Cold winds sang through the valleys, low clouds hid the rising peaks, and spitting snow had begun to dust the marchers on the Stoneforge trail when those in the rear of the great caravan heard running hoofbeats behind them. A single rider, wearing the colors of Hammerhand’s personal guard, the Ten, came into sight.

Then he was among them, dropping exhausted from his horse. A crude sling held his right arm close against his armored breast, and the right side of his face was crusted with dried blood.

“What is it? What’s happened?” The Chosen gathered around him, their eyes bright with concern.

“The truce was a trick,” the dwarf told them, his voice thin with anger. “Lord Kane attacked with his entire garrison. They used seige engines … catapults … We didn’t have a chance.”

“And Derkin? Is Derkin …?”

“Turn your column,” the messenger rasped. “We’re going back.”