White clouds of dust erupted on the horizon, at first no larger than needles pricking the blue sky, before swelling into towering plumes that threatened to swallow the very light of the sun that gave them life.
They moved with the great speed only men on horses could have, a rolling wall of grey that heralded the end of the morning's peace.
The makers of the storm were thirty in number, each donned in interlocking rings of chainmail that hissed with every gallop. As they drew closer, they hoisted their swords and heavy-headed axes into the air; the soon to be red iron of their blades caught the midday glare, flashing like a rhythmic distress signal across the unstoned road.
