Man after man exited ashy fog forming into ranks. Armed with six-foot spears, they also carried wide blades made for chopping when the fighting degenerated into man to man. They were protected by bronze chest plates bearing the grinning visage of Nirjahl, the Iserrian god of flesh. This endless legion of men stepping out of the fog made up but a single wing of the Last Army.

Gray-Fang watched impassively, his face betraying no emotion, sharp eyes watching and weighing. He was aware of the strength that the Last Army wielded. Countless deaths could be laid at their feet. He, himself, had seen the Aloho River swollen with blood, dead fish floating on the surface. Only the wholesale slaughter of men could achieve that kind of scale.

Dozens of naked slaves struggled with a network of ropes, pulling something that slowly became a wide platform, big enough for the dozen horses that stamped nervously on it’s gilded frame. Behind the horses stood a tiered tent where slaves knelt, waiting. General Dhava had arrived.