The boundary fence along the southern agricultural easement looked fully harmless.
It was an eight-foot-tall wire fence of zinc-coated twelve-gauge high-pulling steel mesh, hung from pre-cast concrete fence posts spaced twenty feet apart.
Along the bottom of the fence, six inches above the wild clover, ran a three-strand barbed wire grounding trace.
To a royal general accustomed to thirty-foot stone castle walls and iron portcullises, it looked like a sheep pen.
Grand Warlord Vrax of the Krell Blood Empire stood in the stirrups of his war-beast, his spiked greatsword raised toward the clouds.
“Charge,” Vrax’s voice boomed across the plain like rolling thunder. “Trample their chicken coops. Tear up their wires with your horses’ hooves. Ride through their wheat fields.”
Half a million heavy blood-cataphracts answered with an earth-shattering roar.
The sound of two million armored hooves striking the grassland was an ear-splitting, nonstop shaking that shook the leaves from the poplars two leagues away.
