The smoke from the battlefield had settled. The Plaza of Bastion was no longer looked like a town square. It was an open-air morgue.
Red watched from the Void. The battle was over, but the psychological warfare was just beginning.
"Bring him up," Iron-Scale ordered.
Two Shell-Kin dragged Warlord Gorak from the Vault of Whispers. He was in bad shape. The radiation from the Fragment of the Forgotten had leeched the color from his scales and the strength from his limbs. He stumbled into the sunlight, blinking against the glare.
He saw the carnage.
Piles of Troglodyte bodies were being stripped. Mud-Skippers were pulling boots off dead soldiers. Grey-Fins were collecting the rusted, useless hammer heads to be melted down.
"You..." Gorak rasped, his voice trembling with rage. "I heard them scream. I heard them beg."
He lunged at Iron-Scale, the heavy iron chains pulling him back.
