The Chaos Balance

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The wiry and silver-haired man paused at the end of the causeway from Tower Black, his breath white in the sunlit chill. His eyes lifted from the cleared stones that led from Tower Black-the tower whose stones he had wrested from the mountains, the tower he had raised to shelter the angel crew of the Winterlance.

Another dozen steps before him, the causeway melded into the metaled road. Beyond the road was the expanse of softening snow that stretched in every direction-eastward to the kay-plus-deep drop-off that overhung the high forest, and to the mountains that bordered Westwind on the south and west. Softening or not, the snow was still well over Nylan’s head just about everywhere and twice that in spots. That depth explained the ski traces and trails that paralleled the road, though many were just there as remnants of training exercises for the newer guards.

From the mountains to the south rose Freyja, that impossibly ice-needled peak that dominated the Roof of the World, glittering through the cold green-blue skies.

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