36
Rogero sat on the hillside above the enemy encampment at dusk, wrapped in a cloak made of rain. He drew the top of it over his head like a hood. On the outside it looked no different from the rest of the downpour. Inside the cloak he was warm and dry.
He made a shelter for Vinderon, too. The windhorse disliked being wet. Rogero swept his arm in a wide arc over the horse, creating a roomy bower with a roof and three sides. Vinderon now stood comfortably dry toward the back, his black eyes staring out at the rain.
From this vantage Rogero had a wide view of camp.
There were bodies everywhere.
Dead, he remembered, because of one of his spells. Dead like so many of his own men over the past few days.
Dead, although he still didn’t understand why. What the source was of the disease.
R
