The Eye of Winter's Fury (32 page)

199

As you approach, several of the recruits turn their heads, watching you with interest. The blond-haired warrior continues to jab and swing his mutton, until he realises he is no longer the centre of attention. Grumpily, he shifts round in his seat, his eyes narrowing when he sees you.

‘What in Hel’s fire is that?’ he gawps, looking you up and down.

‘Something with more brains than you, Brack,’ grins the lone female of the group. She is perched on the edge of the table, feet resting on the bench. Of all the recruits she is the most well-groomed, resplendent in plate armour that has been polished to a high sheen. Her auburn hair is close shaven, given her a boyish look. A scar along her cheek does nothing to diminish her natural beauty. ‘It’s our handsome new recruit.’

Her comment draws sniggers from her companions. You can well believe that your appearance is nothing short of peculiar – with pale, rheumy eyes and skin mottled with broken veins and bruises. But being the outsider is nothing new to you.

‘If that’s what the fever does, oh man . . .’ Brack rips a piece of meat from the leg, chewing it noisily with a half-open mouth.

‘Actually, for me – it’s probably an improvement,’ you shrug,
playing along with the joke. It appears to work, eliciting more laughter from the soldiers.

‘I’m Brack,’ grins the blond-haired warrior, holding out a ham-sized fist.

You look at the proffered limb, then back at him, confused.

‘Touch fists, man. Show respect,’

Awkwardly you make a fist and knock it against his own. Brack seems pleased with the gesture, nodding and ripping another chunk of meat from his mutton bone. ‘That’s Henna,’ he says, jerking a thumb at the girl. ‘I’m teaching her good table manners, ain’t I, lady?’

The female nods her head in a more civil greeting. ‘Brack is our resident jester. He just forgets to wear the bells.’

Brack licks grease from his fingers, grinning. ‘Don’t listen to her, she’s from the academy. All posh and proper like, not like us rough boys, eh?’ He punches one of his companions on the arm, a thin-looking lad with braids in his hair. His sinewy arms are covered in various tattoos. He grins at Brack, nodding eagerly – evidently keen to please.

‘This is Jarrow,’ says Brack, tossing his bone into the other boy’s bowl. ‘He don’t say much, which is why I like him. So, what about you then, fever man? What yer got to say for yourself?’

You are about to answer, when your attention is caught by a redhaired kitchen girl, collecting empty plates from a nearby table. She looks anything but pretty, with a squared jaw and pinched nose, and a lip made crooked by a scar.

And yet you can’t take your eyes off her – perhaps it is the way she carries herself. Sure and confident.

Brack is the first to notice. He makes a rumbling at the back of his throat, then spits in the girl’s direction. ‘Damn Skard,’ he growls. ‘The only good Skard is a dead ’un, that’s what my pa used to say.’

Jarrow shrieks with laughter, an unsettling noise in the sudden uneasy silence.

The girl looks your way and offers a half-smile, before turning quickly and heading back to the kitchens.

‘Her name is Anise,’ says Henna. ‘I understand they found her when she was a babe. Her people left her to die . . . out on the ice fields.’

Brack smirks. ‘And I can see why. Fetch me more meat, girl!’ He
shouts after her. ‘Stupid Skard. If I had my way . . .’ He puts a hand to his dagger. ‘What you say, Jarr?’

The younger lad gives another of his hyena laughs. Henna rolls her eyes, pushing off from the table. ‘Suddenly, I don’t like this company,’ she sighs. ‘I’m heading off for duty.’

200

The rune-carved manacle continues to sap at your strength, draining your magic and leaving you weak and nauseous. You drop to your knees, out of exhaustion rather than submission, but it is a gesture that pleases Gurt.

‘The dog has learnt to beg.’ He sucks the last of the tender meat from his bone then tosses it at your feet. You glare down at the greasy item, then lift your eyes to meet his wide expectant grin. ‘There are scraps on that bone, don’t let it go to waste.’

You glare back at Gurt, then at the grinning Skards. Taking the bone, you make a show of pulling at the remaining fatty strands, forcing them down your dry, dead throat. Finally you suck out the soft marrow, before tossing the clean bone aside.

Gurt sniggers like a cruel child. ‘Good, now you’re going to perform a new trick. I tell you what I want and you go fetch. Simple enough for you?’ He lifts his tankard, taking several noisy gulps. Then he slams it back onto the table with a rumbling belch. ‘This so-called beer tastes like barrel water. What I want is something more refined, more suited to my standing.’ He wipes the foam from his lips, then knocks the tankard away with his fingers. ‘Normally I get supplies from the trappers, but they’re thin on the ground. So, you can go to Ryker’s. They’ll have shipments in for the winter months. Get me a bottle of Bowfinch, the ’55 vintage.’

You stare back at the man with genuine surprise. ‘You want me to get you a bottle of wine? Is this how you test my courage?’

Gurt slams his fists on the table, rattling the pots. ‘Courage? I’m seeing how far you want to go to make a bigger ass of yourself. These are my terms. If you don’t like them, you know what you can do. Now, remove this . . . thing.’ He waves a hand at you, turning his head in feigned revulsion.

You are dragged out of the hall, your cries of agony resounding in your ears. Once you are back on the snow fields the manacle is removed from your arm, then the two warriors melt back into the pale mist. You are left lying in the snow, clutching at your burnt flesh, teeth still gritted against the pain.

You realise that the only way to gain entrance to the Hall of Vindsvall is to please the vile Gurt. Surely it can’t be that difficult to get hold of a bottle of Bowfinch ’55. (Make a note of the keyword
Bowfinch
on your hero sheet. Then return to the quest map to continue your journey.)

201

The fight soon descends into an inelegant scrap, both of you slipping and sliding on the churned-up snow. A lucky opening finally presents itself – and with a snarl you drive your weapons through the man’s torso, pinning him to the alley wall.

You sheathe your weapons, then quickly search the man’s corpse – already sensing the previously timid onlookers moving closer, hungry for any spoils. You manage to grab a money pouch (you have gained 30 gold crowns) and two
muttok pelts
(simply make a note of these on your hero sheet, they don’t take up backpack space). You may also take one of the following:

Remove the word
ashes
from your hero sheet. You may now head towards the docks (turn to
659
) or the compound (turn to
426
).

202

You step towards the edge of the circle, hoping your fears are unfounded. However, as soon as you come within range of the toadstools, they start to shuffle forward, their black caps belching clouds of spores into the air.

Desperately, you look around for a means of defending yourself. Next to the skeleton you spot a broken branch of willow. With no other option, you hastily pick it up, brandishing it like a club. You have now gained the following item:

Whacking willow

(main hand: club)

+1 brawn

You realise your only chance of survival is to bash your way through the circle of toadstools. It is time to take on the might of:

	Special abilities
	Spore cloud : At the end of each combat round, roll a die. If the result is or less, you are caught in a blinding cloud of spores, reducing your speed by 1 for the next combat round only. If you roll or more, you have avoided the spores.

If you manage to defeat these fearsome fungi, remember to restore your
health
to full, then turn to
185
.

203

‘It’s a colourful history, to be sure,’ says Harris with apparent relish. ‘It used to be a watchtower, manned by guards from the keep. Now it’s strictly out of bounds. No one is allowed to go there.’

‘With good reason, I am sure,’ you interject.

Harris snorts. ‘Yes, something bad happened there. I found out about it in one of Segg’s books.’

‘I know I’m going to regret asking this,’ you sigh. ‘So, why is the tower out of bounds?’

‘It was over-run by creatures from the rift,’ answers Harris. ‘There were guards trapped inside – some powerful magic surrounded the tower, stopping anyone from entering or leaving. With no chance of rescue, the guards holed themselves up in a storeroom, tried to survive. But the dark things still found them . . . pounding and beating against the door. It was only a matter of time before the creatures broke in, and set to the guards with their claws and teeth.’

Anise shivers, pulling her cloak tighter around her body. ‘That’s a horrible story.’

Harris looks over at her with an upraised eyebrow. ‘You think that’s the end? The guards were dying one by one – horribly, screaming and crying as they were torn to pieces. Only one remained, a mage. He resorted to the forbidden arts in a desperate attempt to save himself. He used necromancy. He raised his fallen companions from the dead and turned their corpses against the enemy.’

Harris’s eyes flick to you, taking in your mottled, grey-flesh. ‘Somehow, he was able to break the magic that surrounded the tower. When the soldiers finally managed to get inside, they found a blood bath – but no survivors.’

‘This was a long time ago, right?’ Brack is still smiling, but you sense his anxiety.

Harris clicks his tongue. ‘Stop interrupting, you buffoon. In the years after, it was clear that there was something wrong with the tower. Things kept happening, strange occurrences – soldiers going missing, reports of strange sounds, many refusing to set foot inside. Then, the necromancer returned. A shadow of his former self, but somehow alive once again, as if the tower itself had willed it. Only three soldiers were brave enough to go against him. Two brothers, Mott and Rinehart – and a cavalier, Caeleb.’

‘Oh, and I bet this ends well . . .’ Brack pulls a playful face, still pretending to be amused rather than scared.