TOM FERGUSON

Tom Ferguson was cold. He wiggled all his toes. Then he wiggled all his fingers. Then his toes. Then his fingers. Toes. Fingers. It was no use; he would never get them warm. But he kept wiggling them, knowing the tips of both extremities were already frostbitten, and afraid they would freeze and would have to be cut off if he stopped. And he squeezed in closer to the cold stone tower, trying to hide from the gusting wind.

As he was overcome by another violent fit of shivering, shivering so intense it was as if he had a fever, the young man realized that it was all to no avail. He had offended his sergeant on one too many occasions and this time, when his relief came, it would be too late; he would be dead, three days before his 20th birthday, much — he was sure — to his sergeant's immense satisfaction.

He shared his lonely guard duty with no one. All the other soldiers in his rifle company were below, inside the small border fort, warm and dry, enjoying their fires and food. But not Tom Ferguson. He stood on cold ramparts alone, all because he had dared to ask his sergeant for a few days' leave to visit his wife and mother in Horst, a place he had not seen for three years, ever since he had been caught reading an outlawed book and offered an opportunity to either serve in the Empire's army or row one of their many slave ships that plied the Cimarron Sea. Tom had jumped at the chance to be a lowly foot soldier.

The young man sighed, wondering from what dangers he was guarding the fort. It was mid-March. They had seen no Ghost Raiders all winter. True, for the past month, there had been rumors of skirmishes with the Vanir along the length of the Foord Road — in fact, the few companies of the Empire's army guarding the highway had been driven from their various winter quarters, which were mostly the Station houses and tiny towns of west-central Kettlewand. But that was no major concern. The officers of the Empire bragged openly that, come spring, their army — which was presently enjoying the warm luxuries and women in Atwa, the provincial capital of Kettlewand — would march east, sweeping the Vanir forces before them, capturing Desjhan and driving into the provinces of Atrobee and then Nowell, bringing the one true God to the Vanir once and for all. Nothing would stop the Glasseys this time, not even the irritating northern nomads.

Thanks to the Empire's allies, the Old Church of Vanir, it was open knowledge that the Vanir army was wintering in Freyr and that the King of Vanir was honeymooning in Smyrna. And the Vanir Bookwright — the great wizard who had figured so prominently in the war with the Dominion of Roomia — was near-death with a sickness, even according to his own newspaper. Yes, come spring, the year was going to be a good one for the Most Holy Empire.

There were no clouds in the azure sky. Blue and white, that was Tom Ferguson's entire world. He faced the southeast, looking at the soft, snow-covered fingers of the Blue Hills, here dry and treeless, frozen in the hard grip of winter. Immediately at the toe of the mountains, hidden deep under white folds of snow, was the Foord Road, leading east to Desjhan. North of the highway was the endless steppe of the White Plains, usually empty and devoid of all life, but today Tom could see the tiny dark forms of lumbering haystacks more than two kilometers away. They were mastodons, migrating from one unseen forest to another, unperturbed by the harsh winter temperatures.

It was from that direction that the gusting wind blew, dusting him with ice particles, freezing his clothes, and numbing the few millimeters of skin that was exposed above the frozen edge of his long scarf, knitted by his wife and smuggled to him more than a year ago. It was that young woman he now thought of. He knew he would never see her again, not as long as his sergeant, the only Glassey non-com in the Cimarron rifle company, continued to assign him the most dangerous and brutal jobs.

The young man had become an expert in predicting the gusts of winds crossing the plains. He watched as they momentarily hid the drifted snow as they came like waves, then washed up against the massive stone walls of the small fort, which were cracked from the intense winter cold and seared by the heat of the fires set by the Glasseys four years previously. One such gust came now and Tom ducked his head to one side, allowing it to abrade the side of his face which, between his frozen scarf and hat, was completely covered.

Or so he thought. This time the wind blew harder; or perhaps a small gap had developed in his protective clothing. Either way, the harsh impact of the wind-blown ice particles was painful and Tom turned away for a second, bending his head to the south, toward Cimarron, his homeland. And, in that instant, he forgot about his toes, his fingers, the wind, the cold, his wife, his sergeant, and his rifle, empty and slung over his shoulder.

The back wall towered almost four meters above the ground. In spite of that, dozens of Ghost Raiders were climbing over it, bundled against the cold with thick coats, heavy trousers, and cloth boots, quilted to hold the insulation in place. They all wore face masks or scarfs, their hats were tied down, all had liners that reached well down over their ears, and many had goggles carved of bone or wood, through which small slits had been cut, so that only a small amount of light could enter. Only the long streamers of their braided hair — silver in the bright winter light — and the feathers interwoven there, showed that the intruders were Raiders. Tom's breath caught in his throat — he knew he was a dead man.

They surrounded him. They took his rifle. They searched him and took his only knife. But they did not kill him. And they let him watch. Raiders raced down the steps into the cobblestone courtyard, now covered with layers of snow, névé, and ice. They clustered — without speaking — in front of the closed doors, seven in all, doors that led downward to the men and supplies below. Tom tensed, envisioning the slaughter that was about to take place, wondering how he could sound an alarm to alert the soldiers below. The gates had been opened. More men entered, and a few had dark hair. One such man, with a black Kettle hat and a yellow scarf wrapped tightly around his face and ears, climbed high onto one of the stone ramparts. He wore a strange coat, one covered with random patterns of different shades of tan and green, like the wizard Tom had encountered two years ago in the high mountains of Cimarron.

For a few moments all eyes turned toward the man in the strange coat. In one hand, enclosed in a heavy mitten, he held a short-barreled shotgun high above his head, horizontally, grasping it in front of the trigger, near the weapon's middle. Then — abruptly — he jerked the shotgun downward. Seven doors were opened, all at once, and Raider after Raider raced down the steps, into the heart of the small fort. Tom tensed, waiting for the shots below, waiting for the sudden knife between his ribs. Long seconds passed. There were no gunshots or shouts from below. By his side, no one even so much as bared a blade.

But there must have been some kind of signal. The man with the strange coat hopped down from his high perch and darted along the wide walkway. He jumped down the stone steps three at a time and disappeared...