The Eye of Winter's Fury (106 page)

You feel the rush of night air, cold against your skin. Another twist of the passageway brings you to a chamber flooded with light, its ceiling open to the sky. Columns of stone curve around its edge, forming a circle. Nine columns, each carved with a figure facing inwards, their hands clasping a glowing orb.

At their centre, a stepped dais of rune-carved stone encircles a bonfire of green flame which gutters and dances in the wind, streaking long ribbons across the twilit skies.

Skoll and the paladin have paused at the edge of the columned circle. A man stands on the steps of the dais, his body in silhouette
against the bright green flames. It isn’t until you join your companions that you are able to make out more of his features, your sharp vision parting the veil of shadow.

His body is encased in plates of dark iron, enamelled with bands of ivory. The shoulder-guards bristle with a cruel array of spikes, framing a fanged helm designed to resemble a snarling wolf.

He has a hand raised to his eye-line, studying the golden feather he is rolling between his fingertips.

‘It is a wondrous thing, the apollo eagle.’ His voice is dry and sharp, like the crackling of leaves. ‘Such a beautiful creature, exquisite. My father had an eyrie at the castle; he found much pleasure in showing off his fine eagles. He would feed the prisoners to them. And make us watch.’ He releases the feather, letting the gusts of wind carry it away. ‘I was four when I attended my first feeding. I still hear the woman’s screams.’

Maune draws his sword, muttering something beneath his breath. He is tensed and looks about to charge, but something holds him back – perhaps the sudden turn of the man’s head, finally revealing the face beneath the helm. It might have been human once – a handsome face, piqued cheeks and an aquiline nose, suggesting someone of noble birth and bearing. Before the scarring and the ruination; before the bulbous tumour had taken hold, snaking out of a blackened eye-socket to wrap beneath his chin. The fleshy appendage appears to extend between his plates of armour, ending in a crab-like claw where the warrior’s left hand would have been.

His single yellow eye glitters back at you. Cunning like his wolf’s.

You leave Anise by the columns, then push past your companions to get a better glimpse of the face. The horror written on those grim features is almost captivating, a mirror of your own.

‘What are you, that you would oppose us?’ Your voice sounds muffled, as if the words are being fed into a great void. When the man answers, it is shrill and cutting in comparison to your own.

‘You would not know me, Arran, but we are brothers of a sort. We share much.’

‘Spare me the riddles,’ you growl, eyes narrowing. ‘I do not know you.’

‘My mother was a Mordland princess, the youngest and most beautiful of the emperor’s children. After the first shadow war, Valeron
and Mordland sought unity. My mother was married to one of your kings, a marriage of convenience – a symbol of that unity. My mother was not given a choice. She had a duty.’

You frown, your mind picking through your knowledge of royal family trees. The first shadow war was a thousand years ago, the brief treaty with Mordland a hundred years later. That would mean . . . ‘Your mother was Queen Lin?’

The man nods.

A sudden realisation forces your eyes to snap wide. Queen Lin was a figure of hate around the courts of Valeron; a woman who was imprisoned for witchcraft, who murdered her husband in cold blood. A woman forever branded ‘The Witch Queen . . .’

The man attempts a smile, but the scarring turns it into something more grotesque. ‘Go on.’

You continue to recollect what you remember from the dusty tomes in the palace library. ‘She was imprisoned, with her only son. The heir. But they were never heard of again – there was no public execution.’ You shake your head in bewilderment. ‘You cannot be him. It’s impossible.’

The man turns and starts to pace, his black cloak hardly seeming to stir around his armoured frame. ‘He was a cruel man, my father. Twisted. Evil. My mother acted out of self defence.’ His hand moves to his ruined eye for a moment. ‘Imprisoned, you say.’ He makes a sound between a snort and a chuckle. ‘They put us in the Crucible, with the murderers and the lunatics. Those not even worth a hangman’s noose.’ He turns on his heel, pacing again.

Skoll shifts next to you, his tongue working inside his mouth. A killer, seeing his opportunity to remove a threat. You put a hand to his arm, urging restraint.

‘You will never know . . . never know what it was like.’ The man stops, brushing away the fluid leaking from his one yellow eye. ‘What she had to do to protect us both; me – a seven-year-old boy. But we were lucky, we had our chance, escaped – and came north.’ He tilts his head. ‘I am Prince Sable Moran. What you see is what
they
made me into. The Church. Your feuding nobles. The scheming politicians. Sounding familiar yet, prince?’

‘You know nothing about me,’ you hiss.

‘No I don’t, but my mother is a prophet and a seer. And knows
much. You’ll perhaps know her better now as Melusine, the witch.’

Skoll makes a rumbling sound in his throat.

‘Get out of our way,’ you demand fiercely. Weapons find your hands, their magic sending slivers of light gusting on the wind. ‘Or I promise you a death long overdue.’

The man barks a shrill laugh.

‘Oh, what fine heroes,’ he mocks. ‘What did you come here for, the forge? It is corrupted. The Titans’ magic is undone.’

‘Lies!’ Skoll leaps forward, torch and axe sweeping round in a furious swathe. Somehow the prince meets him with sword drawn, although you never saw him move, its blade so black it seems like another shadow. The slim blade cuts, strong and powerful strokes. The man barely shifts his posture but Skoll is already on the ground, fighting against some unseen pain that assaults his body.

Maune lifts a hand, pooling light into his palm.

The prince merely looks at him, unafraid. ‘Thrones, kingdoms. What do you fight for, paladin? Your faith?’ He gives a sad frown. ‘You are no better than I.’

Maune springs at the prince. There is a blinding flash as light meets darkness. You stumble back, trying to make sense of the whirling shapes. Both men are fighting, frighteningly quick, moving fluidly like a performance long rehearsed. You start forward to try and aid your companion, but the spinning blades and magic make it impossible to pick one opponent from the other.

In your mind’s eye you see Nanuk and witness a similar play unfolding – the bear is wrestling with the wolf again, both animals flipping and twisting through the black sand of the Norr.

The paladin is knocked back. He slams into one of the columns, crumpling to his knees, head bowed. He is feigning weakness, you can tell he is ready to spring again. But the shadows around the column thicken and rise, wrapping themselves around the man’s body. There is the stink of burning flesh as they press against his glowing skin, eating away at the light. He screams in pain.

The prince barely looks out of breath. He stands, solid and immoveable, a darkness against the green fires of the forge. ‘And you, Arran. What do you still cling to? Revenge? Against those who wronged you?’ Another smile forms on his malformed lips. ‘Think you will make a better king than your father? A better ruler than the cardinal?’

An eyebrow arches above his one remaining eye.

‘I am here to end this – this chaos.’

‘Ah, yes . . .’

From the chill darkness you hear a vast and terrible rumble. It is coming from all around you, the land groaning in agony, rock and stone crumbling away – seized by another chain of tremors.

‘ . . . the serpent.’ The prince nods, gesturing with his blade to the impenetrable night beyond the columned circle. You cannot imagine the destruction being wrought there, but even the foundations of the floating mountain are trembling with its wrath. ‘The great leveller, Jormungdar. The last seals of his prison weaken. Soon he will be set free.’

‘To wreak
your
vengeance.’ You scowl with derision. ‘This is not the way; to release demons from the dark. To see everything fall to ruin.’

‘You speak of endings.’ The prince raises his dark sword, turning its edge to face you. ‘We see beginnings. Man is corrupted. We are base and evil creatures, Arran, no better than the demons. But where we differ – the demons know exactly what they are. Monsters, fit only for destruction.’ He snorts. ‘They do not lie to themselves, swaddle their murderous sin in ideals of faith, duty . . . revenge. Surely, with our wisdom and enlightenment, we should have strived for higher purpose.’

‘Then practise what you preach. End this mindless evil!’

Sable shakes his head. ‘Beginnings, Arran. I want to see our taint cleansed from this land. Let the shroud take us. A ninth world ends, and a new cycle begins.’

He turns his blade, letting the light from the flames shiver along its darkness.

‘Tell me. What joy do you carry in that stilled heart of yours, Arran?’ His one eye flicks to Anise, who is leaning against a column, eyes closed, breathing shallow. ‘Is it love, Arran? Is that the false hope that lends you purpose?’

You move at the same time as Skoll finds his feet, diving forward, axe-blade cutting towards the prince’s leg. You hear the scrape of metal as his blow is deflected, but it gives you enough of an opening to close with the dark prince.

Sable meets your strikes with effortless skill, his blade moving as
swiftly as the dancing shadows. ‘Come then, Arran,’ he snickers. ‘For my mother foresaw this, and I welcome death.’

If you have the keyword
brothers
on your hero sheet, turn to
101
. Otherwise, turn to
751
.

734

The monk opens out his meaty fist, showing you his five stones. This forces you to reveal your own. ‘A Queen’s Wave, double crowned – beats your King’s Table,’ he declares with a toadish smile. ‘The One God shines on me again. I win!’

Remove the word
scripture
from your hero sheet, then turn to
697
.

735

They have fallen to fire, shadow, chaos. Each one touched by her, Aisa. The destroyer. Only one remains. One worth saving. The world of Dormus. Your world.

‘But what of these . . . other worlds?’ You try and recall ever having read anything of such places. ‘The shadow legion, the sky elves . . . they came from other realms, didn’t they?’

They are lost children. Broken threads. They cannot be mended. At least, not that I see.
The woman turns to look upon the weave, her eyes dancing over it as if reading some hidden meaning captured in its many strands.
Gabriel believed the last world was the key. The centre of the balance. If Dormus could be saved, then hope – the plan – may yet be restored.

(Return to
713
to ask another question or turn to
760
to end the conversation.)

736

You sink deeper into the mire, the thick waters now lapping against your chest. As you struggle onwards the smoke grows thicker, its caustic toxins making your eyes burn and your head spin with nausea. (Add two
defeats
to your hero sheet.)

With persistence you manage to reach a tangle of dark roots, bobbing on the surface. Several are glistening with magic, their charcoal bark etched with malign runes. If you wish, you may take one of the following items:

You must now decide if you will risk continuing to the centre of the pool (turn to
125
) or wade back to shore and leave the chamber (turn to
303
).

737

Caul has cut a block from the ice door and is now using his feet to push it inwards. He gives the block a final shove, sending it sliding away on a film of melted ice.

He clambers back to his feet, brushing ice from his furs. ‘The old ways are the best ways.’

You drop to all fours and crawl through the space into the room beyond.

At first you find it difficult to comprehend the immensity of the chamber. It has been cut from the heart of the glacier, its smooth iced surfaces sparkling in the eerie green light. Your eyes fall on a slab of carved ice at the centre of the cave, where some creature is lying manacled to its surface. It looks like it was fashioned from the black rock of the mountain, veined with the green magic that Reah showed you
in her shard. Grooves have been carved into the slab, leading to channels that snake across the ice to hollowed depressions. Each channel is stained with a black residue – perhaps blood.

‘Is this their Titan?’ Caul crouches next to one of the black stains, putting a hand to the cold ice. ‘Whatever it was, looks like they were draining it of something – blood?’