For twelve hours, Krag’s sappers worked at the western fissure while the defenders held the inner approach. When the last blasting charge was set, the sheltered terrace fell quiet.
A thunderous detonation ripped through the outer rock wall, showering the western terrace in blackened basalt shards.
The sound echoed through the subterranean oasis like rolling thunder. Dense grey smoke rolled through the newly blown breach, carrying the sharp stink of imperial blasting powder and burnt saltpetre.
Beyond the rubble, three thousand heavy cavalrymen in blood-red lacquered lamellar armor choked the narrow gorge.
Their heavy iron-tipped lances pointed forward in three bristling ranks, their mounts stamping nervously in the swirling alkali dust. The desert wind howled through the fractured canyon, whipping their crimson banners against the jagged rocks. At their head rode Vanguard General Krag, mounted on a massive, scale-plated war-rhino that stood twelve feet tall at the shoulder.
Krag was a mountain of a man with arms like seasoned oak trunks and a braided iron beard. His Nascent Soul Early aura swirled around his eight-foot crimson lance, radiating a suffocating wave of scorched-iron intent.
As the dust began to settle, Krag surveyed the tranquil underground lake, the green garden terraces, and the orderly stone huts of the exiles. A cruel, contemptuous sneer split his scarred face.
