They started an hour before dawn--silent as they gazed down at the island of palms that was passing beneath them. They overtook their Bas army and left it behind them. In the air, back over Anglese City, tiny specks showed that the aerial army was starting. Above the hum of the Frazia motors they hear the aerial voices of Anglese City telling the Bas peasants who lived between the two cities to come eastward. They were obeying; little groups of refugees--old men, women and children--were moving along all the roads. In the sky ahead, occasional flashes shot up from Orleen. "The Arans went there to avoid the deluge," Rogers said suddenly, and his laugh was grim. No one answered him. Behind them the eastern sky was brightening. Loto was piloting the plane, with Rogers beside him. The daylight grew, began reddening. "Look, Father, there's Orleen!" * * * * * The second largest city on the island, Orleen lay in a hollow, with twin peaks close behind it, the mouth of the channel and the gulf in front and to the sides. It was an Aran city, more beautiful even than the capital. The plane, flying high, was circling. Loto's gaze went to the dawn. The sun came up a huge, distorted ball of crimson fire, with lines of flame radiating from it to the zenith. A dark mass of rain cloud, hanging low above Orleen, lost its blackness as it soaked up the crimson light. The sky, even to the western horizon, was steeped in blood; the water reflected it; the air itself seemed to hold it suspended. "The day of deluge," murmured Loto. "The blood that will be spilled today--" As though in answer to his words, the clouds above Orleen began spilling rain. And as the water fell, it caught the crimson sunlight--myriad drops of blood falling upon the Aran city. The storm was transitory the rain cloud swept past, but the blood in the sky remained. In the hours that had passed since the plane left Anglese City, the Noths had occupied Orleen. Its cavern was taken. The Noth men and dogs stood in solid ranks around the mountain base; the beaches were black with them. They were still coming across the channel--riders mounted upon swimming dogs, an occasional barge. There were no sounds of thunderbolts in the city, no flashes. But as the plane descended, human sounds were heard--faint screams. And the city streets were in confusion. Fahn was staring down into the city through lenses mounted in short black tubes. He murmured something that his companions did not catch. His face was white and set; he was struggling to hold his composure. "Descend, Loto. They are not armed with thunderbolts; those are all with Toroh and his men in the cavern."