The Eye of Winter's Fury (4 page)

Some special abilities will refer to a damage score and others will refer to rolling damage dice. A damage score is when your hero rolls one
die and adds their
brawn
or
magic
to the total (as in the previous combat example). This is the most common means of applying damage to your opponent. Some abilities allow you to roll damage dice instead. Damage dice are simply dice that are rolled for damage, but you do not add your
brawn
or
magic
score to the total. For example, the special ability
cleave
allows you to inflict 1 damage die to all your opponents, ignoring
armour
. You would simply roll 1 die and then deduct the result from each of your opponents’
health
. You do not add your
brawn
or
magic
to this total.

Using backpack items in combat

The outcome of many a combat can be decided by the clever use of backpack items, such as potions and elixirs. From restoring lost
health
to boosting your
speed
, never underestimate how useful these items can be in turning the tide of battle. However, you can only use
one
backpack item per combat round so choose wisely! Also note that every useable backpack item has a number of charges. Once these have been used up, they are gone forever.

Runes, glyphs, dyes and other special items

During your adventures, you will come across a number of
special
items that allow you to add attribute bonuses or additional abilities to the equipment you are already wearing. These items cannot be stored in your backpack and must be used
immediately
when they are found, to add their relevant attribute/ability to a chosen item. Each item of equipment can hold up to three of these special bonuses.

Death is not the end

When your hero dies, their adventure isn’t over. Simply make a note of the entry number where you died and then return to the quest map. Your
health
is immediately restored back to full, however any consumable items that were used in the combat (such as potions and elixirs) are gone forever!

You can return to the entry number where you died anytime you wish. If you are having difficulty with a particular combat, then try a different quest, or purchase some helpful potions or items from a local vendor.

NOTE
: In some quests, when your hero is defeated, there are special rules to follow. You will be given an entry number to turn to, where you can read on to see what happens to your hero.

Taking challenge tests

Occasionally, during your travels, you will be asked to take a challenge by testing one of your attributes (such as
speed
or
brawn
). Each challenge is given a number. For example:

To take a challenge, simply roll 2 dice and add your hero’s attribute score to the result. If the total is the same as or higher than the given number, then you have succeeded. For example, if Sir Hugo has a
speed
of 4 and rolls a
and a
, then he would have a total of 9. This means he would have successfully completed the above challenge.

Take your adventures online!

Join the DestinyQuest community at
www.destiny-quest.com
for the latest information on DestinyQuest books, hints and tips, player forums and exclusive downloadable content (including printable hero sheets, team combat rules and extra bonus quests!).

It’s time to begin

Before you start your adventure, don’t forget to check that your hero sheet has been fully updated. It should display:

	Your hero’s name
	A zero score in the speed, brawn , magic , and armour boxes
	A 30 in your hero’s health box

Now, turn the page to begin your adventure . . .

Prologue:
Blood and Betrayal

I
t wasn’t like the storybooks at all.

Their pages were filled with tales of high adventure – heroes striving against the odds to win fabled treasures or defeat terrible monsters. Not for them the monotony of travel. No one cared about the wearisome ‘getting there’. They skipped the rain and the damp that would freeze you to the bone, torturing you with its incessant drip, drip, drip. The chafing of the saddle, the stink of the horses. The men reeking of wet leather and sweat. The smell of the road.

You glare up at the heavy grey clouds, hanging over you like a shroud. They appear listless. Bored. Failing to deliver the storm that has been brewing for the past seven days. Instead, they spit a despondent shower of drizzle, determined to make your journey as miserable as possible. In that endeavour, they have succeeded.

As has the company.

You glance sideways at the inquisitor, his powerful war horse making your own look like a cart mule. He is a bull of a man, his thick neck corded with veins, his bulging muscles exaggerated by the sculptured plates of white and gold armour. A holy warrior – one of the king’s finest. An upholder of truth and justice. If this was like the stories, he’d probably be handsome too, cutting a dashing figure as he rode bravely to war.

But this wasn’t like the storybooks at all.

He turns to look at you, his ugly puckered scar crinkling as he furrows his brow. ‘You have another question?’ he growls, his disdain for you evident. You flinch under that look, knowing what he sees. A spoilt prince. Pampered by comfort and luxury. A prince adorned in gaudily-coloured silks and velvet, with court-fashion lace at the collar
and sleeves. No armour for you, save for a padded undershirt. Fine if your assailant had a blunted dagger perhaps, but nothing that was going to stop an arrow or a sword.

So much for royal protection. But then, you’re not the one who’d be doing the fighting.

Not like the knights, rattling behind you in their armoured livery, pennants fluttering in the chill wind. Or the king’s own guard, in their mail coats and tabards, iron helms catching the drab pale light. You glance back at Molly, hunched sullenly in the back of the supply cart. Your maid. The woman who has nursed you since birth – since your mother passed away. It is a bitter truth that you have more in common with a frail old woman than your armed escort.

You wince with shame. They couldn’t even trust you to travel without her. A grown man who needs to be looked after by his nursemaid. ‘Molly-coddled’, some of the knights had teased. They had every right to. In their eyes you were not a man, just a weak and sickly boy. It wasn’t fair.

The inquisitor clears his throat. ‘Well?’

You look back at the giant warrior. A veteran of a hundred campaigns. He has seen war in all its grim and nightmarish glory. He has lived it for real, not second-hand through the pages of a book or a bard’s whimsical yarn.

‘You were at Talanost when it fell, weren’t you?’ It is a question that has been nagging you for days. The books were still being written of the epic battle between the city’s militia and an invading army of demons and monsters. The shadow legion. If anyone was going to tell it as it was, it would be Inquisitor Hort. He was there. On the front lines. ‘Is it true that a Nevarin, one of their own, betrayed the legion?’

The warrior’s jaw sets hard. He regards you with his usual steely glare – the one you can never hold. You lower your eyes back to the saddle, water dripping off the curls of your fringe. ‘I’m sorry. I understand you wouldn’t want to talk about it.’

Your cheeks flush as you surrender yourself once again to the rhythm of the road, the rattle of harness and the clump of hooves in mud. It has been another long day of travel and every muscle knows it, knotting in protest as you lurch and bounce in the saddle. Tiredly, you reach for your pouch, knowing that its stash of medicines will help to ease the suffering. By accident, your hand brushes against your
sword hilt. You instinctively snatch it back, the enchanted steel burning cold against your skin.

Even the stupid sword hates me.

It had been a gift for your thirteenth birthday. A rare and exquisite weapon, its clawed pommel of blue steel clasped around a heart-shaped diamond. Alone, the gemstone is worth thousands – enough to buy a fleet of ships, a royal palace, a whole army . . . But even that pales into insignificance next to the rest of its craftsmanship. The blade is the finest Assay steel, flame-hardened and etched with a hundred lines of scripture. It was the last blade to be inscribed by Abbot Duran before he passed away, each holy letter draining the last of his fragile health. Duran’s Heart, they called it. Some say it was his finest work. His last work. A mighty sword fit for a mighty hero.

Not a spoilt prince.

Angrily, you tug open the pouch and pull out a handful of dried leaves. You stuff them into your mouth, chewing rather than sucking to release their bitter taste more quickly. It takes only a second for the potent magic to kick in – a fiery spark that rushes through your body, starting with your head and then tingling along your spine. You sit rigid in the saddle, shivering as it runs its course, punching fresh energy into your weary limbs. Keeping sleep at bay. Keeping the nightmares away.

‘Artemisa Draconis.’ The sharp voice slides under your skin, cutting like a knife, ruining the moment. ‘Dragon leaf, if I’m not mistaken.’

You look back at the Martyr as she nudges her stallion closer, one delicate white hand resting on the reins. Her hood is pulled down low over her face, its inscribed trim sparkling in the gloom. From the shadows beneath, you catch the flash of her perfect white teeth, curved in an arrogant smile. The one she wears only for you.

You answer with a sullen stare, wishing she would just leave you alone.
You’re a prince
, you remind yourself.
Command her to leave you alone
.

‘I noticed you haven’t slept,’ she states. ‘Not since we left the capital. That was a week ago.’

‘How observant,’ you mutter beneath your breath. If only she knew the truth. That you haven’t slept – not properly – for nearly five months. Not since the dreams worsened. Now you avoid sleep at all costs. Reading books, taking walks, swallowing the magic . . .

‘What is it that you’re afraid of, my prince?’

The directness of her question startles you. The hood tilts round, far enough for you to glimpse a single amber eye, wide and staring. It reminds you of an owl. Or one of your father’s hunting hawks. ‘Did you ever seek out the church for your malady, my prince? There may have been other tonics that could have helped you.’

Other tonics.
You can picture what she has in mind. The thought turns your stomach, bringing bile to the back of your throat. Martyrs are regarded as the holiest of priests. Their blood is sacred, running white with the favour of the One God. Holy blood.

You shake your head vehemently, casting an eye over her wiry limbs, jutting out from the soft fabric of her robes. She could be leeching herself right now, the foul worms growing fat on her white blood – a sweet tonic, made all for you. Snorting with disgust, you dig your heels into your horse’s flanks, urging it ahead. To your annoyance, she keeps pace, falling alongside you once again.

‘It is a shame you never came to see me,’ she states softly, her voice barely lifting over the drumming rain. ‘I would have liked to have the chance to learn more about you, Prince Arran. After what happened to your brother, Lazlo. I’m in no doubt, such a terrible thing would have given anyone bad dreams.’

You flinch. For a moment you are back in the feast hall. Your father lies slouched in the high seat. A broken man, his mind wasted away by senility. A servant pauses to wipe drool from the king’s chin before turning to pour Malden another ale. Malden, your eldest brother – and the king in waiting. He is laughing and joking, relishing the attention he always gets, sharing stories of his innumerable conquests. Reliving the past, before war made him a cripple.

Valeron royalty – what a pretty picture.

Then the soldier arrived, muddied cloak flapping against his boot heels. A man who’d clearly ridden hard, the creases of his face grimed with mud and sweat. Sedge, the king’s attendant, moved quickly to head him off. Words were exchanged. Heated at first, then quickly lowering to subdued whispers. The soldier finally acceded to the attendant’s wishes, following him towards the royal quarters. You watched them both as they passed your table. Molly had her head resting on your shoulder, snoring loudly. You nudged her away, keeping your eyes fixed on the soldier, convinced there was some grave
import to his sudden arrival. He looked over and caught your eye. Just for a second.

That look still haunts you now.

‘The Wiccans killed him,’ you reply bluntly, fighting to keep the tremor from your voice. ‘They didn’t spare anyone.’ You clutch the reins, twisting the leather in your hands. Lazlo had been your closest brother, a year younger than Malden. He had never been your father’s favourite. That was one thing you had in common at least. Lazlo was the wild child, the prankster who never took anything too seriously. His attitude was not befitting of a prince – one who might inherit the throne of Valeron.

It was no surprise to anyone when Lazlo was given Carvel as his protectorate. A backwater town on the edge of the kingdom. Out of sight, out of mind.

But what had been intended as a rebuke turned out to be a blessing. For Lazlo, it was the perfect escape – a release from the politics of court. Freedom to live out his own life, far away from prying eyes. On his rare visits home he would always seek you out, to share stories of his grand adventures, to tell you about the wondrous lands that lay outside of Assay, beyond its high stone walls that shut out the world.

Now he was never coming home.

‘The Wiccans will pay for what they did to your brother, Arran.’ The Martyr’s voice drags you back from your thoughts. ‘Their heathen chief, Conall, desires your father’s throne.’ Her words break into a soft chuckle of laughter. You glare at her, wondering how she could find humour in such a thing. ‘Fear not. They are mere savages. Godless and blind, stumbling in the dark.’ Her amber eyes twinkle from the shadows of her cowl. ‘They are no match for the might of the church.’

Her confidence irritates you. The Wiccans are known to be blood-thirsty warriors, wielding dark and forbidden magics. They are even said to have a demon in their ranks. A monster of legend. If they could outwit Lazlo and sack a fortified town, then they were dangerous.

You turn away, not wanting the priest to see your tears. They are for Lazlo, you keep telling yourself. But deep down, you know they are for you. The spoilt prince.

All your life you’ve been a prisoner, locked away for your own protection, longing for a chance to see the world – to escape, just
like Lazlo. But now, sitting in sodden clothing, chilled through to the very bone, you can’t help but crave the warmth of your quarters back home, the familiar smell of tallow and old books, the comfort of a proper goose-feather mattress.

Why me? Of all people, why me?

The request had not come from your father. He was bedridden with another fever. No, it had been Cardinal Rile. ‘A chance to prove yourself, boy,’ he had said. The cardinal always called you boy, even though you were in your seventeenth year. ‘Now is a time for words as well as bravery. A task well suited to you, don’t you agree, boy?’

The very next day you were leaving Assay. There was no fanfare or parade, or crowd of cheering well-wishers. But then, what had you expected? They call you the ghost prince, the one that no one ever sees. Always haunting the palace library, poring over dusty tomes, filling your head with fanciful stories. Always reading because you’re too afraid to sleep.

They want rid of me. Just like Lazlo. Send me off to the edge of the world . . .

Your destination – Lord Salton’s castle. A crumbling military outpost on the Vacherie Delta, its strategic importance long since diminished as borders edged westwards, leaving it to guard stone and dirt and very little else. But now, things have changed. Salton Castle straddles the only pass between the Bale Peaks, a treacherous range of high mountains. And the Wiccans are rumoured to be marching straight for it. By all accounts, the castle is still defensible. But Lord Salton is a coward. He would sooner abandon his charge, taking his household and knights with him, than face down a tribe of savage warriors.

You’ve been tasked to convince him otherwise. To deliver the king’s demand: there is to be no retreat and no surrender. A royal face to sweeten the message.

Salton Castle had to be ready for war.

You brush away the tears, clenching your jaw to stop it trembling. The cardinal was right. You have a duty to perform. It’s time to make your father proud – make everyone proud.

And yet, you can’t shift the nagging feeling that something is wrong.

As your eyes slide along the procession, you find yourself pondering the cardinal’s choice of knights. They had struck you as an odd
selection from the start. Their banner sigils denote minor houses – Palfrey, Hanson, Bolivar and Freeman – not the usual nobles that would be enlisted for a royal mission. You also notice that their armour lacks the polish of a true knight. There are no medals or decorations, no sign that they have courageously served their country. Would the cardinal really entrust the defence of a castle to a bunch of hedge knights, unproven in battle?

Thankfully you still have the king’s guard to rely upon, a veteran regiment of fifteen soldiers led by Captain Tarlow. Ordinarily, he would never leave the king’s side, but the cardinal had insisted. Your safety was now of the utmost importance. You nod and offer the captain a hopeful smile. He scowls back, hawking a gob of spittle into the dirt. The rest of his men share his dour demeanour. No one wants to be babysitting a prince, it seems.

‘This will do.’ Inquisitor Hort raises a gauntleted hand, calling a halt to the procession.

You look around in confusion. The bleak countryside has not changed all day, steep rock banks and tangled trees and a road little more than a muddy stream. This seems an odd place to set up camp, even to your untrained eye.