Chapter One: The White Breath of Everfrost
The wind howled across the ice plains like a living thing. To the south, beyond the frozen valleys and snow-choked ridges, softer men spoke of winter as a season. In Halas they knew better. Winter was the world itself. The city crouched against the mountains like an old bear weathering a storm, its timber halls dark with smoke and seal-oil flame. Great hides hung from beams blackened by generations of fire. Mead flowed thick as blood. Warriors bellowed songs into the rafters while hunters dragged in the carcasses of wolves and tundra kodiaks from the wastes beyond. It was there, in the hall of the Shamans of Justice, that Caradawc first stood before the old spirits. He owned little. A rough blue shirt. A battered cudgel. A pair of cracked boots. A few copper pieces. The guild elders had given him blessings, stern advice, and very little else. "The spirits care nothing for comfort," one of them had growled. At the time, Caradawc suspected that was merely an excuse for sending ...