Things were looking up.

Ringo Flinthammer lay quietly on the ground, lining up a Horde soldier’s helmet in his cross hairs. After the fall of Thunder Hold, the Alliance forces had to fall back. Strongarm Airstrip was holding — for now — but word had come that the relief troops they had been waiting for had indeed arrived in Jade Forest, but on the southern coast. A route linking Strongarm with the southern command center was being secured, so long as the Alliance could hold out a little more.

Ringo pulled the trigger, watching the orc’s head snap back, and smiled.

“Chalk up another victory tae th’ Alliance spirit,” he muttered. “If this is th’ best they’ve got ’round here, in six months we’ll be runnin’ this continent.”

The Horde scurried, diving for cover. For all the talk of what great hunters the Darkspear trolls were, it seemed none of them could locate the scenic overlook Ringo and a succession of Alliance snipers had used over the last 48 hours. Soon enough, it wouldn’t matter: They had whittled the Horde’s numbers down enough that they would stand a good chance of being able to hold off what remained until the relief arrived. After all, the survivors of the Hellscream’s Fist were fewer in number every day …

Ringo looked up from his scope.

“What’s that sound?”

There was a hooting and screeching echoing through the trees. Behind him, Ringo’s great white bear sat up, grunting curiously. Mixed with the howls and shrieks were the low sounds of great cats, getting closer.

“If Ah didnae know better, Ah’d say that it was the night elf cavalry …”

It wasn’t.

“GET GROOKED, DOOKER!”

“Frostmaw! Get up!”

Ringo scrambled back, attempting to throw a saddle on his bear.

The Horde had been recruiting the natives, the monkey folk called Hozen.

They rushed up the narrow path to the overlook, riding on forest tigers, with Horde troops smirking from the year of the charge.

“OOK THE DOOKER! OOK THE DOOKER!”

“Take yer stinking paws off me, ye damned dirty ape!”