It did not make for happy viewing. The mass of the British army was cloaked behind Concealments, but its ripples of power lapped already at the base of Castle Hill.
The auras of a vast contingent of spirits were dimly visible in the gloom; with every minute further brief trembles on the planes signaled the arrival of new battalions.
Groups of human soldiers moved purposefully over the dark ground.
In their midst stood a cluster of great white tents, domed like rocs' eggs, about which Shields and other spells hung cobweb-thick.***
I raised my gaze to the darkened sky.
It was an angry black mess of clouds, smeared with streaks of yellow to the west.
At a high altitude and scarcely visible in the dying light, I spied six faint dots circling well out of Detonation range.
They progressed steadily widdershins, mapping out the walls a final time, checking the strength our defenses.
Speaking of which…I had to do the same.
*** Doubtless, this was where the British magicians were skulking, at a safe distance from the action. My Czech masters were just the same. In war, magicians always like to reserve the most dangerous jobs for themselves, such as fearlessly guarding large quantities of food and drink a few miles behind the lines.
