Galen recounted the tragic story of Crystalsong Forest in detail. The humans and dwarves in the team listened to it as a captivating, if somewhat morbid, tale. But the night elves, high elves, and Nightborne felt a deeper resonance, their expressions filled with a mixture of sadness and empathy.
"Alright, champions," Galen said, clapping his hands together, drawing everyone's attention back to the present. "You've heard the story, the tragedy of this place. We'll have plenty of time to explore this land of Northrend, to uncover more of its secrets and pursue more stories in the future. But now, it's time to get down to business, to focus on the task at hand!"
"Galen," Tirion Fordring said, his voice filled with determination. He had been expelled from the Knights of the Silver Hand by Uther the Lightbringer, a decision he did not regret. But he still yearned for redemption, for an opportunity to prove his worth and return to his companions with honor. "Please, tell us your plan. We are ready to go all out, to face whatever challenges lie ahead!"
"Yes, Highlord," the others echoed, their voices filled with a newfound resolve. "We are ready to fight for Azeroth!"
Galen nodded, satisfied with their renewed vigor. He signaled to Jaina, his gaze meeting hers across the small clearing. Jaina, understanding his silent command, prepared to send the signal, the arcane energies at her fingertips crackling with power.
The signal was a magical flare, a burst of light that would streak across the sky, visible for miles, a beacon of hope and a call to arms. It would order the Alliance army, poised on the edge of Icecrown Glacier, to advance and launch a full-scale assault on the gates of Icecrown Citadel!
Galen had often remarked that the first Lich King, Ner'zhul, was a master of real-time strategy, a cunning tactician who understood the importance of layered defenses. He had spent over a decade driving his tireless undead legions to construct a massive fortification, a seemingly impenetrable long wall of Saronite that encircled the entirety of Icecrown Glacier, effectively surrounding his icy lair!
The Wall of Thoradin, the legendary barrier that had once protected the human kingdom of Arathor, paled in comparison to this monstrous construction. It was estimated that in all of Azeroth, only the Serpent's Spine, the colossal wall that guarded the Pandarian continent, could rival the sheer scale and magnitude of the Saronite wall.
Although the Alliance forces had managed to breach a significant portion of these outer defenses, Icecrown Citadel itself remained heavily guarded. The formidable bastion of the Dark Cathedral still stood as the final obstacle, its dark spires looming over the battlefield. Only when the Alliance forces had successfully breached its defenses would the gates of Icecrown Citadel finally open, granting access to the Lich King's inner sanctum.
As Jaina prepared to unleash the signal, Gandalf, the wise and powerful wizard, received her arcane message from afar. He stood alongside the Alliance's deputy commander, the valiant Highlord Turalyon, his expression grim but resolute. Gandalf nodded to Turalyon, his eyes conveying the urgency of the moment.
Turalyon, understanding the weight of the task that lay before him, drew his legendary weapon, the golden blade Quel'Zaram, its surface gleaming with holy light!
"Assemble, champions of the Light!" Turalyon's voice boomed across the battlefield, amplified by the potent spells of the mages of Dalaran, his words echoing through the Alliance camp, inspiring courage and resolve in the hearts of the waiting soldiers. "The time to uphold justice has come! Before us lies the last fortress of the evil Lich King in Northrend, the icy citadel of his dark reign!"
Turalyon raised his golden sword, its light a beacon in the gathering gloom. "Today, we will tear it down! We will uproot the evil that festers within its walls, and we will reclaim this land for the living! This battle, this day, is destined to be passed down through the ages, sung by bards and remembered by generations yet unborn. Whether we live or die, we fight for honor, for freedom, and for the people of Azeroth!"
Turalyon's voice swelled with righteous fury, his words igniting a fire in the hearts of his troops. "Remember, warriors of the Alliance! In this cursed land, where death reigns supreme, fear is your greatest enemy. Let courage be your shield, let faith be your weapon, and let the light of justice guide your every step. For in the face of such darkness, courage will make your souls shine brighter than a thousand suns! The enemy will crumble before you! The light of justice will completely destroy them!"
The soldiers of the Alliance roared their approval, their voices a thunderous chorus of defiance.
"Long live the Light!"
"For the Alliance!"
"For Grand Marshal Galen!"
Turalyon, his golden sword held high, his eyes blazing with righteous zeal, shouted the order that would unleash the full might of the Alliance upon the Scourge. "Attack!"
Accompanied by a slight tremor, a ground-shaking rumble that heralded the advance of a mighty force, two already assembled phalanxes, the vanguard of the Alliance's assault, surged forth from the Northrend Expedition camp, their banners held high, their footsteps firm and unwavering, heading towards the looming black fortress in the south!
The soldiers of these two phalanxes were a sight to behold, their movements precise and disciplined, their ranks composed of seasoned veterans, hardened by countless battles against the Scourge.
The phalanx on the left was clad in gleaming silver-white armor, their shields and greatswords polished to a mirror sheen. Their tabards bore the emblem of a silver-white hand, a symbol of healing, protection, and divine power. They advanced under the leadership of the legendary Uther the Lightbringer, the first paladin, and the stern Saidan Dathrohan, his faith unwavering.
The phalanx on the right was adorned in unique gold-red armor, their shields and warhammers radiating a holy aura. Their tabards displayed the emblem of a silver-white sun, a symbol of light, purity, and righteous fury. They marched side by side with the adjacent phalanx, their footsteps echoing in unison, under the command of the valiant Danath Trollbane and the steadfast Gavinrad the Dire.
These were no ordinary soldiers. They were the elite of the elite, the champions of the Light: the Knights of the Silver Hand and the Knights of the Temple, the most revered and powerful paladin orders in the Alliance, who had dismounted their warhorses, choosing to lead the charge on foot, their presence inspiring awe and terror in the hearts of their enemies!
Behind them, a seemingly endless tide of soldiers began to march, phalanx after phalanx, legion after legion, their ranks stretching as far as the eye could see. Among them were the valiant warriors of the Stormwind Seventh Legion, led by the indomitable Bolvar Fordragon and the young but determined King Varian Wrynn; the fierce brigades of the Gilnean army, led by the courageous Prince Liam Greymane; and a combined legion of dwarven warriors, a force of unparalleled strength and resilience, composed of the stalwart Bronzebeard Vault Wardens, the fiery Dark Iron Chamber Wardens, and the wild and untamed Wildhammer Wardens, all united under the banner of their king, Muradin Bronzebeard.
These forces were not alone. They were accompanied by a massive siege engine, a behemoth of war, hundreds of meters tall, its golden frame towering over the advancing armies. Suspended from this frame was a sturdy battering ram, its tip reinforced with adamantium, ready to smash through the gates of the Dark Cathedral.
On both sides of this colossal siege vehicle, steam tanks rumbled forward, their cannons spitting fire and smoke, their armored treads crushing the frozen ground beneath them. And in the skies above, four majestic airships soared, their propellers whirring, their decks bristling with anti-aircraft weaponry, providing aerial support and escorting the ground forces.
At this moment, the Alliance had unleashed the full might of its military, bringing forth all of its elite forces, its most powerful weapons, and its most valiant heroes. Ordinary legions were deemed unworthy to participate in this final, decisive battle!
At this very moment, the remaining high-ranking generals of the Scourge, the remnants of the Lich King's once-imposing command structure, watched the unfolding spectacle of the Alliance's military strength from the battlements of the Dark Cathedral, their expressions a mixture of apprehension and defiance.
Dar'Khan Drathir and his Blood Council, the vampiric lords, stood a mere five meters away from the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, the Lich King's most powerful and terrifying champions. The distance between them was symbolic, a reflection of the deep-seated tensions and rivalries that plagued the Scourge leadership, a testament to their inability to forge a united front in the absence of their master.
However, faced with the overwhelming threat of the approaching Alliance army, they knew that they could not afford to indulge in their petty squabbles. The Lich King would not be pleased with failure, and the consequences of defeat were too dire to contemplate. They were forced to set aside their differences, at least temporarily, and unite against the common enemy.
"Prepare for battle?" Dar'Khan snarled, his voice a chilling hiss.
"Prepare for battle!" the others echoed, their voices a chorus of grim determination.
"Hmph!" Highlord Rivendare, the leader of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, a towering figure clad in black armor, his eyes burning with unholy fire, led the way down from the city wall, his presence radiating an aura of death and decay.
Immediately afterward, at the command of the Knights of the Ebon Blade, the Lich King's elite order of death knights, a legion of undead horrors erupted from the frozen ground. Skeletons and ghouls, their bones and flesh animated by dark magic, clawed their way out of their icy graves, their numbers swelling the ranks of the Scourge defenders. They stood again on the frozen wasteland, a grotesque army ready to defend their master's citadel.
The Vampire lords and the necromancers, masters of the dark arts, began to summon their aerial forces. Gargoyles, grotesque winged creatures of stone and flesh, stirred from their slumber, their leathery wings unfurling. Deathbats, swarms of vampiric creatures, shrieked and swarmed into the air, their razor-sharp claws and teeth ready to rend flesh and bone. And mixed among these flying horrors were dozens of massive bone dragons, their skeletal forms animated by necromantic energy, their icy breath capable of freezing entire armies!
A great battle, a clash between the living and the dead, between the forces of light and darkness, was about to erupt, a battle that would determine the fate of Azeroth!