Smoke curled over the Garthum plains, rising from the charred remnants of makeshift palisades and broken siege gear. Blood soaked the tall grass and crusted into the earth beneath armored boots and severed limbs. The Threian army moved eastward like a crimson tide, General Snowe at its helm, yet the land ahead had grown crueler, rockier, as if the earth itself resisted their march.
Scouts reported a gathering storm ahead.
The orcs had regrouped. Survivors from countless tribes, remnants of shattered warbands, had rallied to a single banner. They called him Skull Crusher.
General Snowe stood beneath a crooked tree, map unfurled in his hands. The wind tugged at his white cloak.
"They've chosen their field," said one of his officers, a scar-faced knight named Drevon. "A natural bowl between twin ridges, three miles wide. Cleft stones at the back like a jagged wall. A trap if I've ever seen one."