The Eye of Winter's Fury (53 page)

366

The mould covering the walls gets thicker and more virulent, forcing you to pick your way past drooping growths and snarled roots. Eventually you both emerge in a large rectangular chamber.

The floor, ceiling and walls are all covered in the same decaying mould.

As you step into the room, you hear an unsettling creak beneath your feet. Looking down, you see that the floor is wood rather than stone – the floorboards warped and rotted. You wonder if they are still capable of supporting your weight. To your right, an open doorway leads through to a narrow corridor.

‘Careful,’ whispers Anise.

You take another step into the room, wincing as the wood groans and cracks. Then another, distributing your weight as best you can. Anise shadows your movements, her pool of torchlight slowly filling the room.

A sudden rush of movement alerts you to danger.

You swing round, eyes following a dark shape as it drops from the ceiling.

‘It’s a riftwing!’ Anise shrieks, ducking behind your back. ‘Watch out!’

The creature resembles a cross between a goblin and a bat, with black leathery wings and peaked furry ears. From beneath its flayed nostrils you see two rows of needle-like teeth steadily opening wider.

With a hiss, the monster lunges for you. Reacting on instinct, you manage to catch one of its spindly wrists, stopping its taloned fingers just shy of your throat. The other limb ends in a scarred stump, battering uselessly against your chest. As the two of you stagger back against the wall, you notice one of its wings is hanging loose from its back, the membrane torn. The creature must have been in a previous fight, which has left it injured and weak.

If you have the word
methane
on your hero sheet, turn to
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371
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367

‘That is holy scripture.’ You nod to the glowing lines etched into the man’s skin. You cannot imagine the pain and the commitment of those who would endure such an act, all for the devotion of their god. ‘Tell me, how many inscribers died to give you that shiny coat?’

The paladin flinches at your scorn. ‘It is necessary if we are to fight in His name. The inscribers are as dedicated as we are. They give their lives willingly.’

You snort.

‘Do you have reason to fear the Church?’ Maune takes a step forward, leaning his head to try and peer at your face. ‘You are a wayward child, I can see that. And keeping company with a northern savage.’

It takes a moment for Skoll to react, an angry growl issuing from his lips. He moves to attack but you manage to put an arm out, urging restraint. ‘Do not rise to it,’ you intone slowly. Your attention returns to Maune.

‘The Church has wronged me and my family,’ you reply. ‘I have lost everything. Your god is not one of mercy or compassion.’

Maune eyes you levelly, his emotions masked by a stern exterior. ‘Men are corruptible. The holy light is not.’

368

‘The many weigh heavier than the few.’ You take Skoll’s hand, finding some small amusement in the pain caused by your chill touch, its cold sending fingers of frost crackling across his knuckles. He hoists you to your feet, then averts his gaze.

‘You did not have to become this.’ He glowers, rubbing his smarting hand. ‘We could have found another way.’

You retrieve your weapons. ‘What’s done is done, remember? Now we must avenge those we have lost.’ Your gaze turns to the yawning chasm. ‘Do you know where this demon is – the one we must destroy?’

He nods. ‘We need only follow these.’ He gestures to the stippled tentacles, branching through the stonework. ‘Come, this way.’

You follow the Skard along the ledge until you are directly beneath one of the appendages. Its trunk-like form stretches across the gulf, forming a crude but navigable bridge. Skoll holsters his axe then starts climbing, using the cracks in the wall to lever himself higher. Then, with a grunt, he leaps onto the tentacle, straddling it like a horse. The appendage holds, its ends tethered deep into the rock to either side.

You can feel the heat emanating from the tentacle’s cracked skin, but with no other choice you scale the wall and join the Skard. He seems unperturbed by the molten blood flowing through the beast’s innards, but for you its heat scolds your spirit-body, like a thousand hot needles piercing beneath your skin.

‘Let’s be quick,’ you gasp.

Skoll finds his balance then starts across the void, his eyes set firmly on the other side. You are halfway across when a sudden, shrieking clamour forces you to turn.

A host of shadowy demons are crawling up out of the darkness. Their shape and number are indistinct – at times they seem many, humanoid in shape, then they merge and become one, flowing together into a single confusion of grasping limbs.

The shadows move with speed, flowing around the tentacle like some virulent disease. They are headed straight for you.

Skoll draws his axe and nudges back past you. ‘Go.’

You look at him in confusion.

‘They come too quick. I hold them. Go.’

The Skard does not wait for your answer. He strides towards the surging darkness, limbering his shoulders, making practice cuts with his axe. You doubt he can possibly fend them all off.

As if sensing your hesitation, he calls back. ‘The many weigh heavier than the few. Now run, or I’ll kick you there myself!’

You bow your head in farewell, then turn and follow the Skard’s instruction, hurrying to the other side. Turn to
154
.

369

Quest: The bitter end

It feels good to breathe again. To enjoy the rhythm of your body, the throbbing beat beneath your breast. Odd you could miss something so normal and everyday – and rediscover its joy here, in this place of creeping shadow and dead things, where you feel more complete. More human.

At your side sits the bear. His name presses against your mind once again – Nanuk. He seems diminished now, not as large and imposing as he once was, as if part of his being is now within you. Muscles ripple along your arms where once there had been only skin and bone. You feel the power in every fibre of your being – not just a physical strength but something older, more primeval.

The dreamscape shimmers around you. Norr. The bear forms the word for you as he brushes up against your legs, letting you stroke the soft fur between his ridged shoulder blades. Simply touching him sends shimmering light branching across your fingertips. His magic. Your magic.

Oneness.

The stonework of the fortress stands stark against the green, but wavers in and out of reality as if clinging to a thin thread of existence – a shadow. Your eyes sweep back across the walls and towers. They are both familiar and unfamiliar, twisted a little, misshapen at the edges. It is as if the builder had been given a plan of the keep and then, part way through, had given in to madness, turning his creation into some tortured mockery of its intended purpose. This is the shadow of Bitter Keep. Somehow its presence pushes through the veil into this world – the one of spirit.

For days you have walked the silent battlements with only Nanuk for company. The silence is welcome – the solitude also. The demons have come many times, as they always do. Frightening nightmares from out of the wasteland. They have left you wondering if they are shadows of something too, damned spirits like yourself that have been trapped here so long that their humanity has become lost.

Each time the demons come, Nanuk sees them off with tooth and claw. And now you fight by his side as an equal. No longer the weak
and sickly prince that you once were. Magic courses from your fingertips, strength powers your strikes. In battle you feel at one with Nanuk – as if your minds have become joined, a union that goes deeper than anything you have experienced before. It is tempting to stay here in the dream . . . walking the walls of the shadow keep forever.

Just breathing. In and out. Feeling alive once again.

‘Arran!’

The voice wakes you to the familiar pains and cramps. Sitting cross-legged in your room, you open your eyes to a piercing light. Then you find yourself clawing at the ground as your muscles spasm, the sinews snapping taut like rope. You clamp your teeth together, spitting and snorting, resenting being brought back from your meditations – back to this mockery of a body. A dead weight. A dead corpse.

Everard strides across the room to the open window. ‘Allam’s teeth, it’s like a morgue in here.’ He pushes the shutters closed against the chill wind, his gaze shifting to the fireplace that has never been lit. ‘Do you not feel the cold, boy?’

You wait for the muscles to relax before levering yourself to stand, using the bed for support. ‘No,’ you reply, the word burning in your throat.

‘Segg is worried about you. He says you are spending longer,’ Everard throws you a hard look ‘meditating, or whatever you do. I doubt it’s healthy for you, Arran. You have responsibilities. Running from them will not solve anything.’

‘Running?’ You stare across the cold room, eyes adjusting to the gloom. The slatted light competes with the hard lines of Everard’s face. ‘What would you have me do?’ You glance down at your trembling hands, black and bruised.

The knight grimaces, thinking. ‘We need to get you away from here. Either across land to the south or charter a ship. Perhaps Ryker’s Island.’

‘The prison?’ You have heard many stories of that dread place – a forgotten outpost on the coast of the frozen north, where your father’s predecessor had housed the worst of the worst – the criminal elite. King Hark had been a church man, a devout follower of the One God. He believed that even the darkest wrongdoer was capable of repentance – if given enough time for reflection. And where better to
do that than a remote prison with no chance of escape, surrounded by miles of ice flats and frozen sea?

‘Not any longer,’ sighs Everard. ‘There was a uprising some time ago, the inmates seized control. I thought you would have known. The prison is more an outpost now. A pit of murderers and scoundrels, for sure, but also traders and hunters. Some would even go as far as to call it . . . civilised.’

‘And where then?’ you ask with some bitterness, not sure you like your life being mapped out for you, pushed from one place to the next at someone else’s discretion.

‘Well, that really depends on you, doesn’t it?’

‘Me?’ You startle in surprise. ‘You mean, do I want the throne? To try and win it—’

The room shudders then lurches. You stumble into the bed, which is rattling on its iron posts. Everard backs into a corner, bracing himself as the tremor continues, filling your ears with a resounding bellowing roar. You expect it to stop at any moment, like they always do – but this one lingers a little longer. Stone shifts, dust showers from the ceiling.

Then it is over, leaving silence in its wake.

‘They’re getting worse.’ Everard steps away from the wall, brushing the dust from his shoulder plate. ‘At this rate, no one will need to attack the walls, they’ll just step over them.’

Your eyes linger on the elderly knight, the previous conversation still working through your mind. ‘Cardinal Rile now rules in my absence. My people think me dead or captured by the Wiccans. Do you really think I have a chance of returning – of winning support?’ You take a step closer, arms wide by your sides. ‘The people of Assay would sooner welcome Conall and his Wiccan dogs, than . . . this.’

‘You’re still the heir.’

‘Saying it means nothing.’

‘No, it’s about believing, Arran.’ Everard steps closer, meeting you with his steel-grey eyes. ‘I believe you can lead, Arran. Not because of what you are now, but because of what you were.’

‘A weakling?’ You move your jaw, hearing it click

Everard snorts, shaking his head. ‘You have not known strength before. You know what it is to be weak – yes. You know what it is to be the underdog. That is a quality that most of our leaders lack.’

‘And having been the underdog will win me back my throne?’ You laugh, a hacking dry rasp.

‘No.’ Everard grits his teeth, grinding them back and forth. After taking a deep breath, he turns and starts towards the door. He hesitates with his hand on the latch. ‘I came here to deliver a message. Well, three in truth. I judge you are ready for some proper training – and I’m not alone in that. Segg believes you have a talent for magic and would like to tutor you further. Trainer Orrec, on the other hand, fancies you as a soldier of the keep and awaits you in the yard.’ The latch clicks back and Everard opens the door.

‘You said there were three.’

‘Oh yes.’ Everard glances back. ‘If guile and shadow are more to your tastes, then Rook will meet you in the chapel.’ He grins to himself before leaving.

370

Searching through the wreckage, you find one of the following items:

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371

You throw the riftwing back across the room, buying yourself enough time to ready your weapons. When the creature comes at you again,
shrieking and jabbering with rage, you are able to meet its attack with steel and magic. It is time to fight: