Their foe came from the deep and for many generations they had lapped at the shore like wolves tasting fresh snow. But gone were the days they would retreat back into the surf. They were larger now, more numerous, and they had taken great curved bites out of his nation's lands. They burrowed into sand and soil, and everything they saw was fodder for their brood.
This was a different war from the wars of his ancestors. There were no pitched battles. There was no pride and no malice and no glory. Their foes were beasts that had grown too numerous, festering, bellowing when the war parties burned their nests. Warriors emerged from the burrows covered in ash and purulence, and there was no exhilleration. It was only labor, an ugly job.
The creatures grew furtive and then, at least, the war became a hunt.