The Eye of Winter's Fury (90 page)

And in your mind’s eye you picture Cardinal Rile, sat upon the throne of Valeron – your throne. The demon’s words nudge at your memory.

Seeking to win back the throne of Valeron . . . it will not bring you peace, Arran. I am sorry.

‘I do not seek peace,’ you intone, speaking into the blustery gale. ‘Only the vengeance that I am owed.’

Aslev turns his head, surveying the broken wasteland. ‘How do you plan on reaching your homeland, Drokke?’

You meet his gaze with a smile. ‘If we cannot go over . . .’ Your eyes shift to the dark abyss, scything across the horizon. ‘Then we will go under. Will your people walk such dark paths with me?’

Aslev flashes another grin. ‘If it will make a song worth singing, my Drokke, we would follow you to the very gates of Hel.’

Your eyes remain fixed on the abyss, watching the smoke still steaming from its depths. ‘I will hold you to that promise, Aslev. For that is where destiny may lead us.’

Congratulations! You have now reached the end of this adventure and have earned yourself the additional title
The Serpent Slayer
! You may now turn to the epilogue.

633

Using the open hatch, you wriggle through into the store area. It is much larger than you anticipated, extending back over thirty metres to a rock-hewn wall. Unfortunately, much of the space is on fire. A crate of whisky and other spirits has gone up in flames, not to mention a pile of sackcloth and a stack of hides. The flames are spreading quickly, trailing along lines of spilt oil and whisky towards a set of barrels.

Not wishing to remain here any longer than necessary, you quickly look around for items of value. At your feet lie the remains of Jackson, a middle-aged man with thick long hair and a wispy moustache. His clothes reek of filth and alcohol, and his body is almost black from grease and grime. It is a grisly task, but you quickly set about searching his corpse for anything useful.

You find 15 gold crowns and up to two of the following items:

The barrels explode, showering the room in oil and blazing shards of wood. Covering your face from the heat, you hurry through the thickening smoke, looking to grab as much from the store as you can. (You have gained two
muttok pelts
and a
yeti pelt
. Simply make a note of these on your hero sheet, they do not take up backpack space).

A wall of shelving topples down, stopping you from progressing further into the store. Instead you scramble back the way you came, the smoke and debris making it increasingly difficult to navigate. Luckily you manage to reach the hatch. As you do so, your eyes catch on a small metal locker lying amongst the wreckage. Flames are raging around the box, but the item itself appears unharmed.

634

You slip into one of the alcoves, shuffling around the table to get a good view of the taproom.

If you have the keyword
scripture
on your hero sheet, turn to
63
. If you have the keyword
covert
on your hero sheet, turn to
373
. Otherwise, turn to
457
.

635

You pass beneath the arch into a large colonnaded courtyard filled with wildflowers. It is exactly as you remember it: high trellises steeped with vines, statuary peering between trees and bushes, a row of wooden benches lining the straight cobbled pathways. You look for some flaw in the scene, but it is perfect – save for the blurry edge at the far end of the courtyard, where steps would have led down to a boating lake.

You are almost lost to the beauty and the solitude, your mind racing back to days long past – then you hear the boots and the tapping of steel. A gruff cough announces the instructor’s arrival as he steps around a trellis.

Instructor Barl. The royal weapons master. The man who had taught your two brothers to fight – and had doggedly persisted with your own training, on your father’s insistence.

He glares back at you, his look mingled with disgust and pity. ‘You’re late,’ he growls. ‘As always. Too busy reading your books, I presume.’

You go to answer, but your words are cut short as the instructor raises his sword, striking you with the flat of the blade. The blow catches you across the shoulder, knocking you against one of the benches.

‘Show me what you have learned, boy!’ he snaps, regarding you with a grim smile. ‘Come on, you puny wretch.’

You feel a weakness come over your body. Gritting your teeth, you struggle to take the weight of your weapons. It is as if time has wound back and you are that same sickly boy once again, too feeble to even
wield a blade. Instructor Barl seems unconcerned by your plight. He flings himself at you, his blade raining blows with an intent ferocity. He uses the flat side once again, knocking you to the ground. He stalks around you, laughing.

‘That was your last chance, wretch. Next time, I come at you with the edge.’

Desperately you fight to lift your weapons as the instructor steps in, his sword cutting powerful and deliberate strikes. It is time to fight:

	Special abilities
	Enfeeblement : You cannot play any speed abilities for the duration of the combat.
	Short temper : At the start of the fifth combat round, if Barl is still alive he will go into a fit of rage. This will raise his speed by 1 and magic by 3 for the duration of the combat.

If you manage to defeat the bullying Barl, turn to
71
.

636

‘We are not settlers,’ explains Sura, gesturing to the blocks of ice that form her shelter. ‘It is in our blood to travel, to follow the hunt, the paths of the beasts, and live as best we can off the land. Our tribes are scattered. Like the four winds we are blown to the furthest reaches, but we are still the Ska-inuin. The people.’

Sura closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. ‘Vindsvall is our meeting place. Where all tribes become one under the Drokke. He is the one who leads us all – the one who speaks words that cannot be questioned.’ Her eyes flutter open as she releases a heartfelt sigh. ‘Vindsvall is to the north. A hall of wood and bone, the most precious we have. The rarest of buildings, for we live beneath leather and ice – and these things are cheap, and not for a Drokke.’

‘And the shamans you spoke of . . . the Asynjur, they serve this . . . Drokke?’

Sura lowers her gaze to the pipe, watching the thin tendrils of smoke curl up from the bowl. ‘They serve him, yes. They serve him in both body and soul.’

637

You leap over the final set of runes, feeling the air crackle behind you, the flames from the drake heads washing you in heat. For a second your vision is obscured by smoke, then you are stumbling forward into the chamber beyond, the cold that greets you a welcome relief.

Turning back you see the flames splutter then go out, leaving your view clear to the other side. Caul is pacing back and forth nervously, his spear tapping against the ground. He stops, his body tensing. He looks about to run . . .

‘Wait!’ You notice a small rune on the wall next to the corridor. You quickly put a hand to it, pushing your magic into its design, connecting the glyphs to activate its power. There is a distant humming sound, followed by a click. When you look back into the corridor you see that the flames are no longer burning inside the carved heads. ‘I think I did something – try it now.’

Caul rocks back on his heels then pitches forward into a run, high-stepping across the runes. They spark and crackle angrily, but without the flames at his back, Caul is able to dodge them with ease. He finally catches up with you, his boots barely singed.

‘I never want to do that ever again,’ he pants, putting his hands to his knees.

‘At least our daring has paid off.’ You look around at the stone tablets stacked on shelves around the chamber. Most have been smashed, but a few remain intact. You set about examining the stones, looking for those that might contain useful enchantments.

You may now help yourself to two of the following items:

When you have updated your hero sheet, you leave the chamber through a doorway in the opposite wall. Turn to
726
.

638

Quest: The dead and the damned

(Note: You must have completed the orange quest
The crossing
before you access this location)

The reading room shimmers around you, its curving walls becoming hazy mist at the edge of your memory. It is almost perfect, as much as you can remember of your favourite place, the hideaway that you always ran to to be alone – away from the politics and pressures of court. You shift your weight on the window seat, allowing Nanuk to rest his head on your lap. Smiling, you push a hand through his coarse grey hair. He seems much older now, his skin and muscle sagging a little from his thinner frame. It pains you to know that you are the cause – that your magic comes from him, keeping you alive in your dead body.

‘Why, Nanuk?’ You tousle his hair. The bear glances at you sleepily with his pale, amber eyes. He doesn’t answer, merely stretches open his jaws to yawn.

You look back at the reading room, shifting your thoughts to the table, correcting a mistake in the scroll-work along the legs, adding details to the chairs. In the Norr, it seems, anything is possible. Memories can become reality, if you only concentrate and work the magic. But holding it, that is the difficulty. As you focus on the table the walls flicker and begin to fade, melting away to reveal the bleak wind-scoured landscape once again. The chair reverts to a slab of rock, scoured by the claws of some demonic creature.

You breathe in deep, enjoying the taste of the dead, cold air. A young and virulent heart beats fast against your breast, your lungs rising and falling. Just a memory. As fake as the library you had
painstakingly built with your mind. But even the imitation of life is welcome – better than the dead body that awaits you in the real world.

Nanuk raises his head, sniffing the air. He gives a throaty growl, swinging round to eye the wasteland. You casually draw your weapons, expecting another demon. Following the bear’s gaze, you fix on a shadow slinking past the stunted columns of rock. Its movements are slow, predatory. Not a demon. Another animal.

You slip off the boulder, crouching next to the bear. ‘What is it? What do you see, Nanuk?’

In your mind you are given an impression of hair and teeth. And the stink of death.

The shadow passes around a lump of fallen masonry, its shaggy head edging into the pale half-light. A wolf. For a brief instant you fear it is the witch’s spirit, Fenrir. But this wolf is smaller, leaner – yet no less intimidating. One eye is shut closed, little more than a fleshy stump of scar tissue. The other shines bright, yellow and piercing.