Dawn broke over Fort Ironpass not with gold, but with the flat, dead grey of unpolished lead.
A rim of white frost half an inch thick crusted the low roof wall coping stones. The wind had swung east during the fourth watch. That brought with it the dry, powdery snow of the northern tundra that drifted into every crevice. It hissed against cold iron like thrown sand.
In Trench Line Four, five hundred men stood in their stone retaining wall bays. Their boots rested upon split pine logs rather than the slush of the ditch floor. Because of that, their toes remained supple. From the three brick cooking pots set into the rear cross, the thick steam of horse-marrow broth continued to rise. It carried a rich layer of yellow fat that coated the men’s cracked lips.
Pei Jing walked the firing steps. His charcoal-grey linen robe was buttoned to the throat, the hemp fibers stiffened with dry frost. Beneath the hem, his feet moved with the silent, rolling tread of a hunter crossing scree. Every twenty paces, he paused to test the tension of a willow fascine or check the seating of an iron-tipped defensive stake.
“Commander Pei,” a gravelly voice called from the ladder way.
