Together, Magisters of fire and lightning made dead mounts into fires that burned hot and long. Among his people, General Klamath ate charred horseflesh and tried to suck heat in through every patch of skin. When he could feel his fingertips and began to think that he might not lose his toes, he stood to address his army.

As if there could be no doubt, he said, “That hells-cursed cavalry has been recalled. The enemy needs it elsewhere. From now on, his forces will come on foot.

“I do not fear them. We are days ahead. Because we must, we will keep watch in short shifts tonight. But our real foe is the cold. These fires will burn down. They may not save you.

“Do what you must to stay alive. This is not a time to prove your strength. If you cannot stop shivering, approach Magister Crawl or another Magister of fire. If you fear for your fingers and toes”—your noses, your cheeks—“consult the Magisters of pestilence. The enemy will come. I need you alive.”

Hegels gave stricter orders, but Klamath did not listen to them. Setting an example, he retrieved his miserable mount, brought it to the nearest fire’s heat, and rubbed it down with part of his cloak. Then he urged it to the ground. When it had settled itself, he stretched out against it. Sharing his cloak and its body heat, he prayed that there would be no wind. The cold was enough.

That night was as bad as Klamath expected. It was not worse. His cloak and his horse kept him from freezing. He managed a little sleep.

A shout from one of the sentries woke him. Jerking up his head, he scanned his people with cold-blurred eyes. A few of the riflemen were already up, stumbling around to check on their comrades. Most of the soldiers still lay with their horses, sleeping or dead. Enough oilcloth had been set aside to make crude coverings for the Magisters. None of them had emerged yet.

General Klamath took his time. In the fading grey of dawn, he struggled to his feet. When he had broken enough of the ice in his clothing to stand, he urged his poor horse to rise. It lurched drunkenly up onto its legs, shivering and dull-eyed in the cutting air. But it would live, if he could feed it.

Rubbing the crust from his face left his skin raw. Blinking his eyes to clear them made them sting. Nevertheless he looked around for the man who had shouted.

The sentry stood a hundred paces away to the east, but he was pointing south. “General!” he called again, a cry that scraped his throat. “There!”

Shifting his feet like a crippled man, Klamath turned.