Another seizure clutched at his chest, and his mount trumpeted with pain and fear, flaring its nostrils at the rain’s stench. “My thanks!” Vorax managed to gasp; and then the others were there, one on either side, a pair of Gulnagel baring their eyetusks as they leapt to secure his reins.

They set out at a run, ignoring the deluge. The reins stretched taut and his horse followed anxiously in their wake, moving from a trot into a canter, settling into a gallop as the Gulnagel lengthened their strides into swift bounds. Their taloned feet scored deep gouges in the earth as they passed their hurrying brethren. Vorax clutched his deep pommel with both hands, concentrating on keeping his seat. The field was a blur. Corrosive rain sheeted from his Staccian armor and he tucked his chin tight against his chest, letting the visor of his helmet deflect the rain from his face; still, burning droplets pelted his cheeks. His mount squealed, steam arising from its sleek hide. The Fjel yelped and ran onward, leading him at breakneck speed.

At the outermost postern gates, one of Ushahin’s madlings was dancing from foot to foot. He held out his hand for the reins in a pleading gesture, heedless of the bleeding scores the rain etched on his face. Still ducking his chin, Vorax struggled to free his feet from the stirrups as the Gulnagel helped him dismount. The madling crooned to his mount, shoulders hunched against the punishing rain.

And then Vorax was on solid ground, screwing his eyes shut as burning moisture seeped under his visor, trickling down his brow. He heard hoofbeats echo on the flagstones as Ushahin’s madling led his horse at a run for the shelter of the stables. The obedient Gulnagel gripped his arms, hustling him through the rain toward the inner gate, where the Mørkhar Fjel of the Havenguard granted them passage.

Beneath the tall, heavy ceilings they were safe from the rain. One of the Gulnagel spoke in their guttural tongue, and the Havenguard replied in the same. With deft care, Fjeltroll talons unbuckled straps, removing his armor piece by piece, lifting the helmet from his head. Rainwater dripped and sizzled harmlessly on the stone floor, making the entryway reek of rotten eggs. The Fjel wiped his sword-belt dry, settling it around his waist. Vorax braced his hands on his thighs and took a deep breath against the dizzying pain in his chest. Straightening, he wiped his brow with his sleeve. The fumes made his eyes sting as he opened them and a patch of blisters was rising on his forehead, but he was whole.

“The army?” It was important to ask.