They had emerged from a narrow, moss-lined tunnel had been chiselled between two sandstone rock outcrops. Compared to the underground complex, the surface was a cold and windy place. A light dusting of frost clung to the ground and the wind whistled and tore at the gathering company. To ward off the cold, the Mytar had been fitted with garments that had been soaked in oil derived from the boiled skins of warm-blooded fish. This oil was renowned for its unique properties. In the cold weather it solidified, sealing in the body’s warmth, while in hot weather it softened, allowing the skin to breathe. Chris flexed his arms, twisted and crouched down into a squat. His clothes seemed to flex and mould themselves to fit the changing shape of his body. He pulled the hood of his jacket over his head and sniffed at the strange oily smell of the fabric. ‘They’re made from the finest material in the land.’ A deep, resonating voice jerked Chris out of his preoccupation with his clothes. Chris looked up at a man over twice his size with dark, intense eyes buried above high cheek-bones and a long tapering jaw.
