Snow fell from lowering, slate-gray clouds, drifting across barren fields and the chalky ridges. Even at midday, the country was a twilit white. Stark shadows fell upon peasants' huts and villages and towns and the castles of the warlords. Though it was not a time of travel, the warlords had left their citadels, journeying from all quarters, obeying the imperious summons that could not be refused. Now the warlords' sledges were drawn up in the courtyard of the Emperor's palace. Cruel winds lashed at the waiting teams while drivers and lackeys burrowed for warmth into the straw heaped against the gateposts. Dumb brutes and menials shivered helplessly, and the snow continued to fall. White dominated Markuand, a cruelty of nature, a thing which had always been. Snow would ever come to blanket the land, and in the warmer season soil and rocks would be revealed in their pale dustiness. This was Markuand's fate in the schemings of the gods, and men and beasts accepted their lot.
What do You think about The Web Of Wizardry (1978)?
