“It may not be enough. I doubt it will be a few warriors. I think they will have mages with them. I am able to do a little magic myself, but I rely on the sun to give me my power — it is sorely muted in a storm, or at night. I will be little use.”

“No different to fighting mages anywhere. Kill them first.”

“You’ve fought spellcasters before? Protocrat wizards?”

“No, wizards in my land. If you can get to them, they die by the blade same as anyone else.”

“Getting to them is the trick.”

“Sure it is. Easier with the bow than the sword, but a bow’s useless in a close fight. What we need is an army.”

“I fear we will have to make do with what we have. We have little to work with, but we have no army. This journey is not about power, but about stealth. If we can make landfall, we can follow their hunters into the wild. An army could not sneak up on them, even if we had one.”

“I wasn’t serious. I’m not expecting that we have an army.”

“Perhaps one day we will. But not this day. First, we find the wizard.”

“You think we can find him? In the wastes?”

“My brothers will worry about that end of it. They will tell us where he lies. All we have to do is find the Protocrats and follow them. There will be a way. It has been prophesied since before the dawn of time, since the rending and remaking of this world. You can’t argue with that,” said Drun with a wry grin.

“Don’t place too much import on prophesy, priest. There’s plenty of ways for fate to turn us wrong. Nothing in this world is guaranteed.”

“Perhaps not, but what can we do but try?”

Shorn shouted at them over the howling wind.

Wen nodded to Drun, and they both made their way to the prow.

“We’re nearing land!” he shouted.

“How do you know?”

“I can feel the approaching land,” said Orosh. “I feel the shallows of the sea, like a constriction in my chest. It is the curse.”

“How long?” asked Drun.

“Hard to tell. An hour, maybe less. We have to slow, or the waves will break us against the cliffs. We head for Jagged Cove. If the storm permits…”

“Let’s hope it does,” said Drun. “I think we need to be ready when we land, and warm. Wake the others, and suit up. It’s dangerous at sea, but don what armour you have and make your weapons ready. I trust the seafarers to land us safely — I do not trust the Protectorate to allow us safely to shore.”

Wen grunted and walked to Renir and Bourninund, whom he nudged, not unkindly, in turn.

Both men came to with a start.

“It’s nearly time. Get your armour on, Renir. Bourninund, be ready. We’re expecting a warm welcome when we land.”

Renir roused himself and pulled the sheet from their packs. They would have to fight with their packs on. He slowly pulled on his breastplate with his numb hands, buckled it with some effort. Then he slid on his greaves, only buckling his bracers at the last minute. He found he could not fit his gloves on anymore, so stuffed them in his pack and settled for rubbing his frozen appendages robustly, trying to get some circulation to return. They were as stubborn as the snow. Eventually, he could feel well enough to grasp his axe. He found some room and went through his warming exercises. He felt a fool — none of the other warriors were bothering, but he did not want a cramp at the wrong time. Not when it was so bitterly cold. A sudden seizure brought on by the freezing temperatures and exertion could put him in the grave. He didn’t think his witch-given ability to regenerate even serious wounds would save him from death. After all, it was doing nothing about the cold.

A sudden gust forced itself under his cloak and he shuddered. As he grimaced, he felt his beard crack. Ice was crusted there. He laughed then.

“Land!” cried the seafarer at the prow, and the ship slowed to a crawl. Renir squinted into the gloom, looking for the tell tale darkness of a landmass in a storm. His hair no longer whipped around his head in the snow and wind — it merely hung in limp frozen clumps around his face. He pushed an errant icicle aside and shielded his eyes.“I can see nothing, either,” said Shorn, beside him. “The seafarers can feel it though. I think we’ll find out soon just how warm it can get out here. If you’re cold now, it won’t last long.”

“I could do with a bit of a warm up,” Renir grinned, although he felt the familiar lurching of his belly, as he always did when violence was imminent. He would not admit to fear though, even if only to himself. His friends were on the line, and on some deep level of his mind Renir knew they were all he had in life. They were worth fighting for. It was a friendship born of battle, and it was as strong as the steel he wielded with growing expertise.

“Are you ready?” Shorn asked him, concern evident in his face.

“As I’ll ever be. If we make it through this — and I’m truly hoping there’s no one there to greet us — ask me again. With any luck there will just be a scout.”

“I wouldn’t wager so,” said Wen in his gruff manner that Renir was slowly coming to realise was his way of showing kindness. “I can feel it. So can Faerblane.”

Renir strained his ears, but he could not hear the telltale hum of Shorn’s sword above the howling wind. He could make out the groaning of the ship under pressures at which most boats would crumble. He could hear the roaring of the seas, and the crash of waves against the hull that even seafarer magic could not hold back. But no magic. No song.

“It’s there,” said Shorn, as if he could read Renir’s thoughts (and hope, too) in his friend’s face. “It’s been there since Orosh began shaping the seas. But then, it was a pleasant hum. Now, it is a tortured vibration, a cacophony…it hates Protectorate magic. I think it was made to kill them, but perhaps that is just my wish, my imagination…”

“I hate them, too. Haertjuge will stand beside you. Together, we will make a dent in their pride.”

“Watch your own pride, boy. The Protectorate are not to be taken lightly.”

Renir rubbed his knuckles…and the sky brightened to a malevolent scarlet. A ball of fire crashed into the waves to their side.

“Get down and be ready!” shouted the seafarer at them, not breaking his concentration.

Drun pulled himself to full height and added his power — diminished in the storm but still great — to the seafarer’s pulsing light. The yellow joined the blue, and for an instant many other colours swam at the edge of the bolt of coloured light. Then a green light hit the seas, as though Drun had anticipated what the seafarer intended. A great wave grew in an instant, greater than any that surrounded them, fed and pushed on, channelled, into a towering monster, a leviathan made of foam and weighted with water.

Renir did not know how much water weighed, but he imagined the bull-necked summoning was as heavy as a house…it grew…a hill, perhaps, or a village. Then it was all he could see.

Yet another ball of fire flew from the cove, headed straight toward them, but the leviathan merely swatted it with one gigantic fist. Renir heard the hiss as flame met water, but the leviathan was unaffected. He could hear the waves crashing against the shore now, and around the sides of the summoning he could see land begin to take shape. The snows were fierce indeed, and he had to clench his jaw to stop his teeth from nattering.

Then the giant smashed down, a hundred feet of water hitting the shore in a second. In the backwash, with no time for words, the warriors leapt into the shallows and rushed forward, snarls and war-cries on their lips.

Behind them, the seafarer’s boat was already heading out to sea. Drun’s time was over. It was time for the blade, and the fist.

Wen ran straight at a wizard — set apart by his garb — and ran him through.

Some of the Protocrats were insensible, or had been washed out to shore, but many more were rousing themselves. Shorn beheaded one, and then he was in a battle, two Protocrats circling him. Renir watched as he swept the legs from under one and whirled to face the other. I’ll have to remember that…he thought to himself and only just noticed the short sword coming at his head. He fell to one knee and swung his axe with all his might at a knee — the blade slashed through, coming out the other side with a spray of blood, startlingly bright against the snow. The Protocrat fell to the floor, screaming. Renir strode past him, crashing a blow into a helmed warrior’s skull, crushing the helm and skull alike. A sword glanced off his back and he spun on his heel. The red-robed warrior fell to the ground without a sound, a gaping wound where his face had once been.