The attack came with the sun's rise.
Bursting from his yurt, Urag emerged to a village in chaos—the voices of his comrades only half discernable among the clash and clang of metal, and the cries of the dying.
The Talons were here. Sent by the humans to drive us from our ancestral home. At the onset of winter, a death sentence.
Barely able to hear his own labored breathing, his eyes searched frantically for Warleader Batul. Turning aside the thrust of a spear and knocking the man aside, he stumbled through the bitter snowfall, slipping on ice and mud.
He spied Batul outside the tannery, a bullwark against enemy spears with a small company of warriors. Batul turned, their eyes locking momentarily. Bellowing a war cry, he charged to meet another blow.
"Do not falter! Bathe your axe in blood!"
The cry was taken up around the camp, and Urag could see the momentum beginning to turn. He found himself echoing the cry. He drew his axe, and charged.