It was a trick as old as time - or so Old Master liked to say - to give each of her fighters two torches and have them hold both aloft, burning bright into the night and turning a small army into a tidal wave of destruction. Shanka didn’t care if the lights gave away their coming, because the fear would wreck any semblance of military organization Rastaban’s farmers could hope to achieve.
They advanced into the valley, relentless and unstoppable. The first village surrendered without question, and Shanka ordered her women on.
And then armed men rained down into the valley.
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