The Tyrant's Tomb

Got two words for you:
Swiss Army unicorns, man!
Okay, that’s four words.
IF YOU EVER GET the chance to see weaponized unicorns in action,
don’t. It’s something you can’t un-see.
As we got closer to the city, I detected signs of continuing battle:
columns of smoke, flames licking the tops of buildings, screams, shouts,
explosions. You know, the usual.
One Eye dropped me at the Pomerian Line. He snorted in a tone that
said, Yeah, good luck with that, then galloped away. Pegasi are intelligent
creatures.
I glanced at Temple Hill, hoping to see storm clouds gathering, or a
divine aura of silver light bathing the hillside, or an army of my sister’s
Hunters charging to the rescue. I saw nothing. I wondered if Ella and Tyson
were still pacing around the shrine of Diana, checking the fire pit every
thirty seconds to see if the Sibyl’s jelly-jar shards were cooked yet.
Once again, I had to be a cavalry of one. Sorry, New Rome. I jogged
toward the Forum, which was where I caught my first glimpse of the
unicorns. Definitely not the usual.
Meg herself led the charge. She was not riding a unicorn. No one who
values their life (or their crotch) would ever dare ride one. But she did run
alongside them, exhorting them to greatness as they galloped into battle. The
beasts were outfitted in Kevlar with their names printed in white block
letters along their ribs: MUFFIN, BUSTER, WHANGDOODLE, SHIRLEY, and HORATIO,