By the end of September, the Northern Territory was already playing the prelude to deepest winter.
The lead-gray sky hung low, and the biting cold wind carried fine flecks of snow, whipping this barren land without mercy.
As far as the eye could see, the wasteland was a withered yellow. Only a few stubborn clumps of weeds shivered in the wind, while the bare mountains in the distance had long since donned patchy caps of snow.
The weather had turned cold earlier than in past years, and with far more resolve.
At the edge of the village, two figures wrapped in thick, shabby fur coats were trudging back along a muddy dirt road that had begun to freeze, one step sinking deep, the next landing shallow.
They were Einar and Thomas. Both carried sizable burlap packs that looked heavy on their backs. Inside were the meager life-saving rations they had just bought from a larger Sauron stronghold dozens of li away, spending almost the last of their savings: mostly the cheapest rye and some dried beans, along with a small, precious bag of salt.
Ever since the crushing defeat beneath Carnford City, the raiding party Einar belonged to had been almost completely wiped out, and he himself had nearly left his life there.
It was all thanks to Thomas, who had still been his slave at the time. Amid the chaos of battle, Thomas had miraculously found a riderless warhorse, hauled the wounded Einar onto it, and risked his life to cut their way out before fleeing all the way.
Even more fortunately, when they checked the warhorse they had picked up, they unexpectedly found a not-insignificant sum of silver coins hidden by its former owner in a compartment of the saddle—more than they had originally hoped to plunder on