He stands in a frozen pass, a narrow gap between two mountains, wide enough for two men to pass abreast. It is not natural; he knows that it has been carved out of the bedrock with magic – dark, tainted magic, that came from blood and death. He stands alone, the wind whipping his hair, cutting right through his heavy cloak. He has sent Tylendel away to bring help, but he knows that help could not possibly come in time. And he is already exhausted, and hurting.
(but Tylendel was dead? a moment of fleeting confusion)
He takes a step forwards, and then another. He knows that an army waits for him, an army that he has to hold off, here, or else it will be too late. He knows that he is about to die – he has resigned himself to it, if not quite made peace, and he knows the price was worth it.
