Coughing up a mixture of bile and blood, the broken berserker slowly lifted his heavy head, his voice reduced to a hoarse, trembling whisper that barely carried over the thrum of the engines.
"The Fang... he calls his stronghold The Fang," Kjell rasped, his eyes darting frantically around the dark hold as if expecting his master's ghost to strike him dead for the betrayal. "It sits high atop the frozen peaks of the Black Ridge, surrounded by sheer drops of jagged ice on three sides. It is a fortress carved from the living stone, impenetrable by any mortal army."
"How many men currently garrison this mountain redoubt, and how do they feed such a massive host in the dead of winter?"
"Three thousand... maybe more," Kjell wheezed, shivering violently as Silas stepped slightly closer.
