Skarn of the wolfkin rounded the western palisade for the fourth time that night, and the sentries posted along it had learned to stop breathing when he passed.
Below the wall, the heartlands of the Beastman Confederation were digging.
The deep drums had run nightly since the war-lodge council: sharpen, stockpile, drill.
Then, days ago, a blood-run relay had carried the word over the border passes: the dwarven mountain had fallen. Not besieged for a season, not starved out. Fallen, in a single night, to the Villain.
The same relay carried the rest of it. The Villain granted the dwarven king a warrior's death in front of his whole city, and the city swore hammer oaths to their conqueror. They chose him.
The drums were joined by shovels within the hour.
The digging was days old and looked it. Palisade stakes still wept sap. Boarkin crews cut trench lines by torchlight. Runners crossed between the lodges with stores manifests nobody had finished tallying.
