The host came down from the treeline without a single war cry.
There were no drums, and no horns of their own. There was only the drumming of hundreds of feet on frozen earth and the dry clatter of black wood as spears came level, rank after rank of them, while the censers swung on their poles overhead and poured more mist over the broken rampart than the morning wind could carry off.
For a moment, the North Guards simply watched it come.
Then the first rank reached the rubble slope, and the yard went mad.
Northern did not move straight away. He stood where he was with Doron at his left shoulder and Tema at his right, and he let Shingan open quietly behind his eyes.
The Hunters were simple on the inside. Lean muscle packed around dense bone, a soul core in each chest that burned no brighter than a Drifter's, and here and there, scattered through the ranks, the steadier glow of a Nomad. Nothing that would make a Master on this Keep think twice.
