The younger Riders were shivering as badly as the horses when they emerged from the cave; the older looked resigned.

Théodred surveyed the damage – trees ripped up by the roots, sod cruelly torn, boulders strewn about, one undamaged wagon wheel. Destruction as far as he could see, a path of ragged earth leading westward.

“W-w-what was it?” the youngest Rider asked, face pale and frightened. “The work of the Enemy?”

“Nothing so predictable,” Théodred replied grimly. “A whirlwind, wrought only by nature. We will have much work in the village.”

Behind him, someone muttered, “If there is still a village.”