Vorax scratched at his armored chest with absentminded futility. His mount shifted restlessly, stamping a hoof. “I’m not sure.” His brand was beginning to sting as if there were a hornet’s nest lodged under his armor and there was a distinct tugging in the direction of the fortress. “No.” He shook his head. “No ordinary storm, anyway. Field marshal, cancel the exercise. Dismiss the troops.”

Hyrgolf roared a command in the Fjel tongue, a signal relayed by his bannerman. Pennants dipped and waved under the glowering skies, and a rumble of thunder answered. Thousands of Fjeltroll began to disperse in semi-orderly fashion, forming into winding columns and setting off at a slow, steady jog for their barracks.

Above the looming edifice, clouds built. Layer upon layer they gathered, dark and billowing, echoing the towering structure below. Angry lightning flickered, illuminating the underbellies of the bruise-colored swells. Whatever they contained, it didn’t bode well for anyone caught on the field.

“It’s his Lordship,” Hyrgolf observed. “He’s wroth.”

“I think you’re right.” Vorax grimaced and bent over his pommel as pain clutched at his heart like a fist and the tugging sensation intensified. “Field marshal!” The words emerged in a grunt. “Help me. I have to get back there. Now.”

“Aye, sir!” Hyrgolf gave a crisp salute and stooped to grasp the reins of Vorax’s mount a half a foot below the bit. “Make way!” he bellowed at the retreating backs of his army as he forged a path. “Way for Lord Vorax!”

The columns wavered at his order and parted to create an alley. Through his pain, Vorax was dimly aware of being impressed at the discipline Tanaros had drilled into his troops and at the steady competence of the Tungskulder Fjel who commanded them. Then a bolt of lightning cracked the skies and thunder pealed. His mount, unwontedly skittish, sought to rear, tugging at the reins the Fjeltroll held in an iron grip. With his chest ablaze, it was all Vorax could do to stay upright in the saddle.

Thunder pealed again, sharp and incisive, and the clouds split open to unleash their burden. The rain that spat down was greasy and unclean, reeking of sulfur. Worse, Vorax realized with a shudder, it burned like sulfur. It was an unnatural rain, carrying the taint of a Shaper’s fury. His flesh prickled beneath his armor, fearful of its touch on his skin, and he was glad his Staccian company wasn’t on the field.

“Sir!” Hyrgolf was bawling in his ear, his hideous face looming close. Water dripped from his brow-ridges, carving steaming runnels in his obdurate hide. “Sir, I’ve called for a Gulnagel escort! It’s the fastest way!”