A low roar tore through the northern mountains just before sunrise.
High up in the gorge, three colossal detonations echoed across the granite peaks. The old stone dams had blown. Within seconds, four million cubic paces of icy meltwater and pulverized river ice crashed through the lower gorge basin with apocalyptic force, smashing trees into splinters and grinding the riverbed beneath hundreds of tons of surging pressure.
Sixty paces above the flood, on the high western stone shelf, the allied vanguard stood on dry, unyielding granite.
Chief Zaka Asakana walked to the edge of the shelf, spat into the boiling white foam below, and wiped cold mist from his bearded jaw.
"Those cold bastards thought we'd march right into their pond," Zaka grunted, his deep laugh rumbling like stone. "If we had taken the river road, thirty thousand of my boys would be drowning under four feet of fractured ice right now."
