Renir strained his eyes against the rain and spume, squinting heavily into the midday gloom. He could see nothing but the rain, and the sea. The sky was a vicious purple-grey, the suns hidden behind the thick cover.

“I will tell you when to get ready,” Orosh told them, and returned his full attention to the sea. Conversation failed, each man unwilling to break the seafarer’s concentration further.

Renir looked at their supplies. They had dried fish and fruit enough to last a week. He did not know what kind of forage there would be in Teryithyr, but he imagined it to be sparse, ill-nourishing fare. If it was true, and the snows that had capped Thaxamalan’s Saw extended over the whole of the northlands, then sustenance would be meagre indeed. The vegetation in the Spar slumbered through winter — the lands north would never have seen a spring to awaken the ground, never seen a thaw or felt the life-giving warmth of the suns. He wondered if it would be dark, or glitter with a cold beauty like winter in the Spar.

Would they survive in such a harsh land? He knew Shorn and Drun were set on finding the mythical last wizard, but how could they, when so many were against them? Even the lands and the seas seem to block their progress. Surely the growing storm was sent by the gods…it could be nothing else. The sky was an unnatural colour, and even as Renir wondered at the evil hue of the billowing clouds, the rain turned to stinging sleet, scouring his forehead and cheeks. It turned in an instant from uncomfortable to painful.

He pulled the hood of his cloak tight around his face, and saw all but Wen do the same. Wen’s only concession to the eternal winter of the north was to wear a thick sheepskin jerkin which still left his monumental arms bare. Renir shook his head and left the prow to huddle against their pack, hoping for some shelter but only finding an unforgiving seat against his armour, jutting angles digging into the small of his back. At least his back was hidden from the bitter sleet.

Their packs were large. They could all be worn on their backs, meaning that they would have to carry their weapons. Their sheaths had been lubricated by fish oil, a smelly but essential measure. Moisture would get into the sheaths and freeze, binding the weapons and making them useless in the wastes. It was something Renir would not have thought of, but metal grew cold quickly.

Beside their provisions, armour, and weapons they had also been gifted heavy cloaks and mittens of seal skin, warm and proof against water. His boots were shoddy and he had not been able to procure new ones — the Seafarers had no knowledge of how to make them, as they had no need of them. When the winters came they sailed south, where it was, the seafarers had assured him, warm even when the snows came to the north. Renir could well imagine a land of endless sunshine. After all, they were headed to the frozen lands, and everything had its opposite.

Bourninund approached, rolling somewhat against the motion of the sea that the seafarer could not quite stifle.

“Share a little warmth?”

“Snuggle up. We’ll play tents.”

“I’m too tired for that. Shift a little,” he said, making himself as comfortable as he could against their packs. “Don’t think I’m some woman who needs a cuddle and conversation. I’d be more obliged if you stayed still and kept quiet.”

“After the moments we shared? I’m hurt, Bear.”

Bourninund grunted, nestled, and was soon snoring with a loud rasp that was torn away on the wind.

Renir wriggled his toes in his boots and closed his own eyes. It would be a long wait. He never realised the sea was so big. He was bored of it already.

Soon, his soft snoring joined Bourninund’s, battling against the whirling, crying wind.

It was a talent all mercenaries mastered, or they died quick tired deaths with aching arms. Shorn was pleased to see that Renir had learned the art.

The rocking of the boat was growing. There were now two seafarers fighting against the roaring seas.

Renir and Bourninund slept on regardless, huddled together in a battlefield slumber, their backs to each other for support and warmth. For two hours now they slept. Shorn could not sleep, for he had seen what awaited them.

He was looking at the latest threat now, but dare not interrupt the seafarer to ask what it was. A small hill of ice, no more than a hundred yards to the right. There was no rudder on the ship, but the seafarers, by some magic he did not understand, steered the ship expertly and safely around each mound of ice, staying well clear. But the frequency with which they encountered them was increasing. Shorn understood that it meant they were nearing the wastelands. He felt increasing apprehension. He did not know what to expect, other than hardship unlike any he had experienced before in a life that had been harder than most. A land unlike any other, where winter was not only endless, but more extreme than the soft, easy winters of the Drayman plains or the forests of Sturma. Even in the fastness of the Culthorn mountains he had not been as cold as he was now. And the coldness that had already made his feet grow numb would only become worse. He gave silent thanks for the seal skin cloak he wore. Without it his whole body would be frozen by now.

He could only imagine the danger that lie in the waters around them, that it was cold enough for ice to float in it. By all rights ice should be confined to rivers and lakes, not float free on the sea. Only once had he seen the wastelands, and it had not been as bad as it was this time. This ice-filled water was something new.

He rubbed his hands together in the warmth of his cloak, rubbing his left forearm where his muscles had wasted. The chill seemed to seep into the bones in his arm. He clenched and unclenched the fist, as he did every day. He made it to a count of five hundred and stopped. Instead of chill the remaining muscles in the arm were now on fire.

It was a welcome relief.

The boat tilted suddenly and dramatically, throwing Shorn to the deck. He fell as he had been taught, but he could not roll on the boat for fear of falling into the frigid waters. The boat righted itself but Shorn heard the tearing, scraping sound from below.

“We hit a berg!” called one of the ship’s hands.

“Check the hold,” called Orosh. “The boat’s stronger than it looks,” he told Shorn as the warrior took to his feet again.

“I wasn’t worried,” Shorn told him, pulling his cloak tight again.

“Time to slow down. This is the longest part of the journey,” he told Shorn, sparing him a grin. “Just pray we’re not holed. You’ll be dead within a minute if you fall in there.”

“You’re full of comfort,” grumbled Shorn. Then he noticed the sleet had changed to snow, and cursed. He was not looking forward to Teryithyr at all.

Wen kept his iron grip on the rail, but Drun seemed not bothered in the slightest by the shifting deck underneath his feet. His feet were still bare.

“Not had time to get boots? You’ll freeze.”

“I’ll pick some up when we get there. I’m sure we’ll meet someone with a pair of boots that will fit.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“It stands to reason. The Protectorate have been seeking to obstruct us, searching for us. They know of the wizard, I am sure of it, and they hunt him, too. I think it obvious that they will find us at some point. There are too few places to make landfall in Teryithyr — the coast is mainly cliffs of ice. They may not be able to see us with their magics, but commonsense tells them we must make landfall somewhere, and all they have to do is wait for us. I fear our passage will not be as easy as it has been to date.”

“Then we will be ready when we land.”