"They're not acting right!" Soren's voice tore through the rhythmic crashing of splintering timber, carrying over the terrified whinnies of the horses. He pivoted, his boots finding purchase on a slick outcrop of rock as he tracked the nearest Thraen. "Golems are guardians, defensive, not offensive! They're built to stand still for centuries! Something's controlling them!"
The lead golem didn't answer with a roar; it answered with a strike. It swung an arm-blade of translucent, jagged ice in a wide, horizontal arc. The sound was like a mountain collapsing. Ancient pines, thick as stone pillars, shattered like dry twigs under the force of the blow.
"Scatter!" Ryse bellowed, but the snow was deep, a treacherous anchor for men in heavy furs.
A young guard, his eyes wide with the paralysis of the doomed, tripped over a buried root.
