"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!"
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 M�rkhar 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 swordbelt 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.
"On their way, boss." One of the Gulnagel pointed past the open door toward the outer gates, where the columns were making their way toward their deep-hewn barracks. He shook himself like a dog, shedding water. Slow, dark blood oozed from pockmarks in his yellowish hide. "This is no good, though, even for Fjel."
"No," Vorax said, wincing at the sight. "It's not." Outside, angry thunder pealed. One of the M�rkhar fingered a carved talisman, leathery lips moving in a whispered prayer. "You, lad," Vorax said to him. Tanaros would have known his name; he didn't. For the first time, he felt bad about the fact. "Take me to his Lordship."