The Eye of Winter's Fury (46 page)

‘Not seen you before,’ he grunts, wiping froth from his beard. ‘Yer remind me of that shifty-eyed Rook. Seems more new faces every damn day.’ He glances sideways at the soldiers further along the table, grinding his teeth together noisily. ‘Listen to ’em. Think they could take on the whole north, the way they talk.’

‘But new blood’s got to be good,’ you venture. ‘I daresay this keep needs as many able men as it can get.’

The soldier snorts, stabbing a wedge of cheese with his knife. ‘Depends though, don’t it? Depends who you can trust.’

You lean forward, trying to ignore the stench of beer and sweat. ‘Go on.’

The soldier takes a bite of cheese, working it around his mouth thoughtfully before swallowing with a gulp. ‘Things been going missing. I ain’t alone in noticing – a sword here, a helmet there, nothing that might cause serious concern. But now me gauntlets have gone. I keep them in me bed locker. No one touches ’em save me. And someone’s taken ’em.’

‘Can’t you get replacements? I’m sure—’

The soldier glowers at you, pouring another cup from his clay jug. ‘Listen, pup. Me gauntlets were me father’s, and his father’s before him. Proper Dwarven iron, magic, like. They’re worth a heap of coin – the most precious thing . . . the
only
thing . . . me family has in way of a fortune.’

‘And you suspect someone here of stealing them?’ You frown, finding it hard to believe that a soldier would steal from another soldier.

The man downs his mug, then proceeds to fill it again. ‘I reckon it’s that Rook. Shifty fellow. Sharpshooter and all that, always showing off. Don’t like the way he looks at people, like he’s better than ’em. I reckon he’s up to something. And I don’t trust it.’

You remember back to the hooded rogue, who you met briefly when you first awoke. ‘I didn’t get the impression he trusts many people,’ you add, nodding.

The soldier is quiet for a second, before releasing a noisy and foul-stinking belch. ‘Me name’s Ran, short for Randolph. You find anything, you be coming straight to me, right? Especially if you find those gauntlets. I’ll pay yer a finder’s fee, I promise yer that.’

‘I’ll keep an eye out,’ you reply, rising from your seat. ‘See what I can discover.’ (Make a note of the keyword
thievery
on your hero sheet.)

309

You wonder if the clerk has a means of opening the container/s. He waves them away with a nonchalant frown. ‘Go see Sam Scurvy – up at the prison. He’s the best thief . . . I mean locksmith, at Ryker’s. He’ll get those open for you.’

If you wish to trade with the clerk, turn to
104
. Otherwise, with your business now concluded, you decide to leave. Turn to
659
.

310

Underneath one of the fallen weapon racks, you discover some interesting items: a spear, a rusted helm and a pair of scuffed leather gloves. If you wish, you may take any/all of the following:

If you haven’t already, you may now watch the ghost’s game (turn to
414
), or leave and continue your journey (turn to
188
).

311

You stand with your back to a wall of grey mist, while ahead of you rises a nightmarish mockery of the great tree Yggdrasil. The scoured
bark is charcoal black, its sap a poisonous green leaking from the many hollows and cracks that rake its vast heights. Dark boughs scratch at the broiling clouds, twisted and malformed, their withered leaves curled and blackened. Yggdrasil was a celebration of majesty and beauty – but this creation is its malformed shadow, corrupted and dying.

You look around but there is no sign of Nanuk. This is the first time, since you were joined, that you have travelled to the Norr and not had him at your side. You reach out, sensing for him – grasping for a glimmer of his presence. There is a faint echo of the bear’s spirit at the furthest limits of your awareness, but it is distant; somehow cut off by the wall of dank fog that rolls across the black sand.

You are alone.

Resolved to your fate, you draw your weapons and stride towards the tangled roots. As you near, five figures detach themselves from the shadows. They look almost human, but their bodies have been twisted out of shape, as if the bones have been snapped and reformed into devilish silhouettes. They shuffle towards you, moaning in tormented agony, their black bark-like skin coated in venomous thorns. You assume these creatures were once asynjur – shamans sent here to find Skoll – but they have fallen to the taint of this nightmarish place. It is time to fight:

	Special abilities
	Crowd control : For every asynjur that is defeated, the remaining asynjur have their magic and armour lowered by 1 each time.
	Shadow thorns : At the end of each combat round, you must take 1 damage (ignoring armour ) from each asynjur that is still alive.

If you manage to defeat these tormented mages, turn to
23
.

312

You scramble out of the dell, making a bee-line for Sylvie’s cabin. A quick glance over your shoulder confirms that the giant warrior is loping after you, but thankfully his injured leg is slowing him down. With a burst of speed you clear the nearby ridge, changing course to follow the curve of the hills. You doubt the cabin will provide much refuge or safety, but right now in this hostile wilderness it seems your only choice.

If you have the word
prince
on your hero sheet, turn to
68
. If you have the word
pauper
on your hero sheet, turn to
304
.

313

You look around frantically for an escape route but the other two Skards have moved closer, penning you in. With no other choice, you turn and sprint for the rock shelf. It stretches about three metres above you, but by vaulting onto the rock wall then making a leap for the shelf, you manage to grapple your fingers onto its edge.

But before you can haul yourself up, you feel a blow to your side. Then a heavy weight dragging you back to the ground.

‘Int sa sabet!’

You twist round, reaching for your weapons. The Skard warrior stands over you, nostrils flaring, eyes wide like some blood-crazed beast. ‘Fegis!’ He spits.

You swing at him, struggling to put any strength behind the blow. His boot kicks your weapon aside. Then he drops onto your stomach, knees first, his daggers blurring with unnatural speed. One punches you through the shoulder, another into your side. You hear a sickening ripping sound – then smell something foul. Another blow across the face, perhaps an elbow.

He clambers off you, snorting back snot and spittle. ‘Fegis,’ he grunts again, shaking his head. He turns and gestures to the shaven-headed hunter. ‘Slur den.’

The other Skard saunters towards you, his axe resting back on his shoulder.

Add two
defeats
to your hero sheet. Then turn to
656
.

314

For defeating Instructor Barl you may now help yourself to one of the following rewards:

When you have updated your hero sheet, turn to
444
.

315

Kirk leans back against the side of the cart, arms folded, legs crossed – looking for all the world like he has nothing better to do than take in the air. ‘Now, I probably don’t need to say this, kids, but we’re a team, right? And what happens on duty stays on duty, you take my meaning?’

You glance at Henna then back at Kirk. Your evident look of confusion draws a chortle from the pug-nosed soldier.

‘Where did you go?’ asks Henna, frowning. ‘You just left us to . . .’

‘We were leaving a little marker. For a friend. So he’d know it was safe.’

‘Friend?’ Your eyes narrow suspiciously.

‘Look, I just need you kids to keep tight-lipped, okay? No one is going to get hurt. It’s just a little trade, a bit of dealing on the side. You know?’

‘I don’t think I do.’ Henna draws herself straight, resting her hands on her hips. ‘Has this been authorised by Everard?’

‘He don’t need to know,’ mutters Lawson, the brim of his cowl lifting to reveal grey glittering eyes. ‘So keep that pretty mouth of yours shut.’

An uneasy silence falls. Kirk breaks it with a nervous chuckle. ‘Okay, okay. Everyone relax, let’s not make a big thing of this. Better we stick together and—’

The noise of barking dogs draws him to silence.

You look around, trying to place the source. Your gaze falls on an area of the canyon where weathered pillars cast long shadows across the broken ground.

Three men are moving between them. Even from this distance, they look tall and muscular, clad in animal fur and hide.

‘Skards,’ gasps Henna. She goes to draw her sword but Kirk places a hand on her arm as he edges past her.

‘Don’t.’

Two of the men are struggling to keep a rein on their brutish pack of dogs. The animals are snapping and slavering to break free, tugging against their restraints until their corded necks are bulging.

The two dog-handlers hold back to the shadows, the wind sweeping their matted hair across their faces. The third continues to approach, carrying himself with a self-assured grace, like an animal prepared for the hunt.

He stops several metres from the cart. Blue eyes, like tundra ice, look to each of you in turn. Weighing you up, seeing how you measure. When your eyes meet, you are the first to look away, a queasiness pulling at your stomach as you take in the man’s unsettling array of hooked javelins, strapped to his back.

‘Hawt.’ The greeting is guttural, like an animal cry.

Kirk echoes it, with none of the same gusto. ‘You brought friends,’ he says, leaning on tiptoe to view the growling dog-teams. ‘I’ve always been a bit of a dog man too. Man’s best friend and all that. The faithful hound, always looking out for . . . his . . .’ He drawls into silence, swallowing nervously. ‘Yes, well let’s get to business. Law.’

The hooded soldier walks to the back of the cart, reappearing moments later dragging a sack. Its many bulges and ridges, and the clunk of metal, suggests it is filled with a multitude of objects. The sack is placed down in front of the Skard.

‘Some good items there – good steel. Pair of gauntlets I think might be Dwarven.’

The Skard curls his upper lip, glaring at Kirk.

‘Yes, yes, allow me.’ He stoops down to open the sack, pulling
out two plain-looking longswords. You are in no doubt these items have been stolen from the keep’s armoury. The Skard takes one of the swords, testing its weight, turning the blade over in the leaden light. He puts a thumb to its edge, grinning when he sees it draw blood.