Batu watched the movement behind the shout.
The Khar Kheshig.
The water gate stood open behind him, its hinges ripped free, marsh air still rolling through the broken entrance. Men poured through instead of empty ground, soaked above the knees, their clothing hanging dark and heavy against their bodies, boots dragging with marsh water still trapped inside them.
Some walked with stiffness, favoring one leg while water streamed from their sleeves into mud already churned by the night's fighting. More followed close behind, pressing through the ruined gate without formation, driven by one simple fact.
The gate stood open.
That was reason enough to cross the marsh at a run instead of waiting for orders.
Gunnar managed enough breath to lift his horn. The single low note cut through the noise as it always had, a signal the guard had drilled until it no longer required thought.
Hold.
