In spring and summer he knew that the dun monotony would be transformed into vivid greens and yellows and a myriad other bright and subtle colours, as grasses and flowers appeared at the touch of the warmer sun and the light rains. Stags and bulls would fight for supremacy of their herds, old giving way to young, and birds and insects and countless small animals would emerge and hunt and mate and live their lives as if the cold, relentless touch of winter was gone never to return.

Ivaroth's lip curled into a vicious sneer at this sunlit image and he looked west towards the grey disc of the sun hovering indifferently there. He spat towards it, as if in challenge, then wiped his chapped mouth roughly with his fur-gloved hand. It was a thoughtless act and both the pain and the realization of his carelessness made him grind his teeth and swear angrily.

His horse reared slightly in response and he jerked it back to stillness none too gently. Then, having at once assuaged his brief anger and demonstrated his dominion, he urged it forward again.

Sullenly, the horse turned north, the direction it had been travelling in since Ivaroth had captured it many days earlier.

To the south lay gentler terrain but, even without the dangers that lay there for him, Ivaroth's mood was more in harmony with the surrounding bleakness and the impending winter.

'Go,’ had been the decision of the elders. ‘Only respect for the spirit of your father and the testimony of your brother's wife have saved you from immediate execution.'

Opposing ties of fear and anger had held Ivaroth in lowering stillness more effectively than any guards as this sentence had been passed on him. Part of him had wanted to sweep his captors aside and fall upon these dotards who saw fit to stand in judgement over him-him, the son of Ivaroth Dargwyl and true heir to his mantle as chieftain.