The quill scraped across the coarse parchment, making an irritating rasp. Every stroke seemed to scrape against Mikhail's taut nerves.
Bundled in thick clothing and looking like a bear, Count Mikhail sat at his broad oak desk, trying to concentrate on a report about delayed supplies to the border outposts.
His luxurious military tent was made from several layers of heavy canvas, lined with insulating felt, and even furnished with a thick Bearskin Rug. Yet it still shook violently in the blizzard, which had weakened but retained much of its fury.
It should have been morning, but outside the tent it was as dark as dusk.
The relentless wind and snow smothered the sky, letting through not a trace of daylight.
The only light inside came from several powerful Storm Kerosene Lamps mounted beside Mikhail's desk and on the tent's central pole.
Dim yellow flames struggled and flickered inside their thick glass shades, giving Mikhail just enough feeble light to see his desk.
By that hard-won light, Mikhail labored through a report... a report on the scouts.
After reading for only a short while, Mikhail threw the document onto his desk. Its contents were appalling. This damned blizzard had come far too suddenly.
Five ten-man squads sent toward Tavitsky on routine reconnaissance had lost contact during the worst of the blizzard.
They were already a full six hours overdue, yet there was still no word from them. The blizzard had erased every trace, leaving neither survivors nor bodies to be found.
Fifty of his finest scouts had simply vanished into that white hell.
Mikhail could almost picture their fate: losing their way in the storm, being swallowed by the bitter cold, and freezing stiff in some snowdrift.
In any army with even a little history, seasoned scouts were precious assets.