The winter wind howled across the plains of Strathmore, a mournful sound that rattled the canvas walls of the military tents. It had been two months since the Thompson Army had arrived. The golden leaves of autumn were long gone, buried under three feet of hard, white snow. The world was a monochrome of grey sky and white earth.
Inside the main command tent, the air was slightly warmer, heated by two large iron braziers filled with glowing coals. But it was still cold enough that every breath the men took puffed out in a white cloud of mist, lingering in the air like smoke.
Derek stood at the head of the heavy wooden table. He looked different than he had two months ago. His face was leaner, his skin wind-burned and rough. He had grown a short, dark beard that hid the scar on his chin. He wore a heavy cloak lined with wolf fur over his black armor.
He looked down at the map. It was pinned to the table with daggers to keep it from curling in the damp air.
