It was the worst weather that portion of Europe had seen in God knew how long. Storm clouds rose like swollen purple bladders blown up to monstrous proportions in the sky, and swept in filled with a rain that seemed to possess a living malevolence. The wind blew the lances out of men's hands. When the wind caught a shield from behind, it converted it into a sail, and if the holder of the shield happened to lose his balance it could blow him halfway across the countryside. Rain lashed at everything. Whipped by the wind into ultratiny drops driven with extraordinary force, it managed to penetrate every crack and crevice of armor or clothing.
Sir Oliver had to scream into his assistant's ear in order to be heard. "We'd better take shelter!"
"Aye, sir, it seems the only course. But how are we to pass the order? Who will hear us in this racket?"
"Something is amiss," Oliver said. "We'd better inform Antonio." For thus he still referred to Azzie.
"You must find him at once!"
"Yes, sir. But where?" The two men looked at each other, and then at the wide gray rain-soaked plain upon which they stood.