The heavy six-axle drive wheels of the Iron Sentinel hit a patch of black ice at sixty miles an hour, sending a violent shockwave through forty tons of armored steel.
Inside the lead command coach, oil lamps swung wildly on their brass gimbals, casting erratic yellow light across cold iron plates and frosted glass port windows. Outside, the sub-zero gale of the Northern Wastes howled like torn canvas, driving sheets of needle-sharp sleet against the train's outer hull.
Prince Bastian stood anchored near the forward observation slit, his boots spread wide against the vibrating floor. His dark coat was buttoned tight to his chin, his lever-action rifle held loosely across his chest as he stared out into the blinding white dark.
Beside him, Foreman Haddon racked the lever of his own weapon, checking the brass shell casing in the breech before shoving it home with a sharp, iron click.
