"Wake up," Darius hissed, nudging the mound to his side, hints of a crimson cloak peeking out from underneath the thick snow. The fire had gone out during the night, the embers covered and smothered as the white flurries continued to dance their way to the ground. Marcus groaned and the mound shifted as he tenderly got to his feet, limbs sore and frozen. The cloak and furs were stiff, his gloves caked on around dead frostbitten fingers. Rays of sunlight peaked through the clouds and beams of light formed kaleidoscopes of colors as they pierced through hanging tentacles of ice. "We march," he said with grudgingly, shaking off a clump of ice that had formed between scabbard and leg.

Ahead, Commander Areus stirred the other men awake, shaking each until they stirred and leaving two motionless mounds where they lay. Less than two score remained from the century that had fought its way from through the siege at Lion's Lair at the top of the mountain. The others waited, dead or dying, praying to the gods that their rescue be swift and timely. Instead, the storms had struck, throwing down enough snow to bury trees and giants, not to mention men and horses. They had fought through it as best they could, eating the horse meat raw when all the kindling was buried and they couldn't start a fire and hunting rabbits and elk that dared show themselves near the dwindling group.

"Count," the Areus ordered, his nose blackened from the cold in spite of the hood he wore below his helm. The plume was frozen stiff, the dark red dashed with snow and ice. The men counted off and when the silence fell they realized again how dire their situation stood.

"Thirty-two," Marcus mumbled, shaking his head as they began to march. The tops of trees peaked out at them as they clawed through massive snow drifts set upon a layer of solid ice and packed snow. "And tomorrow? Barely two dozen if we're lucky." Darius glared at him, too tired to even object. He's right, though. Each day more die and each day more will die. Ahead, a red cloak disappeared, its wearer stumbling and collapsing beside the footprints of the vanguard. No man wandered far, afraid to get lost and freeze alone or become a feast for wolves but Areus insisted they keep a semblance of order to their march. The fallen man was helped up by his brothers-in-arms, a strong arm bringing him to his feet and a stern push forcing him forwards. "You stay, you die."

"And if we walk, do we live?" Marcus asked, spitting. The spit froze before it reached the ground, disappearing into a mound of snow.

"For now, at least," Darius responded with a tired shrug. "Lay down if you want. They say it's peaceful." The man scoffed and continued forwards. They rounded a body that lay peacefully in the path, eyes frozen open in a lifeless stare.

"Thirty-one," Marcus counted, not bothering to loot the body or close its eyes. Darius stared at it hungrily, wondering what the others would do if he suggested they eat the dead. He shuddered at the thought and gripped his sword, reassured by its presence. A call came down the line and the men hurried forwards, pushing themselves for a few more steps. "A village," Marcus marveled as they summited another hill. Before them, a small walled village lay hidden between massive snowdrifts, the houses half-buried but the main entrance cleared. Darius grinned as they reach the commander who stood indignantly below the wall.

"We made it, Commander," he said gleefully but a stern look silenced him. On the wall, two spearmen looked down upon the band of red cloaks, the faces at the end daring them to draw a sword.

"No enter," a third face grunted, the man a hulking figure covered in countless furs and cloaks. He carried a massive battleaxe, propped against his shoulder. The crimson cloaks kneeled, begging entry into the town but the men shook their heads adamantly. Commander Areus turned, his tired eyes and coal-black nose the face of a defeated man. The thirty others circled around him awaiting an order.

"If we continue, we die," Marcus stated and the men nodded in agreement.

"And if we attack we die too," the commander responded, gesturing towards the barred gate. "We have not even two score tired, hungry men with fingers too stiff to hold a sword against a walled village."

"Better to die fighting than freezing," Marcus responded with a grin and Areus shrugged in resignation.

"Odds are, we will die fighting and freezing, but so be it." He nodded his head towards the village and the men stumbled forwards, swords drawn. "For the Emperor," they bellowed as they charged.

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