The peace of the morning was shattered at the western watch-post of the Razor Crags. A delegation of twenty mounted riders, clad in spiked armor of beaten black iron and flying the jagged crimson skull banner of Warlord Malakor, appeared at the mouth of the gorge. At the head of the detachment rode General Garrow: a seven-foot brute with scarred red skin, two broken tusks protruding from his lower jaw,…
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