After the speech, Orgrim gave the order to provide everyone with an unprecedentedly lavish meal.
Everyone ate their fill, the abundant food giving them the strength for the upcoming battle, they hadn't had a proper meal in a long time since their retreat to the Burning Steppes.
In truth, this feast consumed the last of the Horde's rations.
It was a testament to Doomhammer's resolve to fight with his back against the wall.
"Gather the warriors of our clans," he said loudly to Saurfang's messenger. "My elite guard and I will lead the charge, let the rest of the Horde follow behind us."
He turned around, his eyes locking onto the hulking figures concealed in the shadows, waiting silently.
One by one, these towering figures straightened up and nodded upon meeting his gaze, and Doomhammer nodded back.
These were his elite guards. These were ogres.
Doomhammer had once been a traditional orc. In his youth, he was taught by his elders to hate the ogres.
Back then, the Horde hadn't yet formed, the blood of corruption and demonic schemes were still unknown, and the orcs had lived under the brutal oppression and enslavement of the ogres.
After the rise of the Horde, the roles reversed, ogres became the Horde's slaves.
Many ogres who surrendered had followed Gul'dan and Cho'gall into the Twilight's Hammer and Stormreaver clans.
But these ones were different.
They were more intelligent than most of their kin, and importantly, they were not warlocks but warriors.
More crucially, they had sworn loyalty to him and him alone.
Orgrim knew they admired his strength and courage, perhaps they even saw him as a smaller version of an ogre, and they had vowed to obey only his orders.
In turn, he respected their strength and relied on their support.
He knew these ogres would die for him if needed, and he would do the same for them.
Now, they were all betting their lives on this, whether the Horde would triumph or fall rested heavily upon their shoulders.
At the very least, the Dark Portal was secure.
Rend Blackhand, Maim Blackhand, and some members of their clan still lived. Scattered across the continent, these orcs were, in Orgrim's eyes, the Horde's last hope.
Their scouts had found him while he was making his way from Khaz Modan, and he had already ordered them to head to the Dark Portal to regroup with the others.
In truth, Orgrim still didn't trust the Blackhand brothers, just as they still despised him.
But at least, they had proven their loyalty to the Horde.
Orgrim needed strong warriors to guard the passage to Draenor. If they lost that gateway, there would be no escape, even if the battle ended up being brought to their own doorstep.
He nodded once more to his ogres, then stepped down from the platform toward the plains below, where battle awaited.
Just as Doomhammer had hoped, the Alliance was not prepared for the orcs' sudden counterattack.
The Alliance had planned a siege, intending to send in elites to delay the orcs' advance while the main infantry pushed forward steadily.
But that tactic caused some of their troops to foolishly expose their positions, just beyond the ring of cliffs surrounding Blackrock Mountain.
"Orcs!" a soldier shouted, running up to Lothar and his lieutenant. "They've broken through our lines!"
"What?"
Lothar spurred his warhorse forward, galloping through the black valley where the bulk of the Alliance army was positioned.
Alaric and the others followed close behind.
There was no mistake. As they neared the front lines, he could clearly hear the sounds of battle.
Then he saw them, those massive creatures leading the orc army: ogres.
They'd encountered them before in a previous battle, when Alaric had dealt with them using magic.
They were colossal beings, with thick arms and powerful legs. Their hair stood upright, nailed in place like bird crests or horse manes.
These ogres wore no armor. They had belts around their waists, shoulder pads on their backs, fur boots on their feet, and wildly swung their weapons at anything that crossed their path.
Behind the ogres came a group of elite orcs. Their green skin was covered in tattoos. Most had small bits of metal or bone piercing their ears, noses, eyebrows, lips, even nipples.
They were savage and fearless. Under this mad onslaught, the humans were steadily pushed back.
"Uther!" Lothar shouted.
The paladin rode up immediately.
Lothar lowered his sword and pointed at the advancing orcs, that was all the command Uther needed.
He nodded and motioned for the rest of the Knights of the Silver Hand to follow. Putting on his helmet, he raised his warhammer.
"In the name of the Light!" Uther bellowed, a golden-red glow enveloping him and his weapon. "We will not allow these beasts to live!"
With that, he charged into the fray, bringing his warhammer down on the nearest ogre's knee and shattering the bone.
The skies in this region were always thick with dark clouds and smoke, casting heavy shadows and blood-red hues.
But now, something was different. As Uther rushed toward the gathered Horde, the clouds parted, and a shaft of pure sunlight pierced through.
The paladin became the embodiment of light itself, both awe-inspiring and terrifying. With every swing of his hammer, orcs were knocked off their feet.
The other paladins charged in as well, their bodies aglow with Uther's radiance.
In the months since the war began, the Knights of the Silver Hand had steadily grown. Excluding Turalyon, there were now over a hundred paladins under Uther's command.
These hundred warriors surged onto the battlefield, their faith igniting their hammers, axes, and swords with searing light.
Other Alliance soldiers stepped aside, clearing a path for them.
The ogres and orcs now had no choice but to turn and face this new enemy.
It was a brutal clash: barbarians versus zealous crusaders, shining chainmail against tattoos and trinkets.
The ogres and orcs were powerful, difficult, and so crazed they barely felt pain.
But the paladins were fueled by righteous fury and the power of their faith. Their holy auras caused some orcs to turn their heads, eyes shut tight in fear.
More than once, their radiant light blocked deadly strikes from the enemy.
With this advantage, the paladins surrounded the savage foes, cutting them down one by one, until none were left standing.