The Eye of Winter's Fury (70 page)

The world shudders, the roaring only getting louder. You sense the earth shifting again, starting to fall back into the crevasse. You make the mistake of looking down, your stomach lurching as you see the stone crumbling away, falling into the darkness.

You tighten your grip on the creature, aware of a sickening ripping sound coming from its dead body. Your added weight is pulling against the spike, threatening to tug it loose and send you both tumbling into the abyss.

‘No!’ You grapple against the creature, trying to secure a better hold – but gravity is intent on dragging you down . . .

Another squelching crunch; muscle and bone tears away from the spike.

Nanuk! Nanuk!

You feel a stirring in your mind. Then the familiar cold of the Norr rushes in – as it did when you were healed. But this time it moves straight through you, flowing out of your body and into the corpse of the drakeling. A wing flutters. Webbed feet scratch at the stone. Just a reflex action, perhaps . . . No, the head is moving, the beak snaps
open, and from its ragged lungs comes a terrifying screech. In horrified alarm, you realise that your magic has brought the monster back to life. Its body is ravaged, innards half-hanging out of terrible wounds. Bones protrude from a broken neck, but still it is alive, shrieking like a nightmare become real.

Its frantic movements dislodge the spike. For several gut-wrenching seconds you are in free-fall, arms gripped around the beast. Then its wings snap open and you are flying, buffeted on the searing thermals rising from the pit. The flight is ungainly, diving and rolling in a sickening series of spins, the membrane of one wing flapping uselessly in the wind. And yet the drakeling is managing to stay airborne, taking you through the blinding dust and out into the rift.

‘No!’ You will the monster to turn around, to take you south – back across the keep. ‘Nanuk! Turn south!’ Nothing seems to work – no thought, no amount of pulling and tugging will make the drakeling deviate from its course. Instead, you feel powerless; an unwitting passenger, clutching tight to the frightened beast as it struggles across the black void that yawns beneath you. Turn to
528
.

504

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

When you have updated your hero sheet, turn to
538
.

505

The knight fights with a maddened fury, his relentless strikes forcing you to the edge of the tower, where a section of the battlements have crumbled away. As he goes to deliver what he intends to be the final
blow, you dodge aside, using your strength and weight to hurl him over the side.

You almost follow him over, but Anise grabs a hold of you, pulling you back.

‘Thank you,’ you manage to croak.

‘Don’t mention it,’ she gasps, her quick breaths frosting the air.

Together you lean over the edge, watching as the falling light is swallowed by the darkness.

‘You couldn’t change it,’ says Anise, noting your silence. ‘There was nothing you could have done to save him.’

You turn, searching for the medallion. It is still lying in the dust where you dropped it, but now its appearance has changed – the chain and disc have become blackened and charred, giving off a sickly-yellow smoke. If you wish, you may now take:

Anise is suddenly tugging at your sleeve, gesturing wildly at the wind-blown rooftop. ‘No signal fire . . .’ she cries in exasperation. ‘What are we going to do now?’ Turn to
560
.

506

You manage to outrun the terrordactyls, but not before their claws and teeth have left their mark. Your transport has suffered serious damage in the assault. (You must lower your transport’s
toughness
and
stability
by 2.) When you have updated your hero sheet, turn to
492
.

507

‘Have you received news from the capital?’ you ask icily. ‘I understand the king has been deposed.’

Maune looks at you askew. ‘I was in the city for a time. I was under
the impression Mordland spies were responsible for the king’s death, and that of his son.’

‘His son?’ You try and rein in your anger, fists clenching tighter around your weapons.

‘Malden. The king in waiting. A good man. His wounds were ill-deserved, his death more so.’

You bow your head, taking a moment to compose yourself. ‘He had another son.’

‘Oh, the ghost prince.’ Maune sounds indifferent. ‘He was taken by the Wiccans. There was fear he might be used as a bargaining piece, but such schemes are beyond the minds of . . .’ his eyes flick to Skoll with contempt. ‘Hill men.’

‘And Rile?’ You lift your eyes. ‘What of him?’

Maune frowns. ‘He is a Cardinal, blessed by the holy light. He does his duty, as must we all in these dark times. People need a leader, if only until a new king is chosen. Although those that claim such a blood right have been found . . . lacking. At least with Rile on the throne the Church has a stronger standing at last.’

‘Convenient,’ you shoot sharply.

Maune takes a breath before answering. ‘If you had ever seen Mordland, boy, you would understand what is at stake. Their land is heathen, given over to false gods and demon worship. Their true faith however, is only reserved for their emperor; a twisted man both bloody and cruel. The holy light is all we have, to keep such evil from our borders. The king didn’t believe . . .’

‘The king didn’t believe in launching more crusades,’ you interject tersely. ‘So think, Maune. Why would Mordland have him killed?’

The paladin starts to answer, then checks himself. He gives another sigh. ‘Mordland will do anything to weaken our kingdom, to spread panic and chaos. They underestimate us.’ The paladin’s light flares bright about his body. ‘Most of our enemies do.’

508

‘Home?’ Jackson scoffs incredulously. ‘You seriously think yer getting to the mainland this side of winter? I tell you, I should shoot you now and put you out of yer misery. The sea east of here is all froze up. No traffic at all, unless you try for one of the whaling vessels. But even those are probably holed up at Ryker’s or already headed back south.’

‘What about overland?’ you ask, starting to feel despondent. ‘There must be a way.’

‘Yeah, there’s a bridge at Bitter Keep.’

‘There
was
a bridge at Bitter Keep,’ you correct.

‘Ah, well I’d say you’d need to grow a pair of wings then, smart guy. How else you crossin’ that rift?’

509

You push through a wall of trailing roots to discover another opening. This leads you into a winding tunnel, which snakes erratically through the trunk of the tree. A foul-smelling green ichor seeps from the walls and ceiling, forming sizzling puddles that slowly eat away at the wood and dirt. In some sections the acid has burnt through entirely, forming deep pits that stretch away into the bowels of the tree. You navigate these with care, to avoid slipping into the deadly channels.

At last the tunnel curves and then widens into another vast chamber, again carved from the bole of the tree. The ground is perfectly flat and smooth, revealing the banded growth rings that radiate from the centre. A number of hollow depressions have been cut into the various rings, some containing wooden pieces, others left vacant. You notice a pile of chopped wood in a corner of the room. Investigating these you discover that they are all circular cross-sections of trees,
containing different numbers of growth rings. You wonder if these might allude to some sort of arcane puzzle.

You sort through the cross-sections, spreading them out on the ground in front of you. There are pieces with the following number of growth rings: 2, 15, 17, 21, 23, 53 and 72 rings. You assume these are to be placed in the vacant holes, following a pre-ordained pattern.

Decide where you want to place your seven numbers. The numbers that you place over the symbols must be totalled to give you a final answer to the puzzle. If you think you have solved the puzzle, turn to the appropriate numbered entry to discover if you were correct. If you are wrong, or unable to solve the puzzle, then you decide to ignore this odd distraction and continue onwards. Turn to
13
.

510

Rummaging through your pack, you pull out the book that you found in Segg’s library. You quickly flick through its pages, reading up on the rules of the game. (Make a note of entry number
776
– you can refer to this entry at any time while carrying the book, to study the rules of ‘Stones and Bones’.)

When you are ready to play, turn to
335
.

511

After several rounds of choosing and swapping stones, you end up with the following hand:

The monk waits for you to make your next choice, slurping noisily from his next mug of ale.

512

You manage to break away from your opponent, passing the finish line in fourth place. This qualifies you to enter the final race. However, you only receive 60 gold crowns for your fourth place ranking. (Replace the keyword
rookie
with the word
veteran
.) Return to the map to continue your adventure.

513

Your hands move across the console, activating the runes and throwing the orb’s magic against your advancing opponents. They stumble through the onslaught, their enchanted stonework blasted and pummelled by the energies channelled against them. As the surviving statues near your location, you vault over the balcony and charge into the fray, using your own weapons to finish off their crumbling forms.

Amongst the smoking rubble, you discover glowing fragments of stone imbued by the magics that have been unleashed. If you wish, you may now take one of the following special rewards:

When you have updated your hero sheet, turn to
737
.

514

Rage consumes you, delivering your blows with a savage zeal. Bodies fall. Ice showers across the ground. A small part of you finds comfort in the destruction – each death a release for the tortured souls trapped by the witch’s magic.

But your foes are many – pressing in constantly, giving you no room to manoeuvre. Magic spills in waves from your body, blasting the statues with a wrathful fury, sending severed limbs spiralling through the air. It seems you have the upper hand – until a troll shoulders into you, throwing you back against the wall. Before you can recover, another statue – a Skard warrior – wraps his thick arms tight around you, dragging you into a crushing embrace. The troll charges in again, a frozen club raised above his sharp-tusked head . . .