CHAPTER 32: Hill Dwarves, Hot Blood
Onyxia halted mid-step, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. Even Alleria and Muradin turned to Arthas with raised eyebrows, exchanging knowing glances. "Your Highness also knows about the Dragon Isles?" Alleria asked, her voice laced with curiosity.
The Dragon Isles were shrouded in legend—a mysterious archipelago lost to time after the War of the Ancients. When the Well of Eternity exploded, shattering the continent, the Titanic watchers had sealed the islands behind an impenetrable magical fog. The Dragon Aspects, hailing from there, had ventured forth to aid Azeroth but found themselves unable to return. Protected by the mists, the isles remained untouched by outsiders, forcing the five dragonflights to establish new lairs across the world: the Wyrmrest Temple in Northrend for coordination, and scattered nests elsewhere.
Arthas cursed inwardly at his slip. "I've... read about them in ancient tomes," he replied vaguely, waving a hand to dismiss the topic. "But now's not the time for history lessons. We need a solid plan to infiltrate Grim Batol. Muradin, when we arrive, you and Onyxia will create a diversion outside—draw the orcs' attention with a feigned assault. Alleria and I will slip in from the shadows, locate the orc chieftain, and end him."
He couldn't elaborate on the Dragon Isles without revealing his otherworldly knowledge. The fog blocked all detection, even from dragons themselves—let alone a human prince.
Onyxia tilted her head, skepticism evident. "Really? Why not include me in the infiltration?"
"You're a mage," Arthas countered smoothly. "Causing chaos from afar is your specialty—fireballs, illusions, the works. Alleria's a ranger, stealthy and precise with a bow; I'm trained in close combat and holy magic. It fits our roles perfectly. Follow the plan, and I promise you'll be richly rewarded. Gold coins aplenty. And if we free any trapped red dragons or seize artifacts, you'll get your share. No one gets shortchanged."
It was a convenient excuse. He couldn't admit he knew Onyxia was a black dragon in disguise—Deathwing's daughter, scheming for her own ends. If the black flight wanted to play games of intrigue, he'd indulge them... for now.
Onyxia's eyes gleamed at the mention of gold. Dragons hoarded treasures obsessively; it was in their nature. "Do you even have that much gold?"
Arthas thumped his chestplate confidently. "I promise. Rescuing the Red Dragon Queen herself would bring rewards beyond measure—from the Alliance, the dragons, everyone." And if not, he thought grimly, I'd find other ways to compensate—or coerce.
The team nodded in agreement. Muradin was here out of dwarven solidarity; the orcs besieged Ironforge too. Weakening the Horde here would ease pressure on his homeland—a mutual benefit.
They pressed onward through the highlands. As they crested a rocky hill, the clash of battle echoed ahead: thunderous roars, the crackle of lightning, and furious bellows. It sounded like warriors channeling raw anger into devastating power—controlled fury, not blind rage, unlocking hidden potential.
"There's fighting up ahead," Arthas said, drawing his longsword and hefting his shield. "Alleria, scout it out."
The elf nimbly scaled a nearby outcrop, her keen eyes piercing the distance. "Dwarves—hill dwarves, by the look of them—battling orcs. The greenskins are mounted on young red drakes, not full dragons. They're fighting over supplies... looks like food wagons."
"Dwarves?" Muradin mused, gripping his dual hammers. "Aye, those'd be the hill clans, kin to the Wildhammers. They've settled these lands for generations. We should aid 'em—they know these hills like the back of their beards and could guide us straight to Grim Batol."
Arthas grinned fiercely. "Perfect. We'll flank the orcs from behind—hit them hard and fast. No mercy; let none escape to raise the alarm. In war, there's no honor in fairness. Black cat, white cat—as long as it catches mice, it's a good cat."
With that, he circled around, leading the team into position. Who said a paladin couldn't ambush? Holy warriors adapted, or they died.
"You're the oddest paladin I've met," Alleria teased, rolling her eyes with a hint of amusement. Muradin caught the gesture and smirked inwardly. High elves were notoriously aloof, yet here she was, flirting with a human prince. Clearly, something more than alliance bound them.
The battle intensified as they approached: dragon roars shook the air, heat waves rippled from fiery breaths, and the clang of weapons kicked up dust storms. The scene was chaotic—red-skinned hill dwarves, stout and fierce, were being overwhelmed. Though brave, they crumpled under draconic flames, their axes and hammers no match for aerial assaults.
Arthas spotted the orc leader: a hulking figure astride a massive red drake, barking orders. "Zuluhed," he whispered, recognizing the Dragonmaw chieftain from his memories—the one who wielded the Demon Soul to enslave Alexstrasza.
"Alleria, when those drakes open their maws to breathe fire, loose arrows straight down their throats. Onyxia—Katrana—ignite those supply wagons with your magic; sow confusion. Muradin, charge in and rally the dwarves—break their lines. I'll handle Zuluhed."
No sooner said than done. Arthas burst from cover, channeling holy energy into a Hammer of Justice that slammed into Zuluhed's skull like a thunderclap. The orc reeled, staggering in his saddle.
Zuluhed whirled, glaring at the intruder. "Burn him to ashes!" he snarled, urging his drake forward.
But Arthas was faster. A divine Hammer of Wrath descended from the skies, stunning the beast mid-breath. He closed the gap in a flash, shield raised to parry Zuluhed's descending warhammer. The blow glanced off, redirecting straight into the drake's flank with a sickening crunch—scales shattered, blood welled.
Meanwhile, Muradin unleashed his fury. His body swelled to thrice its size, skin hardening to adamantine sheen: Avatar form, a warrior's pinnacle—immune to crowd control, resistant to magic, attack power surging. He stamped the earth, sending a shockwave rippling outward in a five-meter radius. Orcs clutched their heads, dazed. "Come on, ye hill kin! Let's smash these green bastards!"
"Kill!" the hill dwarves roared, invigorated by the reinforcement. Axes cleaved into stunned foes, severing necks in sprays of blood.
Three drakes reared to unleash flames—but Alleria's arrows whistled true, piercing open jaws. Gathered fire energy detonated inward, blasting teeth and scales. One drake convulsed, eyes glazing as it teetered on the brink of death.
--- END OF CHAPTER 32 ---