Ungors are what the herd calls those born lesser — stunted horns, narrow frames, features closer to twisted men than proud beasts. They are given the worst meat, the worst ground, and the longest spears, and are driven at the enemy first to blunt the killing before their bigger kin arrive. Massed behind rough spear-hedges or slinking through the brush with shortbows, they die cheaply and are endlessly replaced.
Yet nothing in the herd hates like an ungor. Kicked by everything above it, the ungor pours its spite downward and outward — onto captives, onto the wounded, onto the villages of men, where for one burning night the lowest of the herd gets to be the strong one. Beastlords know the truth of it: the gors fight for glory, but the ungors fight for revenge, and revenge gets up earlier.
Order of battle
