The Eye of Winter's Fury (5 page)

There are answering grumbles from Tarlow and his men. The captain glares at the cardinal’s knights, who have started to edge closer, surrounding the guards on all sides. Hooves scuff the dirt, harnesses clanking as the barded horses quickly encircle them. You lose sight of Tarlow as a Bolivar knight passes in front of him, blocking the captain from view. The knight stops and turns his head towards the inquisitor, the rain streaming from his oiled helm in liquid rainbows.

‘Are we making camp?’ you ask irritably, trying to put some authority into your voice. You look from the inquisitor to the knight, demanding an answer.

The inquisitor ignores you, his hard gaze fixed on the waiting knight. He nods his head. You hear the wet-thud of lances hitting the ground – then cold steel hissing free of scabbards. In that same instant, the inquisitor lifts his hand to the warhammer strapped to his back. A cold shiver runs along your spine as he turns to face you.

‘Wait! What are you doing? What are . . . ?’

There is the sudden peal of a horn.

The inquisitor freezes, eyes going wide.

Another blast. Deep and reverberating, its echo rattling your very bones. ‘What’s happening?’ You shout to be heard over the thunder of the horn.

Hort twists in his saddle, his warhammer gripped in one hand. He is scanning the trees to the side of the road. ‘It can’t be,’ you hear him mutter.

Your chest tightens with fear, heart thumping in your ears. ‘What is it? I don’t see . . .’

‘Wiccans!’ he shouts suddenly, jerking the reins to turn his horse. ‘Form up! Form up! We’re under attack!’

Only then do you see them, coalescing out of the fog like ghosts, moving fast – leaping over logs and rocks, teeth bared, weapons glinting. And with them a deafening clamour of howls ringing from every direction – closing in on the procession. You spin in circles, your attention darting dizzyingly from one warrior to the next. They look barely human, clad in ragged furs, hair greased and spiked, faces smeared with paint. Or is it blood? One of them is holding a flag aloft, streaming out from behind his clenched fist. You recognise the colours, purple and gold, and the sigil of a goat’s head. They belong to Lord Salton.

They took the castle. We’re too late.

Then everything happens at once. The inquisitor’s warhammer blazes with holy light, its crackling head sweeping round to connect with a snarling axe-man. An eye-wincing crack. The smell of charred flesh. But another has already leapt up onto the back of his horse. The savage’s face is a picture of death, his cheeks and forehead banded with white, the eyes circled with black hollows. Daggers flash as they punch into the inquisitor’s side, finding the chinks between his armoured plates.

An explosion. Mud and water rain down from the sky. A horse gallops past, nostrils flaring, snorting and whinnying. Another follows, dragging a knight through the dirt, the man’s foot still caught in the stirrups. Through the showering debris you see axe blades glittering, hacking through armour and bone, horses toppling to the ground, crushing knights beneath them. Tarlow’s guards struggle to manoeuvre against the overwhelming tide of bodies.

Two wiccans race past you, snarling like wolves. They pay you no mind, hurrying towards the knights and guards. It is as if you don’t
exist – a ghost prince who has truly become invisible. Then you hear another explosive boom, followed by a rush of heat. You spin in the saddle, mouth dropping open when you see the flames from the supply cart billowing up into the grey sky.

‘Molly!’

Kicking your horse’s flanks you urge it forward, your hand reaching for your sword. In your haste you forget its holy enchantments – words of the One God that seem to recoil at your touch. When your fingers close around the grip, you feel a sharp shock of pain lance along your arm. You jerk backwards and for a moment you lose your purchase on the reins, sliding back off the saddle.

‘Arran!’ A woman’s voice. Cold and brittle.

Hands are suddenly around your throat, nails digging into your flesh – and you are falling.

You land with a splash in the cloying, sludgy mud. For several seconds, you are fighting for breath, your sight blinded by dirt and water. Someone is lying next to you, the mud popping and squelching as they move. You glimpse white robes and a hood. Amber eyes, wide and bright.

You try and pull yourself free but the Martyr pushes you back down, her fingers like claws of iron, digging into your flesh, driving you into the mud with an unnatural strength.

‘What . . . ?’ You open your mouth, choking as it fills with black fetid water.

She’s killing me. The damn priest is killing me.

Your hands ball into fists, pummelling at her sides, legs kicking and squirming. One of your blows scuffs against something hard and cold. A hilt, a dagger. You manage to pull it free from the priest’s belt as she shoves you further into the muck.

‘Your time is over, prince!’

The stinking waters close over you, distorting sound into a thrum of distant noise. Somehow you manage to surface, muddy spittle bubbling between your teeth as you slide the dagger into the woman’s side. You feel it going deep, the blade scraping against bone. A warm rush of blood courses over your fingers.

You drive it in a second time, feeling the Martyr’s body jerk, her face only inches from your own. Another spasm. Then the pressure is gone, the strength ebbing from her limbs. Desperately you raise
your head, coughing and choking as you suck greedily at the air. The Martyr has become a limp weight, sliding down next to you, dark roses of blood marking her muddied robes. You glance down at the dagger, shocked at what you have done, crimson blood coating you to the elbow.

Their blood is no different to ours after all
.

You drop the dagger, struggling to get to your feet. As you start to rise, you see Tarlow only metres away. Dismounted and wounded, he is now fending off a giant Wiccan warrior, a mountain of a man, with long braids of dark hair forming a mane about his shoulders. His bare chest glistens with sweat and rain, and a dizzying array of bright runes that flash and spit in anger.

A sharp, splintering crack.

You jump at the sound. To your left the cart has collapsed, its wood now charcoal black as the flames continue to consume the wreckage. You see no sign of Molly. You stumble towards the blaze, but the heat forces you back, its thick smoke drifting quickly across the road – reducing the battle to shadows darting back and forth, an occasional clank of armour, a harsh clatter as weapons meet.

Then a pained cry drags you back to Tarlow. The captain has stumbled to his knees, struggling to raise his sword with a torn and bloodied arm. The Wiccan stands over him, eyes bulging beneath a heavy brow, sharpened teeth bared and hissing. Then the axe falls. There is a dull-sounding thud. You wipe the grime from your eyes, trying to focus, to make sense of the scene. It is oddly silent. A moment frozen in time. Tarlow leans back, arms outstretched, the axe buried deep in his shoulder. Above him, the giant stands rigid, muscles bunched, the angry fire of his runes making him look more demon than man.

Conall
, you gasp.
That must be Conall. Their chief. The one who killed Lazlo.

The giant grunts as he tugs his axe free. There is a spray of blood then Tarlow topples over, his expression a mask of pained bewilderment. As he crashes into the mud, neck twisted to face you, his dead eyes come to rest on your own.

‘No . . .’ His stare is like a spear, running you through with its damning accusation. In all your years, you have never known him to leave your father’s side. His loyalty was unquestionable. And yet here he is, miles from the capital, lying dead on a road in the northern
wilds. He should have stayed with your father, with the throne he was sworn to protect.
It’s all my fault.

The Wiccan warrior throws back his head and issues a mighty roar. The sight of him, so huge and fearsome, like something from another world, another time, fills you with dread.

You are running before you realise it, before you even have a chance to question your actions. Blind fear powers your limbs, filling you with an energy no herb or potion could ever match. Splashing through the mud, you make for the trees, not caring what direction you head in, only that you must save yourself.

Coward! Stupid coward!
Your conscience screams in your ears, but the words carry no meaning – no shame. You just want to live.
What else can I do?
On hands and knees you scrabble madly up the hillside, stomach heaving from the stench of smoke and blood.
But I have to go back . . . I should fight . . .
You reach the top of the rise, plunging into the maze of forest. Branches claw at your face, tearing at your clothes.
I have to get away . . .

You don’t see the Wiccan until it is too late. His shoulder hits you in the side, throwing you back against the trunk of a tree. His face is painted in a hideous mask of runes, the musky smell of wet animal clinging to his tattered clothes. He shouts something, barking out the words in a stream of guttural noise. They make no sense to you. Nothing makes sense anymore.

‘Please,’ you plead, tears streaming down your cheeks. ‘Don’t kill me. I’ll give you anything . . .’

The warrior steps back, wrinkling his nose, glaring at you with a look of disgust. His eyes rove up and down, taking in the sight of your muddied silks and pretty lace. He sees a fool, you realise bitterly. A damn fool.

His gaze settles on your blade, rotten teeth widening into a grin. You look down at the sword’s diamond pommel, realising his intent. Of course, he wants Duran’s Heart – a trophy worth a kingdom in gold.

‘Yes! Yes, take it!’ You start to unstrap the belt.

The Wiccan snorts, shaking his head. ‘Not give. Fight!’ He raises his bloodied axe and takes a step back, giving you room to draw. ‘Fight!’

‘No . . . please . . .’

‘Fight!’ He shakes the axe. ‘Fight!’

‘I can’t!’ you scream back, snot and spittle flying from your lips. ‘I don’t know how to!’

The Wiccan recoils at your outburst, momentarily surprised. Then anger quickly returns. ‘Craven,’ he growls. ‘You no warrior.’

You slide to your knees, hitting the dirt. ‘No. I am no warrior.’ You lower your head, shamed by what you are. A weakling. A prince who can’t even defend himself. ‘I yield . . .’

As you wait for the axe to fall, you picture Captain Tarlow lying twisted in the mud, his dead eyes glaring back at you.
Did he know? Did he know we were sent here to die?
The Wiccan’s boots trudge closer, his animal stink filling your nostrils. He mutters something in his gruff language.

Then darkness.

It is as if a shadow has been cast over you, turning day to night. You look up, aware of a thunderous beat, like giant wings, getting louder and louder. Then the crack of snapping branches. The Wiccan warrior seems equally surprised, craning his neck to study the skies. The axe blade has stopped inches above your head.

‘Sanchen!’ he growls.

A blue-black shape drops from the heavens, accompanied by a flurry of broken branches and leaves. It lands with a teeth-jarring thump, wings of mottled white obscuring an immense body. Then they sweep back, revealing a nightmarish creature – its body rippling with scales.

A demon prince.

It rises to its full height, over three metres tall, its head crowned by a pair of gold-banded horns. Runed armour clings to its broad chest and shoulders, coating the beast in arcane sigils of dark magic. They smoulder like coals, sending thin columns of smoke spiralling up into the gloom. You cower down at the base of the tree, feeling dwarfed by the size of the monster and its dread aura of power . . .

‘Halt!’ The demon raises a hand towards you, its dark brow creased with concentration. ‘Halt, I command you!’

It takes a moment for you to realise the demon is addressing the warrior. The axe has started to tremble, as if the Wiccan is fighting against something unseen, his muscles straining.

‘I told you all, not the boy.’ The demon’s crimson eyes flick to you. ‘Go, Prince Arran. Or this will be your end!’

He knows my name.

The warrior is now grunting and hissing with exertion, his axe edging steadily closer. Whatever magic holds him in thrall, he seems intent on breaking it. And if he does, the axe will complete its downward arc, cleaving your skull in two.

‘Make your choice,’ the demon hisses.

You quickly find your feet, edging around the paralysed Wiccan and his trembling axe. The demon watches you intently, the rain streaming from his wings and horns.
He saved my life
, you realise suddenly.
He wants me to escape
. You turn away, to look upon the forested valley. It rises abruptly into a series of steep hills, thick with boulders and nettles. In the distance, you can dimly make out a bluff of grey rock, its summit lost to the chill, low-hanging cloud. As if on cue, a peal of thunder breaks overhead, followed seconds later by a pulse of ghoulish lightning. The steady drizzle quickly becomes a deluge, pounding against the earth in thick grey sheets.

Shivering, you turn back to the demon. ‘I . . . I have nowhere to go,’ you shout, dispiritedly.

The demon gives a roar of fury, more deafening than the storm. ‘Fool! The fates have set you on this path.’ He gestures angrily towards the valley. ‘Do not try my patience. GO!’

The vehemence in his words sets you to running, your feet slipping and sliding through the river of mud. You feel a little foolish, dashing madcap into the forest with no idea where you are headed. But you are alive. And for now, that is both a surprise and a comfort. Holding your hood down over your face, you charge into the stormy tumult, desperate now to put as much distance as you can between yourself and the horrors at your back.

Turn to 11 to begin the first stage of your adventure.

1

You place the plain glass orb onto the podium. (Remove this item from your hero sheet.) After studying the complex carvings at length, you discern pockets of magic focused in three of the outer circles. One pertains to frost, one to earth magic and the last to the darker shadow arts. By activating the runes around a circle, you will be able to call on the spirits that embody that power.

2

Progress through the tunnels is slow and frustrating, your way often blocked by gaping chasms or fallen debris. Often you are forced to backtrack and find alternate routes, other times you have no choice but to jump a gap or dig your way clear, clambering on all fours through narrow openings.

Eventually, after what feels like hours of trekking through the maze-like tunnels, you finally see evidence of daylight – a white brightness edging the hollows of a rock fall. Overcome with relief, you race up to the barrier, fingers clawing at the crumbling stones, pulling them away to clear an opening. Nanuk’s strength floods into you, powering your limbs, driving you onwards.

At last, fingers raw and bleeding from the effort, you drag yourself out into the light. Turn to
169
.

3

With the diseased bear defeated, you set about searching its cave. Amongst a pile of half-eaten remains you find 30 gold crowns and one of the following items:

You are also able to salvage a
white fox pelt
and a
flawless emerald
. (If you wish to take either of these items, simply make a note of them on your hero sheet, they don’t take up backpack space.)

Your search also reveals a narrow opening at the back of the cave, just wide enough for you to squeeze into. Keen to escape this fetid cave, you push yourself into the tight crevice and grope your way along the ice. After several hundred metres the rift begins to widen, leading you through into another open space. Turn to
397
.

4

As you drag the sack through the dirt, something scrapes and catches against a rock. Lifting up the sack, you see that there is a tear at the bottom, causing several sword hilts to poke through. Other items now lie scattered along the trail, having fallen out of the hole. You retrace your steps, stooping to retrieve the stolen equipment.

Amongst the weapons and fragments of armour, you spot a pair of black-enamelled gauntlets, etched with magical runes. You are immediately reminded of the warrior you spoke with in the main hall, who described a similar set of gauntlets that had gone missing.

If you wish to keep these magical gloves for yourself, then you may add the following item to your hero sheet:

Ran’s beaters
(gloves)
+1 armour
Ability: charge

If you would rather keep the gauntlets and return them to their rightful owner, then remove the keyword
thievery
from your hero sheet
and replace it with the keyword
gains
. When you have made your decision, turn to
383
.

5

The next few moments pass in a series of vivid flashes. You see the wolf’s jaws snapping inches from your face, his neck stretched taut in an effort to reach you. Bloody froth dribbles over black hair, hot sour breath blasting against your cheek . . .

Yet you are still alive.

In his haste, the alpha has caught himself on a bone, the sharp end now rooted in the animal’s side. A bone from a ribcage – the only thing holding death at bay.

You fumble desperately for a weapon, hands scrabbling amongst the dirt and refuse. Then, all of a sudden it hits you – an energy, more powerful than the dragon leaf. It floods into you, pushing itself under your skin, between the bones, inside your muscles. A thunderous roar, bestial and savage, is ripped free from your lips. Fingers swipe through the air, trailing green ribbons of mist, green claws . . .

You have gained the following special ability:

Spectral claws (co):
If you take health damage from your opponent’s damage score, you can immediately strike back at them, inflicting 1 die of damage, ignoring
armour
. This ability can only be used once per combat.

The claws rake through the wolf’s flank, eliciting a hellish shriek. Then there is a deafening crack as the bone splinters. The wolf rolls away, taking longer than he should to find all fours. In places the thick fur has been torn away, revealing deep gashes glistening with blood. The smell of it is intoxicating, a metallic tang laced with a lucid sweetness. You drive yourself forward, snarling like a beast, no longer in charge of your own body, your hands clawing and tearing. Something has control of you, using you to fight back.

If you have the word
sacrifice
on your hero sheet, turn to
37
. Otherwise, turn to
54
.

6

The tunnel folds into a tight spiral, angling through the trunk until it brings you out onto the gnarled remains of a branch. Turning back to face the tree, you see the crown spreading out above you – a tangle of dark boughs, their pointed tips bunched tight like a regiment of spearmen. From somewhere above, you hear agonised screams – and pleading sobs.

‘Rata-rata-tosk!’

The voice startles you. Spinning to your right, you catch a blur of movement racing up the trunk of the tree. It is only when the figure stops that you can make sense of its shape. It looks like an oversized rodent, its fur stippled red and brown, with tall pointed ears and a wide muzzle for a face. Behind its shoulders curls a bushy tail.

‘Not come here, rata-rata, not come!’ The creature’s sharp teeth chatter together as it speaks. A clawed hand reaches for one of the many leather pouches dangling around its waist.

‘Wait. Can you help me? I need to find Skoll!’

The creature hisses, its muzzle crinkling back into a scowl. ‘Witch keeps him. And I protect, rata-rata-tosk!’ He lifts his hand from his pouch, clutching a golden acorn. He throws it down at your feet, the shell splintering into bright shards. From its remains you see a black seedling start to take growth, its thick stem coiling into the air, barbed leaves unfurling.

You back away from it, unsure of its purpose.

With a snigger, the wily squirrel continues to scamper up the trunk, then pauses to look down with a hungry gleam to his eyes. He is clearly waiting to see what you will do next.

You scan the trunk, and its many hand and foot-holds – easy enough to climb. However, you also notice another possible route – a nearby branch you could leap onto. Beyond it, a series of ledges and scraggly vines form a makeshift pathway to the summit.

7

The black sludge closes above your head, pushing dank earth into your ears, nose and mouth, burying you in its suffocating embrace. (You must immediately roll on the death penalty chart [see entry
98
] and apply the effect to your hero.) Trapped and blinded, you make a last frantic bid for escape, pushing magic into your limbs, bleeding it out in waves of powerful energy.

Then you are falling, tumbling through darkness, the laughter resounding in your ears once again. Turn to
435
.

8

Sam produces a pair of picks and sets to work on the lock. Within seconds, the metal chest is open. After Sam has taken his cut of the treasure, you are left with 50 gold crowns. (Remove the
hunters’ chest
from your hero sheet.) If you have the
locker
and wish Sam to open it, turn to
641
. Otherwise, you continue your journey. Turn to
563
.

9

The robed man paces the room restlessly, his fingers playing with his short spike of beard. ‘Four weeks you’ve lain on that bed – and two of those cold without life.’

It takes a moment for his words to sink in. ‘Wait, I was dead? That’s impossible!’ You look to the knight, hoping he will refute such nonsense and offer reason.

‘I’m afraid it is true, Arran. We were going to send out a rider, to notify the palace of your passing. But when we came to prepare the body – there was still a life stirring there. Movement. Some nights, it was like you had something wild inside you, trying to get out.’

Segg ceases his pacing, glaring at you with his blue piercing eyes. ‘I suspected you were possessed, by some demon from the shroud. But it appears that is not the case.’ His stare continues to hold you, as if pushing you to state otherwise, seeking the truth.

‘I don’t know what happened,’ you reply. ‘I only remember . . . dreaming.’

‘Well, you’re awake now,’ nods Lord Everard. ‘And whatever your malady . . .’ He pauses, his eyes taking in the grey pallor of your flesh, ‘I will believe it is the One God’s work and not the hand of another that brings you back to us.’

Return to
291
to ask another question, or turn to
98
to end the conversation.

10

‘Don’t even think of coming any closer,’ growls the sniper. ‘Keep yer distance, or my next shot will take that head clean off yer shoulders.’

Skoll takes hold of his axe, cursing in Skard.

You grab him quickly, before he leads the attack. ‘No. It’s not worth it, my friend. They have powder weapons – I’ve seen what they can do, and unless you desire this,’ you flick a finger towards your ravaged face, ‘I would heed his warning.’

Skoll grunts, but lowers his axe. ‘The coward’s way. I am a Drokke – a warrior!’

‘And better to live as one than die as one,’ you add dryly. ‘Come. We have more pressing business.’

Not wishing to risk the lives of your companions, you return to your transport and leave the island. (Return to the quest map to continue your adventure.)

11

Prologue quest: Call of the wild

Morning finds you stumbling wearily through the dense forest, its trees still dripping with last night’s rainfall. You’ve had no sleep, relying instead on the potency of the dragon leaf to ease your aches and pains and give fresh vigour to your tired limbs.

The night was a miserable one, spent huddled beneath an overhang of rock, the hard wind battering you with rain. There was no hope of making a fire, not that you’d have known the first thing about
making one, so instead you shivered and shook, the cold settling deep into your bones.

It was the longest night you can ever remember. Too fearful of sleep, you chewed on the dragon leaf, its taste both a comfort and a reminder of home. Your thoughts wandered often to the events on the road, the cuts on your neck and face still stinging from the Martyr’s attack. She was a holy priest. A follower of the One God. And yet she had tried to kill you – a prince of Valeron.

Then there was the demon. A creature of the underworld; a being of pure evil. He had saved your life, and allowed you to escape. His rumbling voice still rings in your ears –
The fates have put you on this path
.

When dawn’s light finally arrived, pushing its way through the leaden clouds, you were still bereft of answers. Instead, the only certainty was that you were on your own, with no one else to protect you. Until now, the forest has proved safe, but you can’t help but recall the fireside banter over the previous evenings, the guards sharing chilling stories of the giant wolves that are said to hunt these parts. And the trolls, and the goblins and the . . .

You stop yourself, trying to stifle your fears and focus on the more immediate problem of finding a way home. Above the treetops, the sky is little more than a slate-grey expanse of cloud, diffusing the sun’s light and giving no clue to its position. The only landmark you have is the dark smudge of rock in the distance. You assume that must be north and instinct tells you that heading in that direction will only take you into danger. Instead, you strike out towards what you think must be east, keeping to the left of the ridge and hoping that eventually you might find some settlement or sign of civilisation.

East is the way back home.

This choice has led you to a series of steep hills, covered in scraggly bush and silver-barked trees. Stopping to draw breath, you decide to take stock of your meagre possessions. You have enough dragon leaf to last another week. That, at least, is a positive. The sword at your hip is useless, however – an inscribed blade known as Duran’s Heart, whose holy enchantments burn at your touch. Wearing gloves or wrapping cloth around the grip have proven equally ineffective.

At least your quilted under-jacket will afford you some protection, and the rest of your clothing, despite being thoroughly sodden with
rain and mud, is of good make, and should last the journey.

(You may now add the following items to your hero sheet. Remember to update your attributes to reflect the bonuses from your items. Your hero will now have 2
speed
and 1
armour
.)

Resuming your journey, you discover that the land itself appears to guide your steps. Skirting around the hills, you find yourself following the curve of a dried-up streambed, which winds down into a narrow gully of rock. This makeshift passage drops steeply, forcing you to pick your way past rocks and logs until you come to the valley floor. For the first time, you are presented with a dilemma. To your left, there appears to be a narrow trail, winding up the side of a forested hill. There, amongst the trees, you can spy columns of pillared rock – perhaps remnants of an old building. Ahead of you, the streambed reaches a steep bank, where the ground drops away into a series of ledges, forming a natural staircase down into a thick tangle of trees.