It was a bit past midnight, Ymdaton’s squad only made half the way through the forest. Traversing the woods in the night was no easy task when stars shone bright, moreso now, when the good weather which reigned during daytime gave way to clouds and thin cold rain. Unfriendly piercing wind was blowing, despite even through the treeline. When they left behind three fourths of the distance, the rain blended with the snow.

“Are forest spirits playing some kind of sick joke?” grunted Crewslayer, “It’s almost summer, Umrah belch at me.”

“This kind of thing happens every few years,” said a militiaman close to him, “We are ought to turn back, while we still can find the way.”

“No. That’s our only chance to recon, we are not failing lord Azytenisar here.”

By the time they reached the road it was a full fledged blizzard already. Crewslayer could not see much further than two steps ahead. They moved almost blindly in the direction where he believed the dugouts were. The only benefit was that in that white whirlwind foes could not detect them either.

And so the scouts trudged through the whiteout. They waded through the snow, which was covering the ground almost knee-high, they brushed the sticky snow off their faces and hair, they shook the snow from their shoulders, they squinted their eyes so the snow won’t fly in.

Sometimes a tiny hurricane would shape falling flakes into something resembling a man. Ymdaton even fell for it once, slashing intangible white currents with his axe. It was silent and empty, and felt as if there was not a single living being in this storm, aside from Crewslayer and his squad.

The swinging white embrace brought a surprise, hiding a freezing sentry so well, that he became visible at less than a hand’s breadth. Ymdaton was no less surprised, than the unlucky man. The blizzard led them so close to each other that there was no room to swing a balde. The kinani warrior reacted first and drove an elbow to enemy’s face. He then quickly slit a throat of a shocked foe and tossed him in the snow beneath. The weather began building a crypt for him instantly, already covering the body with a layer of white shroud.

Militiamen who were closest to Ymdaton begged him to turn back in whispers. Sometimes he hissed at them, breathing out quiet angry statements about duty and courage. Sometimes he ignored them altogether, pretending to not hear them behind the wind and the squeaking under the boots. Perhaps some got scared and deserted, Crewslayer could not know. Being situated so far from him in the blinding vertigo, they might have not existed at all. There was the only real thing: the trenches, and he was heading for it in the dreamlike twirling white mass.

They stumbled upon a bunch of large pyramidal piles of snow. Ymdaton halted abruptly, and so did warriors behind his back. Those could have been snow-covered tents, which meant the scout squad was inside the enemy camp, surrounded by nine thousand soldiers, albeit sleeping. Crewslayer stuck his hand in one of tiny hills and produced a pickaxe. Those were but piles of groundwork equipment. That brought him a relief and also a confidence that dugouts were near. So he led his warriors to where he believed pits to be.

More plodding through the blizzard, and nothing to be found in the white curtains. Another sentry was led by his cruel fate into meeting Ymdaton’s men. They ploughed the snow as a boat cuts through waves, leaving trails behind them which started disappearing as soon as they moved forth.

Crewslayer was so absorbed by his mission, so hypnotized by the white mantle that fell upon the world, that a hand upon his shoulder was the first reminder that he was not alone. One of his warriors, emerging from the snowfall, urged him to look forward.

There was something akin to fireflies. Dots of yellowish light that barely cut through the blizzard. They became stronger and brighter, after some moments, more like fireballs now. Shadows were being cast by these lights, moving right under them. Next moment Ymdaton understood that it was shades who moved the flares, not the other way. Soon shadows resolved themselves into silhouettes of men.

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Crewslayer led his warriors into retreat swiftly. There was no telling how many troops staggered through the snowfall, looking for them. It could mask hundreds just few steps away, impossible to notice, impossible to hear through the wind’s howling. He did not know where to go. The location of trenches was left a mystery, the location of the forest edge became a mystery, bleached out of perception by the snowstorm.

Some of them came closer. In these moments the reign of the snow was broken by red invasions. Enemies were left to become one with the white, but his trusty militiamen joined them too. Lost was the count of foes he killed and allies he was left with. So they wandered slowly through the storm, engaging in a skirmish, then moving away from it.

By what chance, or whose guidance they reached the trees, he did not know. But they did eventually and the shadows did not follow them there. There was no less death inside the woods. The cold, the blindness, and the disorientation were just as deadly. Trees were punished by the snowfall. Their leafs which sprung out, feeling the warmth, now collected twice the amount of snow that a naked branch could. They were bent down, broken, crushed. And so were his men.

Eventually they left the forest. The world around attained a warmer hue, as rising sun tried to pierce white curtains. They were soon picked up by the mounted patrol. Sentries of Khladnetz allowed each of Ymdaton’s men to ride their bakhmats as passengers. Only fifteen steeds were required.

He was brought before knez and stood there, not knowing what to say.

“Report” urged him Azytenisar. It did not feel as an order, rather as a request.

“I failed you, my lord. I did not manage to locate dugouts in this storm, I lost more than half of my men, I alerted the enemy,” told Ymdaton mechanically, “I am not suited for subtle missions, I proved it again.”

“By the stars,” sighed lord of Abeneewy, “Do not get drunk on self blaming. You were defeated by the natural disaster, that is understandable. Put yourself together, if you still want to be useful for me.”

A loud noise rolled outside. It was a sound of a horn, a long one. Then came another long one, and two shorter sounds followed.

“And do it quickly,” Azytenisar’s face became grim.

“Lake gates are breached,” breathed out Ymdaton.

His lord nodded shortly. Runners stomped into the chambers, eager to carry orders.

“Do not be rash,” said knez, “Let us wait some heartbeats before rearranging our forces. Garrison of the gates can hold any onslaught for half a day without reinforcements. Circumstances might change rapidly in next few moments. Sit yourselves.”

Runners stood there dumbstruck. That was not the order which they expected, the urge to move, run somewhere, do something was visible in their posture.

“Sit yourselves. Calm down. Wait,” said Azytenisar. He took a jar which resided on his table and poured a portion of wine into a mug. Knez emptied it one gulp and glanced at his subordinates who were still standing, “Those were the orders, by the way.”

Men obeyed. They sat at wooden benches. Some were changing poses constantly, some were tapping with their feet or hands rhythmically, some were eyeing the window as if expecting to see a battle raging just outside. Ymdaton strode from corner to corner, trying to keep himself from beggin for an assignment to the battlefield.

Another sequence of horn noises came. This was different than the one before.

“That was for the road to Belosten,” said knez, “I told you, events will unfold quickly,” he glanced at runners, “And now, my friends, it is time to be rash.”