Zach scoped out the bridge over the Platte River as the sun made its final dip toward the horizon. Dave could hear a deep throbbing bass beat coming from the Djinn camp, the drums of the legions, muffled by the enormous tarpaulins of cured Drakon-hide under which the regiment still sheltered. Loud enough that it drowned out the choppers flying overhead. ‘We should go with you,’ Zach said. ‘A close protection detail at least.’ Dave shook his head. ‘Nah, it’s a trap for sure. Fucking Djinn. Now we’re here, I’d rather go by myself.’ ‘That isn’t happening,’ Heath said, finished with his checks. ‘We need to buy another twenty minutes.’ He had more to say, but an Apache roared over, heading for the bridge like a dark bolt thrown by a minor god. ‘Two things,’ Dave shouted. ‘Yes?’ said Heath. Dave dropped his voice as the uproar of the chopper died away. ‘One, the orcs are familiar with the whole death from above thing because of the Drakonen, who love a barbecued orc.
