The dead were many.
The plain still smoked from the wrath of frost and fire, and the air was thick with the smell of burnt blood and iron. Black crows wheeled above, their cries blending with the low chants of the shamans who walked among the fallen.
From the ruined heart of the battlefield, the orcs gathered. They came limping, some dragging the wounded, others bearing their slain upon makeshift stretchers of bone and bark. Where once they had surged like an unbroken tide, now they moved with grim purpose, proud warriors mourning for the fallen, but not broken.
At the center of the camp, a circle of crude banners flapped in the wind — black hides painted with symbols of the Red Fang, Ironblood clans, Black Tree, Rock Bear and other tribes now united under one mark: the face of a snarling wolf. The sigil of Khao'khen.
He stood among them now, silent as the pyres were built.
