The Great Mage Tower Heist and The magical security of most wizard towers proved to be about as sophisticated as a tavern door lock. Unlike modern banking systems that would lock you out after three failed attempts, these ancient towers cheerfully allowed Duke's system AI to hammer away at their defenses with the persistence of a drunken dwarf trying to break down a brewery door. The result? Duke's digital battering ram smashed through seventy percent of Dalaran's magical fortifications faster than you could say "password123."
Once inside, Duke's next move was as elegant as it was ruthless - instantly rewrite every access key and consolidate control under his iron grip. If Antonidas hadn't desperately clawed back control of the Morning Star Mage Tower through sheer force of will and several decades' worth of accumulated spite, Duke would have possessed enough firepower to turn every Scourge invader into a pile of smoking ash with artistic flair.
Unfortunately, reality has a nasty habit of crushing beautiful dreams beneath its hobnailed boots.
This hadn't been a trap specifically designed for the Scourge's particular brand of stupidity. If Duke had been planning this ambush from the beginning, the undead would have suffered casualties so spectacular that bards would compose epic ballads about their destruction. When Duke decided to cheat, he didn't mess around - he would fleece Arthas so thoroughly that even the marrow would be extracted from his bones for good measure.
The hurled kerosene clung to everything it touched with the tenacity of a lovesick stalker, igniting into roaring flames that combined with the summer winds to create a billowing wall of smoke that engulfed the Scourge forces. The undead found themselves stumbling blind through a hellish fog bank that reeked of burning corpses and divine retribution.
Arthas briefly considered gritting his teeth and using Frostmourne's power to reverse the wind direction, choking the Scarlet Crusade with their own smoke screen while his undead warriors slipped through the chaos. The plan had merit - until he noticed that every human soldier wore mouth coverings and protective goggles identical to those used by Gryphon Riders during high-altitude combat.
Arthas's undead features twisted into a scowl that would have frightened small children into permanent therapy.
Damn Duke's methodical paranoia! The bastard had anticipated this exact stratagem!
Arthas spat a curse that would have made demons blush. "That calculating son of a diseased murloc! I suppose I should acknowledge that Edmund Duke truly deserves his reputation as the finest military commander of his generation!"
At that moment, ominous thunder rumbled across the battlefield as a compact storm cloud materialized above the Scourge vanguard with unnatural speed. The dark mass crackled with barely contained magical energy before unleashing a barrage of purple-blue lightning bolts that detonated among the circling gargoyle squadrons with devastating precision.
Each lightning strike found its mark with the accuracy of a master archer, instantly vaporizing the stone-skinned monstrosities into fragments that rained down upon the zombie hordes below. The falling debris created a secondary bombardment that crushed dozens of shambling corpses beneath chunks of pulverized gargoyle, adding insult to the injury of wholesale aerial annihilation.
Had this been an army of living soldiers, morale would have shattered faster than glass dropped from a cathedral spire. While the concept of morale meant nothing to mindless undead, the tactical loss of aerial support was devastatingly real.
Arthas whirled toward his undead lieutenant with barely contained fury. "Antonidas! Report your current condition! How much of your original power have you retained since your... career change?"
If the former Archmage's withered features could still display shame, his face would have burned crimson with embarrassment. His response came out as barely a whisper: "Seventy percent..."
The admission was so quiet it could have been mistaken for the buzzing of a particularly depressed mosquito.
"WHAT?!" Arthas's roar could have awakened the properly dead.
Reluctantly, Antonidas revealed his current form to his master in all its diminished glory.
When Arthas beheld the pathetic state of his supposedly mighty archlich, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth nearly cracked under the pressure.
Suddenly, a writhing cloud of shadow erupted around Arthas as the imposing figure of a Dreadlord materialized from the darkness.
Arthas's displeasure was immediately evident. "What brings you here, demon?"
"Patience, Death Knight. Now is hardly the optimal moment to engage Edmund Duke in direct combat." Tichondrius gestured toward the crimson-clad army maintaining their disciplined formation in the distance.
The Scarlet Crusade's ranks remained unbroken, their formation as tight as a miser's purse strings. Even the Dalaran soldiers and mages who had initially fled the city in panic were now rallying into organized defensive positions. Hundreds of spellcasters had joined the Alliance battle line, their magical artillery systematically obliterating any Scourge air units foolish enough to attempt an aerial assault.
Even during their strategic withdrawal, these hundreds of thousands of humans maintained coordinated, staggered retreats that demonstrated impressive tactical discipline. Their organization remained frustratingly intact.
Unless Arthas could conjure a catastrophic earthquake or deploy an overwhelming aerial armada to shatter the Alliance defenses, victory would remain tantalizingly out of reach.
Though Arthas understood this tactical reality, he responded to Tichondrius's counsel with a dismissive snort that conveyed his contempt for demon advice.
"Arthas, the Lich King has issued new directives."
The Dreadlords served as Kil'jaeden's watchful eyes upon Ner'zhul, which meant they could only address the Lich King with respectful formality, while his true servants were required to use the reverent title of "Your Majesty."
Only when Tichondrius invoked the Lich King's authority did Arthas straighten his posture and pay proper attention. "Speak your message."
"His Majesty commands you to prioritize Kel'Thuzad's resurrection! With two loyal and powerful archliches at your disposal, your forces will possess the magical firepower necessary for victory. Rather than relying upon this... incomplete specimen." Tichondrius cast a withering glance toward Antonidas, his expression dripping with undisguised contempt.
Antonidas, his power significantly reduced, trembled with impotent rage but dared not utter a single word of protest.
Within the Burning Legion's hierarchy, strength determined authority with brutal efficiency. Even during his mortal prime, Antonidas would have ranked below a Dreadlord commander in raw power. Now, weakened and diminished, he was utterly beneath Tichondrius's notice.
The irony cut deeper still - it had been Tichondrius himself who had orchestrated the ambush that claimed Antonidas's soul and delivered it to the Scourge.
Arthas stared at the disgusting phylactery cradled in Tichondrius's clawed hands, rendered speechless by the cosmic irony of his situation.
The twisted poetry of fate was almost too perfect to be accidental.
Ner'zhul had first resurrected Kel'Thuzad as a mere lich, a shadow of his former necromantic power. It had been Arthas himself, still pure in his paladin righteousness, who had personally destroyed Kel'Thuzad in glorious combat, scattering the lich's bones across the desolate wasteland of Andorhal to rot beneath the uncaring sky.
Now that same righteous paladin, corrupted beyond recognition, would resurrect the very enemy he had once righteously destroyed with his own tainted hands.
Was this divine justice, cruel irony, or simply the universe's twisted sense of humor?
Arthas's expression darkened with grim determination. "What must I do?"
"You must strike... here!" Upon a magically conjured map of the Lordaeron continent, the Dreadlord's taloned finger stabbed toward the northernmost kingdom's territory.
Arthas's eyes narrowed as understanding dawned with terrible clarity. "I comprehend perfectly."
With a single mental command, every mid-level Scourge commander received their new orders simultaneously. The undead legions ceased their futile assaults against Duke's wall of purifying flames and began an organized withdrawal. Countless zombies and skeletons shambled directly into Lake Lordamere's dark waters, disappearing beneath the surface without so much as a splash of protest.
Duke raised his hand in a practiced signal, and his army of over one hundred thousand began their accelerated retreat with the precision of a well-oiled war machine.
Within thirty minutes, the Alliance and Scourge forces had completely disengaged across the entire battlefield.
Duke's orders rang out with crisp authority: "Maximum alert status! We retreat to the northern coastline immediately!"
Abendis voiced the question weighing on many minds: "Commander, why not withdraw to the South Sea city-states? If our goal is reorganizing Dalaran's military forces, those territories would provide superior logistical support."
Duke shook his head with the weariness of a man who could see the approaching storm clouds. "From the very beginning, this was never merely Dalaran's problem. This represents the most catastrophic disaster the entire continent of Lordaeron has ever faced."
Abendis nodded grimly, finally grasping the full scope of the crisis they confronted.
Over the following week, after conducting a thorough census of their forces, Duke found himself commanding an army of one hundred fifty thousand battle-ready soldiers, accompanied by more than ninety thousand magic apprentices, Dalaran craftsmen, and civilians whose combat capabilities ranged from minimal to nonexistent. This massive exodus marched across the Silverpine Forest from east to west, their passage marking one of the largest military migrations in recorded history.
The situation became significantly more complicated upon reaching the South Flow Coast.
To the south lay the Kingdom of Gilneas, its borders sealed tight behind the imposing Greymane Wall where massive armies stood ready to repel any intrusion. To the north of the coastline, hundreds of thousands of orcs remained clustered in temporary encampments, their evacuation preparations still incomplete and their tempers growing shorter by the day. Meanwhile, from the eastern approaches, more than two hundred thousand human soldiers and civilians were conducting their own south-to-north migration, creating a logistical nightmare of unprecedented proportions.
Duke gazed across this convergence of desperate populations and felt the weight of command settling upon his shoulders. Three separate masses of humanity and near-humanity were about to collide at a single geographic chokepoint, while the Scourge's true target became horrifyingly clear.
The real battle was only beginning.