Simon shivered uncontrollably as they broke through the thick, powdered snow. Their feet sank until their knees were covered, and the moisture soaked through their pants legs. He pulled his jacket closer around his body, but it did hardly any good. The voracious wind cut through the woven fabric, chilling them to the bone.
He raised a hand to cover his eyes, but it did nothing to negate the brilliant glare from the snow itself. Simon glanced enviously toward Luthor, who had affixed his tinted lenses to his glasses. Though the apothecary could see better than Simon, his skin was still a vibrant red and his lips already looked chaffed and cracked, with a tinge of blue along the rim of his mouth.
“This was a fool’s errand,” Simon said loudly to be heard over the wind. “I’m the greater fool for thinking it a worthwhile plan.”
“I won’t deny we very likely marched toward martyrdom, sir,” Luthor replied, “but I would rather take our chances finding the tribesmen than fall victim to Gideon Dosett and his vile magic.”
Simon frowned and looked away. His body ached in a way that he was sure Luthor didn’t understand. Though he was stoic, he felt drained to his core, as though Gideon’s demonic magic had pulled from his very soul. His thighs burned with every step and his breathing became more and more labored.
“How far do you suppose we’ve traveled?” Luthor asked.
Simon glanced over his shoulder at the city, now far in the distance. His eyes trailed from the high city walls to the sun, glaring overhead. “Ten miles, maybe fewer.”
Luthor flexed his fingers as he tried to ball them into a fist, but the swelling in his knuckles limited his movement. “Dare I ask how far we still have to march?”
“To the foothills?”
Simon turned his gaze to the distant mountains. He mentally calculated the distance, comparing it to Haversham behind them. He internally groaned at the realization of how far they still had to go.
“Not far,” he lied to his companion. “It should be about the same distance, perhaps a little less.”
Luthor nodded, though Simon could see the skepticism on the man’s face.
Simon lifted his leg weakly from the deep snow and took another step. They were cresting another snow bank, and Simon always advanced with more caution near the top. In most instances, the height of the dunes was caused merely by an accumulation of snow. A wrong step could send him sinking to his chest in the thick powder or, worse, over his head in snow. He knew the numbness that had spread through his feet and shins from the damp cold there. He was loathed to imagine how cold his body would be if he were completely submerged in snow.
To his satisfaction, the top of the snow bank held as he stepped forward. The powder beneath his shoe compacted, lending him a platform from which he could support his weight. Simon raised his other foot from the snow and placed it beside the first so that he was standing at the top of the dune.
“Do keep up,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the struggling, shorter man. Where the snow reached to Simon’s knee, it was nearly to Luthor’s groin. The man shivered involuntarily with each downward step. “The quicker we reach the foothills, the quicker we can warm ourselves by a fire.”
“Or the quicker we can be skinned alive by a pack of werewolves,” Luthor corrected. “You seem to have quickly forgotten that these creatures aren’t prone to kindness toward an Inquisitor. They did try to kill us.”
“True, but your lady friend also tried to help us expose the demon for what he truly is. The enemy of my enemy is my—”
A rumble ended Simon’s sentence. The snow beneath his feet shifted, and the crest of the snow bank collapsed. Simon tumbled forward as the snow underneath him cascaded down the steep backside. His feet flew out behind him, and the Inquisitor fell into the snow. For a second, Simon teetered on the tip of the collapsing bank, his face half concealed by the powdery snow and his hands clawing for purchase. As quickly as he landed, however, he disappeared from view as the small avalanche continued to claim his dune.
Luthor scrambled to the top of the evaporating mound in time to watch Simon tumble through the drift. The drop was far longer than Luthor would have surmised as they climbed up the leeward side of the hill. With the snow beneath giving way, the drop was nearly vertical, ending on the frozen surface of the lake below.
Simon saw the world spin wildly as he tumbled head over feet. Snow filled his mouth and coated his skin. It stung his eyes as he tried to gain his bearings, and he was forced to close them tightly. He spread his arms and legs to make a wider surface area and he was quickly able to halt his tumbling, though he still slid amidst the snow toward the frozen ground below.
The falling snow struck the surface of the frozen lake and piled into a mound through which Simon ploughed. His momentum carried him out of the snow bank and he slid in a circle, his arms and legs still spread, before coming to a stop on the icy surface.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. He stared at the deep blue and aquamarine of the sheet of ice. Light filtered through it, reflecting in the large bubbles that floated just beneath its frozen surface. Through the heart of the ice, a web of cracks and fissures ran in all directions.
Simon’s breath froze as solidly as the ice beneath him. He saw the still-flowing water far beneath him through the ice, drifting lazily away from where he lay. Despite the frigid cold that was permeating his body, he remained paralyzed at the sight of the water.
“I’m coming, sir,” Luthor yelled from above. “Stay where you are.”
Simon coughed, forcing air back into his lungs. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of moving a muscle,” he replied, though his answer was far too quiet to be heard.
Luthor trudged a few dozen feet to his right until the slope of the snow leading to the edge of the lake was more gradual. He tentatively stepped onto the edge of the lake. Though the ice beneath his feet groaned from the weight, he didn’t hear the telltale snaps of breaking ice. Moving slowly, keeping his feet in constant contact with the icy surface, Luthor skated toward his prone mentor.
Simon shivered until his muscles felt like they were on fire. He wasn’t sure his body would respond even if he tried to stand, though he still had no intention of trying. The idea of standing above unknown depths of murky lake water with God only knows what swimming hungrily in its depths was horrifying enough. Knowing that the only thing keeping him from discovering first hand was a sheet of ice, the depth of which varied from region to region, was paralyzing.
“I’m almost to you, sir,” Luthor said as he skated slowly closer. The man’s arms were held parallel to the ice as he tried to maintain his balance as he moved along the slippery surface.
Simon watched the man through squinted eyes. The glare of the sun off the ice was even more severe than off the snow itself. He had heard stories about snow blindness in his travels, though he thought the idea of succumbing to such an ailment was so miniscule that it hardly warranted concern. Now, the thought that he might lose his sight was as equally frightening as standing on ice.
As Luthor grew closer, the ice beneath them both groaned. Water sloshed through existing fissures in the lake’s surface, as their weight forced the icy surface lower into the water.
“Stop,” Simon demanded. “For God’s sake, stop!”
Luthor paused and regained his balance. “Sir, you’re going to have to stand at some point. You can’t remain prostrate forever.”
“I think you underestimate my strength of will.”
Luthor frowned. “You’re wet and cold already. The longer you lay there, the more likely your joints and muscles will freeze. Once that occurs, there isn’t a power in the kingdom that will get you moving once more. You need to stand.”
Simon sighed. “Of course. Let me… well, let me just collect my thoughts.”
His thoughts consisted of little more than envisioning himself breaking through thin ice and sinking into the depths of the lake, the freezing water constricting his chest as his lungs screamed for air. His hands woul
d struggle feebly to pull him back to the surface, but the underwater currents would have taken him far from his hole. His fingers would claw at the ice above him, falsely finding hope in small cracks that offered no relief until, inevitably, he died beneath the frozen surface.
“Sir?” Luthor asked, shattering his waking nightmare.
“Give me a moment, won’t you? Has anyone ever told you that you’re far too demanding?”
Luthor sighed but remained where he was.
Despite Simon’s better judgment, he placed his palms against the ice. His muscles screamed in protest as he began lifting himself. His hands slid slightly from side to side, making standing even more difficult than it already would have been for Simon. The ice groaned and small cracks formed near the pressure points on his hands and knees. He finally placed his feet beneath him and managed to stand on the slippery surface. Bending low and retrieving his top hat, he placed it on his head. Though he currently cared little for the hat itself, he knew that it would trap heat escaping his head, which would grant him a modicum of warmth.
“Get me back to the snow,” he demanded.
Luthor shook his head and looked apologetic. “That’s not our best course of action, sir.”
“Frankly, I don’t give a damn about our best course of action. I want off this accursed ice.”
Luthor placed his hands on his hips. “Sir, you’re already wet and cold. If you think that I also haven’t noticed that you’re still weak from your encounter with Gideon, then you’re a fool. If we go back to the closest shore, we’ll have to trek for some time to skirt the lake. Your body will never survive. Hypothermia, frostbite, or both will claim you long before we come within miles of the mountains.”
Simon scowled at his companion, but Luthor was unfazed.
“If you wish to survive,” the apothecary continued, “we’ll have to cut across the lake. It’ll save us hours of travel, hours that you can’t spare, I might add.”
Simon looked across the frozen lake, much of which was concealed by a layer of powdered snowfall. He groaned louder than the ice beneath his feet.
“I once worried that you’d poison me in my sleep,” Simon said. “Now I realize that was a foolish fear. You’re far more diabolical. You’re clearly planning to torture me to death.”
“With all due respect, you complain like a woman. Now come on, sir.”
Simon stood for a moment longer before gingerly following Luthor across the ice. “I can’t help but feel that you don’t think I’m actually due much respect at all. If we survive this—”
“When we survive this,” Luthor corrected.
“If we survive this, you and I will have need to redefine our relationship.”
“I truly can’t wait for that conversation, sir.”
They moved painfully slowly across the ice. The trip seemed far longer to Simon than it had been to reach the lake from Haversham. He tried to flex his toes within his shoes but couldn’t tell if he was successful or not. Everything beneath his knees felt numb with an accompanying dull ache in the bones. His fingers were beginning to feel equally as pained, as though he had a sudden acute onset of arthritis in his knuckles.
By the time they reached the far shore, the toll on both men was severe. Their lips were blue and quivered with each breath. Eyelids hung low as the bodies of both yearned for sleep. Their arms hung limply at their side, and their feet shuffled along the ice less because of their desire to skate over the frozen surface and more because their legs lacked the energy to lift them higher.
As Luthor’s foot crunched through the partially frozen covering of the deep snow, he sighed with discontent. Though the climb off the frozen lake was gradual, it was still a steady incline, one that neither man was eager to tackle.
“It won’t be much further now, sir,” Luthor said, though his words were slurred through numb lips.
Simon merely grunted his response. He was certain the trip had taken its toll on Luthor, but he doubted the apothecary understood the level of his soul-aching weariness. The iron will of which Simon had often prided himself had been replaced by a morose acceptance of his fate. Despite his efforts, he was certain he was going to die facedown in the snow.
He stepped into the snow and even the loose powder seemed to pull at his feet. His pants legs were stiff where the moisture had frozen them solid. Each movement cracked and calved some of the clinging ice from his clothing, though he knew it would quickly be replaced once more.
Reaching the tip of the incline beyond exhausted his body. Simon lifted his leg to step and his numb foot caught on the snow bank. Stumbling forward, he dropped to his knees. He placed his hands out to catch himself, only to have them disappear in the deep snow.
Luthor appeared by his side, slipping his arms beneath Simon’s armpits and pulling him upright with surprising strength.
“Leave me, Luthor,” Simon muttered. “You clearly have far more strength than I do remaining. Go and find the werewolf tribes. See if they’ll send someone to retrieve my remains.”
“That’s absolute rubbish, sir,” Luthor said, crouching at his side. “I have no intention of leaving you. Now come on and get to your feet.”
“I can’t,” Simon replied. “I’m defeated. I should have never brought you out here. We should have taken our chances in Haversham, confronting the whole of the city if necessary. Had we died then, it would have been a far bit better a fate than to die alone and forgotten. We’re going to perish here and no one, probably not even the werewolves themselves, is going to find our bodies.”
Luthor grasped Simon by the shoulders and shook him violently. The Inquisitor raised his eyes to his friend. “We’re not defeated yet. We just need to go a little further, but in order for that to happen, I need you to get to your feet. Now get up.”
Simon shook his head and it earned him another violent shake from Luthor in response.
“Stop shaking me, damn you.”
“I’ll stop shaking you when you quit wallowing in your own self-pity and stand up.”
“Just let me—”
He was interrupted with another violent shake.
“Stop that!” Simon barked angrily.
Luthor smiled. “There’s the fire in your belly that I’ve come to know. Now get on your feet.”
Simon shifted his weight so that he could free a foot. He placed it in the snow for support. “I’m growing to greatly dislike you. The word ‘hate’ has been bantered around in my mind lately.”
“Excellent, sir. Your hate will keep you warm.”
“So will beating you senseless, I presume.”
Luthor laughed though it quickly turned into a ragged cough. “If that’s what it takes, then I’ll accept my punishment.”
Simon forced his other leg beneath him and stood awkwardly. None of his limbs felt as though they were cooperating fully, as though he were standing on artificial limbs that had never been properly fitted.
He took a step and nearly fell again. Only Luthor’s quick grasp kept him from collapsing fully into the snow.
“I’ve got you, sir.”
Simon shook his head. “How is it that you still have any strength at all, Luthor? I have a weariness in my chest the likes of which I’ve never felt before, yet you still have the strength to support my weight.”
“I never had the displeasure of being entranced by a demon. It’s taken more out of you than you are willing to admit.”
“Maybe so,” Simon said wearily. “Maybe so.”
He planted his feet beneath him once more and looked toward the horizon. The mountains still seemed impossibly far away. The slowly setting sun cast deep shadows over their peaks, only adding to the illusion of their distance.
As he tried to step again, his legs simply gave out and he dropped heavily to the snow. Not even Luthor’s support could keep him upright, and they both fell to their knees.
“I’m done, Luthor,” Simon sighed.
“No, you’re not. You just need to get up and mov
ing once more. Once the blood flow returns to your limbs, you’ll feel perfectly revived once more.”
Simon shook his head. “Your pathetic motivational speeches aren’t going to work this time. I don’t even have the strength to stand.”
The Inquisitor started to lean backward, and Luthor caught his head before he could fall completely into the snow. Simon’s eyelids fluttered as he struggled to remain conscious.
“Sir, you can’t fall asleep. I can’t carry you, and I certainly won’t leave you here. I need you to wake up.”
“Forgive me,” Simon said quietly. “Forgive me for being so foolish. We should have never come.”
“Sir,” Luthor said. He struck Simon’s cheek with some force, leaving bright red fingerprints across the man’s face. Even with the strike, Simon refused to fully open his eyelids.
Despite what Simon believed, Luthor was equally as exhausted. The protective runes on his body kept him warmer and prolonged his energy beyond normal human means, but their power was nearly expired. The same ache that Simon felt was creeping into every iota of Luthor’s body.
The cold was a living beast, enveloping them both. Its seedy fingers were creeping into Luthor’s mind, clouding his ability to concentrate. He looked down at his friend and noticed Simon’s eyes fully closed. His chest barely rose and fell with each respective breath, and his skin felt icy to the touch. If he wasn’t warmed soon, he knew Simon would die of exposure.
Luthor looked to the snow beside Simon and tried to summon a mystical flame, one that could burn without wood for fuel and even on top of the moist snow. Sparks flickered at the ends of his fingers before a small wisp of flame appeared. As he extended his fingers toward the surface of the snow, however, the flame danced briefly before evaporating into a small puff of white smoke. He tried again, but the sparks refused to light. Under normal circumstances, summoning a flame would have been child’s play, but his clouded mind refused to focus enough for his magic to coalesce.
Had he still been able to cry, Luthor would have shed a tear. He curled his arms around Simon and pulled the Inquisitor close to his body, hoping their shared warmth would help the man survive even a few moments longer.
Darkness enveloped Luthor and for a moment, he feared he fell asleep and the sun had set. He looked up to see the silhouette of a man blocking the setting sun. Fur lined his body and a flintlock rifle rested comfortably in his hand, the stock of which was pressed to his hip.
Luthor turned his head and noticed more of the natives surrounding him, pointing spears and knives threateningly toward the exhausted pair.
“Please,” Luthor managed through a dry throat and cracked lips. “Please, we’ve come to seek your help.”
The tribesman in front of him lifted his rifle from his hip, spun it gracefully in his hand, and drove the stock of the rifle into Luthor’s face. The apothecary was unconscious long before he fell backward into the snow.