The plain of the Gorge was a frozen hell. Snow whirled, striking faces, lashing coats, and sliding over abyssium steel. The wind howled across the hills, and every step in the powder crunched like a sinister warning. Before us, the enemy horde advanced, a crash of hooves, screams, and cuirasses, mixed with the smell of sulfur and frozen blood. The enemy Drakzors, their nightmarish mounts, let out guttural howls while their riders drove them on, frantic and disorderly.
I stood at the center of the line, the loudspeaker in my hands, my eyes sweeping each section. The massive shields of the Tyrgash in the front rank rose, forming a black wall. Their weight absorbed the first blows, the charges that slammed into us like a storm.
At their sides, the light infantry slid over the snow, adjusting their position to channel the enemy into narrow, precise, deadly corridors.
