“Just me,” he admitted. “Just once.”
Half-starved and alone, in the depths of the long, harsh winter that had just barely ended, Kern had been running for the southern border of Cimmeria, cast out of Gaud for no other reason than the new chieftain’s dislike and distrust of the strange-looking clansman. His frost-dead hair and golden, wolf eyes.
“Wild and savage beasts,” Strom said. Leader of the three horsemen.
Valerus nodded. “And now it follows you?”
“It comes and goes as it pleases,” Kern said, turning back to the fire, hunching down until he felt a touch of heat on his face. “Like anyone.”
Not quite like anyone. The dire wolf wasn’t stalking them, not on the hunt, but it always remained at the edge of their path, a dark whisper among the shadows. Its quiet presence, in fact, was likely what made the wolf so easy to accept as a member of their outcast clan. Their pack. It made no demands, and had proven of use from time to time. Warning them when strangers—or enemies—approached. Flushing game that even Daol or Hydallan might not have spotted.
And now, with evening rolling up on the struggling group, the wolf howled. Hoarse and savage. First ahead. Then to one side or the other. As if pacing among the stunted, scraggly pine that grew out of the old, broken rock flow.
It was their first day off the muddy paths, out from under the forested slopes and moving over an old lava flow, which spread north and eastward off the slopes of Ben Morgh. The dark rock pooled in unnatural depressions or mounded up like lumps of half-melted wax. It was another side to the wide-based mountain that anchored the Teeth. An angry, violent side, that Kern had never seen before.
From Conall Valley, where most of the pack had spent their entire lives, Ben Morgh dominated the western skyline with its massive, snowcapped peak. A calm, pleasant face staring down at them. On many days the peak wore a beard of frost-edged clouds, especially during winter and spring. But on calm, clear summer days the high slopes inspired many lodge hall tales. It was said that it was on Ben Morgh that Crom, the Cimmerians’ distant god, left his final footprint on Hyperboria; and because of that, the mountain was a place of power. Chieftains and great warriors had once been taken to the mountain, this House of Crom, for burial, rather than to the Field of the Chiefs. The desperate still traveled there, to seek Crom’s blessing.
What anyone found on the mountainside remained the stuff of legend. For every wondrous tale, there was another of madness. There was even a tale of Conan—of course there was!—where the legendary warrior discovered ancient crypts guarded by undead warriors.
Kern had never understood how such a magnificent face could inspire both beauty and horror, until now. The eastern face of Ben Morgh hardly resembled its western side. Dark. Craggy. Snowcapped, high up, but crusted in fresh scabs down a great deal of the lower slopes. Along one stretch, a bright ribbon of red drew a long scar down the mountain’s face where the earth bled fresh.
They would keep their distance. Footing was difficult enough as was, over the broken rock flow and gravel rolling beneath their booted feet. The handholds were rough, even against the hardened calluses of the Cimmerians. The horsemen were often forced to take long, swinging routes out away from the main group, searching for careful paths over the coarse slag. Even Gard Foehammer made better time, relying on the butt end of his pike and a determined stride that always assumed the next footfall would find purchase.
The band of warriors and horsemen had straggled out into a long, broken line as they crossed the scarred plains. But now Kern caught up with Daol and Ehmish as the two crouched atop a large, rounded mound of broken slabs and debris. The old, blistered rock had trapped the day’s warmth, and as the first fat drops of rain began to fall, the air suddenly grew warm and moist. The false warmth of summer. Ehmish tested the air with his nose, as if trying to scent the wolf. Daol had his hands splayed against the ground.
“Doesn’t like the footing,” was Daol’s guess. He scraped at the coarse stone flow, held up his hand to study the scrapes that had gouged into his skin and nails. “Is it trying to turn us back?”
Ehmish said nothing, and Ossian joined the small group as they crouched together, searching the twilight for some sign of the animal. In the distance, a light mist trailed over the rocky flow like an autumn ground fog. Or steam.
“What’s your wolf not liking, Kern? Afraid of some rocky ground?”
“Listen,” Ehmish said.
Kern shook his head. His mane of frosted hair swept at his shoulders. “That’s not fear.” And it wasn’t a hunting call either. That he would have recognized after so many months of the wolf’s company. “That’s anger. Someone is driving Frostpaw to rage.”