. Galen had previously stipulated that while the outer districts of King's City could be shelled with impunity – their reconstruction being a relatively swift undertaking – the Royal Palace was to be preserved for Calia's coronation. Its rebuilding would consume exorbitant amounts of time and resources. Therefore, a direct artillery assault on the palace was to be avoided.
Within the palace walls, Dar'Khan Drathir and Baron Rivendare, the Scourge commanders left to oversee the defense, felt the icy grip of despair tighten around their hearts. Of the initial 600,000 undead under their command, barely 100,000 remained after half a day of relentless assault. The losses were catastrophic! They would likely be annihilated before nightfall.
"What are our orders, Master Dar'Khan?" Rivendare stammered, his composure finally cracking under the weight of their impending doom. King Arthas had entrusted Tirisfal Glades to their command, yet they were losing ground with every passing moment. Only the Royal Palace remained! This rout was a landslide, an utter annihilation. Rivendare had never conceived of the Alliance possessing such overwhelming military might. The Scourge's numerical advantage had been rendered utterly meaningless. He could not fathom what explanation he could offer to the Lich King. Moreover, as a former minister of Lordaeron, he understood Arthas's unforgiving nature all too well. Even if they managed to escape back to Northrend, a swift and brutal execution at Arthas's hand seemed their most likely reward.
"There is no escape!" Dar'Khan hissed, his voice laced with bitter resignation. "I attempted a breakout towards Lake Lordamere to the south of the city just moments ago. Fifty thousand troops were instantly swallowed by a maelstrom of ice and fire…"
Dar'Khan had glimpsed the unmistakable Phoenix banner amidst the ruins of Dalaran, a standard only borne by members of the Sunstrider royal family. The former Silvermoon City councilor knew then that Kael'thas himself had arrived, sealing their southern escape route.
"The very air crackles with arcane wards! I cannot open a portal. There is only one recourse left… the sewers!