The wind coming off the polar shelf did not merely howl; it cut like thin, cold glass.
By seven in the morning, the heavy ironclad Vanguard was wedged deep into the narrow entrance of the Southern Gap. The sea had ceased to roll in open waves. Instead, the water was a dense, shifting slush of gray ice and jagged floes three feet thick, grinding violently against the ship's double-bottomed nickel-steel armor.
Up on the open bridge wing, Prince Bastian wiped a layer of frost from his leather goggles. His beard was white with rime, his hands inside his heavy fur-lined gloves gripping the brass engine-telegraph casing.
"She's dropping speed!" the lead helmsman shouted, his muscles straining against the double oak wheel as the iron rudder jammed against a submerged shelf of hard blue ice. "We're down to four knots, Prince!"
