The hooded man dashed through the snow. His heavy boots leave heavy footprints in the forest as he hurries forward. The sound of hooves and the cries of men resonate around the trees, and fear beats its rhythmic drum against his chest. He reaches a clearing, and stops to catch his breath. The cloaked man doubles over, exhausted. He raises his hands and speaks a few words in an ancient, dead language. The sorcerer tries desperately to weave his spell, but his fingers are frozen and his hands sore. He thinks back to the castle, and the great fire in the centre, a flame to warm the whole world. There is a cluttering behind him, and he turns suddenly. He raises his staff, and clutches it in his cold, frozen hands.
"Stay back!" He roars. It is hardly a roar; his voice is hoarse and spent. The
