They stood motionless behind a thick screen of oak and pine, cold mist curling from their mouths with every shallow breath.
Vilon glanced back at Owen. If the lad was terrified, he hid it behind a hard, steady jaw. The squire's chainmail, his only true defense, gifted to him just before the host marched, hissed softly with every subtle shift of his body against the winter brush.
Saron raised his arm, his gauntleted hand closing into a tight fist. Then, with a flick of his wrist, chaos broke over the clearing.
