The Eye of Winter's Fury (93 page)

Keep a running tally of how many muttok you and Desnar have hunted. At the end of the seventh round, the hunter who has the most muttok kills has won the challenge and will be attacked by the Muttok elder – his antlers presenting the greatest hunting trophy.

If you win the challenge, turn to
475
. If you lose the challenge, turn to
270
. (If the challenge is a draw after seven rounds, continue with the hunt until a winner emerges at the end of a round.)

653

Further into the city the streets are warded with runes – invisible to the naked eye, but to your magic-attuned senses they glimmer brightly, like spider’s webs laced with frost. You doubt they are the witch’s work; more likely one of her coven, as their crafting is weak and easily broken.

But they serve their purpose – to slow your progress.

Another pattern of runes hiss and spark as you unravel their weave. Raising your hand you draw your fingers through the air, leaving your
own trace of magic behind, this one visible – a shimmering bear’s claw for your companions to follow.

You’ve almost reached the centre of the ruins when the tremor hits. Your first warning is a faint drumming beneath your feet and the clink of rocks, dislodged and skittering down the hills of rubble.

Then there is an explosion of sound. A deafening thunder as everything begins to shake violently, throwing you from side to side. You hear walls toppling, the crack and splinter of the earth – in the distance, an entire row of towers simply disappears, dropping away from the horizon, leaving only thin whispers of dust to mark their passing.

You lurch across an open plaza, aware of fissures forming beneath your feet, branching and then widening, leaking a sulphurous smoke. Dodging a shower of falling rock, you find yourself taking cover inside the pillared colonnade of a vast hall. Symbols have been carved into the exterior stonework – nine orbs, arranged within a complex weave of crisscrossing lines. An open archway leads inside.

Arran.

A woman’s voice, beckoning.

Your instincts tell you to turn and flee, but the urge to enter becomes overpowering, like an invisible thread reeling you in. Unable to resist, you find yourself entering the hall. Turn to
49
.

654

‘We know little,’ grunts the Skard. ‘The tales speak of a Mordland princess, a sorceress who was married to a cruel king. He did not love her. They say he tortured her, made an example of her to his men. It was his unkindness that set her on the dark path. She went mad with a desire for revenge – murdered her king and fled north on a whaler’s schooner. It sank during a storm. All on board were killed – save for the witch. The only one to survive.

‘Now, she dwells in the ancient Titan city beyond the North Face. I have been there, only once. We believed ourselves stronger than her. I chose the best men. Ten of the strongest warriors from every tribe stood at my side. But every one fell to the witch – her gaze can turn flesh to ice. Only Fimbulwinter, a shield from the great hoard of Vindsvall, could protect me from her wrath. I was close . . . so close
to ending her life. A hair’s breadth from plunging my sword into her breast. Then the shield was taken from me, ripped from my grasp by one of her minions; a demon. His claws shredded the shield like it was paper. I tried to get it back – we struggled and fought on the very edge of the Well, a gateway to the shroud. The demon fell in and took the shield fragments with him. I had no choice but to flee. Without the shield, I could not look upon the witch.’

Skoll is silent for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fist.

‘I still hear her voice, the screams . . . I do not think there is anything left of the woman that is human. The demons have taken her over, and together they work as one: to free Jormungdar and destroy our realm.’

Return to
602
to ask another question or turn to
326
to end the conversation.

655

You catch up with the thieves in the dark alleyway. They have the monk surrounded, backing him up against one of the walls. The leader, a tall lean man with a hooked nose and tattoos snaking around his arms, brandishes a pair of daggers.

‘Leave him,’ you bellow, striding forward whilst drawing your own weapons. Their magic rages to life, flooding the alleyway with their stark brilliance. The thieves draw back, momentarily blinded. The monk has started to sob, sliding down the wall into the mud and filth.

‘What’s it gotta do with you?’ sneers the leader, squinting to get a better look at you. He starts forward, nodding quickly to his three companions. They are young, but have a confident, reckless air about them – evidently believing strength in numbers will give them the advantage. You decide to prove them wrong. It’s time to fight:

	Special abilities
	Knives in the dark : For every you roll for your hero’s attack speed (before or after a reroll), you must automatically take 2 damage, ignoring armour .
	Outnumbered : At the end of each combat round, you must take 1 damage from each surviving opponent, ignoring armour . This ability only applies while you are faced with multiple opponents.

If you manage to defeat these rash hoodlums, turn to
678
. If you are defeated, record the defeat on your hero sheet, then turn to
69
.

656

The shaven-headed Skard kneels beside you, the stench of his unwashed body filling your nostrils. As he leans close you see he is missing an ear, the white lines of scar-tissue cutting a ragged line to his upper lip. He puts a hand to your chin, pushing it back – then raises his axe.

‘Berg vegger!’ His eyes widen in surprise. ‘Vegger!’ You feel him tug something from your chest – the silver hound pin that Everard gave you. Boots crunch across the gravel as the other hunter takes it, turning it in his hand. He steps closer to you, his huge frame filling the sky.

‘How you get this?’ He kicks you in the side, then holds the pin out between his fingers.

It takes several moments for you to realise you understood him – his words are thick and guttural, but they are in the common tongue. A sudden hope rises within you – a chance at last to tell your story. The events of the past few hours spill out in a fervent ramble.

He looks at you incredulously as you describe the attack on the keep, the earthquake and Everard giving you the token. You don’t know how much the Skards can understand, but you repeat everything a second time, looking from one to the other.

When you have finished there is a heavy silence, broken only by the sighing of the wind. The shaven-headed Skard gives a growl, then raises his axe again. ‘Drap han han,’ he barks, in his rough, harsh language.

‘Nen!’ The other hunter raises his hand, halting the fall of the axe. You quickly assume he is the leader – perhaps the necklace of bones he wears is some symbol of authority. He kneels beside you, scowling as he looks over your body and its many wounds. ‘Dead meat,’ he says, prodding his fingers into your grey-white flesh. ‘You of the witch?’ His gaze returns to the silver pin. He waits for your answer.

‘I don’t know what you mean. I come from the keep – I was the only one to survive.’

The leader clenches his jaw, working the muscles in his cheeks. ‘Everard a good man,’ he nods at last. ‘We come for help. To the keep.’ He points to his two companions, the giant and the short weasel-faced Skard. ‘Our tribe weak. We feel badness of place. Wrongness. You understand this?’

You nod, even though your mind is still racing. ‘There is nothing left,’ you explain again, wincing as you try and rise. ‘The keep has gone.’

‘Nisse.’

It is the first time the giant has spoken. He stands a head taller than the leader, his mane of hair hanging in greasy ropes across his broad face. Every inch of him – indeed, every inch of all three of the hunters – appears weathered and scarred. He kicks the body of the creature lying on the ground next to him. ‘Nisse.’

You gather it is their word for these scaled beasts. ‘They attacked the keep,’ you nod quickly. ‘Did they . . . did they cause all this – the earthquakes?’ Your eyes flick to the leader, hoping that your words are understood.

You are surprised when he shakes his head. He shifts, pointing behind him. ‘The north witch. White witch. Makes earth . . .’ He struggles to find a word you will grasp. His eyes catch on one of your open wounds, muscle and bone protruding from the cavity. ‘Bad. Rot.’

You flinch uncomfortably. ‘Perhaps there is a cure,’ you add grimly.

The Skard strokes his necklace for a moment, studying you with a deep interest. ‘We bear clan. You understand? Bear.’ He pats his chest. ‘Taulu.’ His gaze shifts to his two companions. ‘Hale. Ninvuk.’ He nods to the giant and then the shaven-headed Skard.

‘Arran,’ you put a hand to your chest, mimicking his own gesture. ‘My name is Arran.’

He leans forward, pinning the silver token back onto your jerkin.
‘We get help. Keep gone. We go west. Find seals, seal clan. Put together, yes?’ He clasps his hands in some show of unity. ‘We move. You follow. Walk or die.’ His eyes fix on your own. ‘Everard’s hound. Yes?’

He stands without waiting for an answer, arching his back to crack the bones. Then he turns and heads down the slope, retrieving his javelin from the downed Nisse. His two companions fall into step behind him, not sparing you another glance.

You are left lying in the dirt.

Walk or die.

A simple rule. And one that seems fitting to these solemn, predatory hunters.

You stumble to your feet, feeling no pain from your numerous wounds, only a discomfort each time you move. But you are still alive – and it seems, for now, the Skards are content for you to join them. After retrieving your weapons, you hurry as best you can to catch up. Turn to
698
.

657

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

When you have updated your hero sheet, turn to
755
.

658

Weapons are soon forgotten, giving way to fists and spectral claws – slashing, punching, cutting. Black blood covers you both head-to-toe as you tumble across the ground, locked together like savage pit bulls. One of Sable’s claws drives into your side, parting the flesh and ripping through dead and useless organs. You try and struggle free but
the prince now sits astride your chest, towering above you. His single eye is feverishly bright, glowing with victory.