There is nothing to eat here, he thought dryly. There is no shelter, and if I stay too long I will surely freeze to death. But at least I won’t slip and fall.

He began to walk, and the others followed him. He could feel the ice’s flow in his belly, a deep disturbing subsonic murmur as it poured with immense slowness toward the lip.

The cap was one of a string of great domes of ice that littered the northern hemisphere of the planet. As its center the icecap was kilometers thick, as humans would have measured it, and the bedrock beneath — ground free of life and locked in darkness — was crushed downward through many meters.

The dome was fed by fresh falls of snow on its upper surface. The new snow crushed the softer layers beneath, forcing out the air and turning them into hard blue ice. The collapsing center forced ice at the rim to flow down to lower altitudes, in the form of glaciers that gouged their way through river valleys and, where the ice met open water, they floated off to form immense shelves.

The ice was like a huge, subsiding mass of soft white dung, flattening and flowing, continually replenished from above.

The glaciers’ flow was enormously slow — perhaps advancing by a mere mammoth footstep every year. But the icecap was nevertheless shrinking. Less snow was falling on the icecap than it was losing to its glaciers and ice shelves. The cap was inevitably disintegrating, though it would take an immense time to disappear.

At first, under blue skies, it was exhilarating to be here. But even from the start the icecap was not without its dangers.

Once, Longtusk walked over a place were the ice had frozen into a thin crust that seemed to lie on deeper snow. When he took a step the surface settled abruptly. He fell — not far, just enough to startle him. And then the crust around him continued to collapse, the cracks spreading for many paces as the surface settled. The crunching, crackling noise of the ice seemed to circle him. It was eerie, like the actions of a living thing in this place where nothing could live, and he was glad to pass onto firmer ice.

…Even the light was strange.

Sometimes, when the sun was low in the sky, there were rings and arcs surrounding it, glimmering in the sky, and even false images of the sun to either side of it, or nestling on the horizon. It was like the blurred multiple images Longtusk would sometimes see when his eyes were wind-battered and filled with tears, so that he had to peer at the world through a lens of water.

When the nights were clear they were blue, as the moonlight was reflected from the ice. Even when there was no Moon, and only stars shone, the nights would still be bright and blue, so powerfully did the ice capture and reflect even the stars’ trickle of light.

On the third day the sky clouded over, and a white mist descended.

The light grew bright but soft, the details of the sky and even the ice under his feet hazing. Soon the horizon was invisible and the sky was joined seamlessly to the ground, as if he was walking inside some huge hollowed-out gull’s egg. The light was very bright, enough to hurt his eyes, and gray-white floaters drifted like birds across his vision. There was no shadow, no relief, no texture. He could make out the line of mammoths behind him, robust stocky forms laboring across the ice, their heads wreathed in steam. They were the only objects he could see in the whole world, as if they were all floating in clouds, disengaged from the Earth.

But the mist thickened further still. In this sourceless, shadowless light, even footprints were nothing but thin tracings of blue-white against the greater white of the washed-out world, all but impossible to see with his sore and watering eyes.

They endured a day and a night in the mist: a night they spent in utter darkness, huddled together against the wind, trying to ignore their own mounting hunger and thirst and the cold of the huge thickness of ice beneath their feet, which threatened to suck every scrap of warmth from their bodies.

Doubts assailed Longtusk, suspended here in this harsh fog of ice crystals and mist. How could he have imagined that he could lead a party on such an impossible undertaking? He had only a fragment of legend to inspire him — only his memory of the flight of the birds to guide him. And in this white-out fog, even his acute mammoth senses were baffled by the clamor of wind and the creak of ice under his feet.

They were all in distress, Longtusk realized, for mammoths were not built to endure such long treks over such inhospitable terrain without food and water. It was obvious that the journey was taking a heavy toll on poor Splayfoot; she was sinking once more into that ominous half-consciousness from which he feared, one day, she might not have the strength to climb out.

And Rockheart too was suffering. He was more gaunt and bony than ever, his eyes milky and sore, his tusks protruding from the planes of his face like icicles. He had never looked older. But he wasn’t feeble yet, as he proved as he propelled Splayfoot forward with a mighty shove of his forehead at her rump.

They continued. They had, after all, no choice.

At last, after another half day, the mist cleared as suddenly as it had descended. The world emerged again, reduced to elementals: a flat white surface under a blue dome, nothing but white and blue and flatness, an empty, stripped-bare land across which the mammoths toiled.

…But the landscape was not quite empty.

The Dreamer Willow walked a little way away from the mammoths, blinking in the sudden glare. He peered into the east, and he pulled a strip of rabbit skin around his eyes to protect them from the sun’s glare.

Then he came running to Longtusk, jabbering in his guttural, incomprehensible language, and pointed to the eastern horizon.

Longtusk squinted that way. He could see nothing but a blur where the ice merged with the sky. But that meant little; Willow’s eyes, like a Firehead’s, were those of a predator, much sharper than any mammoth’s.

Nevertheless he felt encouraged, and they pulled forward with increased enthusiasm.

They smelled it before they saw it.

"…Water," said Splayfoot, wondering. "It smells almost warm."

Rockheart, wheezing, walking stiffly, had raised his great scarred trunk. "Growing things. And something else, something sour. Sulfur, perhaps."

Willow was growing increasingly agitated. His bow legs working, he ran ahead of the mammoths and then back, urging them forward.

And then Longtusk saw it.

The mountains, protruding from the ice, seemed to float between blue sky and white ice. Gray-black scree, shattered by frost, tumbled over pure white glaciers — and, etched sharply against the black mountains, he saw pale green stripes that could only be vegetation.

It was the nunatak.

Heartened, trumpeting with excitement, he hurried forward.

Under his feet, rock began to push out of the ice and its thin covering of snow. The exposed rock was rust brown, the color of a calf’s hair. It was littered with loose snow, which was blown by the prevailing wind into white streaks.

For a time walking became a little easier. But the long, steady climb up the shallow rise added to their efforts, and soon they were all breathing hard, the young Cows trumpeting their dismay.

After a time the land began to descend once more. Longtusk found himself walking down a broad, widening valley that curved between rounded, icebound hills. The smooth curving profiles of the hills were barely visible, the blue-white of the ice against the duller white of the sky. But here and there the land was sprinkled with fragments of black rock. The rock made it easier to see the shape of the land around him: the sweep of the valley floor, the tight rounded profiles of the hills.