The sky over the Iron Peaks wasn't turning gold with the sunrise; it was turning a sickly, flickering orange. The scent of pine and cold air had been replaced by the chemical stench of pitch and the oily, heavy odor of "Greek Fire"—the ancient world's version of napalm.
"They aren't here for the iron, and they aren't here for the village," I shouted over the growing roar of the flames. I stood at the entrance of the weaving hall, clutching a heavy iron pry-bar like a weapon. "This is a 'Targeted Asset Destruction.' They want to burn the looms so the Xandros contract fails!"
Valra stood beside me, her eyes reflecting the fire. She had fifty warriors left in the village; the rest were out on the hunting trails. "They have fire-pots, Elara! If they reach the thatched roofs, the whole hall goes up in minutes. We can't fight fire with axes!"
