Great gouts of acidic bile disgorge from the mouths of the Mandragors, melting armor and flesh, the tight conditions working to their advantage. The creatures barrel into your line, their scaley forms crushing limbs as they rampage toward the wagons. Eventually, your coordination wins out, but not without loss. You are food to the Mandragors, and among the close fighting, some manage to drag away both men and supplies.

Bandaging your wounds, you return to the head of the column and move out.

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