The wind came down from the northern heights like a living thing, sharp enough to flay skin and cruel enough to cut breath short. Major Gresham rode with his cloak drawn tight across his shoulders, armor dented, one gauntlet split and rusted with blood that was not all his own.
Around him stretched the remains of the Threian Army under his command .... barely a thousand men when they left the battlefield, barely one half of now were capable of combat, half of them limping or leaning on broken spears as walking sticks. The wagons creaked with the weight of the wounded. The smell of rot and iron followed them like a hound.
