Ironside’s hands went to his rifle. The pony let out a small gasp, its lips chattered, and its forelegs shuddered in the white blanketing of snow, and then it set to panting miserably. There was a patch of frozen blood on its neck. A shaft of wood, thin as mistletoe, jutted out of its hide.

The moon overhead gave the surroundings a stark blue light, harsh penumbrae behind every hillock of snow and every tree. Ironside, rattling his sleigh onto its side to make cover, crouched next to the dying animal and peered outward. The forests were of pine, spruce, and aspen, and the snow covered meadows, lakes, rivers. The sounds in the woods would mostly be harmless. Deer, rabbits, sables.

It was impossible to tell where the shot had come from. He was in a clearing perhaps a quarter-mile square. Stumps of trees made button marks in the snow. This meant habitation nearby. Shallow breathing was recommended at such Arctic temperatures; he took a chance and breathed deeply through his nose, a punishing, burning feeling. But, yes, he smelled smoke, which confirmed there were people somewhere.

He could not see them. His horse let out a groan, and tried to lift its head. Ironside put down his rifle. His pistol was in a fur-lined bag strapped to the inside of his leg. It took some burrowing and blind finesse to reach it. Within a few moments, he had the gun in one hand in his pocket, glove off, undermitten still on. But he could only keep his gun outside and exposed for a few seconds before the oil would freeze, turning it into a paperweight. He could shoot his horse, but then he might have no bullets for the enemy, except in his Mosin-Nagant, which was useless anyway.

“I apologize, old thing,” he whispered to the pony, patting him on the flank.

There was a stand of trees in the distance. This would provide protection, though the odds of making it were slender. Staying with his pony meant a likely death, however. He wore peasant boots—he’d long ago given up on the Shackletons—and he broke into old snowpack, feet sinking deeply through the crust, as he zigged and zagged toward the pines. A return to shallow breathing, the air scorching his lungs. Running awkwardly with his hands in his pockets, taking care not to shoot himself in the leg, a humiliating way to die.

There was a structure ahead. A thick woolen cap of smoke hanging over a chimney, some kind of light from within. He hadn’t seen it because of the trees. He paused.