The bodies spiraled. Around and around and around — the rotation increasing, the speed building, the vortex pulling everything inward. The camp — the tents, the wagons, the supplies, the fires — was caught in the pull. The structures disintegrated. The canvas tore. The wood splintered. Everything that wasn't alive was drawn into the vortex.
The remaining soldiers — the four thousand who were still alive, still on their knees — watched. Their faces were blank. Their eyes were empty. The terror had passed the point of expression. They were beyond screaming. Beyond crying. They were watching the end of the world and their faces were the faces of men who had accepted it.
The vortex compacted.
