The Eye of Winter's Fury (99 page)

To avoid this hazard, you will need to take a challenge test using your
speed
racing attribute:

If you are successful, turn to
753
. If you fail, turn to
198
.

696

The shock of your injuries leaves you drained of strength, your broken body buffetted by the strong currents. It is only when you feel yourself being sucked down, deeper and deeper into the churning
pool, that you start to kick desperately, willing your limbs to move.

Somehow you manage to find the surface, where a pair of hands settle around your flailing arms, and pull you – with tremendous strength – onto the stony banks. You lie on your side, your dead chest heaving as you try and force the water out of your lungs. A glimmer of magic flickers across your body, knitting the bones and mending the worst of your injuries. At the back of your mind you feel Nanuk, his strength flowing into you once again.

Wiping the salty water from your eyes, you look up at your rescuer.

‘Caul!’

The trapper appears unharmed, looking down at you with a half-smile. His clothes look as dry as bone, his appearance barely dishevelled.

‘How – how did you survive?’

The trapper hoists you to your feet. ‘I have my ways. Come, there is a tunnel over here – shall we?’ He retrieves his spear then makes for an opening in the rock lit by a cluster of phosphorescent fungi. You hesitate, giving Caul a suspicious frown. Clearly, this trapper is not all that he appears – is he really an ally, or another of the cave’s sinister tricks?

Along the banks of the pool you spot a number of items, which must have been washed up by the swirling currents. If you wish, you may now take one of the following:

You shoulder your pack, keeping a wary eye on your companion as you follow him into the tunnel. Turn to
726
.

697

The monk downs his last mug of ale, then squeezes himself out of his seat with an audible grunt. After scooping his winnings into a
leather sack, he waddles through the crowds towards the front doors. Immediately you spot a group of men peel away from the bar, four in number, with stern faces and a murderous gleam to their eye. You recognise one of them, possibly the leader, as the man that was beaten by the monk and lost all of his gold. They follow him out into the chill outdoors.

698

The stench of death. Black flies crawl over the rotted corpses. As you follow the Skards into the ruins a group of crows startle in alarm, leaving their grisly feast to rise cawing and screeching into the air. There are bodies everywhere – men, women, children . . . and the black-scaled bodies of Nisse.

It has taken half a day to reach these ruins, perched on the edge of a bleak rocky plateau. A few pillars, a cracked stone floor and some crumbling walls are all that remain of some ancient temple, or other structure from antiquity. The wind has become fierce, blasting cruelly against this exposed ridge, bringing with it a true northern cold. Even you feel it, biting at your hands and face, scouring the pale skin to leave it blistered and raw. Clumps of snow cling to the hollows of the surrounding rock. Beyond the ruins, where the bluff sears off into a drop of a hundred metres or more, you see a glittering expanse of snow and ice, stretching as far as the eye can see. The true north. The frozen north.

The seal tribe had evidently made this spot their temporary home. Hide shelters have been left flapping in the wind, the remains of cooking pots and other equipment lie discarded amongst the rocks. As well as the human bodies, you see the remains of animals – goats and dogs, and some bovine creatures covered in thick white hair.

The hunters are silent as they pick amongst the ruins, turning over bodies, kicking over rubble, scavenging anything that might be useful – weapons, tools, armour. There is no sense of loss or show of regret
in their hard faces. You wonder if such scenes, such horrific suffering, are commonplace out here in the wilds.

But you feel it. And your eyes start to see it.

Everything here is touched with a green veil, glimmering in the fading light – a magical sheen that reminds you of the dreamscape. At the back of your mind you feel Nanuk’s presence pushing forward, more powerful than before. From the dead lying around you, motes of light drift towards you, coalescing around your body and then sinking into the deadened flesh. A cold energy begins to fill you, growing steadily more intense the longer you remain in the ruins.

Feeding off the dead.
The thought sickens you, but you are almost sure it is true – somehow, the barrier between this place and the shroud, the place of the demons and the dreams, is thin. The magic of that other world is seeping through, giving you strength and power. You also wonder, with a sudden pang of dread, what else might be able to slip through . . .

Soul charge:
Your body has been able to heal. You may now remove three defeats from your hero sheet or one death penalty effect. If you are inflicted with
rift rot
, this disease is also removed.

The leader of the hunters, Taulu, is standing alone, his head bowed. You join him, your eyes wandering to the corpse sprawled against the nearby pillar. A man, broad and muscular, with dark hair blowing across his scarred face. A pile of Nisse bodies lie in a circle around him, their black blood spattering his seal-skin clothing. He accounted well for himself, a noble last stand.

‘Drungen.’ The hunter lifts his head, looking out across the ruins to the ice plains beyond. Then he begins to sing. A deep, sonorous melody filled with every emotion these hard men seem unwilling to show. The words are Skard, but you feel them, the sadness and the reverence in their tone – and know that they honour their heroes, their fallen.

A scuff of boots. You turn to see the others joining you – Hale and Ninvuk. They glance at the dead warrior, silent in death, and then they add their own voices to that of their leader, eyes staring off into whatever places, whatever thoughts, the words now take them to.

Then it is over. And in the distance, a different chorus. Taulu cocks his head to one side. The baying of wolves sounds across the cliffs and
valleys, mournful and desolate. The sound makes you bristle in alarm, your weapons finding their way into your hands. You are reminded of your previous encounter with wolves, and do not wish to repeat the experience. Nanuk brings a wary growl to your lips.

‘Varagan.’ Ninvuk, the shaven-headed Skard, has started to sniff the air, looking alert.

You glance at the leader, sensing that they now share your unease. ‘Wolves?’

Taulu looks around, eyes scanning the ruins. ‘Dead place. Brings spirits. Witch. Much danger . . .’

The hunters quickly find positions, ducking behind cover, their attentions focused on the same area of cliffs to your right. A pale green mist is now curling over the broken rocks. You feel Nanuk’s agitation growing, his mind shifting inside you, urging you to seek safety.

A giant wolf prowls out of the thickening fog.

This is no earthly creature – you see its body is translucent, edged with a faint green glow. The wolf moves quickly, its huge strides eating up the distance, muzzle hanging low as if tracking a scent. Then it lifts its head, the green-flecked surface of its eyes glowing with a sudden vigour.

‘Fenrir.’ The word is spat like venom into the air. Taulu gives you a look – and for the first time you see real fear written there. ‘The witch’s hunter.’

The wolf ’s jaws crack open, green spittle hanging in drooling strands from its enormous teeth. You half expect it to give a dread howl – one designed to put terror into your hearts. Instead the beast appears to convulse, its flanks arching back, the head swinging to and fro in painful discomfort. A blackness starts to swirl in the beast’s stomach, slowly winding itself together into something large – solid.

Suddenly the throat bulges, the jaws locking wider as a pair of black hands emerge from inside the wolf ’s mouth. They grab hold of the front teeth, dragging the darkness out into the pale light.

The shadow slides like spittle from the beast’s jaws, pooling on the frost-webbed ground. You watch transfixed as the dark matter bubbles and hisses then starts to stretch, rising up to form a vaguely humanoid shape with a myriad of tentacles sprouting from its black body. Each one ends in a tooth-like fang, flickering with magic.

The shadow streaks towards the ruins, the fangs blurring as they slash back and forth. Behind it the wolf throws itself into a bounding charge, finally emitting a deep-throated howl that seems to still the very world and announce its ending. It is time to fight:

	Special abilities
	Corrupted claws : Each time you take health damage from Fenrir you must lower your brawn and magic by 1 for the duration of the combat.
	Jaws of Fenrir : At the end of each combat round you must take 4 damage, ignoring armour , from the shadowy fangs. Once the jaws are defeated, this ability no longer applies
	Baiting the beast : The hunters’ weapons seem ineffective against your ghostly enemies, unlike your own. However, they are able to distract Fenrir and his minion. If you lose a combat round, roll a die. If the result is or less, your enemy is distracted and does not roll for damage. or more and the combat round proceeds as normal.