The mountain answered by splitting a seam. The snow directly in front of him cracked along a line, and ice rose with a groan as if a buried cathedral were heaving up its nave. The mace came with it, shouldering free of the white in a slow, disdainful ascent that set frost smoking off its iron. The haft was buried deep; the head breached last, studded and cruel, a black star with a thousand broken points. Even half-sheathed in snow it towered over him like a keep.
Ludwig stared up until the wind watered his eyes. "Ah," he said faintly, memory returning with the name like a punch. "Right. Reward. For killing the thing." He lifted a hand as if to test the weight of the word and then let it fall. "How am I suppose to even carry this…"
