A note from the author:

    I would have normally selected an earlier chapter or two to submit to you for your previewing enjoyment, but this book grows along with the characters, and I feel that this section is actually more exemplary of how the novel reads as a whole. Well, that's the "me-sounding-intellectual" reason. The real reason is because I just had a lot of fun writing these two chapters and thought I should present them here.

    A little background you might want to know is that Naorun is a tiny, run-down outpost at the bottom of Harrow Ravine, a narrow and (in winter) treacherous passage to the rebel town of Harrowvale. Zane, Tarel, and Katalina (who is not present) are all half-siblings fathered by their enemy, the warlord Dorian De'vrite. "Zane" and "Tarel" are nicknames for "Xanadi" and "Vadri'tarel," and "Xanadi" is a nickname for a frighteningly long name.

    Enough of my blabbering. Sit back, relax, and have a good read!

     Zane rubbed a hand across his face, shivering at the coldness trapped in his fingers; no matter how hard he rubbed them or how long he held them before a fire, there seemed to be no way to scare the chill from his bones. What concerned him more, however, was the empty room before him.

     The new year had rolled over in its grave. For a month now, the skies had been sprinkling their beautiful and deadly confetti over the mountains. The gods saw fit to add to that a terrible wind that howled and howled and never stopped; it infiltrated into the shabbily-renovated outpost at Naorun and skipped through the halls, stealing all the warmth from ever the great fire always burning in the main hearth.

     By itself, winter’s ignorant rage was enough to dishearten the soldiers at Naorun. But a new enemy, this one more terrible, had joined the battle, rearing its ugly head: despair.

     Of the original threescore warriors and others sent to Naorun, only two and one score remained; they had been sent here as an early warning brigade, able to defend themselves for a short while in order to send word to Fort Haroneth before retreating. But the blizzard saw to it that movement up the ravine was impossible, suicidal. Lieutenant Hapford had taken an arrow to the heart two weeks past, leaving the soldiers, all of equal rank, leaderless until they had elected a new one: Zane.

     As if that weren’t enough, they had been rationing food for two weeks. Zane and a very few others skilled in stealth had foraged into the enemy encampment on multiple occasions and brought back fresh supplies; with so few forces remaining in the outpost, even a little food went a long way. That had come to an end a week ago, when two of the team had been killed in action, leaving Zane and one other and a whole host of even more vigilant Elgardian soldiers waiting for them, weapons bared. They made do with what was still available, but eventually even that ran dry.

     It was all a heavy weight on Zane’s shoulders, realizing that here he was, commanding the rebel forces, albeit gently, but he had no real power to aid them. He had to watch, to be witness, to each and every death; it would be his duty as the commander to report to Katalina and possibly the soldiers’ next-of-kin.

     He tugged his cloak as though its own heft were the cause of his gloom, as though the pressure riding on him were attached to its medium blue hem.

     “Gone,” he said, turning around to Tanonil, who stood solemnly in the doorway. In Zane’s hand was the quartermaster’s list, who had also been killed recently. Every item on the scroll had been crossed out, checked off, or marked with a big “0.”

     Tanonil sighed and hunched his shoulders, his hands buried deep within his sleeves for warmth. “Well… what do we want to do about it?”

     Zane frowned and tossed the useless records aside, where they curled up as they fell, rolling to a stop in the dust-strewn storehouse. “I don’t know; ye tell me. What can we do?” He joined Tanonil at the door, but they didn’t leave just yet. “Katalina already knoweth of our situation—at least she did up until two weeks past, when this gods-blasted storm drove through. We can’t even get word to her anymore. The birds all get lost or die, probably before losing sight of Naorun.”

     “I know,” Tanonil said, pushing off from against the doorframe. The two of them headed down the hall; Zane didn’t even bother to shut and lock the storeroom door; there wasn’t anything to steal anymore, anyway. “If we had a break from this storm,” the wizard went on, “we might be able to make it back to Harrowvale.”

     “Aye, those who survived the avalanches,” Zane answered sarcastically. Then he sighed. “Apologies, friend, but our predicament hath worn my nerves nigh through.”

     “I don’t think any of us has much patience left, Zane,” Tanonil agreed, accepting the apology. “But we need to find something to do, even if it is futile. We need to keep our minds away from our troubles and set them on a goal. Like not dying.”

     Zane paused by the door leading outside. Something was different. “The wind is gone,” he whispered, drawing a questioning look from the wizard. Pulling aside the door, he looked outside and saw that he was right. The main building of the outpost stood like a dour sentinel in rusty armor, in the drifting sands of an icy desert. The screeching and clawing wind had stopped; only a light dusting of snow fell now, as though whoever was cleaning off the gods’ shelves was using a light feather duster now instead of a broom and dustpan.

     Zane felt a wry smile edging its way onto his face. Turning to Tanonil, who also stood looking rather dumbstruck, he said, “What was that ye said about the storm petering out?”

     Tanonil returned a helpless look. “I just said, ‘if the storm dies out,’ or something to that effect.”

     “Just keep chanting it, Master Wizard,” the commander told him with a clap on the back. “Ye go find Theynon and Varesson. Tell them to meet in the rear gatehouse in ten minutes. We’ve got to work quickly.”

     “The only problem that lingers now is the fact that since we need to demolish part of the snow dune, the enemy will also have a route to us,” Theynon said, “and might I remind you all that they have horses, all perfectly capable of running through the snow faster than we can on foot.”

     “Even if we stole horses,” Varesson, another human soldier, pointed out, “they have more and could easily come after us. We’ve no way to secure our backs against pursuit.”

     The five of them—Zane, Tanonil, Varesson, Theynon, and Tarel—stood around a square table, a yellowed map of the area illuminated by an overhead lamp. Zane leaned on the table, his hands holding down one edge of the map, his courtblade pinning down the other side to keep it from rolling up.

     “I still like my idea,” Tarel huffed, his arms crossed. He blew a petulant burst of steam with his words.

     Zane gave him a level look. “Vadri’tarel, we don’t have time to take all of their steeds, nor poison them—I wouldn’t do that regardless—nor chop all their legs off. Now, be silent lest thou hast an idea we can work with.” Running a hand through his hair, he then caught the corner of the map that lifted up and held it down again. “I still think we’ve a better chance if we can get away on horseback. We may have to leave our lives to fate and chance. Tanonil, ye’ve a number of spells that might screen us from their attacks, aye?”

     Tanonil pursed his lips. “I have a few, yes, but I am no spell-machine. I can’t spit out magic all day. I can’t even do it for more than a few minutes before I’ve exhausted my magic, friend and commander.”

     “We can’t just leave through the back on foot, either,” Zane muttered, “We’ve not enough food, nor even blankets to keep out the cold. The winter’s been worse than we could have imagined.”

     “Ooh!” came a voice that could only have been Tarel’s. The other four shot him vitriolic glances. “What? I have a better idea.”

     “Doth it involve poison, or amputating our enemies in their sleep?” Zane inquired.

     “Nope,” his half-brother responded happily, “We turn the winter on them.”

     When he didn’t explain, Zane prompted him. “How?”

     “Well, it’s going to require lots of magic, but if we make enough snowmen and enchant them, and give them bows, and tell them to shoot at the enemies while we get out, then we might…” His voice trailed off when he realized he was getting four stony glares. He shrank back into the corner. “Well, I thought it was a novel idea,” he grumbled.

     “What did I tell thee about inane ideas?” Zane demanded, closing his eyes and trying not to burst out yelling.

     “Well, at the start, you said you wanted to brainstorm ideas. So I’m storming,” Tarel shot back, sticking out his tongue. Zane briefly wondered just how far he could pull on the pink thing in Tarel’s mouth before it snapped or stretched permanently.

     “Talking about snowmen is not an idea. Snowmen can’t fight by themselves, and unless I am mistaken, Tanonil here could animate one, perhaps two, to cover us.” Tanonil nodded when Zane gave him an inquiring look.

     “But it was an idea.”

     “Tarel—” Zane stopped himself, hearing the hard edge in his own voice.

     Suddenly wanting a breath of fresh air, he straightened. The map snapped into a coil against his courtblade as Zane stalked to the door and yanked it open. They had been here barely a half hour, and already it had nearly frozen shut, despite the blizzard’s reprieve.

     Stepping outside, he slammed the door behind him, his eyebrows drawn together in a V. He heard the groan of snow from above, but didn’t think enough to react before a heavy clump of snow broke loose from the roof and landed on his head, covering him in white clumps.

     Zane was about to swear when something else landed on his head, but this one held not the weight of snow, rather the weight of an idea. His eyes, now wide, rose to look in the direction of Harrowvale, then at the ravine in general. The glow of inspiration and hope lit in his mismatched orbs, and he spun around, whipping open the door and surprising everyone inside with his suddenly optimistic look.

     “Vadri’tarel,” he said, clipped. He cocked his head, indicating his half-brother should join him.

     Tarel pointed at himself, questioning. Zane just nodded.

     “What happened to you?” the younger elf asked Zane after he had closed the door behind them.

     Zane shook his head. “Come.”

     Tarel obediently followed, not certain what Zane was up to. The elder of the two half-brothers glanced up at the roofs of Naorun Outpost, nodded, and led Tarel to a door. “Stand here.” He indicated the ground under the door.

     A confused Tarel stepped to where Zane pointed. Zane hemmed and hawed, steering Tarel about by the shoulders until he was satisfied. “Art thou ready?”

     “Uh, for what?”

     Zane’s answer came in the form of him opening and then slamming shut the door by which they stood. Zane jumped aside as a curtain of snow fell down from the eaves above, landing on Tarel, who protested in shock. He gave Zane a harsh glare, but the conspiratorial smile that Zane wore was not one of victory.

     As the elder sibling turned to the north and where Harrowvale lay, Tarel’s features softened, and he followed Zane’s gaze. Two pairs of heterochromatic eyes swept up the ravine, then to the snow-covered walls occasionally crackling with the complaint of compressed ice.

     Zane looked back at Tarel, who returned the stare. Neither of them was certain who started laughing first, but the first relieved chuckles erupted into laughs from the belly. Extending his hand, Zane offered a shake of truce.

     With a gleeful gleam in his eye, Tarel clasped his half-brother’s wrist, and they shook. Then, with Zane leaning an elbow companionably on Tarel’s shoulder, the two of them strode purposefully back to the gatehouse, ready to surprise their comrades with the most outrageous plan yet.

     “Don’t worry about it too much,” Zane said to Chaset, who was fretting about the replacement arm of the catapult. “We’ll be getting but one shot with it, so it shan’t matter too much.”

     “But we want to give them all we’ve got,” Chaset pointed out.

     “Don’t ye worry too much about ‘all we’ve got’,” Zane reassured him, “We’ve ‘got’ more than ye might think. Is there aught else ye need? I must meet with Tanonil.”

     “No, I’m all right.”

     Zane nodded and headed back inside and downstairs. The spring in his step was starkly at odds with the situation and the dismal winter. In fact, all twenty-two elves and humans stationed in the outpost had regained their energy, either tapping into a reserve they hadn’t previously realized, or rejuvenated by the sudden spark of hope.

     Zane had ordered the other four in the gatehouse not to tell anyone of the main theme of the plan, but to commence preparations for a night raid on the Elgardians that would lead to their escape. The others had obeyed and put into motion components of several other plans; they would be raiding the Elgardians and stealing horses, as well as some other supplies for the road. The trick, though, was to do both at once.

     Having been one of the elves volunteering for thieving missions into the encampment, Zane had spied a number of sleds, all piled high and hitched to sturdy mounts, ready to move at a moment’s notice. That would be his target. But successfully infiltrating and getting out of the enemy’s territory would require everyone’s cooperation.

     Tanonil had been the first person Zane had spoken to, telling the wizard to gather spells that created gusts of wind, and others that created either concussive waves or blasts, and a few to call up fire. The wizard had raised an eyebrow at the amount of magic he was going to have to unleash but told Zane that he might be able to come up with something.

     Zane passed the door that led to where Tarel was at work, and he paused to poke a head out onto the battlements. Tarel had been tasked with creating some decoys, specifically, stationary “guards” that would cast shadows from torches on the battlements to give the illusion of normalcy.

     “How go things?” Zane asked.

     Tarel, busy rolling up a ball of snow and keeping his head down, looked up and wiped his forehead. “Not bad. I’d ask the skies for more snow, but I don’t think that’s what we really need right now. It’ll do, though.” Hefting the torso-sized ball, he staggered over to another sphere and placed it on top, patting it down. “A shame we have no carrots for a nose, nor coal for eyes and a mouth,” he lamented.

     Zane flashed his half-brother a brief smile before heading downstairs.

     Tanonil was poring over his spellbooks; scrolls and magical paraphernalia littered his desk and immediate floor space. “So, can ye shoot fireballs for us?” Zane asked.

     Tanonil spun around on his stool and fixed his commander with a sardonic stare. “Zane, no wizard in Harrowvale has the ability to throw such powerful and destructive magic about. Fireballs and lightning bolts are legends and little else. However,” he continued, rotating back to his books, “I do have what you need. I have a few spells that can recreate the clap of thunder. I imagine our little trap will spring easily enough if a burst of thunder were to erupt at a distance of, say, ten feet.” He gave a little chuckle, edged with a slight darkness. “And gusts of wind I have in plenty; I just wish I could harness all the hot air Tarel has.” That drew a bark of laughter from Zane. “Fire might be a bit sparse, but I can send a few jets of flame out to meet the enemy. It might take out one or two per spell, but I don’t think it will have much of an impact.”

     Zane shook his head. “It’ll be perfect for the job. I don’t want ye aiming for their heads or hearts, but their feet. I’ve an image of them slipping over quickly freezing water in my mind.”

     “Ah, clever,” Tanonil conceded, “I’ll prepare some of those, too, then. Will that be all?”

     “Have ye any spells that might keep people from unintentionally fouling up our plans?”

     Tanonil chewed on a lip. “No, but there’s some rope in one of the sheds.” The two of them shared a short chuckle before Zane shook his head.

     “Then I must away to make the rounds again. Everything seemeth to progress at a perfect pace. We’ll be ready after midnight; it’s looking to be a clear night, and the moon will be out, almost full.”

     Tanonil waved as Zane left, then turned back to his books. The two opposing half-brothers had cooked up quite a plot, one that could very well get them all killed. But since the alternative was certain death, almost-certain death didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

     The snow-covered landscape flashed bright blue, twinkling knowingly in the moonlight that streamed down from two of Iterra’s three moons. A gentle breeze carrying a frosty knife whistled menacingly in the air, but tonight it blew in favor of the soldiers at Naorun. Snow filtered down from the sky in a gentle curtain that only hampered visibility after a few hundred feet, but occasional gusts of stronger wind picked up the powder already on the ground and tossed it up into the air again.

     Tanonil, Tarel, and Zane stood apart with seven others, elves all. The others already had their orders. Chaset stood by the catapult, an icy projectile held ready in its lever arm. The human flashed Zane a grin and waved when the elected commander glanced his way. A number of others were putting away shovels they had used to clear a path through the snow-dunes before assembling with the others.

     “I’ll only be able to turn the ten of us invisible,” Tanonil explained. “But since we’ll be taking their sleds, we can pass through here and pick up the others before heading up the ravine.”

     “That is the plan,” Zane agreed. “We must move now, while the conditions are good. Tanonil, ye do your trade now.”

     Tanonil nodded and pulled out a few powders from a pouch he wore at his waist. Sprinkling a little of the stuff on the heads of the other nine plus himself, he then began to mutter a short incantation. Zane felt as though something had grabbed him from the inside and were drawing it into the wizard’s gesturing hands. Even the light of the moons seemed to dim as the chant reached its climax. Then, a wave of released energy washed over him, and he knew it was done; the others faded from sight, and even his own hands were invisible to him. Briefly he wondered why closing his eyes still obscured his vision, but he didn’t let himself dwell on that.

     “Let us be off, then,” he said, hopping atop the thin layer of ice and balanced his weight so as not to break through. Hearing the crackle of ice but no loud crunches, he could only assume that the others had followed suit, and he led the way, paving a path of footprints so light that they would have been overlooked by anyone not seeking them.

     Infiltrating the enemy entrenchment was frighteningly simple; Zane was grateful that Dorian, fearing any power greater than either his sword or an unskilled seer, never employed magic-users in his army.

     To cover the sounds their footsteps made, Tanonil cast a spell that created a lengthy gust of wind, one long enough for the ten of them to pass by the first line of enemies and penetrate into the outer perimeter of the encampment.

     These elves were little better off than the rebels at Naorun, Zane noted. The only difference between the two factions was that these warriors had enough food to keep them going, as well as a clear route back home. Other than that, conditions were just as miserable as in the outpost. The group of rebels passed by numerous tents with canvas so thin even the lightest breezes would pass right through them. Numerous campfires dotted the scene, each one entertaining an elven warriors hands or rear end.

     Zane led the others behind a group of tents, where each of them confirmed their presence with a small mark in the snow. Without a sound, the leader sketched a quick diagram with his transparent finger, then drew lines from each of the others’ symbols to one of the squares indicating sleds. As each of the symbols seemed to erase itself, Zane nodded, drew a line in the snow, and rose.

     Like ghosts, the ten elves of Naorun drifted through the camp, past Elgardians complaining and stomping their feet or trying to reach that spot in their armor that itched but that could never be reached. Zane cursed silently when one of his comrades broke through the snow’s crust; a few Elgardians looked in their direction, but none took any further action.

     Sneaking past a last couple enemy soldiers, Zane skulked his way to a sled at the back of the camp, the deck loaded with a good number of supplies ranging from blankets to food. A pair of stout mountain horses stood hitched to the sleigh; three other sleds were hitched and ready to go, but devoid of supplies, instead headed back to Dareive to resupply.

     The animals, picking up on the rebels’ scent, snorted and nickered softly but didn’t bolt, and once Zane had confirmed the presence of Tanonil and Tarel by touch, they wasted no time in hopping up on the sleigh.

     “Careful,” Zane whispered, bumping into one of the other two and nearly falling off. “ ‘Twill be two minutes yet.”

     Zane took up a position at the back of the sled, where he had enough room to stand next to Tanonil; the only reason he knew the invisible mass to be the wizard was because of the orders he had given. Glancing back, he witnessed the reins dance lightly about of their own accord as Tarel touched them, ready to go at a moment’s notice.

     A half-minute later, the hoot of a snow owl reached his ears, followed by another a short moment later. The horses stomped their hooves as Zane waited for the third one; the beasts must have sensed the impending action and seemed to be getting edgy as they waited, snorting frosty clouds.

     Finally, the third hoot came, sounding a bit meek, as though one of the rebels had encountered a minor difficulty. Zane reached back and tapped his half-brother’s shoulder, counted to ten, and let out the screech of a hunting snow owl.

     The two elves in the back of the sleigh stumbled and nearly fell out of the sleigh when Tarel snapped the reins and the vehicle lurched forward. “Steady,” Zane said to Tanonil, unsheathing his courtblade as several surprised cries erupted from the Elgardians around them.

     A trio of soldiers scrambled out of the way as the first seemingly riderless sled barreled through; they fumbled for their weapons and moved to pursue, only to dive for cover as three more sleds charged by, nearly pulverizing the hapless Elgardian elves.

     Tarel’s exuberant laughter reached Zane’s ears. “Make way, me hearties!” he shouted, snapping the reins again and steering the horses between the trees, heading for Naorun.

     “Vadri’tarel,” Zane grumbled loudly amid the hubbub of confused enemies, “We’re not pirates. Can’t ye take this seriously?”

     “I be taking this seriously, cap’n!” his invisible half-brother shouted back, “We be stealing sleds and horses, and plunder, too!” Tanonil’s invisibility spell wore off just before a loud crunching sound emitted from before the horses, and the two elves in the back nearly bounced off when the sled ran over something. Tarel’s made a surprised face at the gory roadkill left in their wake. Shrugging, he turned back. “He didn’t make way.”

     With Tanonil’s spell gone, all the rebels were visible, and the enemy, now beginning to realize what was going on, now stated organizing themselves. Cries of, “Stop them! It’s the enemy!” reached their ears, and a few arrows whistled by, none finding their marks.

     Behind them, the other three sleds caught up with their leader, and together they plowed through the snow, scattering their enemies. But farther back, Zane could hear shouted orders of someone trying to regroup his forces even as more soldiers dodged the four speeding sleds.

     “Take us to Naorun quickly, dear brother,” he said to Tarel as they tore through the camp. “We mayn’t have much time to gather our friends.”

     “Aye, aye, Cap’n!” the other platinum-haired elf laughed, spurring the horses onward with another snap of the reins as they passed through the enemy lines.

     A sharp wind began to blow down from the ravine as the four stolen sleds wove their way through the trees to the muffled, syncopated beats of the stout mountain horses’ hooves over the snow. Zane, bringing up the rear of the company, kept his eyes peeled for pursuers. None became immediately apparent. But he didn’t relax his guard even hen the De’vrite elves’ shouts faded into the distance, along with their arrows.

     As the group pulled up beside Naorun’s crumbling wall glittering with moonlit ice, Zane hopped off and began gesturing with his courtblade. “Everyone pick a sled and get on,” he ordered. “There’ll be six on two sleds, five on one other and mine. I want two men with me, and bring your bows and arrows. We’ll be taking up rearguard. Now, let’s get going!”

     The twelve rebels who had stayed behind divided themselves among the sleds. Two humans, whom Zane knew to be excellent archers, joined his sled, taking up positions behind him. Tanonil moved up net to Tarel, sorting through a few substances used in spellcasting.

     “Ye two are brave,” Zane said gravely to the archers. “We’ll be taking up the rear. ‘Twill be dangerous. Thanks.” The men saluted and nocked arrows to their bowstrings.

     The thundering beats of many hooves reached their ears, and Zane snapped around to nod at Tarel. “Go! Make haste to Harrowvale. Do not fall behind!”

     Four sets of reins cracked, and the sleds all slid forward, the horses accelerating into a gallop at the stern encouragement of their drivers.

     “Har, har, mateys! We’ve landlubbers a-sail off the stern!” Tarel shouted in his pirate voice. “Let’s show ‘em who’re the real kings o’ these waves, har, har!” Whooping with excitement, he spurred the horses on. Even Zane caught a case of the energy in the air, his heart beating faster and his senses sharpening when he spotted the moon-cast shadows of mounted soldiers charging fro the tree line.

     “Can ye two hit the rope of the catapult with these?” Zane asked, handing each of the two archers forked arrows.

     “We can try,” answered one. They both took up the projectiles and strung them, aiming for the purposely well-illuminated catapult. At four hundred feet, it wasn’t a simple shot to make from the deck of a jostling sleigh, but they arced their shots and fired. Two streaks of silver flashed through the air. One stuck in the ball of ice loaded in the catapult’s firing arm, but the other hit its mark.

     “Damnation,” Zane muttered, seeing that the arrow had been slightly off-mark, severing only half the rope. “Ye two focus on keeping them back now—” He stopped when the sound of a whip crack sounded from the direction of the catapult; the rope, weakened, had snapped. The three warriors in the back of the rearguard sled watched as the glittering sphere arced over the low wall and disappeared. Although they couldn’t see the spectacle, cries of surprised and wounded soldiers and horses drifted around the corner of the outpost and past the lead De’vrite pursuers, to the rebels’ ears. Zane shrugged. It had fired late, but it was better than nothing.

     Then Zane didn’t have any more time to think about the catapult; as Tarel took their sleigh up the ravine’s gently increasing slope, he ducked low so the archers could get clear shots. The twanging of their bows filled his ears, and peering out over a box loaded in the back, the elf watched as their missiles found marks in the cavalry ranks.

     Several mounted Elgardians fell as the archers fired from the back of their jittering snow-chariot. The wind that had been stinging earlier whipped up into biting gusts that spayed frozen diamond shards into the faces of the drivers. Even Zane could feel their sharpness slapping into the back of his head and clinging to his silvery hair.

     A flash of moonlight was the only warning they had of a retaliatory arrow fired from horseback. One of the archers stiffened, clutching at the arrow protruding from his throat.

     Unable to do much else, Zane snatched the dying man’s bow and a handful of arrows as his body toppled from the sled. “Keep your head down,” he told the other man, switching positions and giving the tumbling body a wistful glance. “I’ll protect the wizard.” Kicking the lid off the box, he hefted it and held it before him like a shield, his back to Tanonil and Tarel.

     “Is it time yet?” he called over his shoulder, spitting out the ice-laced hair that found its way into his mouth. Their archer’s bow thrummed again and again as enemy arrows peppered the snow around them.

     Tanonil shook his head. “Not yet. If I start it too early, we’ll only bury ourselves along with them.”

     “I can’t turn around, wizard,” the commander replied, “so tell me how far ahead the others are.”

     “They’ve about two hundred feet on us.”

     The human ducked just before an arrow streaked in and embedded itself in the elf’s improvised shield. Staring for a long moment at the arrowhead partially protruding from the wood, Zane added, “Don’t ye take too long to decide. Please.” Tanonil gave a grim chuckle that barely reached Zane’s ears over the pounding of hooves.

     The four sleds rocketed up the ravine at a breakneck pace, bouncing and creaking as they hit bumps and stones hidden in the snow. In put a few minutes, enough arrows protruded from Zane’s improvised shield to make it look like a porcupine. Tarel’s pirate voice still hollered out orders to swab the poopdeck and hoist the sails, accentuated with the occasional crack of the reins.

     “I’m bringing it down now,” Zane heard Tanonil announce as their archer popped up and fired off a pair of arrows, one of which sank into a horse’s knee, bringing down the mount and its rider, screaming and throwing up a spray of snow. Still the enemy came on, steering around their fallen comrades.

     The leader nodded, though the motion was directed toward the box lid in his hands. “Go ahead.”

     From the corner of his eye, Zane saw Tanonil steady himself on the sled by taking a wide stance and then sinking to his knees, leaving his hands free to work spells. A chant that seemed to temporarily siphon the sound from the air about them streamed from the wizard’s lips. The neighing of horses, shouted orders from enemies and Tarel alike faded from hearing until it was complete. When the wizard finished the chant, one of his outstretched hands began to thrum as though the beat of his blood through his fingers’ veins had been magnified a hundredfold; then, working quickly, Tanonil repeated the incantation, and his other hand pulsed with the same energy.

     Glancing alternately left and right, the wizard grimaced, though it wasn’t from the wind that knifed into them all. He took aim and snapped his fingers on both hands.

     Zane winced, fearing the magnified sound, but it didn’t come from the wizard’s fingers. Instead, high up on Harrow Ravine’s walls, the boom of thunder pealed out and rolled down the snow-covered walls. “Oh, gods,” Zane heard the wizard curse, “here it comes!”

     A longer, more disgruntled grumble reached their ears a moment later. “Watch fer the green water!” Tarel shouted, punctuated by another bout of swashbuckling laughter. The Grumble rose in a crescendo into a roar as the snow and ice precariously holding onto the rock walls broke lose, tumbling down into the ravine. Like a waterfall the frozen water came down, crashing against rocks jutting out from the wall; some of these broke loose, too, and joined the cascade.

     Zane sank to one knee as the sled began to shake and rattle when the very ground beneath the skids started to quake with the fury of the avalanche. “I’m finding myself suddenly questioning the wisdom of this plan,” Zane called over his shoulder as the first chunks of ice and compressed snow rained down on either side of the sleds. “I can’t believe I thought of this myself, nor that I thought it a good idea.”

     “ ‘Tis too late now, me hearties,” Tarel shouted back, reveling in the excitement of danger. Drawing one of the short blades at his side, he added, “It’s into the maelstrom fer us! There be booty an’ plunder ahead, but we’ve to face the kraken first—whoa!” Yanking the reins to the side, he steered around a boulder of ice that rolled into their path. “Almost faced him a little too soon, I think,” he added, giving the thing a surprised look.

     “Zane!” the leader heard from around his shield. “Help!” Their human ally had tumbled from the sleigh but had grabbed the strut between the deck and skid. He bounced along the snow; his bow snapped, and he released it, vainly trying to latch his other hand onto something as the ground viciously tried to drag him from the sled.

     “Andar!” Zane cried, ditching his arrow-studded board to the other side, and he dropped to his stomach, grasping the man’s arm. Andar cried out as the sled bounced again and his leg let out a sickening crunch.

     Muscles straining, Zane heaved Andar onto the deck of the sled. “Lie down,” he instructed. “We’ll get you to Harrowvale.” Patting the man’s shoulder, Zane moved to the back of the sled, where he took up his courtblade again and knelt low behind the box, which contained a number of furs and blankets. Andar nodded around the pain in his leg, which from the knee down stuck out at an unhealthy angle, and he maneuvered himself between the commander and Tanonil.

     The pounding of hooves reminded Zane of the presence of the foe, and suddenly the elves in the sled found their foes upon them.

     Snarling, a mounted fighter swung down at the elf crouching in the back of the rearmost sled. Zane snapped his courtblade into a parrying angle, and the attack glanced off, made inaccurate by the motion of the horse. The two elves exchanged blows, Zane fighting with one foot on the lip of the box as he struggled for leverage over his foe. Their blades flashed white in the moonlight, but finally, Zane’s courtblade, with its reach and curve, snaked in and removed a few of his enemy’s fingers.

     That rider fell back, swearing; then his eyes widened at the threatening snow, and he turned his mount about, dropping his sword and clutching his wounded hand.

     “Tanonil,” Zane called, about to order the wizard to create some cover for them. But when he turned around, all he saw was the massive wall of snow looming over them and rushing down the ravine at their puny sleds.

     Dropping down, Zane hung on as they dove into the cloud of shining, white crystals. Shards of ice scratched lines across his unprotected face, and he couldn’t see anything past Andar’s good foot that lay on the sled nearest him.

     This is it, he thought to himself, it turned out not to be a good idea, after all. But it was our only chance. I do hope Tarel shan’t be cross with me in Eterne. The cloud got thicker, and he heard Tanonil shout something but couldn’t make it out over the rumble of snow spilling over them, crashing like waves in a storm; though he had never even seen the ocean, he envied suddenly, as a last thought before he was to be buried in the snow, Tarel’s uncanny optimism and foresight.

     Just as quickly as it had begun, they were out of the cloud, and Zane tucked away his epitaphic thoughts as they burst from the billowing snow. All around them the deadly whiteness continued to roil and roll, and Zane found himself battered by cannon shot of ice. The twin white walls kept closing on them like a shirt’s collar being pulled closed by its laces.

     A maniacal laugh rang out from ahead, and Zane cleared the layer of ice quickly freezing onto his face to see Tarel riding with the jumps and bumps the sled made, the reins in a stranglehold. The driver’s head was thrown back, and peals of laughter escaped his throat as he spurred the horses ever onward. For lack of anything else he could do, Zane rolled his eyes and spat out more snow.

     Ahead of them, the other three sleds still rode along behind galloping but tiring horses. Froth built up around the beasts’ mouths and froze to their furred cheeks, but with the threat of the avalanche imminent on all sides, the animals dared not slow, and they plowed as fast as their legs could carry them up the mountain.

     The shouts of thrown soldiers and whinnies of fallen horses subsided as they moved farther up the ravine; no pursuit from the Elgardians followed them out of the avalanche, and up ahead, Zane could see that the snow hadn’t been disturbed the whole way back to Harrowvale.

     Out of fear of additional avalanches, the rebels did not stop until they were well away from the fallen snow; far down the mountain, they could see that the white cloud still roiled, probably still devoured those unfortunate to be caught in its path. Even then, they did not stop long; they waited only long enough for their one remaining medic to set poor Andar’s leg and fasten him to another sled. When they did leave, it was at a much more sedate pace, allowing the horses to trot at their leisure.

     Tanonil, sitting cross-legged on the deck of their sled, leaned back on his hands. “Well, you two, we made it. I don’t honestly know how, but we did.”

     Tarel looked back at the wizard and his half-brother, who returned the gaze like a mirror. “That we did, I say,” the smaller elf at the reins replied.

     “Whither is thy accent gone?” Zane asked, chuckling.

     Tarel wrinkled his nose. “Oh, the pirate. He fell off in the snow.”

     “Heh.” Zane flopped back into the now open box, coming to a rest on the pile of blankets; snow had gotten in and now made his rear wet, but he was already soaked in freezing snow, so he couldn’t bring himself to care. “We must be crazy,” he said at length, as the tops of Harrowvale’s gate towers rose into view. Moonlight glinted off what must have been a spear in the hand of a guard.

     Tarel beamed. “That we are! But next time, I think Tanonil should animate the snowmen.”

     Tanonil made a gesture that gave Tarel a reason to giggle.

     Zane leaned back, throwing an arm over the top edge of the box and slouching as he sighed again: “We must really be crazy.”