The sunlight of Blackwood Fortress seemed to have no connection to this snowfield.
The wind, like countless sharp, invisible ice blades, was frantically carving up this snowfield completely ruled by nite and blizzard.
As far as the eye could see, apart from the goose-feather-sized snowflakes pouring madly from the sky, there was nothing left but an endless, despair-inducing whiteness.
In this white desert of death that seemed abandoned by the gods, under the leeward side of a massive rock, dozens of dark figures, almost blending in with the rock and the nite, were huddled together like a pack of wolves driven to desperation by the harsh winter.
They dared not light a fire.
Because fire, on this pure white snowfield, was like the sun in the night—the best and most fatal target.
They could only rely on each other's body heat and the faint warmth radiating from their equally huddled, scarred Snow Giant Wolf companions to withstand the bone-chilling cold that could freeze marrow.
Hask sat in the center of this group of silent warriors.
He leaned his back against a cold rock wall that looked as if it had been cut by a blade or ax.
The massive wound on his left arm, deep enough to see the bone, was tightly wrapped with a strip of animal hide torn from his inner lining, stained beyond recognition by blood and mud.
Every breath, filled with sharp, ice-laden air, sent a burning, searing pain thru his chest.
That was an internal injury left by a damned human warhammer that had smashed into him earlier.
And the wound on his left arm, tho it still had a numb, throbbing sensation, did not cause the expected agonizing pain—fortunately, in this cold weather, the wound had not become inflamed.
In this damned weather, with no fire, no clean water, and no medicinal herbs... the fact that the wound had not become inflamed was a rare respite in this desperate situation.
He raised his head and looked around at his remaining brothers, these once-illustrious, most elite Wolf Riders.
Their faces were covered with a thick layer of frost formed by snowflakes and their own exhaled warm breath.
Their lips were purple.
In their eyes, the proud, flame-like radiance of the past was gone, leaving only a mixture of exhaustion, numbness, and the ferocity of beasts driven to a dead end.
Their companions, those once-majestic Snow Giant Wolves that were like spirits of the snow mountains, were now just as disheveled and miserable as he was.
Their bodies were covered in wounds, large and small.
Some had lost an eye, some had their tails severed and were bleeding bright red blood, and the magnificent long white fur of others had been shredded into a mess by the humans' damned barbed weapons.
They no longer let out proud, majestic roars, but instead occasionally let out one or two suppressed, pain-filled whimpers from deep in their throats, like cubs.
Hask's heart felt as if it were being tightly gripped by an invisible hand.
Pain.
It hurt more than all the wounds on his body combined.
He remembered five days ago, when he led this exploration team composed of the most elite Wolf Riders, setting off on their return journey with high spirits.
At that time, every one of them rode the most robust war wolves, wore the finest leather armor, and carried the sharpest weapons.
Their faces were brimming with the pride of having completed their mission and the longing for a better life in the future.
But now...
Hask closed his eyes, unable to bear looking any longer.
He knew he had to do something.
He was their general.
He was the final and only backbone of this unit.
If even he fell, then everyone would turn into cold, stiff corpses in this ruthless blizzard.
He took a deep breath, and the cold air made him cough violently.
"Grayclaw."
He whispered in a raspy, almost inaudible voice.
A tall figure, also huddled not far away, immediately moved.
Lieutenant Grayclaw struggled to crawl up from the ground.
One of his legs had been crudely splinted with two sharpened wooden sticks, and his gait was limping and exceptionally difficult.
He came before Hask, knelt on one knee, and leaned his ear toward Hask's mouth.
"General."
"How many... men do we have left?" Hask's voice wavered in the howling wind. "What is... their status?"
"Weapons... arrows... how many are left?"
"Food..."
He asked four questions in a row, the most critical issues that would determine how much longer this remnant of his unit could struggle in this desperate situation.
Grayclaw's body stiffened.
He was silent for a moment, seemingly organizing the language that was too cruel to bear reading.
Then, he slowly reported in a similarly raspy, bitter voice that only the two of them could hear.
"General..."
"Our... brothers who can still fight... including you and me, there are... fifty-seven."
This number made Hask's heart twitch violently.
A unit of one hundred, with only fifty-seven left.
Subtracting the seven who had already left, this meant that ld hear, he muttered to himself:
"Praying..."
"Hurry..."