At the exact same second, his bone-knife drove straight through the soft membrane at the back of its neck.
The stalker went totally limp before it could even twitch its leg.
Right next to him, Bran executed his target with a clean, low strike.
He didn't try to go for the chest. He drove his dagger upward from beneath the guard's chin, piercing straight into the brain cavity with a dull crunch.
The two seven-foot carcasses were quickly dragged behind the large timber frames of the storage house.
Torin didn't waste time.
He waved the rest of the forty warriors forward.
The fighters poured into the three storage houses like a sudden wave.
They didn't grab any weapons or look for loot.
They grabbed the heavy clay and woven-fiber jars of beast-fat and dried pitch stacked along the racks, violently smashing them against the main support timber poles.
The thick, pungent oil splattered everywhere, soaking into the dry wood and the stitched hide roofs.
