The Eye of Winter's Fury (31 page)

If you manage to defeat these villainous mages, turn to
523
.

188

A set of worn stairs brings you to a narrow landing, with an open window at either end. In the wall facing you are two doors, both looking identical. From behind the door on your right you can hear the chinking of armour and a muffled grunting noise.

189

‘Race one is across the shattered sea,’ explains the organiser. ‘Thirty racers, split into two rounds of fifteen. The top five racers in each round go through to the final. Understand? Good – let’s get you onto the ice.’ Turn to
222
.

190

The Skard sentries escort you back into the longhouse. Gurt grimaces with disappointment as he lifts his eyes from his bowl of stew. ‘You’re back, to waste more of my time.’ He licks his fingers, pushing the last of his meal aside. ‘I’ve told you, you ain’t getting an audience with the asynjur . . .’

You pull the bottle of Bowfinch from your pack and then roll it down the table. Gurt splutters in surprise, almost lifting up the table as he struggles to lean forward, snatching the bottle before it drops off the edge.

You fold your arms, waiting.

Gurt empties his mug over the floor then, after shaking it free of dregs, proceeds to fill it with wine. He sniffs the contents suspiciously then tips the mug back, gulping it down. When the mug is dry he slams it back down onto the table, giving an appreciative belch.

‘Well?’ you enquire.

Gurt pours another cup, licking his red-stained lips. ‘You’re a persistent little hound, I’ll give yer that.’

You have gained the following special ability:

Dogged determination (mo):
You may reroll any/all of your hero’s speed dice, accepting the result of the rerolled dice. This ability can only be used once per combat.

Gurt waves his mug through the air, sloshing wine down his sleeve. ‘All right then. Take him to the hall. Let’s see what Syn Hulda makes of my lapdog!’ Turn to
521
.

191

You slump into the nearest chair, giving a sigh of contentment. It is good to feel safe and warm again. While Sylvie stirs the pot, you take a moment to study her. Clearly she is an outdoors woman, used to fending for herself. There are no airs or graces to her appearance, the tangles in her grey hair and the patches on her clothing testament to
a make-do attitude. Her build is stocky, with broad shoulders and a plump roundness to her figure. A far cry from the noble women at court – thin and pale as porcelain, dressed in sweet smiles and elegant dresses, no different to a toymaker’s doll.

You glance down at your own clothing, torn and muddied – the lace on the sleeves hanging loose in several places.
What would those fine ladies think of me now?

Sylvie takes a bowl and ladles out some stew, then places it on the table. You wait expectantly for some cutlery, but the woman has already moved on to serving her own portion, before taking a sip from the edge of her bowl. ‘Hmm, delicious.’

Evidently court manners have no place here. With a shrug, you grab the bowl in both hands and bring it to your lips. You take a gulp of the hot meaty stew, then notice Sylvie’s eyes regarding you with interest, presumably waiting for your verdict. ‘It’s good,’ you lie. The truth is, the stew is watery and over-spiced, with a fatty residue that clogs in the throat. Not what a prince like you is used to. But you are famished, so you greedily take another mouthful. ‘It’s perfect,’ you add, struggling to swallow a lump of gristle.

While you continue to eat, your attention drifts to your surroundings. Books and scrolls appear to take priority in the main room, along with the bewildering menagerie of plants. A small work table is set against the far wall, scattered with twigs and leaves, and a number of half-finished charms.

192

The race organiser furrows his brow. ‘What you doing, showing your face here? Everyone saw you crash and burn out on the ice. I got no
time for losers – now get gone!’ He waves you away, tutting the whole time. Return to
106
.

193

Taking Caul’s advice, you head back through the chambers and passages to arrive at the trapped corridor. You opt to go first, throwing yourself into a full-on sprint. Fire roars all around you, the glyphs sparking with magic as your boots strike the stone. To survive the ‘corridor of doom’ you must pass a number of
speed
challenges. Each challenge you successfully complete allows you to move to the next challenge on the list.

If you fail a drake fire challenge you must immediately take 10 damage, ignoring
armour
. You may then move onto the next challenge. If you fail a lightning challenge, you are knocked back to the previous challenge on the list, which you must pass again to proceed:

If you still have
health
remaining after completing all of the challenges then you have reached the end of the corridor. Turn to
637
. If you lose all your
health
, you must count this as a defeat on your hero sheet. You may then try the challenge again.

194

Your newfound strength is a bonus, but not enough to make up for your lack of climbing experience. You have barely made it five metres before you lose your footing and fall, plummeting back to the ground in a flurry of dust and stone.

You scramble to your feet, just as the dog-team comes skidding round the corner. Trapped against the wall, you have no choice but to fight:

	Special abilities
	Outnumbered : At the end of each combat round, you must take 1 damage from each surviving opponent, ignoring armour . This ability only applies while you are faced with multiple opponents.

If you manage to send these dogs packing, turn to
236
. 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.

195

At the rear of the chamber you discover a rectangular depression cut into the wall, where an iron ladder rises up to the inky night sky. Holy inscriptions have been etched along the sides of the shaft, now mostly worn away or painted over in arcane whorls of grime and blood.

Anise is first onto the ladder, hurrying up the metal rungs to the top. She disappears over the edge, then a second later beckons you to follow.

Climbing the ladder, you find yourself on the roof of the tower. The wind is fierce, stabbing at you with its cold daggers, whipping back your cloak and forcing you to stagger. Ahead, you can see the ghost of a knight, standing on the edge of the battlements. There is a wild look to his eyes as the wind sweeps back his long auburn hair.

‘Rinehart?’ Anise shouts the name over the roaring gale, her expression more baffled than fearful.

The knight looks back at you, the ghost-light flickering in his pained glare. ‘Do not stop me! I betrayed my family, betrayed my vows.’ He takes another step, his feet on the very edge of the stone, his balance
wavering as he looks down at the vertiginous drop. ‘My brother . . . he can never forgive me for what I did!’

If you have
Mott’s medallion
and wish to offer it to the knight, turn to
533
. Otherwise, turn to
343
.

196

You lift up the latch and push open the door. The interior of the cabin is awash with warmth and light, cast from the roaring fire that blazes in the hearth. An iron cooking pot rests on the hearth’s lintel, a cloud of steam rising from its bubbling contents.

Tentatively, you call out again, to check if anyone is home. There is no answer.

‘Suppose I should make myself at home,’ you grin, stepping inside and leaving the door to close behind you.

The main room of the cabin is small and cluttered, dominated by a wooden table covered in pots, plants and jars of herbs. The opposite wall is lined with shelves, where books and scrolls are pushed into every available space.

Hungrily, your mind wanders back to the cooking pot. Surely no one would mind if you just helped yourself. As you start towards the fire you notice a small table, tucked underneath the window. The top is covered with twigs, leaves and herbal mixtures – and several half-worked charms.

Intrigued, you cross to take a closer look, wondering if there is anything here that might be useful. Rummaging through the freshly-picked wood litter, you recognise burdock root and sage, and strips of cherry bark. Most of the herbs and mixtures are medicinal in nature, simple cures and tonics for everyday ills. Of greater interest is the small carved box, resting next to a sheaf of papers. You also spot a black-handled knife that has been used to shave the bark. A series of runic symbols glow along its iron blade.

197

A drum beat resounds across the camp. Sura turns her head, her grey eyes falling on the small group that is gathering. ‘It is time,’ she whispers.

You follow the old woman into the crowd. Men and women move reverently aside for the old woman – for you, they give glares and gruff curses. Your back prickles from the imaginary knives you can picture sinking into your flesh.

‘They do not want me here,’ you hiss at Sura. ‘I should go . . .’

Sura ignores you, coming to a halt at the centre of the circle. The drum beat falls to silence. For a time, the only sound is the low despondent moan of the wind. Desnar steps forward, his black hair now braided and tied back by a leather band. He is followed by a shorter man, thin and wiry, with a long drooping moustache tipped with red dye. In his hands he holds a spear and a bone knife.

Sura speaks in Skard, her voice raised to the assembled crowd. Then her eyes flick to you.

‘By nightfall we will have a chieftain. The two of you will take the blood test. Only one may wear the halstek.’ Sura nods to the Skard holding the spear and the knife. He takes a step forward, offering them both at arms length. Sura moves aside, gesturing for you to approach the man. ‘As you challenge one of our own, southlander, you have the right to decide the test. The spear is the test of the hunter. A chieftain must provide for his people. Without the hunt, we are nothing.’

‘And the knife?’ you croak, nervously.

‘The test of the warrior. The fighter. A chieftain should have the strength to lead. The strength to best his enemies in battle.’

198

Unable to react in time, your sled skids sideways across the snow, ploughing into a steeped bank. You are thrown up into the air, your sled flipping over and dragging your yelping dog-team with it. By some miracle you manage to twist out of your fall, spectral claws extending from your fingertips. They scrape along the edge of the crevasse, throwing up a flurry of white splinters until they finally find purchase, stopping you from plunging into the ice-cold waters.

You may have avoided taking a dip, but unfortunately you have failed to complete the race. You are now disqualified from the tournament. Replace the keyword
rookie/veteran
with
underdog
. Return to the map to continue your adventure.