Again, that horn blared, a roar of defiance. “That’s no horn of Morath,” Lysandra breathed. And then they appeared. Along the edge of the foothills. A line of golden-armored warriors, foot soldiers and cavalry alike. More and more and more, a great line spreading across the crest of the final hill. Filling the skies, stretching into the horizon, flew mighty, armored birds with riders. Ruks.
