The ship cut through the heavy chop like a plow through sandy soil. The wind was brisk from the south west, a foul wind for Norsca that forced the long boat to make long tacks to try and force its way closer to that forbidding coast. Skaldi had heated the new cut pines on a fire and collected the black resinous tar which dripped hissing from the end in helmets and then had the men smear the sticky goop on to the side of the ship. The resulting seal was better than caulking alone, but still allowed enough seepage that two or three men had to work at bailing to keep the level under control.

The crew made space for Dietricha at the rear of the ship a few feet ahead of the tiller bar. She sat cross legged on the bench humming idly to herself and occasionally muttering snatches of what sounded like an argument though with whom she argued was a mystery. Her robes were soaked by sea spray but she showed no sign at all of feeling cold, or even noticing the state of affairs. Periodically she glanced at the sky, screwed up her face and returned to her one sided argument.  

Yantz had stripped out of his armor though he still wore a worn bastard sword across his back and a large cavalry horse pistol at his hip. The Rieklander wasn’t a huge man, but he had a sort of resigned solidity about him that was a comfort. His sandy hair flapped in the breeze and his mustache drooped as he stared at the rolling sea ahead with a distinct lack of enthusiasm

“Szo, you caam from da collage of magic dah?” Ivan asked as he joined Yantz and Cydric at the bow of the ship.

“That’s what the lady says,” Yantz said, though his tone was not exactly one of agreement.

“Ahand you. Not exactly great wizard looking,” Ivan pressed on, his accent rendering exactly as ex-zicked-ly. Yantz snickered in spite of himself.

“Not me, I’m just a guy with a sword,” he confided, swiping at his hair for the hundredth time without noticeably improving his situation.

“Why trevil wit da witch?” Ivan asked. Yantz sunk further into the dark woollen cloak he wore as though trying to find shelter from the cold sea air.

“Well I..”

“Herr Becker!” Dietricha said, her voice easily auidble even though it was from the other end of the ship and against the force of the wind. The disheveled looking wizard was standing now staring at the sky with a look of perplexion on her round face.

“You said they were going to Norsca?”

_______________________
Days Later….

Camilla awoke, to the yells of her captors. The ropes binding her wrists, bit painfully and her face felt raw from sun and salt. Ahead of them loomed a massive sheet of ice, that stretched from horizon to horizon.

“Norsca?” she wrasped, her voice dry from the flaying wind. Gorn laughed in derision at the comment. He seized Camilla by the hair and held her head up so she could watch the cliff of ice sliding closer.

“The Frozen Bones,” he rumbled as though it was supposed to mean something too her. For a moment she thought she heard something in the reavers voice, uncertainty, fear?

“We must reach the Valley of Uken-sugan by the time the Changer Moon watches us,” Gorn went on. His voice as quiet now as the vast ciff of ice loomed up, casting a frigid shadow. The were all of them afraid Camilla realizd as she glanced around the crew. Some of them glared at Gorn as though cursing them for bringing them to this place. The big Norscan did not appear to notice. 

“You southerner call this the Chaos waste,” Gorn went on, it was the most he had said to her since she had passed out when he said… her mind skittered sideways and the crew all glanced at her as though she had spoken something. Blinking her eyes she tried to focus.

Gorn shouted something in a language she couldn’t unerstand and men rushed forward as he through the tiller bar over. They thrust out with their oars, frantically trying to fend the boat away from the fifty foot ice cliff. Suddenly Camilla pitched forward as her bonds were cut, her forehead bouncing of the deck. Gorn grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her against his back. Another Reaver bound her wrists together around his neck.

“What are you…” she began. Gorn took a pair of axes from the deck and took a running leap off the ship. Camilla screamed in panic as they sailed across the expanse of water between the ship and the cliff. Both axes sank deep into the ice, providing grip for the reaver. Behind her the ship began to pull away as she dangled above the freezing water. The crew began to shout, raggedly at first and then in increasing unison. Camila didn’t understand the words but somehow knew it to be a name.

“If you fight me southerner we will fall into the ocean, both of our bodies will be trapped beneath the Frozen Bones,” the reaver warned. Camilla’s full weight pulled at the man bull like neck but it didn’t seem to be a burden.

“Sounds like a win win,” she grated, trying to find something to do with her dangling feet. She couldn’t turn to see but from the sound of the chanting the long ship was pulling away rapidly.

“While you live, you have hope,” Gorn said though it sounded ironic rather than hopeful. With a huge effort he pulled one axe free and plunged it into the ice a few feet above them, spraying them both with shards of freezing crystal.

It took Gorn a long time to reach the top of the icy cliff. He neither slowed nor faltered but even hed was sweating by the time he pulled them both over the lip of the glacial sheet and slumped to the snow crusted ice in exhaustion.

“Testicoli de Ranaldi,” Camilla breathed in amazment and horror. Before them streted a plain of ice as far as the eye could see. Far from being barren the plain was covered with ships. There must have been a hundred of them, each one unquestionably a wreck. Many had frozen seaweed or dead crustaceans on them, as though they had been raized from the sea bed to be placed on this sheet of ice. Many of them were Norscan long ships but she saw others as well,  a massive Imperial galleon lay on its side, snow blown up against one side in a drift. Slender vessel of elvish make and sleek corsairs lay scattered like bones of a great feast.

“All begin from the sea,” Gorn rumbled and pushed himself to his feet.

“We will find you a talisman.”