Winter passed into spring, and now in June, the dense, calf-high grasses of Debei swayed in the wind. The Lord lay prone in the grass, binoculars in hand, watching the Demons swarming at the bottom of the slope like a tide of ants.
The location they chose for their encampment was peculiar. From a practical standpoint, it blocked the howling winds, which would keep their unclothed bodies from the cold.
Many merchant caravans would also choose such a leeward slope when making camp. It was a type of campsite beloved by their guards.
From a military perspective, however, only a moron whose brain had been eaten by a Goblin would do such a thing.
All it would take was a single squadron of Heavy Armor cavalry charging down the gentle slope into the undefended basin to make them regret their decision.
