The Battle of the Frozen Fjord

The morning wind howled down from the jagged peaks of the Wyrmtooth Range, whipping sheets of dry, diamond-hard snow across the frozen expanse of the fjord. At five hundred yards above sea level, perched atop the basalt staging terrace outside Valgard's secondary fortress gates, Erik Vane sat motionless upon his black Percheron stallion, gazing out over the three-mile sheet of sea ice where the fate of the North would be…