The Eye of Winter's Fury (33 page)

Harris shoots him an irritated look. ‘No, it didn’t. The necromancer killed Mott and raised him back from the dead. Rinehart was forced to
kill his own brother, then, driven mad by what he had done, he threw himself from the roof of the tower.’

‘And the necromancer?’ asks Anise, breathless from the suspense.

‘Caeleb was successful in ending the mage’s life. He was the only one to return. A week later, he resigned from his post. Some say he was never the same man again. Since then, the tower has been left to rot and ruin – the perfect dare for anyone who thinks they’re brave enough to spend a night within its walls.’ (Return to
86
to ask another question or turn to
297
to continue on to the tower.)

204

Quest: The winter caves

(
NOTE
: You must have completed the orange quest
The bitter end
before you can access this location.)

The nights have grown longer, the days shorter. Time has lost all meaning – days, weeks – you can no longer be sure if it has not been a lifetime. The landscape has become a vast white emptiness, stark and brilliant to your now-sensitive eyes. During the day it is often unbearable, forcing you to hunker down and await the night, when your heightened vision can dress everything in a muted green.

A ghost world.

At times you wonder if you have left Valeron altogether; somehow slipped into the dreamscape of the Norr. The veil between the two seems thin. The lure of that other place is a constant craving.

Hood pulled low, you trudge on, the ice matting your furs and armour. You cannot feel the cold – you cannot feel anything anymore, not even the pain of loneliness or the yearning sickness for home. No cold, no pain. And yet, your body still bears the ravages of the north – red and yellow patches of frostbite, darkening in places to a blue-blackness; blisters from the burning ice; double-vision from the glare that you cannot shut out . . . You wonder what the pain might feel like if you still had your humanity. Instead, your body feels nothing but a dead weight, dragging you down – anchoring you to this forsaken world.

You have no need of shelter. No need of sleep. Instead, when the pull of the Norr is at its strongest, you hunch into your furs, leaving
the whip-sharp wind to do its worst. Eyes closed, you drift off – reaching out with your mind, touching that other presence and letting it pull you away. To the dreamscape. There the land is a twisted shadow, where lost spirits howl and demons stalk. But there is always Nanuk. Waiting for you. Protecting you.

On each journey you feel your link with the real world weakening, like a rope that has frayed and is down to its last fibres. If it wasn’t for Nanuk perhaps it would snap altogether, severing you from the life you once knew. But the bear always sends you back – guiding your spirit into that cold-dead body, leaving you squirming and kicking as your muscles spasm, coming alive in fervent protest. And so you awake to darkness and set out once again, ever onwards into the white-green void – a lone figure, detached and drifting . . .

The near-endless plains give rise to rockier highlands, where frozen ridges push up through the splintered ice. These jagged formations grow increasingly larger, until you find yourself dwarfed by their clipped peaks. The wind, now funnelled along makeshift valleys, carries a desolate, mournful keen.

There have been no signs of life for days, possibly weeks. So it comes as a jolt when you turn down another steep-walled channel and see two figures standing outside a ragged-looking tent. Before you have a chance to pull back, you see that you have already been spotted – one of the pair is waving their hand, beckoning you over.

One thing the north has taught you – always be wary of others.

You approach with your hands resting on your weapons, quickly sizing up your opponents, looking for strengths, weaknesses . . . possessions that might prove valuable. The dawn light picks out the woman’s smile as she watches you advance. Like her companion, she is dressed in a thick fur-trimmed jacket reaching to her knees, hands tucked inside lobster-shaped mittens. The other figure is tall and broad-shouldered – a middle-aged man, with thin brown hair and a straggly beard. He tugs a glove off with his teeth, his bared hand moving to a knife at his belt. He hesitates, seeing your weapons and knowing that he is badly outmatched.

Inside the small tent, fashioned from leather and furs, you see a third member of the group – a red-haired male, almost wasted to bone. He tosses and turns beneath a covering of blankets, murmuring in his sleep or some pained delirium.

‘Oh, fortune smiles!’

Your eyes flick back to the woman. Her grin is still fixed to her face, as if it was frozen there by the wind. Up close, you see she is about the same age as the man. A stitched label on her jacket reads:
Reah
. ‘Will you help us, stranger?’ she asks eagerly. ‘We are desperate – and all alone out here.’

205

You cross to the other side of the rock, where a slope of tumbled boulders leads you back down to the lake. From here you quickly backtrack along the shore, determined to discover what has become of the cart and your companions. Turn to
391
.

206

Searching the remains of the fire giant, you find 100 gold crowns and one of the following rewards:

When you have updated your hero sheet, turn to
705
.

207

You knuckle your tired eyes, stifling a yawn. It would be so good to give in, to finally go to sleep and sate your body’s craving for natural
rest. But you can’t. You fear what happens when you sleep – a fear that drives you immediately to your pouch, seeking more dragon leaf. However, you pause when you notice Sylvie watching. Something in her look makes you reconsider.

‘Would you like a night cap?’ she smiles. ‘Probably high time I tested my home brew on someone other than myself. It’ll help you sleep.’ Sylvie gets out of her chair and heads over to a cupboard.

‘No, I’m fine,’ you protest. ‘Please, I don’t need any help.’

Sylvie returns to the table carrying two small cups and a leather gourd. ‘Of course,’ she grins. ‘Silly me. You could probably sleep standing on your feet with all you’ve been through.’

You continue to shake your head, realising she has misunderstood your meaning. ‘Please, I can’t . . .’

The woman rolls her eyes. ‘It isn’t that bad, honest.’ Removing the stopper, she fills the cups and then pushes one toward you. ‘Try it anyway. It’ll put some fire in your belly, chase out that cold.’ Her look is expectant – almost challenging.

You take the cup, peering at the clear liquid inside. It smells of aniseed. ‘I suppose I could,’ you concede, not wishing to offend. You raise the cup in a toast, ‘Long live the king!’, then knock back the contents. It isn’t until you swallow that you feel the heat of the liquid. It makes you breathless, choking for air.

‘Strong, isn’t it?’ grins Sylvie. You notice her own cup is still on the table, untouched.

Then the room starts to spin, the shadows whirling into a dizzying blur. ‘I feel . . . what have you done?’ You grip the table, trying to steady yourself – to find some anchor as the room continues to pitch and roll.

‘It’s a mild toxin, nothing more. Like I said, it will help you to sleep.’

‘No, you . . . don’t understand!’

You feel the woman’s arms around you, strong and firm, helping you to stand. ‘Now, I’ve got a spare bed made up – always keep it ready for strays such as yourself.’ Sylvie guides you towards the curtain, pulling it back to reveal a small room with a pallet bed on a wooden frame. A beaded curtain in the opposite wall leads to a further room, which you assume is her own quarters. ‘In the morning, we’ll sort you out some clothes. I still have a few of Randal’s things. You’re of a similar build, I think.’

Sylvie continues to twitter to herself, as if nothing was untoward. You grapple at her, trying to break away, but you are so sick and dizzy you have no strength. Weakly, you find yourself falling onto the bed, the ceiling lurching and rocking.

‘Please,’ you beg, eyes now widening in fear. ‘The dragon leaf . . . the dragon . . .’ Your hand fumbles for your pouch.

‘No, you won’t be needing that my dear.’ Sylvie’s hand settles over your own, gently pushing it away. ‘You trust me. You need to trust me.’

Her words grow fainter as your eyelids close, the exhaustion finally taking you. ‘No,’ you whisper. ‘You can’t . . . let . . . me . . . sleep.’

Then you are sinking through walls of darkness, your mind travelling to that other place – the one you most fear. Turn to
30
.

208

With the monsters defeated, you run to the boy’s side. His body is broken, ribs protruding from bruised flesh. Putting fingers to his throat, you feel for a pulse – but there is nothing. Snow is already settling over the body, clinging to the wet blood and shrouding him in white.

You go to pick up the body, looking round for Desnar. To your surprise, the Skard is standing over the carcass of the wolf. He glances your way, shaking his head. ‘He nameless,’ he grunts. ‘We leave for land. This we take . . . feast, yes?’ He puts a hand to his mouth, moving his jaw to mimic eating.

‘He was your son!’ you protest, surprised and angered by the Skard’s lack of compassion.

Desnar picks up the forelegs of the wolf and begins dragging it through the snow. ‘Help or silence,’ he growls. ‘Himruk gone. He nameless now.’

You rise to your feet, pausing for a moment to look into the boy’s dead eyes.
Nameless
. The word pulls at a memory. Anise, the kitchen girl from Bitter Keep.

‘I’m not a Skard,’ she had told you, defiantly. ‘I was cast out. To them, I have no name. Without a name, I am nothing.’

You wonder what act she had committed, what crime had forced her to follow a similar path to Himruk – to be disowned by her tribe,
her own family . . . You picture her face, the red curls of hair falling around her crooked grin. Her emerald-green eyes bright with mischief.

You give a wavering sigh, tilting your head to let the snow gently kiss your cheeks. Anise is gone. Just like all the others. You’ll never see that smile again, hear her voice, feel the warmth of her breath . . .

No!
You clench your fists with a snarl.
I’m a fool. There is no going back . . .

You turn into the savage wind, welcoming its sudden fury.
No going back. Not ever . . .

Following the bloodied trail, you catch up with Desnar. The snow is now falling thick and fast, reducing your visibility to less than a metre. You are impervious to the cold, but Desnar is not. A scarf is now pulled tight across his face, frost sparkling from his brows and hair. He is clearly struggling now with the weight of his burden, but too stubborn to give it up. Grabbing the wolf’s hind legs, you help lift the beast. Desnar looks back, nodding with silent approval.

Together you struggle through the blustery storm, your faith resting in the Skard’s ability to find his way home. Turn to
769
.

209

You join Lord Everard at the wall. He mumbles a passing greeting, his gaze remaining fixed on the white horizon.

‘Admiring the view?’ you ask with a wry smile.

‘More the weather,’ he says, frowning. ’It’s been a while since we saw snow here.’ He scratches the back of his head. ‘I wonder if that’s a good omen – or a portent that something worse is on its way.’

‘Perhaps I brought the winter with me.’ You peer back at Everard, eyes glinting from beneath your hood. He regards you thoughtfully, and for a moment you sense the uncertainty in his look.

‘Maybe you did,’ he says, his frown etched a little deeper. ‘These are strange times, no doubting that.’

(If you have the word
trader
on your hero sheet, turn to
286
.)

210

The passage presents an intimidating series of twisting, winding bends – most of which have become partially covered in fallen rock and ice. Your fellow racer is clearly an expert, navigating the undulating curves with ease. For a novice like yourself, however, it is proving a hazardous endeavour.

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

If you are successful, turn to
571
. Otherwise, turn to
18
.

211

The chapel is reached by a short corridor from the main hall. The heavy oak door creaks inwards, revealing a long vaulted chamber, more a church than a chapel. A single row of stone pews lead to a raised altar, where a statue of Judah looks down from his Mordland cross, a crown of thorns resting on his brow.

Candles flicker in niches along the wall, illuminating the holy scripture that has been inscribed into the grey stone of the seats, the altar, the high walls. You cannot understand the words, but you know they are taken from Judah’s scripture, holy words, designed to empower those who follow the light.