On the plain below, Ashur paced angrily, stamping the muddy earth. The flames of his eyes sizzled and flared, casting pools of rich amber light in the supernatural darkness. A half score of bodies lay scattered on the wet, cold ground, men who had tried to drive the unicorn away. Their screams still echoed in her ears. A large piece of wind-driven fabric flapped across the plain, one of the many ruined tents the storm had flattened. She watched until it disappeared in the distant wood that surrounded Kel’s tower. The sky flashed again, momentarily blinding her. Her vision danced with afterimages. For three days since Dakariar, the lightning and thunder had raged. Not even Kel’s sorceries had been able to halt the rain. They had ridden in sodden garments and slept—or tried to sleep—in high places that were not likely to flood. She was sure some of the horses would die of sickness, and more than a few of the rebels were coughing and spitting. She hugged a blanket around herself for warmth and leaned outward.
