The Giants of Northern Europe

The dormant stream burbled beneath a pale layer of ice and snow veined with spiderweb cracks. Nelson's little sampan was moored in a natural harbor, steep snow-covered cliffs rising on either side, while the winding creek washed against the boat's mooring post to the tinkling score of running water.

Timber from the warm Mediterranean Sea had finally met its thorn-covered distant kin. The tent had been pitched on a small tidal flat at the mouth of the narrows, and snow-flecked pinewood crackled in the campfire like firecrackers. In the woods to the north, birds circled the Dragon. They did not care that they might become the evil Dragon's meal in the next second. All they wanted was a mountain fire, lit by Dragon breath, radiating vigorous heat and light.

A clear rooster's crow rang out from the cliff wall above the tidal flat. The tent flap was pushed open from inside by a pale, slender hand. The High Priestess's leather boots stepped onto the snow with a crunch. She lowered her head, and by the firelight she could see that the waves along the shore had frozen into a thin sheet of ice during the bitter northern night, still holding the shape of curling surf.

"Stop crowing. I'm up."

Pythia poked her head out and shouted toward the rock wall. Amid the sea's murmurs, the cry seemed so insignificant, but it was enough to silence that ridiculous clockwork rooster. The polar night had muddled and blurred her sense of time, and that daily crow had become her only point of reference for knowing a new day had arrived. She shook the thick snow from the tent flap, strode out, and leaped down, stamping two deep footprints into the snow.

"Like cotton."

She covered her mouth and laughed. After taking a