The rout spilled outward like water from a shattered vessel.
Orcs ran in every direction, no longer a horde, no longer an army, but a mass of broken wills and shattered pride. Southward they fled in the greatest number, pouring back the way they had come, trampling their own dead in their desperation to escape the killing ground. Eastward some ran toward the foothills, only to slow and stumble among rocks slick with frost and blood. A few tried the west, hugging the shadow of the Lag'ranna Mountains, skirting the sheer stone as if the ancient cliffs might shelter them from arrows and memory alike.
None of it was orderly.
