There was no wind and the persistent snowfall made the
forest quiet. Big individual flakes fell in a steady rain,
weighing down his eyelashes and wetting the sentry’s
already frozen beard. It was mid-afternoon and dark below
canopy level. The North was colder than he’d expected and
so far his experience of this posting was doing nothing to
refute the claim by the other soldiers that the seasons
disappeared up here, that there was only one long winter. He
looked down at the gateway, shuffled his feet and beat his
arms across his chest to increase the flow of blood to his
numbed hands. Was there a hooded shape through the snowy
mist? Could he really hear a woman singing? He shouted,
hailing the stranger but there was no answer and he felt his
voice inadequate against the snow’s impenetrable silence.
Above the treetops there was still some daylight left. He
marvelled at the impressive strips of red and pink sky
stretching out across the far corner of the horizon. These
sunsets reminded him of home and restored his faith in the
gods that had brought him so far away from it. Dusk showed
the mountains to good advantage. It was a humbling time of
day, made all the more poignant by the fact that it heralded
the onslaught of night, and with it the everpresent danger of
attack and death. He looked down again at the gateway. This
time the shape moved and he shouted for whoever was there
to state their business. Nothing.
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