From the sudden storm of windblown snow a shape emerged. Ulbarich did not try to make out a face, nor a threat. It was a matter of colors. This one had none of the black or yellow that Ulbarich would have expected to see in his men. That meant his end was grisly, indeed. Another shout. Ulbarich's sword split the man from brow to groin. He, too, did not scream. He simply fell thrashing into a drift of snow. They must have been alerted, up ahead. Ulbarich was going to shout for his own men when he heard it. A groaning of stone, and a concussive slam that sent tremors into his boots.
Hell.
To his right, well out of range, a massive shape emerged. It was the color of stone overgrown with moss. He could not see well enough to make out the scars and crossing patterns of battle that marked the creature's flesh. He only saw enough to know that it was an orc. Somehow, the bandits had the misfortune of picking the one place to hide which still had orcs inside of it. Usually the creatures did not like the cold. This one was struggling, as well, but still gaining ground on the bandit he was chasing. A swing of the maul which he carried in his overgrown hands turned the trick.
Another bandit died.
Ulbarich held up a closed fist, and took a knee beside that drift. If there were orcs, he needed to get the hell out of here, and quickly. Between the bandits and the beasts his men did not stand a chance. The signal had not yet been launched. There was still time to withdraw. But he needed to know if they could go back the way they'd come.