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He stopped only seldom for sleep： the ride itself was a kind of waking dream； a long white tunnel of wind and ice that seemed never…ending。 Ghosts attended him； a vast crowd of homeless dead walking at his stirrups。 Some of these were of his own making…or so it seemed from the reproach written on their pale faces…others were the importuning spirits for whom he had killed。 But none of them held any power over him now。 Without his name； he was as much a phantom as were they。
So they traveled together； the unnamed man and the nameless dead； a lone rider and a whispering； insubstantial horde that acpanied him like foam carried on before an ocean wave。
Each time the sun died and the star…crescent bloomed in the shimmering northwest sky； he made a slash with his knife in the leather of his saddle。 Sometimes when the sun vanished； the wind filled the dark sky with sleet and the stars did not appear。 Still； he marked his saddle。 Seeing the pale weals in the oil…darkened leather reassured him； proved that something could change in this eternal sameness of mountains and stones and snowy plain； and suggested that he was not merely crawling in a pointless circle like a blind insect on the rim of a cup。 The only other measure of time's passage was his hunger； which now shouted above even the most terrible of his other pains。 And that； too； was a queer fort。 To starve was to live。 Dead； he might find himself condemned to join the throng of whispering shades that surrounded him； doomed to flitter and sigh in this lifeless waste forever。 While he lived； there was at least a faint； cold hope…although what it was that he might hope for he could not quite recall。
There were eleven slashes on the saddle when his horse died。 One moment they were striding forward； breasting a drift of new snow； the next moment his mount sank slowly to its knees； quivering； then toppled over； a silent spray of white thrown up all around。 After a while he pulled himself free； his pain a voice as distant as the stars he followed。 He clambered to his feet and began； unsteadily； to walk。
Two more suns rose and fell as he trudged on。 Even his ghosts disappeared at last； scrubbed away by the howling snows。 He thought the weather might be getting colder； but could not remember for certain what cold was。
When the next sun climbed； it was into a freezing； slate…gray sky。 The wind had subsided and the swirling snows had dropped back down into feathery drifts。 Before him； looming jagged and severe as a shark's tooth against the horizon； stood the mountain。 A grim crown of iron…gray clouds hung about its shadowed peak； fed by smokes and steam that issued from cracks along its icy flanks。 Seeing it； he fell forward onto his knees and uttered a silent prayer of thanks。 He still did not know his name； but he knew that this was what he sought。
When another darkness and light had passed； he found himself nearing the mountain's shadow； walking in a land of icy hills and dark dales。 Mortal men and women lived here； pale…haired； suspicious…eyed； huddling in clan…houses made of muddied stone and heavy black beams。 He did not pass through their bleak villages； though he thought them dimly familiar。 When the inhabitants hailed him and approached； ing no closer than superstition allowed； he ignored them and stumbled on。
Another day of painful trudging carried him beyond the dwellings of the pale…haired folk。 Here the mountain blocked the sky so that even the sun seemed small and remote； and a kind of perpetual evening covered the land。 Sometimes staggering； sometimes crawling； he climbed the steps of the old； old road through the hills at the mountain's foot； through the silvery； frost…veiled ruins of a long…dead city。 Pillars like broken bones pushed up through the snowy crust。 Arches like the long…vacant eyes of skulls loomed against the mountain's shadowed ridges。
His strength was fading at last； so near to his goal。 The crumbling； icy road ended at a great gate in the face of the mountain； a gate taller than a tower； made of chalcedony quartz； shining alabaster； and witchwood； hung on hinges of black granite and graven with strange shapes and stranger runes。 It was before this gate that he stopped； the last dregs of life leaking from his tortured frame。 As the final blackness began to descend on him； the mighty gate opened。 A flock of white figures came forth； beautiful as ice in the sun； terrible as winter。 They had watched him e。 They had witnessed his every failing step across the white wilderness。 Now； their unfathomable curiosity somehow satisfied； they brought him at last into the fastness of the mountain。
The nameless traveler awakened in a great pillared chamber within the mountain's blue…lit heart。 Smoke and vapor from the titan well at the chamber's center rose to mix with the snow that flurried beneath the impossibly high ceiling。 For a long while he could only lie staring up at the swirling clouds。 When he could move his eyes further； he saw before him a great throne of black rock； covered all over with a patina of frost。 Upon this seat was a white…robed figure whose silver mask glowed like an azure flame； reflecting the light that spilled from the great well。 He was suddenly filled with exaltation； but also with horrible； horrible shame。
〃Mistress；〃 he cried as remembrance came flooding back； 〃destroy me； mistress！ Destroy me； for I have failed you！〃
The silver mask tilted toward him。 A wordless chant arose in the shadows of the chamber； where eyes glittered down at him from a crowd of watchers； as if the ghosts that had acpanied him through the waste had e now to judge him and witness his undoing。
〃Be silent；〃 said Utuk'ku。 Her terrible voice seized him with invisible hands； laying a spell of chill that reached down into his very heart； making him stone。 〃I will find out what I wish to know。〃
After his dreadful wounds and his hideous journey across the snows； his pain had bee so general that he had forgotten there was any other kind of sensation。 He had worn his torment as unheedingly as he had his namelessness； but that had been pain only of the body。 Now he was reminded…as were most who visited Stormspike…that there were agonies that far outstripped any corporeal injuries； and suffering that was unmitigated by the possibility of death's release。
Utuk'ku； the mountain's mistress； was old beyond prehension and had learned many things。 She could； perhaps； have gained the knowledge she sought from him without inflicting terrible torture。 If such mercy was possible； she chose not to exercise it。
He screamed and screamed。 The great chamber echoed。
The icy thoughts of the Queen of the Norns crept through him； wrenching at his very being with cold； heedless claws。 It was an agony beyond anything； beyond fear； or imagination。 She emptied him； and he was a helpless witness。 All that had happened； all his experiences； leaped from him； his inmost thoughts and private self ripped out and exhibited； it felt as though she had slit him open like a fish and pulled free his struggling soul。
He saw again the pursuit up Urmsheim Mountain； his quarry's discovery of the sword they had sought； his