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Olin searched the sky. "There, Olin—beyond. Olin saw. Against the storm clouds, and half-hidden against their towering mass, were other dark things in the sky—small dots moving too independently to be associated with the clouds. Fluttering, swooping bits of black outrushing the rushing storm . . "They are not clouds," Olin said, staring transfixed, blinking to clear his vision and trying to decide what they were. But they came from the north .... Suddenly Olin turned and cried out sharply to a man farther up the hill: "Sound an alarm!
I learned swordsmanship from my father .... "Try not to struggle, Red-hair! " Pain. Searing, tearing pain. The walls of the house that had held so much love transfigured into a blurred chaos of mists and tears and shadows. The shadows— and the face. Through all of it, the face. Hideous ... The long, tortured sobbing and the feeling of clinging filth. The hideous face—skullsquare, grinning, eyes dancing and laughing and black as swamp fevers—filling the darkness behind her closed eyes. The soft laughter, when she cried out in pain and in horror.
Sunlight was swept from the far fields as the sky darkened and seemed to draw over itself a coverlet; in the last brightness before the unnatural dusk swallowed Olin's camp, the flying things became distinct, and sunlight glinted from them haphazardly as they soared far off and high above the land. "They are men," Olin whispered, tensing for war. " Then, to his trumpeter in a huge bellow: "To arms! " Chapter 3 Men of Vengeance There were thousands upon thousands of them, dropping from the skies as a rain of death—bronze-armored, sword-wielding, floating and flapping and swooping down in wide, low arcs, their black wings glinting like greased leather.