The Eye of Winter's Fury (14 page)

If you manage to defeat the undead guardsmen turn to
448
. If you lose the combat, remember to record your defeat on your hero sheet. You may then attempt the combat again or return to the map.

77

You make it through the glacier and onto the home straight – the walls of the prison now less than a mile to the south. Unfortunately, the racer who opted for the dangerous corkscrew is too far ahead to catch, but you can still battle for second and third place with the other competitors.

With a crack of your whip, you urge your dog-team between the nearest racers. Just as you are starting to pass them, your opponents swing their sleds into yours, hemming you in. Unable to manoeuvre out of the bottleneck, you find yourself hurtling towards a break in the ice.

You will need to take a challenge test using your
toughness
attribute:

If you are successful, turn to
519
. If you fail, turn to
198
.

78

Taking the bucket from the porch, you head to the creek. It proves easy to find, the chattering rush of noise leading you into a wooded dell. Along its base, white-frothed waters dance and splash, carving a zigzagging path amongst the trees. Turn to
155
.

79

Along the walls of Ryker’s Island, torches flicker like a thousand hungry eyes as the racers take their positions for the final race. To the north, across a landscape scoured by the descent of ice floes, you see
the dark mountain known as ‘Bleak Peak’. Its summit, little more than a hooked finger of rock, bent like a witch’s hat, is every racer’s goal – the first to reach the top of Bleak Peak will be announced the winner and receive the prized Winter Diamond.

Your competitors are all experienced veterans, having won through from the previous rounds. You cast your eye along the line of sleds – all bristling with spikes, armour and various mounted weapons. From the walls and inside the compound, you can hear the expectant crowds hollering for their favourites – you are even surprised to hear a few cries for ‘ghost’, your own racing handle.

Once again, the fur-clad man with the mosaic face takes to the wall, his fingers pointed skywards. ‘The Peak has no mercy for fools. The Peak will break those who show fear. Only a true champion will take its crown. Racers ready! Get set . . . go!’

The fire has barely left his hand before the sleds are tearing forward, whips snapping through the air, the howls and snarls of the dog-teams quickly drowning out the hooting cheers from the prison walls. The race for Bleak Peak has begun! Turn to
614
.

80

The taproom resembles a large, high-ceilinged hall, not dissimilar to the great hall at Bitter Keep. But whereas that had been a cold, lifeless space devoid of mirth, the Coracle is bursting at the seams with busy tables, packed tightly together, and heaving crowds – filling the hall with a boisterous mix of laughter, singing and drink-fuelled chatter.

You move through the congested aisles, noting the grizzled features of the Coracle’s clientele. You guess most of them must be whalers, going by their wind-burnt faces and ivory piercings.

Ahead of you is the main bar, with mounted heads of bears, muttok and wolves glaring back from its far wall. An olive-skinned woman, her face partly disfigured by a scar, is serving up ale to the thronging masses. To your left, a number of men are sat around a table playing a game. They are holding a number of small round stones in their hands, marked with different symbols. Bets are being made as various players choose and discard stones, then reveal their hands.

Behind the gaming table you spy a doorway leading through to
what you assume is a private room. Two rough-looking men in oiled black leathers stand on solemn guard, stopping and questioning those who wish to enter.

81

‘The southerners would like to think them barbarians, with no higher purpose than making war and worshipping heathen gods.’ Everard raises an eyebrow, awaiting your response.

‘Are you saying that is not the truth?’ Every story you have ever heard has painted the Skards as fierce and bloodthirsty warriors, a warning of what becomes of a people when they are driven by their baser instincts. ‘The Skards are a threat to our safety,’ you persist. ‘These very defences were built to keep those savages out of Valeron. They
are
savages, Lord Everard.’

The knight’s silence makes you nervous.

‘They are hunters,’ he states at last, turning his head to meet the rush of the wind. ‘They struggle daily against what life chooses to throw at them. Look at this place, Arran. Do you see land for crops, for homes, for a life? The further north you go, where rock turns to ice – where life balances on such a fine edge – that is when you start to appreciate who they really are.’

‘You speak highly of them,’ you cut in sharply. ‘Considering your post, Lord Everard, I would have expected you to hold a grudge, not sympathise with our common enemy.’

Everard bristles at that – you can see it in the set of his jaw, the sudden brightness that flares in those steely eyes. ‘Our enemy is whatever chooses to beat down these walls, Arran. Goblins, trolls, demons – and worse. The Skards were our enemy once, just like the others. They were organised, had a strong leader. Death and hardship had taken its toll, so yes, they desired our soft lands of comfort and
gluttony. I wonder, who wouldn’t? And they’d have won, but for the fact they were routed – lost their leader and, with him, their spirit. So now the tribes are scattered, bickering and fighting between themselves – lost out there in that cruel wasteland, trying to make the best of it, like the rest of us.’

Everard releases a pent-up breath, misting the air.

You nod, by way of apology. ‘Indeed. It seems I have much to learn, my Lord.’

‘Bah, don’t sweat it. You’re no different to anyone else,’ grunts the knight. ‘We all need an enemy, a monster to pit our strength against. You’ve just got to learn to choose the right fight.’

82

The frost forge is now yours to use. If you are a warrior, turn to
410
. If you are a mage, turn to
394
. If you are a rogue, turn to
428
.

83

The top of the shaft is covered by a tangled mesh of wood and bark, held together by clods of dried mud and what smells like rotted meat. Grimacing from the stench, you grapple onto the edge of the rock and then push yourself up through the debris.

You clamber out onto solid ground, the blustery wind beating most of the wood and stinking mud from your body. As you look around, half-blinded by the light, you realise that you have emerged inside a giant nest, perched on top of a chimney of rock. Several large eggs lie scattered around you, as well as bones, feathers and some half-eaten remains.

Before you can clamber free, you hear an ear-piercing shriek. A shadow passes overhead, blotting out the light. You look up, just in
time to see an immense black-feathered bird swooping down, its blood-stained talons spread wide to grab you. It is time to fight:

Special abilities

Perilous plunge : If the roc wins a combat round, roll a die. If the result is or less, instead of rolling for a damage score, the roc picks you up in its talons, flies up into the air, then throws you back to the ground. This attack causes 5 damage, ignoring armour , and lowers your speed by 1 in the next combat round. (You cannot use a dodge ability, such as evade or vanish to avoid this.) If the result is or more, the roc rolls for a damage score instead.

If you manage to overcome this bird of prey, turn to
356
. If you lose the combat, remember to record your defeat on your hero sheet. You may then attempt the combat again or return to the map.

84

Your weapon shreds through the ghost’s body, drawing out deafening shrieks of pain. Within moments, nothing of it remains but a few wisps of smoke which quickly diffuse into the mist. Exhausted from the fight, you slump against the statue, your relief tainted by the knowledge that there will be more – a lot more.

As if on cue, a shrieking wail rends the air, followed by a whole dirge-like chorus. Then something deeper, more powerful, raises its voice above the din – a thunderous roar suggestive of a monstrous abomination.

You scan your surroundings, trying to gauge which direction they are coming from. This hiding place no longer feels safe. Through the banks of fog you start to see shapes. More shadows creeping across the sand, their black claws grasping towards you. And behind them a giant of darkness, with red burning eyes and a crown of iron spikes.

You turn and run, heading in the opposite direction, letting the strange mist engulf you once again. This is how every dream plays
out – you run, you hide, you run . . . The only certainty is that you have to survive.

The landscape changes quickly, becoming a plain of stunted blackened trees and weathered boulders, all sculptured into leering demonic faces. In the distance you can dimly make out a line of mountains, their edges picked out by flickering pulses of green lightning. They are the only notable landmark on this hellish plain so you decide to head towards them, hoping their slopes might offer some protection.

But it seems the dream will not let you escape so easily. As you hurry between the sculptured rocks, you hear a fresh peal of demonic cries. Within seconds they come into view, bright against the green mist. Their bodies blaze like hearth fires, crackling and hissing as they scamper on all fours. There is a whole pack of them, closing in from both sides. You know you can’t possibly fight them all, there are too many – maybe twenty or thirty.

‘Wake up!’ you scream at yourself. ‘Wake up!’

You stumble and fall, crashing down onto the cold sandy floor. The nearest group of demons skid past then hurry back, their mouths cracking open to reveal fangs of charred black stone. You cover your face in terror as the heat from their bodies draws close, singeing your clothing. ‘Wake up,’ you screech. ‘WAKE UP!’ Turn to
47
.