The Snowe encampment sprawled across a series of low hills overlooking the Garthum River, its fortifications a testament to military engineering and desperate necessity. Unlike the Winters position in the mountain passes, General Aelric Snowe had chosen open ground where his superior tactics and remaining cavalry could be brought to bear. Three concentric rings of earthwork defenses surrounded the camp, each topped with sharpened stakes and reinforced with whatever materials could be scavenged from the surrounding area.
It had been nineteen days since they had last received word from the capital.
Nineteen days of silence.
Nineteen days of constant orcish harassment.
General Snowe stood atop the command tower, a wooden structure hastily erected but solidly built, his weathered face set in grim lines as he surveyed the approaching enemy. The dawn light caught the glint of crude weapons and armor, hundreds of green-skinned warriors emerging from the tree line to the east.
