Dathan Herulus describes the windstorm blowing through the Azgaril camp on the Saradon Plateau, just south of Tamarian border.

    I stirred from sleep feeling exhausted, as though I'd only shut my eyes minutes before. My blankets had been too thin, and I'd spent most of the night shivering, pursuing slumber like a hunter stalking a creature more clever than himself. Under a clear, autumn sky cold air swept across the steppe, pounding into my tent until the water in my washbasin became a useless lump of ice. I cursed, but considered myself somewhat more fortunate than the men camped outside without shelter--my tent had been able to at least slow the thrice-damned wind.

    Daybreak normally brought a stir of activity in our camp. On this morning, however, I could only hear the infernal gale howling from the northwest--tugging at tent stakes, casting the flotsam from nearby hills noisily into the camp. It rippled wickedly past our proud battle banners on its way to a distant, unknown destination.

    The moment I stepped outside my tent, the full, naked fury of the freezing storm forced me to bow my head and shield my face. The rushing torrent sapped moisture from my eyes, cutting through my crimson centurion's vestments, chilling my body to its core. I felt instantly colder than I'd ever been. Eastward, the morning star limped into the heavens, feeble in its power to warm this bitter, godforsaken land.

    Sergeant Aransen, his arms embracing his own body for warmth, joined me. "The news isn't good," he began, shouting to be heard above the shrieking stream of frozen air.

    I had learned since my promotion that first-thing-in-the-morning news is seldom good, so I wasn't surprised. "Tell me."

    "We have no less than two dozen cases of frostbite in the unit. Some of the men can't even stand up. Between me and Sergeant Vitus, we lost five who froze to death last night."

    He was right--not good news. Our situation deteriorated every mile further north we marched and every moment closer to the onset of winter. "Let's get something to eat. I hate hearing bad news on an empty stomach."

    Breakfast consisted of teeth-shattering bread and hard cheese. The beleaguered mess commander informed me that not only was it too windy to light fires for cooking, but that all our water had frozen during the night. The storage kegs burst open, so we had no water available and no way of collecting any more.

    Problems related to the weather were going beyond the normal misery I expected my soldiers to endure. Because we had not been outfitted for extremely cold weather, someone in the senior officer’s corps should have foreseen the need for warm clothing and hot food. A sense of frustration and powerlessness took root within me as I watched my men shiver in their fatigues, patiently enduring the line up at the mess tables. They had proven themselves fine soldiers, and I felt proud to command them.

Serenade