Dartun, however, was grateful for this isolation.

They had almost begun to lose track of the days when Verain spotted three longships approaching up Tineag’l’s western coast, almost veiled in the spray of the surf as it surged on the rough seas. That morning had brought a stronger wind, and with it the weather had taken a more severe turn.

‘Dartun, they’re here,’ she announced, rousing him as he reclined against a tree trunk, his boots sprawled out in front of him.

‘You sure it’s not the Empire’s forces?’ he demanded, glancing to the tents in which Todi and Tuung were still sleeping, then over to the pack of dogs who were huddled for shelter beside a windbreak.

‘They carry no Imperial banners. And look there.’ She pointed as a bright flash of purple light streaked up into the cloud base, like reverse lightning.

‘It’s them all right,’ Dartun agreed. He paused briefly to embrace her and kiss her on both cheeks. Almost wincing, her reaction indicated she wasn’t that comfortable with his closeness. She was like this from time to time – why then did she stick with him? Could she not leave him because of fear?

Dartun proceeded towards the tent, pulling back the flap to kick Todi and Tuung awake. ‘They’re here. Get ready.’

The two men groaned. ‘Not another freezing bloody day,’ Tuung complained.

‘Indeed.’ Dartun reached into one of his bags, drew out a brass tube, stepped outside, and set it in the snow for stability. He took off his gloves and made some subtle adjustments to the dials, then lunged for safety towards Verain as a thick bolt of purple light burst upwards with an explosive roar.

Dartun turned his attention to the ships once again. The vessels lurched lackadaisically, like old marine beasts, and were steered shoreward to the source of the signal.

The four cultists and their equipment were pulled down by the sled to the shore with the sleet now driving straight into their faces. They arrived at a rock-littered beach. Dartun dismounted, and stepped over to inspect the boats towering above him in the shallows. Originally hijacked by political dissidents, these three imposing boats had once been based in a military port further south. Military runework was carved into the hulls. On board, several members of the Order of the Equinox were standing ready, looking down at their leader.

‘Sele of Jamur!’ Dartun shouted above the smash of the waves. ‘You couldn’t have arrived a moment too soon. Where are the rest?’

The answer to that question came soon enough. Within the bell, five more vessels of equal dimensions had arrived, lining up alongside each other in a haphazard fashion. They had voyaged in small groups, not wanting to draw attention, and had gathered further down the coast to make the last lap to this neglected corner of a fading world. Gangplanks were thrown down, and soon around fifty Equinox cultists began disembarking.

And the undead were unloaded.

Two hundred, male and female, and human and rumel, in varying states of decay came shambling through the water to reach the rock-shore. Their arms swinging by their sides, they seemed unaffected by the harshness of the weather, the grey tint of exposed flesh showing through what little clothing they possessed.

They marched in neat rows, this militia, to stand in several lines against the upper shore, their rags fluttering like crippled banners in the breeze. Unprepossessing as they looked, Dartun knew he needed this protection. Papus might come after him even here, and he did not know what lay waiting for him the other side of the gates.

Packs of dogs were fetched from the ships, ripping at the cold air in excitement. Following them came yet more of the undead, this time carrying equipment, parts of sleds to be assembled, weaponry and relics and minor armour. Dartun was pleased at such efficiency. This counted for nearly all of the Order of the Equinox, leaving only a handful of cultists back in Villjamur. He felt much safer now, the mere presence of his kin lifting his morale.

Throughout the morning he briefed every cultist in turn on what had been discovered on the island.

Brutal killings.

Alien species.

The grotesque filleting of the victims.

Theories were discussed, methods and solutions bandied about, but one thing was certain: they had to move quickly so as to be prepared for any attack. Dartun stressed the importance of marching across the ice sheets to find their new enemy’s location. He was convinced it would be at the Realm Gates, which represented a new level of knowledge entirely.

Later, dog teams began dragging the cultists – a bizarre train of magicians – along the coastline, the army of the undead jogging along to the rear, all heading now for the northern shores. There they would venture out across the ice.

To the possibility of new worlds.

THIRTY-TWO

The garuda flight lieutenant collapsed on the tiled floor of one of the highest-level rooms in Balmacara, a misshapen heap of ruffled feathers and shattered armour. Blood speckled his white facial plumage, and his arms quivered as he tried to regain an upright position. Today, Chancellor Urtica couldn’t be bothered with such drama.

‘What’s your news, flight lieutenant?’ Urtica resumed his meal of oysters and mussels as he regarded the sprawling form of the bird-soldier dispassionately.

The garuda crawled a little nearer to the fire, leaned up against the wall of the hearth so that the flame cast quick-moving shadows across his sharp features. Urtica looked up again.

Forgive me, chancellor, the soldier began in hand-talk. It has been a long flight from the war zone.

‘Get on with it.’ Urtica motioned with his fork for the soldier to continue.

Chancellor, I fear I bring bad news. The garuda’s gaze darted about with fear.

‘Well, I assume our occupation of Varltung has not been easy then?’

The garuda made a strange sound. Our forces never found the opportunity to advance by longship as planned. It appears that our invasion force was defeated by the ice. The army therefore had to progress by foot, but the ice was too weak to support them, sir, it collapsed under their weight. Many of them died during the night in the freezing waters. After that, local tribesmen came light-footed from across the island of Varltung, but our commanders would not accept their aid.

Although inwardly fuming at this devastating news, Chancellor Urtica managed to maintain an air of calm. ‘Tell me of these losses.’

We have only a few hundred men left from an initial force of four thousand.

‘Only a few hundred,’ Urtica mumbled, finally rising from his chair. This was an embarrassment beyond belief. He approached the hearth and reached for a metal poker, began to slash at the fire, sending sparks showering upwards. As the overseer of military assignments, this was an extreme and personal humiliation. Men could easily be replaced, couldn’t they, but such a failure would haunt his reputation eternally.

‘Well, we must take that island no matter what,’ the chancellor said. ‘I will not have the Jamur Empire suffer defeat. I will not allow it. Whatever it takes, it must be ours, d’you hear?’

He wafted the poker around the garuda’s head as he spoke, but he wondered why he bothered to lecture a dumb, valueless soldier. He wondered then of what message the Council would have to issue to the people. He could see what to put on the news pamphlets: a Varltung massacre of our brave fighters in the ice, a vicious terrorist atrocity, savage barbarism on our democratic collection of nations… Such sentiments, he realized, would even provide an excuse for an all-out campaign to control more resources during the Freeze.