The Eye of Winter's Fury (39 page)

When you are ready to leave the yard, turn to
113
to revisit the main courtyard or
168
to climb the stairs to the battlements.

259

The guard removes the two of moons from his hand and places it face down on the discard pile. He reaches into the pouch and takes another stone at random. He has now gained the two of stars:

The guard is still grinning to himself. ‘Queen’s wave again,’ he whispers to you. ‘I’m sure we’ve won this.’ Turn to
570
.

260

For defeating the captain, you may now help yourself to one of the following rewards:

When you have updated your hero sheet, turn to
479
.

261

After reclaiming your sword, you leave the cabin and head out to the creek. It proves easy to find, the chattering rush of noise leading you into a wooded dell. Along its base, white-frothed waters dance and splash, carving a zigzagging path amongst the trees. (Make a note of the keyword
blade
on your hero sheet, then turn to
155
.)

262

A service hatch opens in the wall, where you can see a tray filled with various wolf-skin garments. You are surprised to see a glimmer of magic around them; evidently the materials have been imbued with some minor enchantments, which probably even Jackson isn’t aware of.

‘How much?’ you ask, leaning cautiously over the line to take a closer look.

‘Sixty gold,’ snaps Jackson. ‘Top quality company threads those, so don’t you be turning your nose up at ’em. Too good for the stinking likes of you, I wager.’

The following items are available for 60 gold crowns each:

You may continue to purchase items from the trader (turn to
151
), discuss something else (turn to
685
) or leave (return to the quest map).

263

Filling the barrels is a dirty, stinking and laborious task. First, the thick tar is scooped into smaller buckets, which are then used to pour it into
the seemingly bottomless wooden barrels. Once the barrels are full, Kirk twists a lid into place and then he and Lawson roll them back to the cart.

After an hour you are dizzy from the stench, the protective leather gloves doing little to keep the tar from getting on your skin and over your clothes. Henna spends most of her time muttering about her armour and how long it will take to clean. Then eventually even she falls quiet, focused on getting the grim task completed.

With half the barrels filled, Kirk nudges Lawson then nods towards the far side of the canyon. Lawson gives an answering nod, then goes to retrieve his bow and quiver from the nearby rocks.

‘You girls okay for a while?’ Kirk removes his gloves and drops them onto a rock. ‘Me and Lawson got some business to do. Just scouting out the canyon, you know. Soldier stuff.’ He taps the side of his nose. ‘So, you noobs stay together. And don’t talk to strangers, okay?’

Before anyone can argue the two men are gone, laughing and joking to each other – leaving you behind to fill and transport the rest of the barrels to the wagon.

An hour later and your patience starts to sour. ‘If they don’t return soon we’ll be here until nightfall.’

‘I’m lodging a formal complaint,’ Henna scowls, watching in disgust as the tar drips from her gloves. ‘I didn’t sign up for this.’

You tip another bucket of sludge into the barrel, half-choking on the overpowering stench. ‘Sooner we’re done, sooner we can go home.’

As you reach down to refill your bucket, a sudden chorus of shrieks alerts you to the nearby hills. A group of petrels have taken flight from a thicket of long grass, squawking overhead as they wheel across the lake.

‘What spooked them?’ Henna goes to draw her sword, then hesitates when she remembers the gloop on her hands. ‘Oh, let’s ignore it. I’m sure it’s nothing.’

You scan the hills, fearing there may be a hidden predator using the tall grass for cover. Or perhaps it’s just your imagination getting the better of you.

264

The woman ducks into the tent and returns with a bundle of leathers clasped between her mitted hands. You take the bundle and peel back the cloth. Inside you discover a black shard of rock, smooth as glass, with veins of green branching beneath its surface.

‘We don’t exactly know what it is,’ says the woman, looking back at her companion. ‘A type of metamorphic rock, not unlike marble. Its dense structure suggests a strong heat source, possibly magma. I suppose it could have been brought to the surface following the cataclysm.’

‘Or brought here from elsewhere,’ mutters the male, gazing skywards.

‘This is magic,’ you reply, touching the stone and watching as the green veins pulse, brightening then dimming once again.

‘It has some . . . energy, yes,’ Reah says uncertainly. ‘We can’t be sure if there is something else trapped within the sample – it may even be a living organism.’ Reah takes the stone from you, wrapping it tightly in the leathers. ‘I’d rather you didn’t get too close. We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet.’

265

You gesture to the bearded man in the blue velvet coat. ‘I’m here on Baron Fromark’s orders. He says he’ll be most honoured to cover any costs.’

The guard glares at you for a moment, then with a huff he moves
aside. You nod in thanks then hurry past him, taking a short set of stairs down into the cellar. Turn to
43
.

266

‘The book?’ Harris looks down at it, momentarily confused – as if he’d forgotten he even had it. ‘Yes . . . I . . . I took it. One of Segg’s, he won’t miss it. Was just left lying around.’ He moves a hand across the cover, tracing a brass motif with his fingertips. ‘A book of spells. That’s it.’ He nods to himself, seeming more certain. ‘I thought it might be useful.’

‘Ain’t nothing useful in one of them,’ scowls Brack, leaning away as if the book might suddenly bite him. ‘I don’t even touch the things. Ugh!’

Harris tucks the tome back under his arm. ‘Hmm, why does that not surprise me, Brack?’ (Return to
86
to ask another question or turn to
297
to continue on to the tower.)

267

You cut through the chain, taking a smug satisfaction in seeing the boisterous racer go tumbling away in a flurry of snow. Focusing back on the track, you see the nearby racers swerving erratically.

Rocks and thick chunks of ice have broken loose from the mountainside and are now raining down across the track. You suspect one of your competitors may have used magic or some other weapon to start the rock fall. Your only hope of survival is to ride through the chaos as quickly as possible.

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

If you are successful, turn to
716
. Otherwise turn to
756
.

268

With the spectral guardian defeated, you may now help yourself to one of the following rewards:

When you have updated your hero sheet, turn to
339
.

269

You follow Sylvie into the cabin, relieved to feel the rush of heat the moment you are through the door. A fire crackles in the hearth, sending dancing shadows across the walls.

‘Make yourself at home.’ Sylvie offers you a smile.

The main room of the cabin is small and cluttered, dominated by a table covered in pots, plants and jars of herbs. Most of the walls are taken over by shelves, where books and scrolls are pushed into every available space.

Sylvie makes room on the table for her basket, lifting back the blanket to reveal a number of freshly-picked mushrooms. She catches your eye, then gives an apologetic sigh. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t expecting guests. Here, take a seat.’ The woman pulls out a chair, then quickly removes the spiked plant that had been left there. ‘Unless you’d rather change first. Those clothes must be wet through, you’ll catch your death.’ She nods to a side-room. ‘I have some old clothes . . .’

‘I’d rather eat,’ you smile ruefully, eyes fixed on the pot heating next to the fire.

‘Dinner it is, then.’ Sylvie pulls back her hood and removes her coat, hanging it next to the fireplace. She then proceeds to busy herself by chopping mushrooms, before lifting the lid from the pot and adding them to its bubbling contents. Turn to
191
.

270

The herd has fled southwards but one muttok has remained behind, standing its ground – the grey-haired giant with the barbed antlers. Lowering its head, the beast springs into a full-on charge, driving itself at Desnar. The Skard waits until the last possible moment then leaps aside, driving his javelin straight through the back of the beast’s neck. The muttok hurtles onwards for several metres, kicking up a flurry of dust and snow, then it starts to stagger. Desnar takes another javelin and marches after it, waiting until the beast has fallen onto its forelegs before sliding the second javelin through its midriff. The beast gives a gargling screech, then falls limp at his feet.

‘Vic tarnik!’ The Skard pulls a knife from his belt, grinning from ear to ear. He crouches next to the downed animal, hacking at the magnificent antlers until they come free. Then he rises to his feet, holding up his trophy in bloodied hands. ‘Vic tarnik!’

You bow your head in defeat, accepting that Desnar has bested you in the challenge of the hunt. Turn to
578
.

271

Ducking beneath the plant’s flailing creepers, you race towards the edge of the broken branch and take a running jump . . .

For a heart-stopping second you glimpse the vertiginous drop below you – over a mile of twisted limbs, dagger-sharp leaves and tangled roots – then you are scrabbling for purchase on the branch, spectral claws pushing out of your fingers to slide deep into the bark.

With effort, you manage to drag yourself onto more solid ground. Looking back, you see no sign of the scurrilous rodent – you assume it must have scrambled up into the thick canopy of branches. After taking a moment to compose yourself, you study the ledges and vines that stretch before you.

I can do this.

You run and leap once again, snatching hold of the stringy lianas to propel yourself across to the first ledge. You land in a run, maintaining
your momentum as you jump for the next growth of vines. You only just make it, your hands sliding down their slippery dew-coated surface before you finally secure a hold.

Carefully you drag yourself up the tree, hand over hand, until you reach a higher ledge. With a grunt of exertion you swing yourself onto the gnarly outcropping, using your feet to help lever you to safety.

A quick glance confirms that the worst is now past. The ledge you are on winds its way round to the summit of the tree, less than a hundred metres above you.

You breathe a sigh of relief.

That’s when you hear the banshee-like wail coming from behind you.

As you turn you sense a shifting in the air, a buzzing flash of movement. You drop to the ground, just in time, as a storm of bright daggers blur past in a rustling roar. Lifting your eyes, you see a strange fey-like creature hovering overhead – a woman, with tree-bark skin and black butterfly wings humming above her shoulders. She moves her hands in a curving arc, weaving some sort of spell.