The Eye of Winter's Fury (22 page)

135

You charge past the soldiers, ducking and weaving between the flying debris. As you close on the mage the hooded creature pulls a wand from its belt, sending bolts of lightning streaking towards you. It is time to fight:

	Special abilities
	Stone shower : At the end of every combat round, the flying shards cause 2 damage to your hero, ignoring armour .
	Stone shield : At the start of the third combat round, the geomancer will cast stone shield , hardening its robes into a rock-like armour. This will add 3 to your opponent’s armour but lowers their speed by 1 for the remainder of the combat.

If you manage to defeat this stone-flinging mage, turn to
251
.

136

Reah brightens at the mention of the word. ‘They were the very reason we came here. You see, when you look closer at the Dwarven histories, the older tablets found at Dur Andrel and Dour Gaun, there is frequent mention of the giants of Urd. That’s what the Dwarves called the surface world.’

‘I have read of such things,’ you reply, casting your mind back to the palace library. ‘But they’re not real. A hundred arms, fifty heads? A bedtime story to scare children.’

Reah shakes her head. ‘A storyteller’s fancy. These creatures existed. They have many names – Titans, frost giants, jotun. The Skards speak of them with reverence; they believe their ancestors once walked beside them, as equals.’

‘What has this got to do with the caves?’ you interject, still sounding sceptical. ‘You thought you’d find Titans there?’

‘We did,’ snaps the male, his brow creasing in anger. ‘There are structures, buildings, inside the caves.’

‘Dwarven,’ you snort. ‘There are Dwarf ruins everywhere in Valeron.’

The woman nods. ‘They share some common magic in their craft, yes. But these structures are different to anything I have ever seen before. We know that the Dwarves used something known as Titan blood in their magic. It gave them the ability to turn matter into stone. There are countless references in their texts to those who had been gifted with this blood – they named themselves Titans, in honour of those who came before. I wonder if there’s more to this, something we’ve yet to find. These original Titans – the jotun, frost giants – they could predate the Dwarves, predate anything we have yet discovered.’

137

Everard escorts you to a draughty, cobwebbed room at the top of one of the keep’s towers. ‘I think it’s best you have your own quarters,’ the knight explains, moving to the window and pulling back a pair of wooden shutters. Grey light spills into the room, bringing with it a chill wind, laced with dancing snow. Thankfully, it appears the storm of the previous night has abated. ‘You’re still recovering,’ states Everard, ‘and prone to night fevers – that’s the story we’re sticking to. At least this way you won’t be in the barracks with the other soldiers.’

‘You said no special treatment,’ you say glumly, eyeing the room’s sparse furnishings. Just a pallet bed, a bucket and washstand, and a clothes chest underneath the window. The fireplace opposite has not been lit in an age, its grate filled with a heap of cold ashes.

Everard nods. ‘One step at a time, my prince.’

‘I’m not a prince any longer.’ You step towards the washstand – and the mirror, balancing on the shelf above it.

‘You’re right.’ Everard sighs. ‘We all need to play along, until such
time as we can decide our next move. I will leave you – come find me if you need . . . want to talk.’ He bows stiffly, then leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

You shuffle up to the mirror, using the palm of your hand to clear away the thick coating of dust. Then you lean in close.

The face looking back at you bears no resemblance to the one you remember. Instinctively, you step away, horrified – then a perverse curiosity drives you back for a second look.

Your face is drawn, even more so than it was before, sagging off your bones and accentuating the hollows of your eyes and cheeks. The skin has a grey-green sallowness, dry like leather, and is branched with dark roots around the lips, nose and eyes.

You hold your stare, gazing into the glassy, colourless orbs that glare back at you. It is as if the life spark has gone out – and what is left is just ashes, like those lying dark and cold in the grate. Putting a hand to your hair, you tug at the gnarly strands and watch as they fall loose into the washstand, exposing the smooth scalp beneath. You stifle a sob, hand reaching for the shaving blade next to the mirror.

‘I’m a prince no longer,’ you whisper, pushing back what remains of your hair and passing the blade across the scalp. Minutes later and the washstand is filled with black curls of hair – your head now shaven to a smooth dome.

Next, your attention shifts to the chest. Lifting open the lid, you discover your previous belongings, some fresh clothing, a sword and several items of grey leather armour. You assume these are basic army issue that all recruits receive. If you wish, you may now equip any/all of the following:

As you go to leave the room, you pause for a moment, eyeing the mattress and the warm-looking furs strewn across it. In times past, such a sight would have been cruel torture, its comfort promising much-needed rest, but also the dreaded night terrors . . . Now, such tiredness and cravings have gone. Instead, you are left with an icy numbness.

What’s happened to me?

You close your eyes, sensing the bear’s presence still lurking at the back of your mind, in the darkest pit of your being. His strength leaks into you, and with it the freezing chill that stills your heart. You glance down at your muscular body, its broad chest unmoving, without breath or life. You wonder if your strange connection to the beast is the only thing keeping you alive.

Shivering, you turn and leave – determined to find distraction from your melancholy thoughts. Turn to
113
to begin your exploration of the keep.

138

You are unable to interact with the spirit. With nothing else of interest in the room, you take the unlit lamp (make a note of the word
lamp
on your hero sheet) and then continue into the next passageway. Turn to
385
.

139

Caught by one of the spinning fists, you are thrown backwards into a snow drift. You struggle to rise, the powdery granules pulling at you like quicksand. With an eldritch screech the beast surges forward, raising its arms to bring them down in a crushing blow. Desperately you try and break your weapons free – your eyes held fast by the rapidly descending fists . . .

A guttural cry.

Desnar slides beneath its swing, thrusting a dagger into the creature’s chest. As the beast rears back he follows up with a second strike to its neck, connecting with something vital and sending the beast’s body exploding outwards in a billowing cloud of snow and ice.

The battle is over.

Desnar throws a curse into the chill wind, his long braids of hair flapping loose about his shoulders. He turns his head, sparing you a cursory glance; disappointment is written in every line of his weathered face. ‘Weak,’ he grunts. Turn to
208
.

140

You clamber ashore, using an overhanging branch to help drag yourself out of the thick mud. As you lie, cold and shivering, on the banks of the mire, you turn to watch the snake’s body slowly sink beneath the surface. You were lucky to have survived – and as you glance around at the bone-covered clearing, it becomes clear that the snake’s previous victims were not so fortunate.

Once you have recovered, you decide to search through the remains. As you suspected, there are some human bones as well as animal – possibly lost travellers like yourself, who blundered into the mire. Picking through their belongings, you find 5 gold crowns, a leather cap and a plain silver ring, which you may now take:

Your muscles ache and your body is tired. All you want to do is lie down and sleep, to curl up and pretend you are back home – back in the safety of the royal palace. But you are too fearful to rest; you must keep moving in the hope of finding a proper shelter. After chewing more of the dragon leaf to bolster your strength, you head up the bank and back into the forest. Turn to
161
.

141

The jubilation is short-lived. More of the creatures are flooding into the yard through the breached walls, like a swarm of rats escaping a fire. The reptile warriors seem unstoppable, their bodies hardened by scales or coated in stone armour. Behind their ranks, Dwarf-sized mages in tattered robes fashion monstrous creations from the very rubble of the keep, mashing them together into crude mockeries of warriors. Elsewhere you see the rock itself turned to liquid, drawn through the air by dark magics to form fists and hammers, slamming into the remnants of the keep’s defences.

You struggle through the melee, dodging and parrying the incoming blows, trying to keep on the move. Once again, your thoughts turn to Anise. Perhaps she has already fled the keep – the only sensible choice, and one you consider taking yourself.

A white warhorse barrels through the thronging bodies, resplendent in plated barding, while its armoured rider hacks at the reptilian monsters, taking off heads and limbs with a butcher’s precision. ‘For Valeron! For Glory!’ The voice manages to resonate across the yard, despite the confines of the rider’s helm. It is unmistakably Everard. A horn bounces at his side, glowing with scripture.

‘To me! Rally, men, rally!’ The horse rears up on its hind legs, the steel-shod hooves smashing down to crush the scaled bodies beneath. The rider turns in the saddle, scanning the battlefield. Then his eyes alight on you. Tugging on the reins, he turns his horse, urging it forward. ‘The prince,’ he calls. ‘Defend the prince!’

It takes a moment for the words to sink in – to realise that your identity has now been revealed to the surrounding soldiers.

‘Prince?’ You look to your side, to see a female knight glaring at you with suspicion. You barely recognise Henna. Blood spatters her face and speckles her once bright armour. She is shaking visibly from exhaustion, half-dragging her dust-caked sword through the dirt. ‘You never said you were a prince!’

Before you can answer, Everard breaks from the throng, his horse tearing up mud and stone as he circles around you. ‘The prince! To the prince! This is Arran – the heir to the throne of Valeron. The blood of Leonidas. Prince Arran!’

Henna’s shakes her head in disbelief. ‘It can’t be.’

‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t tell . . .’ Your words falter, your attention now caught by a figure staggering through the mist. A thin girl with flamered hair. Her torn dress hangs off her scrawny shoulders, exposing pale skin, scuffed and bleeding. She is gripping a kitchen knife in trembling hands.

‘Anise!’

She doesn’t hear you, staggering as if in a daze, oblivious to the soldiers and monsters locked in combat around her. You push back into the melee, desperate to reach her – but then you hear a deafening, monstrous rumble. A terrifying, gut-wrenching noise.