Snow built up on the pitched roofs and would periodically fall in little avalanches into the castle courtyard. The stones around the well were slick with ice, the chain dripping icicles. The white mountains would have been beautiful if Ramil had not felt they looked like the bars of his prison. He fretted with each day that passed that escape was becoming more difficult as the weather closed in. Heavy snowstorms now often blocked the road to the castle. Teams of soldiers labored to keep the pathways between the army camp and the citadel clear. Fergox was using the winter to harden and train his troops. Many of them were from the warmer countries of the south and were not accustomed to the bitter weather. As he tramped through the castle, Ramil often came across young men with dark skin like his own cowering around the campfires, doubtless wishing they had never signed up for the warlord's army. Though seemingly at a loose end, Ramil had not been idle. He had already hidden two bundles of clothes and 139 provisions in a quiet corner of the castle, enough he hoped to see a pair of fugitives far along the road.
