After nearly an hour of violent lurching in random directions, the Red Sky brought us close to the valley floor. The Master of Messages left first, shortly followed by Gearwing Fourteen.

We all tumbled out, stumbling in snow that was so deep it had compacted the snow beneath into ice. Outside the shelter of the cargo bay, full force of the storm battered at the senses. The Master, not even three strides away, waved his arms and shouted something that was lost to the wind. I shouted back, giving him the semaphore for “message not received”. Understanding, he ignited a nightflare in a brilliant shower of sparks and started off into the storm.

In a flicker of movement I barely noticed over the whirling motion of the snow, Gearwing Twenty came down into a rough landing on my shoulder. I glanced at the Keeper and the man nearest to me, ripped the activation cap off a nightflare of my own, and followed the Master of Messages into the howling dark.