Night pressed over the ridge. The watch fire thinned. Drums changed time.
Han listened until the beats settled in his chest. The coach rode on three good wheels. The forest held its breath.
Hanna checked the bell on her wrist. The clapper touched bronze and stayed still. Her gaze walked the ditches.
A wrong scent slid in. Old blood. Wet iron. Smoke without flame.
Han opened the door and set a boot on the step. He raised a hand. "Hold the line. Save your breath."
Wood popped beyond the ditch and then on the other side. Something rolled.
Two boulders burst from brush and stayed true. They broke the crown and bit the far bank.
Ogres ran after the stones. Taller than orcs by a head and a half. Thick with rope muscle and blue gums.
Their bloodlines woke like fever. Veins rose. Heat shimmered on skin.
They did not shout. They hit what moved, horses first, wheels second, then men.
