They were come, after years of gathering wrath, they were come.
From the east, the hound lords, a great mass of riders with no bits or bridles, a mass of beasts, a mass of restlessness and dissatisfaction. At their head was a silver hound of three tails, its fur burning with the light of the moon, its eyes as suns. His tread shook the earth, splintered trees and flattened hills. His howl shook the sky and was joined by ten thousand of his kin.
From the north came the glittering host of underearth, each soldier girded with a prince's ransom. Tattered it was, great holes in its tapestry. Stone and soil came at their call, siegeworks sprouting from raw earth like weeds, its soldiers standing atop ramparts that should have taken a century to erect. At their head was the youngest Prince of Earth, his rich robe soiled, bearing a helm set with three gems of heartbreaking beauty that gleamed like the tears of the sun. Their glow was still darkened by elder's blood.
From the west came no host, but only a darkness, a mist, a shadow. Coiling among the ancient trees, cloying and grey. The strains of zithers, the piping of flutes the only sign of the wayward scions of the Labyrinth.
But from the south they came. Widows and widowers, orphans and grieving parents, the broken, the forgotten, the disdained. They came from the south, the ruined land, and their ruin gave them strength. The people of the land, the people of the cities. Soldiers and craftsmen, philosophers and clerks, priests and merchants. Their marching song was a primal howl, not of a beast, but achingly human. They called the masters of the world to account, and for the very first time, their cries did not vanish into the uncaring void. For with them walked titans, wrought of the fury which was born 'neath the cruel master's boot.