The Eye of Winter's Fury (102 page)

708

You take a blast to the stomach. The next thing you know, you are falling backwards – the cold ice rushing up to meet you with a thwack! The landing is painful, but not as painful as watching your sled pull away with the other racer in tow.

Without a sled you have been disqualified from the race. Replace the keyword
veteran
with
underdog
. Return to the map to continue your adventure.

709

‘Watered-down ale and cockroach stew. Tastes as bad as it sounds, I’m afraid.’ The barman nods to one of his servants as they walk past, their tray laden with steaming bowls of gruel. ‘Funny really, all the
best meat goes to the dogs. Keeps ’em strong and healthy for the races – you should see what those mutts can get through.’ He shakes his head with a bemused frown. ‘Out here, we learn to make the best of it. Trust me, by the end of winter we’ll be serving up old boots for supper.’

If you have the keyword
Bowfinch
on your hero sheet, turn to
173
. Otherwise, return to
420
.

710

You suspect that the bars of the cell will open if someone places their hand over the print, but you do not wish to suffer more pain by doing so – your hand is already swollen, your body feeling weaker from the toxins that are now surging through it.

If you have
clackers
in your backpack, turn to
663
. Otherwise, you have no means of interacting with this magic. You can either attempt to chop through the cell door (turn to
439
) or leave and continue your journey (turn to
6
).

711

By some miracle you are able to guide your transport through the sizzling barrage of magic, taking only minor damage (You must lower your transport’s
stability
by 1.) Before the towers are able to discharge another assault you ramp up the speed, putting as much distance as you can between yourself and the towers’ limited range. Turn to
492
.

712

Hale is the first to fall. The giant warrior throws himself repeatedly against the might of the shadow fiend, trying to close inside the whirling tentacles and set to work with axe and knife. But the fangs are too quick. He is left stumbling back against a pillar, with two of the shadowy teeth broken and stuck fast in his chest. Their darkness spreads out from the wounds, eating him alive, his pain-racked curses
cut short as his clothing and armour drop to the ground, empty.

Ninvuk falls victim to the wolf, dodging one clawed paw only to be hit by another. His body is shredded in two, leaving a crimson mist where he had once been standing.

It quickly becomes apparent that the hunters’ weapons are no match for these magical adversaries, their blades and spears leaving no noticeable wounds. Only your own weapons, glowing with a green magic, seem to draw pain from these creatures, sending glittering blood spraying through the mist.

You dismember the shadow, leaving its tentacles roiling uselessly on the ground, then drive your weapons and magic into its black body, exploding it into shreds of darkness. Only Fenrir is left, snarling as the beast swipes its paws at Taulu, who is trying to fend it off with his javelin. He is forced to retreat, stumbling over the body of a fallen Skard in his haste. He drops onto his back, his javelin-point raised in the hope of spearing his over-eager opponent. The wolf sees the danger, twisting at the last moment, its teeth locking around the javelin and tearing it from the Skard’s grip. You hurry to Taulu’s aid, seeing that he is now defenceless against the wolf’s teeth and claws . . .

All of a sudden something rushes into view, bounding over the rubble and corpses. It moves impossibly fast, a huge ball of muscle and fur, slamming into the wolf and sending it rolling onto its side. The wolf finds its feet quickly, skidding through the dirt, teeth snapping. Its howl is met by a thunderous roar.

‘Nanuk!’

The bear rears up on his hind limbs, magic sparking around the translucent ghostly image. Then the two beasts charge at each other, biting and clawing, their bodies like gigantic constellations against the darkening skies. Taulu watches in bewildered fascination, a half-smile playing about his lips.

The two warring animals roll through the dirt, locked to each other in a deadly embrace. You see the danger before they do – the edge of the outcropping looming ever nearer. Nanuk tries to break free, its paws batting the wolf away, but Fenrir has its jaws locked around a hind-leg. Together they go tumbling over into nothingness.

‘Nanuk!’ You race for the edge, but when you look over there is nothing to see save for the green mist, swirling thickly around the jagged rocks below.

You reach out in your mind, feeling for the bear. He is distant, just a flicker of life at the brink of your awareness.

‘Saviour.’

You turn to see Taulu staggering towards you, his clawed birth-mark glowing in the green-tinged light. Its bright radiance is reflected in his triumphant gaze. ‘You have ancestors with you. Spirits.’

You frown, confused. ‘You mean the bear – Nanuk?’

‘He hunt with you. I see behind eyes. Bear. Strength.’ He reaches around to the back of his neck, his hands settling on the tie of his necklace. You realise that the bones hanging there must be the claws and teeth of a bear. ‘You lead now. I follow. We go to hall. You free.’

He never finishes the sentence. A green blade punches out of the front of his chest. His eyes look down in shock, blood suddenly blossoming through the leather of his tunic. He gives a rasping sigh as the blade is withdrawn, then he drops to the ground, his necklace of bones rattling by his side.

A ghostly apparition hovers above Taulu’s body, a wand-like weapon grasped in long spidery fingers. The body is slim and curved, like a woman’s, but the face glaring at you is a monstrous mask, as if some bulbous parasite has taken over. From the pulpy flesh, hooked barbs form a mockery of a crown, their tips ending in glittering fronds that hang down the ghost’s back like a wedding veil.

I have waited for you.
The words are like fingernails, scratching across the surface of your mind.
My corpse prince. Blood of Leonidas.

‘You know me?’ Your hands tighten around your weapons. Nanuk nudges you with his presence, still weak – but the knowledge he is alive fills you with a sudden courage.

I know a good many things.
The woman’s gown ripples around her narrow frame, its lace edging and woven pearls hinting at a dress that was once regal and lavish, but is now mottled with age, its edges tattered.
I know your heart, fledgling. I feel its emptiness, its cold.

‘You’re the witch,’ you venture, taking a tentative step backwards. ‘The Skards spoke of you.’

The ghost flickers and starts to fade.
I wait for you in the north, fledgling. Come, I have much to show you, much for you to learn . . .

The ghost reaches out a thin, pale hand, the fingers grasping for you – then the ragged body draws back into the mist, fading quickly
out of sight. A few moments later the fog starts to dissipate, bringing the corpse-strewn battlefield back into view.

Searching the ruins, you find one of the following items:

You also find two
muttok pelts
(simply make a note of these on your hero sheet, they do not take up backpack space) and a roll of greased animal hide. On one side are the words ‘White Wolf Trading Company’ and a stamp of a wolf’s head. You open out the hide, flipping it over to reveal a basic map scrawled in a variety of coloured inks. The map-maker has used symbols rather than labels to mark locations, but the map may prove useful in helping you to navigate these wilds.

As you prepare to leave, your thoughts drift back to Taulu. The bone necklace still lies in the dirt, only inches from his bloodied fingers. He was offering you the trinket, before the witch ended his life. Perhaps it has some meaning, some greater significance than the grisly teeth and claws threaded onto the sinew. You reach down and take the necklace, feeling a power thrum from each of its bones. Nanuk’s spirit suddenly grows stronger, filling you once again with his vital strength.

You place the necklace around your neck and tie it in place. Then you fix your eyes northwards, at the cold expanse of ice and rock. (Return to the map to continue your adventure.)

713

Momentarily blinded, you are aware of falling. Your hands reach out to slow your descent, fingers brushing against something fine – like silk. You find yourself bouncing and flipping, your body rolling over a series of soft flexible cords, perhaps a net.

Your vision starts to return. Bright shapes arch past, patterned like spiders’ webs. You continue to fall, slipping between the criss-crossing bands, bouncing off others strong as rope – twisting and spinning.

Your dizzying descent makes it difficult to discern your surroundings. There is blackness, flashes of light, distant stars. From somewhere below comes a grinding clatter; some sort of machinery. You reach out again, hands snapping around one of the cords. It feels cold to the touch, burning like ice. Gritting your teeth, you try and ignore the pain, swinging your feet to catch another thread for balance.

You hang in the web, rocking sickeningly back-and-forth, your head turning in every direction to try and absorb what your eyes are telling you.

This is a web. A giant web of sparkling flex, extending all around you. The size is incomprehensible – there seems no end to it, the strands reaching out into the void of twinkling stars.

The sound of the machinery continues to beat beneath you. Looking down, you notice a confusion of wheels spinning in a fast-moving blur, whilst all around them pointed spindles extend like the minarets of a castle, catching the threads of silvery flax and winding them into glowing reels.

There is no ground to speak of – between the spokes of the wheels you see only more glittering weave, dropping away to a vertiginous darkness.

You hang like a fly, trapped in a web.

The cord you are holding starts to shake, as if disturbed by a weight. You notice other nearby threads vibrating, leaving an after-image of light shimmering against the darkness. With difficulty, you push yourself onto an adjoining section of the weave, turning your head to study the surrounding area. It is then that you see the woman clambering across the web, her legs bowed to the side like a spider, two long grey-skinned toes clutching the narrow threads with ease.

She moves gracefully, her thin body forming bony ridges beneath her tattered robes. The face is human, a woman of indeterminable age, with grey leathery skin and a bald scalp raked with bleeding abrasions.

‘Where am I?’ you ask, your voice echoing back to you from a great distance.

The woman stops, her elongated fingers spread across the single cord that balances her.

‘You’re the weaver,’ you gasp. ‘The one Skoll spoke of.’

The woman’s almond-shaped eyes regard you curiously. When she speaks the words are heard in your head, but her ashen lips remain tightly closed.

Mistaken, yes. But some truth. Gabriel was the weaver. I am the spinner. The spinner.

The woman scuttles closer, passing effortlessly from one thread to the next. She stops, eyes staring once again. A hand scratches at her baldness, the nails adding fresh cuts and opening up old wounds.

I don’t like the sound. Do you hear it? The discord. The discord.
Her head twitches from side to side as she continues to scratch distractedly, like a cat trying to rid itself of a flea.

‘What is this place?’ You look down at the spinning wheels, clattering endlessly as they add fresh thread to the distaff spindles. ‘Is this part of a dream?’

Not a dream. A demon has you. Strong and old and wise. I protect you here. Only a short time. A short time.

The woman’s long toes bunch around the thread as she swings herself down, grabbing hold of a thread below her. She points to the spinning wheels.
I am life. I give life. Three of us. The fates. We were spun and nine norns with us. Our tasks were known. To make. To protect. Nine worlds our charge. And only one now remains.

714

Your magic lifts the Skard off his feet, sending him spinning back onto the ice. As he crashes down the ice splinters beneath him, his body slipping through the widening hole into the chill waters beneath.

Dropping onto all fours, you scramble over to the hole. ‘Desnar!’ The water laps at the jagged edge of the opening, but there is no sign of the Skard. Then you hear a pounding against the ice. You see a
shape flailing beneath the surface – a glimpse of a face pressed against its underside, bubbles streaming from an open mouth.

You draw back your hand, summoning Nanuk’s spirit into your body. As bright claws flicker into being you drive them into the ice, cutting through the thin mantle. A head bursts up through the newly-made hole, gasping for breath. You reach down and grab the Skard’s shoulders, helping to pull him back onto the ice. His staff is still gripped tightly in his right hand, its antlered headpiece dripping with frost.

You quickly find your feet, snatching up your discarded weapons. The Skard makes no move to attack, still coughing and spitting water onto the ice.