With the shouts of men dying behind him and the wet crunch of boots on blood-slick stone, Cain trudged forward toward the main congregation of the Confederation's host , or at least the fraction of it not knee-deep in plunder, rutting,fucking, or drunk on stolen vintages. Which was to say, the minority.
At first sight, it brought him a grim sort of relief. Ahead lay at least a semblance of order: ranks of raiders massed before the last bastion of Azania's grandeur, the imperial palace itself. Once, its walls had gleamed white in the sun, symbols of a dynasty that stretched back centuries. Now, they were blackened by smoke and slick with the gore of the earlier battle which forced the defenders to take repair on the great court. Confederation banners fluttered lazily atop ramparts that yesterday had bristled with defenders.
But any comfort Cain felt drained swiftly as he drew closer.
