The war cry tore through the darkness like a blade through flesh—"Either we win, or we all die!"—as two hundred riders thundered toward the Oizenian camp, their horses' hooves pounding like the heartbeat of some great beast awakening.
The gate yawned open before them, not by chance, not by mistake, but because the Voghondai had already struck like ghosts, their knives slipping between ribs before the first guard could even gasp. Now, the way was clear, and Egil's cavalry poured through like a river of death unleashed.
Inside, chaos reigned.
The Voghondai had done their work better than any could have hoped from them.
Their part of the camp's defenses had collapsed in a storm of silent killing—sentries crumpling with slit throats, watchmen dragged into the shadows with muffled gurgles. Now, the raiders moved like wolves among sheep, their axes rising and falling in sprays of crimson.
