I went to my brother Tod’s house for Thanksgiving. In his office, he had a stack of ARCs and review copies (he reviews books for a Las Vegas newspaper). There was a new book by an author I’m curious about, so I picked it up and started reading. I didn’t get past the first two paragraphs and, as it turned out, neither did my brother.
The first howl sang across the night void and trembled the frozen air, a sound thin as the starlight poised on the blue plains of snow, with no more presence than the memory of a vanished loved one, and just as inescapable across the face of the world; and as with a ghostly visage rising before me, I might have denied the cry existed. But the horses plunged.
Sergei Gorlov, the friend and fellow mercenary who had mentored me for the last two years of cavalry warfare and who guided me now into the vast mysteries of his homeland, sat beside me, bundled beneath blankets in the open sleigh.