The Eye of Winter's Fury (28 page)

169

You grope across a pebbled slope, still half-blinded by the stark brightness of the outdoors. Stones and pebbles shift beneath your weight, some skittering away to form rippling streams. Near at hand, coarse yellow grass blows flat in the wind, while ahead of you a field of scoured boulders skirts the edge of a jagged fissure..

With a grunt you drag yourself a little further down the slope, your strength ebbing into a numb exhaustion. For a fleeting second, as your eyes flutter closed, you see Nanuk silhouetted against the green of the Norr landscape. He paces back and forth, restless – waiting. It would be so easy to let yourself go . . . to return to the dream.

A hissing snarl. Footsteps crunch.

You startle awake as three figures sharpen into focus, marching straight towards you up the slope. Their outlines are wide and brawny. They move with purpose, their clawed hands gripping wicked-looking cleavers. As they near the harsh light catches on their bodies, highlighting scales and teeth.

You scrabble frantically for your weapons, realising that these are the same horrors that assaulted the keep; some mockery of human and reptile, with evil faces distended into elongated snouts. You back up the slope, crab-stepping with weapons held ready. But the creatures’ attention is caught by something else . . . above you . . .

A white shape blurs through the air, slamming into the lead creature and sending it flailing backwards. As it crashes down, you see a bone javelin protruding from its forehead.

You duck down, casting a quick glance past your shoulder. Beyond the rock fall, a shelf of cream-coloured rock juts several metres above you. Whoever threw the javelin must be on top of the escarpment and out of sight.

The clatter of steel and a scuffling of feet.

‘Ara vantar!’

Suddenly, two bodies come hurtling over the edge of the rock shelf, tangled together. They land heavily, scraping and rolling their way down the slope. A scaled creature and a man. Dust and stone is kicked into the air, limbs ploughing furrows into the ground as they wrestle with each other, both a match in size and brawn.

Another cry. To your left, a giant of a man drops down onto the slope, half-skidding on the loose stones. Dressed in furs and hide, with a mane of thick hair hanging past his shoulders, he looks more animal than human. A gruff roar escapes his lips as the giant springs forward. He barrels into one of the remaining monsters, leading with a bone-spiked shoulder. They both go down in a heap of fur and scaled flesh.

The last monster turns to aid its fallen companion, kicking out at the giant before he has a chance to react. The blow sends the hunter lurching backwards, the bone knife in his hand skating away down the slope. Hissing in triumph, the creature makes another leap for him, its rusty cleaver raised high above its head.

A rattling clink.

The reptile seems to hang in the air for a second, then gives a surprised shriek as it is dragged backwards in a spray of blood. A third hunter, shorter than the others, with a shaven head and weasel-like face, is gripping the end of a chain, its links wrapped around his gloved arm. The other end appears to be sunk into the creature’s back by some type of claw-like spear.

With extraordinary strength, the smaller hunter drags the monster towards him, then races around behind a boulder. The creature slams against the side of the rock, just as the hunter reappears, dragging the chain with him. He leaps over the struggling monster and pulls the chain tight across its neck. With a deft movement of his hands, he locks the two lengths of chain together, leaving the monster bound to the rock, choking and gasping for air.

You rise to your feet, transfixed by the battle – looking from one fight to the next, unsure where to focus your efforts. The three hunters are putting on an impressive show, looking more than a match for their larger adversaries. To your left, the giant-sized hunter is now straddling his downed opponent, whose body has hardened to stone. Unperturbed, the hunter has a rock in both hands and is smashing it repeatedly into the monster’s face, sending splinters and stone-dust flying in all directions.

Further down the slope, the first hunter is punching tooth-like daggers into the side of his assailant. His arms and chest are coated in gore. The monster kicks its legs, claws trying to find purchase around the man’s throat, but the hunter leans away, laughing as if it was all a game. The daggers rise and fall a final time. Dark blood trickles between the pebbles.

‘Trek ni vedi!’ The shaven-headed hunter has brandished an axe, the blade looking like a flanged bone. His arm swings back and forth, blood spraying to either side. Then he stands back, holding the monster’s severed head before his grinning face. ‘Trek ni vedi!’ He turns and waves it at his companions.

The first hunter hawks then spits a shower of bloody froth into the dirt. He goes to wipe his mouth on his sleeve, but jerks away when he sees the gore smeared all over it. He gives it a tentative sniff, then a thoughtful lick, grimacing with revulsion a moment later. ‘Slabra ki.’

His gaze shifts across to his fellow hunters.

That’s when he catches sight of you, his blue eyes narrowing. ‘Utkik! Unda varlden!’ He quickly rises to his feet, the two bloody daggers still gripped in his ham-sized fists. As he advances you notice the birth mark on his face, almost like a red claw discolouring the left cheek. A necklace of bones rattle and clink against his broad chest.

But what you notice most is the look in his eyes.

The three hunters are clearly Skards – and you doubt they will show you any mercy.

170

The knife is small and easy enough to conceal. You have gained the following item:

Pruning knife

(left hand: dagger)

+1 magic

Ability: first cut

You contemplate investigating the carved box, but the crunch of boots outside the cabin alerts you to danger. Turn to
102
.

171

‘I did,’ Harris proclaims, looking pleased with himself. ‘To date, and I know this for a fact,’ he waves a finger through the air, as if lecturing to students, ‘no-one has made it through a full night. The last one to try was Borgant Hull. Poor fellow.’

‘What happened to him?’ you croak, not sure you want to know the answer.

‘Oh, he’s dead,’ replies Harris, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Went quite mad, I believe.’

Brack scratches at his blond hair, no longer looking so sure of himself. ‘And he was a soldier?’

‘No, he was a coward,’ states Harris, twitching with irritation. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be fine. After all, we have you to protect us, don’t we, Brack?’

The burly warrior beams back, squaring his broad shoulders in acknowledgment of the praise – evidently not picking up on the note of sarcasm in Harris’s words or the boy’s mocking grin. (Return to
86
to ask another question or turn to
297
to continue on to the tower.)

172

You make a snap decision and veer to the left, scraping past the walls of the cleft to emerge in a shadowed gorge. The air here is cold, the wind keening eerily along the sharp, angular rock walls.

You throw yourself into a headlong sprint, heedless of the uneven ground and scattered rubble, which could twist or snap an ankle with ease. The noise of the dogs behind you is getting louder and
more insistent. You can picture their ugly faces, the strong jaws and teeth . . .

‘Move!’ you scream at yourself.
Don’t look back.

The jagged walls zigzag back and forth, eventually throwing you against a wall of impassable rock. The only way forward is to climb. You look up at the daunting rock face, rising fifty metres or more to the grey sky above.

To climb the wall you will need to complete a
speed
or
brawn
challenge, using whichever attribute is highest:

If you are successful, turn to
333
. If you fail the challenge, turn to
194
.

173

The barman snorts with amusement, then startles when he realises you’re being deadly serious. ‘Bowfinch? Blimey, that’ll set you back a pretty penny, especially out here. Do yer think the likes of this rabble carry that kind of money?’ He gestures to his shabby-looking clientele. ‘Listen. Your best bet is to try the Coracle, down at the docks. There’s some party going on there, a rich lord showing off his money. Maybe the Coracle’s stocked its cellar with something more than bilge water.’

174

You drag yourself onto the ice shelf, battling against the furious wind that seems intent on pulling you back. Your cloak snaps through the air as you struggle to your knees, covering your face to shield it from the snow and ice borne up on the currents.

The opening is a wind tunnel – a wide shaft that stretches back into the innards of the mountain. Water trickles down the walls, sculpting the ice into smooth, dripping candles. Some almost seem to hold a shape – like hands reaching out, grasping towards you. Similar formations hang from the ceiling, all angled in the direction of the wind.

Head bowed, you crawl forwards into the tunnel, each inch that you gain a torturous effort. It is as if the very mountain itself is trying to expel you from its presence.

Then you hear the voices. Moans. Whispers. A pained cry, carried on the wind.

You look up, to see a mist coalescing around the dagger-like stalactites. Lightning flashes – and for a moment ghostly faces are illuminated amongst the smoke, their features drawn and twisted into demonic horrors. A keening wail echoes from their open mouths.

You watch transfixed as the misty coils wrap around the hanging ice, tightening and constricting like snakes. There is a dreadful cracking sound as the stalactites come loose. Ice showers down into the passageway, followed by a whistling rain of deadly spikes. By some miracle you manage to twist aside, saving yourself from becoming impaled. But the wind catches you off guard, lifting you off your feet and sending you tumbling back along the passageway.

Desperately you reach out, spectral claws lancing from your fingers to scrape and then dig into the wall. You barely have a chance to steady yourself before the wailing mist is streaking down towards you, its broiling fists gripping daggers of ice. It is time to fight:

	Special abilities
	Stalactite splinters : At the start of every third combat round, the keening mist showers you with fragments of ice. You must roll six dice. For each or result, you must automatically take 4 damage, ignoring armour . If you wish, you can spend a speed point to avoid any/all damage from the six rolls (your speed is restored at the end of the combat.)
	Wind fall : The wind is battering against you, driving you back towards the edge of the ice shelf. If the keening is not defeated by the end of the seventh combat round, you are sent hurtling out into the snow-whipped skies. This automatically loses you the combat.