He took a deep breath, and proceeded towards them, arming himself with a few sweet lines to deprive them of their wealth.

The horses rode in a rhythm matching his heartbeat, or was it the other way around? Brynd had done this for so many years it had become a dulled instinct, the sort of routine only noticed when he was not riding the length and breadth of the Empire. Brynd had been forcing his companions to ride until the horses were exhausted, only stopping at hamlets and villages when the wilderness proved more violent then anticipated. Bitter winds, followed by harsh sleet. The few remaining Night Guards crested the hill that overlooked the port of Gish. It was a bleak landscape this side of the island. Low clouds skimmed the horizon, undermining massive skies.

Because of the recent deaths of his comrades, at nights when they rested he sometimes stared at his sword blade and at the white-skinned man reflected back, and tried to make more sense of himself. Perhaps he had grown used to the luxury of command, standing so far back from any direct combat. He had wanted this, an opportunity to prove himself a true man – because of his unusual skin tone as much as his sexuality. People always judged him in unspoken terms, so he had to respond with action only because that was expected of him. And look where that action had taken him – many good soldiers and friends, dead.

Maybe there was too much time to think on these journeys.

The estuary was crowded with sailing vessels of the Jamur Second Dragoons. Brynd’s own first regiment. Two dozen longships were blocking off one side of the harbour, allowing only a few fishing boats to pass out to sea. He could see the raised standards of at least two divisions – the Wolf and Eagle Brigades – on the shore this side of the port town. Gish had only become a military port in recent years, following assessments of how the ice age might affect the navigational channels of the major island of Jokull.

Blink while reading the history of this region and you might miss that it had become a significant commercial centre too, based upon supply and billeting of the army. It was now humming with armourers licensed directly from Villjamur, innkeepers, fishermen, wool merchants. And, below the gloss, the side of life that respectable people always looked away from: brothels, gambling dens involving big dogfights or dice, slaves beaten senseless over a chore forgotten, and brawls between soldiers over a spilt tankard.

Brynd looked back towards the ships, deciding after his recent encounters that he wanted as many vessels as possible to escort them on the return voyage. If nothing else, it would provide a positive statement: Here she comes, the new Empress, and she’s well protected.

Two hours later, they boarded the Black Frieter, the largest of the longships docked at Gish. An old boat, once thought to house souls of the damned, it had been recovered from pirates decades ago, and now took its place in the Empire’s fleet. Sea Captain Sang greeted them, if it could be called a greeting, then made sure the carriage would be well protected on the adjoining shore by several women of the Wolf Brigade. These quieter moments of travel always forced Apium to analyse the current status of the military.

Apium was always suspicious of the Dragoon Marines, despite them being a focal component of most military campaigns. They were a crucial force across the entire Archipelago, having developed effective techniques for short raids, and larger-scale invasions. A formidable reputation preceded them, even though it hadn’t been put to good use in recent years. An air of arrogance surrounded them; they assumed nothing could be done without their participation. Sang herself was the embodiment of this, a low-born, in cultural terms, who had achieved great things. And even Apium was certain she was more vulgar in her manner than most male soldiers he’d known. She’d boasted to him once about all the islands she’d visited – travels around the entire Archipelago that no one else had managed. Said she’d even circumnavigated the Varltung islands, but he wasn’t so sure, since there was no proof of such a voyage. She would customarily employ mainly women sailors, using the few men simply for raw physical chores. And he could make a good guess as to what services these might include.

Apium had joined Brynd, Lupus and Nelum on deck. Brynd was commenting on the salt refinery recently built, and that as yet stood as nothing more than a precarious shack on the quayside. He was clearly unimpressed.

Gish was altogether a decrepit place. No major division of the army had been deployed from here for a good while, so many soldiers were rotting away here – their time taken up with gambling, brawls, casual sex. That, he reflected, was what you got from doing nothing more rigorous than training exercises.

Brynd was exceptional in taking the opportunity of using cultists to develop training strategies on Kullrún, an islet off the opposite coast of Jokull. Cultist technology was normally used to scare men senseless, to drive back arrows, form illusions of troop movements, create phantoms that followed them long into their dreams at night. Any threatening scenario could thus be recreated, played out again and again, until the soldiers learned how to kill their enemy in the most efficient manner. A time-consuming business, but essential for producing the best soldiers. When it came down to it, when a soldier aimed an arrow at another man’s face for the very first time, releasing it could prove difficult. And many of the soldiers currently in the Dragoons, Marines or Regiment of Foot were fresh recruits who had signed up to avoid the hardships of the ice age since the military provided a guaranteed wage.

Boys and girls from the poorest parts of the Empire fighting for the richest.

Was that how all armies had been recruited throughout history?

A few hours later, Brynd was the first to step down off the Black Frieter and onto the main island of Southfjords, under a massive sky filled with fast-moving cumulus, looming over a landscape littered with small wind-ravaged trees tilting at an angle. Terns arced over their heads, heading off towards their high cliff colonies further along the shore.

The four guards set off along a gravel track that cut up through a green hill, and Brynd suspected that those black-clad strangers, carrying swords and axes, would be an intimidating spectacle for a young woman who had been told nothing of why she was summoned home.

Even in decay the temple was an imposingly beautiful building, with its limestone arches and soaring spire flanked by two smaller ones. As Jorsalir structures went, this was certainly one of the more extravagant temples, more sizeable than the churches Brynd had seen back in Villjamur. Maybe several hundred years old, so not remotely ancient by the Archipelago’s standards, obviously it had been constructed in a period when the Jorsalir had commanded phenomenal power and wealth, unlike now, when the Council even levied tax upon them.

As they approached the building, three women stepped out, their green gowns whipping around their bodies in the wind like banners of war. The looks on their faces were just as grim, and Brynd asked his companions to remain still while he moved ahead alone.

Two of the women were ageing slightly, greying hair framing their delicate features. The third was younger, but the graceful way she walked and her general demeanour made her appear ageless. He noticed a white dryas attached to her breast.

‘Sele of Jamur,’ Brynd greeted them. ‘Commander Brynd Lathraea of the Night Guard.’