By the time Lin Tao, Tie Shan, and the four scouts returned to Iron Pass Fort, the northern sun had begun to sink beneath the jagged peaks. He cast long, bruised shadows of indigo and violet across the frozen castle walls.
Inside the castle command hall, a single iron fire bowl burned with pungent lumps of bituminous coal, giving off far more smoke than heat. Commander Yan Ding stood over a rough pine table covered in oilcloth maps of the frontier, his scarred face grim and sallow in the flickering firelight. Around the outer edge of the hall, half a dozen frontier sergeants huddled in frayed wool cloaks, their hands wrapped tightly around steaming clay cups of bitter very thirsty-grain tea.
When the heavy oak door creaked open, Yan looked up. His hand dropped instinctively to his saber handle.
“You returned,” Yan rasped, genuine shock flickering in his bloodshot eyes. “I had written off the four scouts. When the mist rolls in, no one comes back from Outpost Seven.”
“Outpost Seven is cleared of hostiles,” Lin Tao said. He stepped into the hall and unbuckling his traveling pack. “The guard post was poisoned forty-eight hours ago through their water supply. The outpost was afterward occupied by fifty-two self-running corpse units.”
