Though it was long before dawn he knew he’d never get back to sleep, so he swung his feet over to the cold boards of the cabin and dressed. The air was surprisingly chill and he shivered as he pulled on his woollen outer shirt and vest. Last, he drew on his goatskin shoes, slipped the leather thong over its horn toggle, and stood to stamp his feet on the boards to bring warmth to them. Indeed, so cold was the night air that he drew on the extra cloak he’d been given and clasped it at his shoulder with its round bronze brooch.

Ducking his head, he opened the door and stepped out of what was the cabin of the captain and his wife – the only private cabin on board the vessel. He remembered, vaguely, being moved here. He drew in a long breath of the chill air and nearly coughed, so harsh was it. His lungs felt frozen. To the south, the night sky was dark and clear, the stars glimmering brightly. But thick black clouds choked the sky overhead and further north. They crowded so low as to cut off the heights of the Salt range.

‘Felt it too, yes?’ murmured the rough voice of his caregiver, the ship’s pilot, Ieleen.

He turned to the tiller arm where she sat, long-stemmed pipe in mouth, hands clasping a short walking stick. ‘Feel what?’

‘The change.’ She took hold of the pipe and gestured. ‘All these days the wind has been coming out of the south, bringing warmth and the spring.’ She pointed the stem north. ‘But now the air is coming down from the mountains, bringing an unnatural cold.’ Her eyes, milky blind, somehow found his. ‘Ever felt the like?’

Being of Mare, Reuth had to admit that he had. So dreadful was the similarity he was reluctant to give it voice. As if saying it would somehow lend it solidity. ‘The false winter of the Stormriders,’ he finally admitted, hunching and shivering.

‘Aye. Your Stormriders. The ignorant speak of the winters of the Stormriders and the Jaghut as if they are the same thing. But that is not so. The Riders are alien. Not of this world. Indeed, some argue that in their original form they were of the frigid black gaps between the worlds – but that cannot be decided. No, this cold is more familiar, is it not? We’ve faced it before, or at least our ancestors have.’ She drew on the pipe in a loud hiss and popping of whatever strange leaf she burned. ‘This crew is of Falar, and south of our lands are mountains capped by a great ice-field. The Fenn range, we call it. It, too, is a place where the old races yet hold out. Giants and Jaghut – the Fenn and the Thelomen-kind. We both know this cold, yes? It is the breath of the Jaghut winter blowing down our necks.’