The dust cloud grew, and the cold that settled in my stomach had nothing to do with the wind coming off the wall.
The Savage Communion weren't bandits, and they weren't a border dispute. They were one of the Five Cults, with the kind of strength that let them stand against whole continents. The West had been holding them off for centuries in a war nobody ever won—no great victories, no decisive defeats, just a line held at enormous cost, year after year.
What made them worse than the other cults was what fought alongside them. Orcs and ogres, races that had been driven out of human lands generations ago, served them as shock troops. They were stronger than humans before the cult's rituals ever touched them. After, they were something you built fifty-metre walls to keep out.
And now they were driving up to that wall in broad daylight, with banners.
"Kali," Meilyn said, without looking away. "Stay behind me."
Kali opened her mouth, closed it, and stepped behind her.
