Summer's end saw Lysaer's proud war host in their closing march upon Vastmark. They came from the north, through the passes beyond Thirdmark, under snapping pennons and sunlit lances and scudding clouds. From the walled city of Ganish, they came on by road, then by river, to march in dusty columns over the parched stems of late summer grasses into the wilderness beyond. They skirted the lower foothills of the Kelhorns from Forthmark, the brilliant banners, polished armor, and glittering, gilt harness of pedigree commanders flung like hoarded jewels against the dusty landscape, bleached to the duns of sun-faded velvet by the pitiless southern latitude.
Their orders were simple: to cordon the territory in a living noose, then to engage and clean out any ally of the Master of Shadow.
Copyright Janny Wurts. Except from "Warhost of Vastmark", HarperCollins British edition.
