Far to the south, beyond the churned killing ground and the broken banners left behind, the land sloped gently toward the encampment of the Yohan First Horde.
Night had already claimed the plains there.
Fires burned in disciplined rings, their light contained and measured. Drums were silent. Only the low murmur of thousands of voices carried through the darkness, the sound of a great host at rest but not at ease. Sentries stood in pairs along the perimeter, silhouettes sharp against the firelight, eyes trained outward, ears tuned for anything out of place.
It was one of those sentries who saw them first.
At the edge of vision, where the dark plain blurred into shadow, shapes moved. Not in formation. Not with the heavy, confident stride of a marching warband. These figures staggered. Some leaned on spears like crutches. Others dragged wounded companions whose feet left uneven trails in the dust.
The sentry narrowed his eyes.
More shapes emerged.
Dozens.
