The wind tore past them as Quinlan rose high above the rooftops.
Greyhaven unfolded below in broken layers. Streets clogged with movement from undead swarms as they pressed through alleys and squares.
Among them moved figures tinted blue; their motions were much smoother and deadlier. They advanced without hesitation, not fearing for their lives.
Humans fought to hold ground already lost. Shields splintered. Spears snapped. Blood ran along the gutters and pooled where the stone dipped, carried downhill by gravity.
Above them, elven volleys arced in clean lines, arrows falling in steady rain. The rhythm did not change. Draw. Loose. Draw again.
Cannons thundered from the walls. Dwarven crews worked without pause, blackened hands ramming shot and powder while shouting to one another in rough voices, each blast followed by cheers that praised iron and fire.
On top of Quinlan's back, Mira clutched his shoulders with all her strength.
