Agandaur pulled Dreadcrow up at the gates of Sarn Ford. The enormous black armored stallion snorted and shook his heavy head, bucking his master lazily with his snout. The sorcerer patted the animal’s neck fondly, looking around. The view was horrid. Mutilated, broken bodies laid around, some of them hewed by crows, frozen ground bloodstained and sticky. Cold air was thick with the smell of death. A twisted grin curled onto the black numenorean’s pale lips, his steel blue eyes glowing darkly from under the hood and the iron mask.
Suddenly, something caught Agandaur’s sight. Among the fortress turned grave, something moved. It seemed one of the rangers had prevailed… Well then. There might be some use of him. Stepping to the injured man, Agandaur grabbed him firmly by the back of his neck and lifted him up.