Yani Ervälä, herder and erstwhile warrior, braced himself and turned his face to the fierce wind that blew across the snow-covered steppe. He was used to it. Iskalla was cloaked in ice and snow for much of the year; the people had learned to adapt, and to use the harsh environment to their advantage.

He was typical of the Iskallan folk, being tall and wiry with hair so blonde it looked spun from ice and sunlight, and he was also dressed in the typical Iskallan garb of brightly-embroidered supple hides, his fur-lined hood turned up against the wind. The thick overcoat hid a breastplate of metal leaves, battered and dented through years of use. It wasn't his; it was, he was ready to admit, an item he'd stolen from an enemy in battle. The other man had come off much, much worse, but Yani still bore a long and ragged scar down the side of his long nose. He was proud of it, this memento from the only battle he'd ever fought, for he'd seen less than twenty summers and was still wet around the ears, or so his father said with a grimace when Yani's daydreaming took his attention away from his task.

But battle was not a way of life for many Iskallans, who spent their days driving their sleds over the snow after the vast reindeer herds, or coasting the waters of the Northern ocean in search of the huge grey whales, valuable for flesh and oil and bone. But battle was exactly what Yani was looking for – or would be, once he reached his destination.

Vertland.

Its name was a lie, at least these days. It was not green, not green at all. Thick ice crusted whatever green it had once had, ice bent and broke the trees and cracked the ancient standing stones so that nothing was left of the old temples but rubble and ruin.

He'd travelled across the border several times, a little way, when the reindeer strayed into the other country. But the borderland was forest and foothill; nothing there to worry about, save the odd wolf. Beyond that was the real Vertland, and Yani had heard things about it. For one, it had once had a mage. Two, its ice wasn't natural. It was, he'd heard, the result of the mage's power gone sour. It never changed, that ice. No hint of Spring and certainly nothing of Summer. He wondered at the wisdom he displayed in choosing to travel there, but still; the old seer had said he must go, so he went. He set great store by what the seer told him, as did all Iskallans. They had no mage, just seers and star-singers, wind-riders and ice-dreamers. It was not magic. It was merely the knowledge, centuries old, of how to read the secrets of the universe. Yani did not have the knack – he lived by iron, and iron dulled a man's connection to the stars.

He hefted his pack onto the back of the sled, checked his ropes, and climbed aboard. It was a supple thing, this wide carrier of hide and frozen seal-skin shod with iron, strong and fast. His dogs wagged their tales expectantly.

He gathered up the harness. 'Liikkua!'

The tower was nothing but a ruin, a pile of stones hunkered down among the low hills of Vertland's centre. It seemed a lonely, sorrowful place, though two leagues hence was a small iron-mining community. Yani found himself lodgings in the house of a grizzled old miner, and settled in to wait. He had silver and therefore nobody minded an Iskallan stranger among them who did nothing but drink in the tavern and exercise his dogs across the snow. There were other Iskallans there, including two warriors with their hair braided and beaded – the mark of skilled fighters who had made many kills. Yani wore no braids or beads, and his angular face was shaven.

'Where you from, boy?'

Yani glanced at the man who'd spoken, a dark-haired, arrogant Korgrimmi with unusually angular eyes and high, wide cheekbones.

'Iskalla.'

'I can see that,' said the man, looking Yani over and noting the bright embroidery and reindeer fur of his clothing. 'Where in Iskalla?'

'What's it to you?' Yani, though he had nothing to hide, did not appreciate the inclination that he did. He returned the man's stare, ice-blue eyes unblinking and frosty.

The man shrugged. 'Pays to know who people are, round here,' he said. 'Strangers should not remain strangers. Lot of new people in these parts.'

'I come from Yllavärrtaa,' said Yani after a moment's consideration of the man's words. 'Nowhere of note.'

'Nowhere, indeed.' The warrior jabbed a finger at Yani's chest. 'Begs the question though, don't it – why'd you leave?'

You're Korgrimmi, you wouldn't understand, you godless dog.

Yani shrugged. 'In search of fame and fortune?'

Of course, it wasn't strictly a lie. Fame and fortune were never to be sniffed at, and if they came as a result of other endeavours, they'd be welcome. But Yani wasn't egocentric, and he had nothing on which to spend money. He was here because the seer had seen it in the bones, and the bones never lied.

The Korgrimmi warrior looked as if he might question further, but then he shrugged, and said, 'well, it takes all sorts.'

'I'll drink to that,' said Yani, and raised his cup.

Fame and fortune notwithstanding, he soon found that a good honest day's work was the best way to accumulate silver, and he earned it by ferrying people and goods across the snow in his sled. The only use for the cold iron of his sword was in fending off the wolves he often found himself racing with – a pastime he was used to, having done it more than he cared to in Iskalla. But his dogs flew like the wind over terrain flat and easy, and they left the wolves behind, howling mournfully over the lost meal. They were no match for the Iskallan and his team, no match for iron.

When the wheel of time turned to admit Spring into the world, Yani found a home in Vertland. He'd never come so far looking for love, yet he found it in a young Seaboarder named Torja, the owner of the town's tavern.

And he'd never thought that what began as a brawl could result in something that would change the course of his life.

'More varttir,' he said to the young woman at the bar, pushing his empty glass across the polished wood. Varttir was potent, clear; too much would rot a man's liver and melt his brain. But it could also keep him from freezing to death on the ice, and thus Yani liked to ensure his flask was full as well as his glass.

'You've had enough,' snapped the girl, noting his red eyes and flushed cheeks. In truth the flush in his cheeks had nothing to do with too much liquor and everything to do with her beauty. He didn't think he'd ever seen anyone like her. She wore a jerkin of dyed dragon-hide, and the wide, baggy trousers of a rider, with long boots of grey felt, their toes turned up to a point. Brown hair hung in a long coil down her back – so long, the ends had been tucked into her belt, which also sported a long white-handled knife.

Yani blinked owlishly at her. 'I've barely started,' he said, and tapped the rim of the glass. 'Fill.'

She pushed it back. 'No.'

'Damn it woman! Who are you to tell me I can't drink?' He pushed a silver crown towards her, along with his glass. 'Is that enough to persuade you?'

'Not nearly,' she said with a contemptuous sneer. 'No silver in the world could persuade me that your liver should rot, Ervälä. You can have beer. Not varttir.'

Yani shook his head. 'I am frozen,' he said. 'I have no woman to keep me warm at night, so I drink varttir. Must I beg?'

She leaned over the bar towards him, grabbed his collar, and yanked him up close. 'I'd like to see that.'

Some mischief was at work within Yani, because he had the sudden and overpowering urge to do as she said, and beg. On his knees, if she demanded it. Instead, he covered her hand with his, prised her grip from his collar, and kissed her.

She responded with a punch that knocked him flat, a stool splintered beneath him as he landed heavily on his back to a chorus of cheers and catcalls from the other drinkers.

'You deserved that, Iskallan,' said the fiery bar-keep, and filled his glass with varttir. He knocked it back with a grimace, and gingerly felt his jaw for breakages.

'Still got what I wanted,' he replied, breathless with more than the fact he'd been knocked for six by a woman. In fact, he was impressed and willing to push his luck. 'Can I have another?'

'Drink?' She quirked her eyebrow at him, the look in her eyes challenging and defiant.

'Kiss.'

'Come and get it.'

He did.

She knocked him back again, then vaulted the bar to straddle his hips.

'Now, Iskallan,' she said, pinning his arms above his head and leaning forward, 'what do you really want? Varttir, or a woman?'

'Take a guess,' he panted, and grinned at the whistles punctuating their flirtation. He considered he'd done well and had the better end of the bargain. After all, all she was getting was him.

And so Yani Ervala moved out of the farmhouse and into Torja's rooms above the inn, and not just into her rooms but into her bed as well.