There was something long and bulky in the shadowed figure’s hand. A bone, perhaps. Whatever it was, it made for a very effective club, as the sharp pain in Nermesa’s shoulder attested.
Igrim swung. Nermesa managed to slide away just as the club came down. Instead of the Black Dragon’s skull, the Gunderman shattered that of one of the beast’s previous victims. The harsh noise echoed through the cave.
Nermesa still clutched his weapon but could not turn properly to use it. He tried to rise, but his feet slid on the chill ground.
Igrim chuckled. The Gunderman raised his macabre club for another strike, and this time Nermesa knew that he would not slip out of range in time.
The musky scent that pervaded the cave suddenly increased in intensity. Nermesa quickly looked around, his attacker now the least of his concerns.
There came heavy breathing from behind the darkened Gunderman.
Even if Nermesa had wanted to warn Igrim, it was already too late. The Gunderman barely started to turn before a huge paw wrapped around his head. Igrim screamed.
Nermesa shoved himself away. He finally managed to climb to his feet, and when he had done so, the knight ran as fast as he could from the horrible scene. Igrim continued to scream, and there was a sound that could only be the breaking of bone.
It would have been utter madness to stay and fight. Nermesa could not have saved his foe, and in the cave the knight would have been easy prey for Wulfrim’s “snow ghost.” Perhaps the monster would be satisfied with one human, but Nermesa doubted it. It would not be long before the Aquilonian became the hunted.
He continued to stumble through the cave, seemingly with no end in sight. However, an intense gust of cold finally struck him full in the face and, seconds later, Nermesa spotted a hole a few feet above. He was forced to sheathe his sword, but otherwise was unslowed. The Black Dragon seized hold of the edges and pulled himself up out of the earth.
The night was as chilling as ever, and one glance at his surroundings revealed to Nermesa that he was absolutely lost. He had no notion as to north and south, for around him he could only see the tall hills. Only by climbing one of them might the Aquilonian be able to find the mountains of Cimmeria and, thus, know which direction to travel.
That was assuming that the snow beast did not hunt him down first.
There was no sound from within the cave, not a hopeful sign. It was possible that the beast was still dealing with Igrim’s corpse, but also possible that it was already on its way out. Nermesa could only assume that it had earlier either crawled through down the hole down which the two men had fallen or that there was yet another entrance the Aquilonian had not noticed. Whichever the case, it meant that Nermesa might be attacked from any direction by a predator far more familiar with the terrain than he.
Despite that imminent danger, Nermesa focused on trying to find the way home. He headed for the nearest hill, constantly keeping an eye on the landscape around him. The wind rushed at him as the knight began the excursion up, making each step as costly in strength as a dozen. Yet still Nermesa pressed on, aware that he had no other choice. He had to assume that Prospero was either dead or captured, and so the weight of the struggle had fallen solely upon his shoulders. If he failed, and King Conan was assassinated, it would mean a tyrant possibly as vile as Namedides, whom the Cimmerian himself had overthrown. Surely one thing that such a despot would do would be to arrest and execute those with any ties to his predecessor, which meant not only Nermesa himself but his parents and Telaria, too.
Urged on by such dark thoughts, the Aquilonian finally reached the top of the hill. He took a deep breath, then turned his gaze to the right, where he finally saw the mountains—
And, the next instant, was swatted off the hilltop as the now-familiar howl resounded in his ears.
Nermesa bounced down the other side, his sword flying. He collided with one rock, then another. While striking each was like being pummeled by a mob, they did slow his descent.
He ended up in a heap at the base of the hill. His cloak had been torn from his body. Nermesa wanted nothing more than to lie there and sleep forever, but a part of him screamed for his battered body to rise.
He did so barely in time. A monstrous, shaggy form vaguely manlike lumbered down the hill, falling upon the spot where Nermesa had lain but a moment before. From the giant there was a grunt that seemed a mixture of confusion and fury, perhaps because the beast had assumed that it was about to make its kill.
It looked up at the Aquilonian with fiery red orbs that all but glowed, and for the first time, Nermesa saw that its arms were much longer than his own. The fiendish creature stood at least a head taller than the knight, who was himself above average in height.
White fur covered it from head to toe. The face, what Nermesa could make of it, was not like the primates from the warmer climes but also not what he would call human. In some ways, the creature reminded Nermesa of the witch Khati’s false Gullah—god of the Picts—and yet, Gullah had been more human than this fearsome thing.
It howled, giving him glimpses of long fangs. Utilizing both its legs and the knuckles of its paws for locomotion, the snow ghost raced toward Nermesa.
The knight leapt for his sword, seizing the weapon as the creature reached him. Nermesa brought the blade around in a desperate swing and caught the snow ghost across the face.
He expected his attack to go for naught, but the behemoth howled and pulled back. It put a clawed paw to its face.
Blood dripped down from the vicinity of its eyes.
Still howling, it stumbled a few steps back. The hand came away and even in the dark, Nermesa could see that he had cut open at least the left orb. That side of the snow ghost’s visage was already soaked in blood. The other side the monster wiped time after time and Nermesa judged the cut there to be just over the lid.
The Aquilonian hoped that the wounds would send his horrific foe fleeing, but the loss of its eye only seemed to enrage the snow ghost. It whirled back toward Nermesa, and though its steps were a little ragged, the Black Dragon did not doubt that it had more than enough strength left with which to rip his head from his neck.
As the furred giant approached, Nermesa instinctively shifted to its left side. The snow ghost grabbed for him, but missed completely. With a snarl, it turned to compensate for the one orb, but again the Aquilonian moved into the blind spot.
Before the beast could react again, Nermesa lunged. He aimed not for the torso, which was half-blocked by one of the thick, muscular arms, but again for the face.
His blade did not touch the one eye left, as he had hoped. However, the edge did run across the broad bridge that was the snow ghost’s nose. The cut was deep, just above the nostrils.
The creature howled, and a random swing of its left arm sent Nermesa flying back. He landed in the snow, his breath momentarily knocked out of him.
Frozen blood caked the giant’s fur. Rather than immediately pursue the Aquilonian, the furred beast grabbed a handful of snow and pressed it against the ruined eye. Its breath came in unsteady heaves as it sought to ease the pain.
Recovering, Nermesa carefully tried to slip out of sight. He hoped that by doing so, the wounded behemoth might lose interest in him. Such damage as the knight had wrought would surely be of more importance to it.
But scarcely had he risen to his feet when, possibly hearing some slight movement, the snow ghost abandoned its efforts to soothe itself and spun around to face the Aquilonian. Nermesa knew then that there would be no escaping the struggle. Either he had to stop the creature here and now, or it would take him as it had Igrim and so many before.
Nermesa dodged to its left, again vanishing from its sight. He ran on, hoping for better ground upon which to make his stand, but the creature moved with incredible swiftness.
Without warning, the Black Dragon spun about. The snow ghost was nearly upon him. Nermesa lunged forward, meeting the oncoming giant.
The snow ghost could not stop its momentum. It leapt just as Nermesa lunged.
The knight’s blade cut a deep swathe in the white creature’s chest.
Letting go of his sword, Nermesa rolled to the side as his bestial foe crashed to the earth. Rolling into a kneeling position, Nermesa drew the sword taken from Igrim. It was not as well honed or as masterfully crafted a blade as his own, but it was sturdy, and that was all that mattered.
As the snow ghost, the knight’s sword half-buried in its chest, still managed to start to rise, Nermesa buried the other weapon in its back.
The monstrous form shook . . . then collapsed. Blood pooled over its back, quickly congealing as the chill air sapped the heat from it.
Gasping, Nermesa tried to remove the Gunderman’s sword, but it was caught. He finally kicked the hulking body over and grabbed hold of his own. With some effort, Nermesa finally tugged free the sword given to him by King Conan, the sword that had saved his life many times over, the sword with which he still hoped to somehow save that very king from assassins.
He wiped the snow ghost’s life fluids from the blade before they could completely adhere to the metal, then paused at last to catch his breath. After a time, Nermesa looked around and found his cloak. The heat of battle had kept him from noticing the elements, but now the knight desperately needed protection. Even though he had slain the beast, his situation was far from good. At the very least, the weather threatened to do him in and there was always the concern that where there was one such monstrosity, there might be more.
And then there was the question of Wulfrim.
Nermesa turned to face the mountains, using them to estimate the direction he had to travel. He could only vaguely guess where Heinard actually was, but hoped that, come the morning, some other landmark to the south would give him a better means to orient on the town. Then he could confer with Konstantin.
Konstantin. Nermesa suddenly recalled that he had left the message sent by Prospero in the red-haired knight’s bed. By now, Konstantin had surely found it and acted. Nermesa cursed himself for a fool. He hoped that he had not led his comrade from the Westermarck into a ruinous struggle with Arumus’s men.
But, if even so, it could not be helped. He was unable to do anything for Konstantin, just as he had been unable to do anything for Prospero. At the moment, Nermesa could only worry about his own survival.
In frustration, he gazed up at the dark, overcast heavens. Nermesa thought of praying to Mitra, but then recalled in whose dank realm he now stood.
King Conan, though, had told him enough about Crom to make considering a prayer to that god laughable. “I know you, Crom,” muttered the Aquilonian. “I know you’re not much help to your own, so I won’t expect a damned thing from you except to stay out of my way . . .”
The declaration, however foolish it might have sounded, stirred Nermesa to action. He wrapped his cloak tight around him, took one last look at the monstrous corpse nearby . . . and trudged south.
13
DESPITE NERMESA’S DETERMINATION to march on all night, Bolontes’ son was finally forced by the elements to stop. The wind grew too strong, whipping up the snow to the point where Nermesa could see nothing. The Aquilonian managed to find a shallow cave in which to hide, then hunkered down to wait the weather out.
As he clutched himself tight, Nermesa estimated that he had been walking for at least three hours. He only hoped that most of that had been in the right direction. Most of the time, Nermesa had been unable to keep the mountains in view, especially toward the end.
It was his intention to stay alert just in case of some danger, but at some point, the knight drifted off. His slumber was filled with short, fitful dreams, most of which involved being lost in endless snow while howls filled the air. Faces would briefly appear and disappear, including Telaria, his parents, King Conan, and, worst of all, a mocking Wulfrim.
When at last Nermesa awoke, it was to discover the world as white as in his nightmares. He reached out, and the layer of snow that had covered over his hiding place fell away to reveal the same, cloud-enshrouded day as the previous one.
Every bone aching, the Aquilonian struggled to his feet. Stepping out of the cave, he turned in a circle, seeking the mountains. Unfortunately, again the nearby hills obscured his view. Worse, those hills closest were smaller, meaning that even if he climbed to the top of one, he would still not be able to make out what he wanted.
Anger suddenly welled with him. Nermesa glanced up at the heavens. In his mind, he thought that some of them resembled the face of a dour warrior with a long, gray beard. The eyes were black pits that seemed to stare at Nermesa with disdain, which the knight suddenly returned.
“Be gone, damn you!” he muttered. “You won’t help, then there’s no use your being here! I’ll find my own way out, I swear it!”
The wind shifted then, and the face became just another blur of threatening clouds. Nermesa grunted and continued on.
The day was little better than the night, save that he could at least see
something
. The Aquilonian climbed another hill, sought in vain to see over the taller ones, then began his trek toward the next.
Water was no trouble, not with so much of it frozen around him. Food, however, was scarce. He was no hunter adapted to this cold place as the snow ghost had been; the occasional tracks that Nermesa saw did him no good, for they generally faded away before he could follow them far. That there were rabbits, birds, and other animals living in the region was obvious, but to the haggard knight they might as well have been a thousand miles away.
At last, he finally climbed a hill high enough to give him the view that he had so badly needed . . . and only then did Nermesa discover that he had not been going south . . . but northeast. That he could be so badly off track stunned him to the point of falling down on his knees and cursing those same mountains. If they had only been visible more often, he would not have made such a terrible mistake.