Wind carried the stench of war. It was a toxic blend smoke and death- and failure. Fog, heavy with ash, covered the valley like a filthy rug but Grey-Fang knew what lay underneath. They called themselves the Last Army, for they believed there would be none needed after them. Camped among the ruins of his people, they didn’t even honor the fallen with graves.

Crouched amid a stone out cropping, Grey-Fang raised a curved horn to his lips. One deep, mournful note escaped, seeming to go on forever, echoing throughout the valley and beyond. It was more than a remembrance. It was a challenge.

While he waited for a response, he ran his fingers along the knocked ridges of the single-bladed axes fastened at his belt. They were worn but bore the strength of craftmanship. He prayed the gods would see him through his last battle. He had no illusions about that, this would be his last battle.

From the fog, dull balls of orange light waddled toward him in pairs. Drums began to beat in steady rhythm; a march of death.