The battlefield below the wall was a sea of fire. Black smoke curled into the night sky, thick and choking, while the screams of burning orcs filled the air. Charred bodies collapsed in heaps, armor glowing red as it warped under the flames. The first two lines of the horde were being cooked alive, their siege towers crumbling into collapsing infernos.
From atop his palanquin, the orc commander watched, tusks gnashing together so hard the muscles in his jaw quivered. His bloodshot eyes reflected the flames, rage burning hotter than the fire itself.
"WORTHLESS FILTH!" he roared, his deep voice carrying above the clash of steel and the crackle of flames. His fist slammed into the armrest of the palanquin, shattering the crude wood. "Burnin' like pig fat! Bah! Orc blood not meant for cookin'! Orc blood meant for killin'!"
The slaves holding his palanquin flinched, trembling beneath his weight.
