A thundering, low voice shook the walls, shocking the men out of their long-waited slumber:
-- Get those good-fer-nothin' legs moving! And ye'd better hurry - we're marchin' in ten minutes, ye snots!!
"That surely lightened up our moods..." - thought Ilron, rolling out of his bed. He then packed the stuff and rushed down the stairs. It seemed so, that the lower floor was empty, let alone the tavernkeeper, smirking to Ilron's side. Unsure, if they've left him behind, Ilron ran outside... a misty fog, shrouding his sight, the harsh wind, whistling a woeful melody... the sound of plate boots, carelessly putting foot after foot walking the rocky path, approached him. That very moment, the thoughts of possible encounters, flowing aimlessly in Ilron's mind, shook him to the core. To his surprise, it was a footman, holding a faintly glowing lantern in front of him - Stephens!
-- 'ey, you'd better hurry, we've set foot already. Come on, follow my lead. - said he, with a smile hidden behind the helmet.
Opposite to Ilron's expectations, the general didn't even notice their absence. Two men from each side, the back and in front of the general, aswell carried lanterns. The group marched, with awkward silence... some say that every since that day, the general was paranoid. Several hours later, they reached the Alterac Mountains. The land welcomed their visitors with pleasantly calm wind and warm weather. So they marched, with confidence, assuring safety. Several hours later, it began growing dark, so the general halted his men and ordered to set up camp, a few steps away. The men slept in tents, hoping for a deep slumber. A pair of footmen stood guard for the night. The trees murmured, the grass swayed, the wolves howled. Several dim figures appeared in the midst and a low grunt, followed by a creaking sound, stretching the bow-string, killed the sounds of the night.
-- Orcs! - shouted one of the guards in terror, interrupted by the other - We're under attack!!
Several arrows, cutting like a knife through paper, flew through the tents, taking two lives. The men grabbed their swords, rushing out, only to see hordes of bloodthirsty, rage-blinded orcs, killing anything in their way.
-- Fight for your King, if not me!! - shouted the general, cleaving one greenskin after another. The thrill of killing boiled Ilron's blood as he beheaded his foe, watching a fountain of blood spray out of the corpse. He then turned around seeing a sight that stopped his heart from beating - Stephens and Warner, lying hopelessly in a pool of blood, desperately reaching out their hands, twitching, begging to live... just like in the dream... and then, a well-aimed thump against Ilron's head left him unconcious, lying in the middle of a battle...