The very next day you were leaving Assay. There was no fanfare or parade, or crowd of cheering well-wishers. But then, what had you expected? They call you the ghost prince, the one that no one ever sees. Always haunting the palace library, poring over dusty tomes, filling your head with fanciful stories. Always reading because you’re too afraid to sleep.
They want rid of me. Just like Lazlo. Send me off to the edge of the world . . .
Your destination – Lord Salton’s castle. A crumbling military outpost on the Vacherie Delta, its strategic importance long since diminished as borders edged westwards, leaving it to guard stone and dirt and very little else. But now, things have changed. Salton Castle straddles the only pass between the Bale Peaks, a treacherous range of high mountains. And the Wiccans are rumoured to be marching straight for it. By all accounts, the castle is still defensible. But Lord Salton is a coward. He would sooner abandon his charge, taking his household and knights with him, than face down a tribe of savage warriors.
You’ve been tasked to convince him otherwise. To deliver the king’s demand: there is to be no retreat and no surrender. A royal face to sweeten the message.
Salton Castle had to be ready for war.
You brush away the tears, clenching your jaw to stop it trembling. The cardinal was right. You have a duty to perform. It’s time to make your father proud – make everyone proud.
And yet, you can’t shift the nagging feeling that something is wrong.
As your eyes slide along the procession, you find yourself pondering the cardinal’s choice of knights. They had struck you as an odd selection from the start. Their banner sigils denote minor houses – Palfrey, Hanson, Bolivar and Freeman – not the usual nobles that would be enlisted for a royal mission. You also notice that their armour lacks the polish of a true knight. There are no medals or decorations, no sign that they have courageously served their country. Would the cardinal really entrust the defence of a castle to a bunch of hedge knights, unproven in battle?
Thankfully you still have the king’s guard to rely upon, a veteran regiment of fifteen soldiers led by Captain Tarlow. Ordinarily, he would never leave the king’s side, but the cardinal had insisted. Your safety was now of the utmost importance. You nod and offer the captain a hopeful smile. He scowls back, hawking a gob of spittle into the dirt. The rest of his men share his dour demeanour. No one wants to be babysitting a prince, it seems.
‘This will do.’ Inquisitor Hort raises a gauntleted hand, calling a halt to the procession.
You look around in confusion. The bleak countryside has not changed all day, steep rock banks and tangled trees and a road little more than a muddy stream. This seems an odd place to set up camp, even to your untrained eye.
There are answering grumbles from Tarlow and his men. The captain glares at the cardinal’s knights, who have started to edge closer, surrounding the guards on all sides. Hooves scuff the dirt, harnesses clanking as the barded horses quickly encircle them. You lose sight of Tarlow as a Bolivar knight passes in front of him, blocking the captain from view. The knight stops and turns his head towards the inquisitor, the rain streaming from his oiled helm in liquid rainbows.
‘Are we making camp?’ you ask irritably, trying to put some authority into your voice. You look from the inquisitor to the knight, demanding an answer.
The inquisitor ignores you, his hard gaze fixed on the waiting knight. He nods his head. You hear the wet-thud of lances hitting the ground – then cold steel hissing free of scabbards. In that same instant, the inquisitor lifts his hand to the warhammer strapped to his back. A cold shiver runs along your spine as he turns to face you.
‘Wait! What are you doing? What are . . . ?’
There is the sudden peal of a horn.
The inquisitor freezes, eyes going wide.
Another blast. Deep and reverberating, its echo rattling your very bones. ‘What’s happening?’ You shout to be heard over the thunder of the horn.
Hort twists in his saddle, his warhammer gripped in one hand. He is scanning the trees to the side of the road. ‘It can’t be,’ you hear him mutter.
Your chest tightens with fear, heart thumping in your ears. ‘What is it? I don’t see . . .’
‘Wiccans!’ he shouts suddenly, jerking the reins to turn his horse. ‘Form up! Form up! We’re under attack!’
Only then do you see them, coalescing out of the fog like ghosts, moving fast – leaping over logs and rocks, teeth bared, weapons glinting. And with them a deafening clamour of howls ringing from every direction – closing in on the procession. You spin in circles, your attention darting dizzyingly from one warrior to the next. They look barely human, clad in ragged furs, hair greased and spiked, faces smeared with paint. Or is it blood? One of them is holding a flag aloft, streaming out from behind his clenched fist. You recognise the colours, purple and gold, and the sigil of a goat’s head. They belong to Lord Salton.
They took the castle. We’re too late.
Then everything happens at once. The inquisitor’s warhammer blazes with holy light, its crackling head sweeping round to connect with a snarling axe-man. An eye-wincing crack. The smell of charred flesh. But another has already leapt up onto the back of his horse. The savage’s face is a picture of death, his cheeks and forehead banded with white, the eyes circled with black hollows. Daggers flash as they punch into the inquisitor’s side, finding the chinks between his armoured plates.
An explosion. Mud and water rain down from the sky. A horse gallops past, nostrils flaring, snorting and whinnying. Another follows, dragging a knight through the dirt, the man’s foot still caught in the stirrups. Through the showering debris you see axe blades glittering, hacking through armour and bone, horses toppling to the ground, crushing knights beneath them. Tarlow’s guards struggle to manoeuvre against the overwhelming tide of bodies.
Two wiccans race past you, snarling like wolves. They pay you no mind, hurrying towards the knights and guards. It is as if you don’t exist – a ghost prince who has truly become invisible. Then you hear another explosive boom, followed by a rush of heat. You spin in the saddle, mouth dropping open when you see the flames from the supply cart billowing up into the grey sky.
‘Molly!’
Kicking your horse’s flanks you urge it forward, your hand reaching for your sword. In your haste you forget its holy enchantments – words of the One God that seem to recoil at your touch. When your fingers close around the grip, you feel a sharp shock of pain lance along your arm. You jerk backwards and for a moment you lose your purchase on the reins, sliding back off the saddle.
‘Arran!’ A woman’s voice. Cold and brittle.
Hands are suddenly around your throat, nails digging into your flesh – and you are falling.
You land with a splash in the cloying, sludgy mud. For several seconds, you are fighting for breath, your sight blinded by dirt and water. Someone is lying next to you, the mud popping and squelching as they move. You glimpse white robes and a hood. Amber eyes, wide and bright.
You try and pull yourself free but the Martyr pushes you back down, her fingers like claws of iron, digging into your flesh, driving you into the mud with an unnatural strength.
‘What . . . ?’ You open your mouth, choking as it fills with black fetid water.
She’s killing me. The damn priest is killing me.
Your hands ball into fists, pummelling at her sides, legs kicking and squirming. One of your blows scuffs against something hard and cold. A hilt, a dagger. You manage to pull it free from the priest’s belt as she shoves you further into the muck.
‘Your time is over, prince!’
The stinking waters close over you, distorting sound into a thrum of distant noise. Somehow you manage to surface, muddy spittle bubbling between your teeth as you slide the dagger into the woman’s side. You feel it going deep, the blade scraping against bone. A warm rush of blood courses over your fingers.
You drive it in a second time, feeling the Martyr’s bo
dy jerk, her face only inches from your own. Another spasm. Then the pressure is gone, the strength ebbing from her limbs. Desperately you raise your head, coughing and choking as you suck greedily at the air. The Martyr has become a limp weight, sliding down next to you, dark roses of blood marking her muddied robes. You glance down at the dagger, shocked at what you have done, crimson blood coating you to the elbow.
Their blood is no different to ours after all.
You drop the dagger, struggling to get to your feet. As you start to rise, you see Tarlow only metres away. Dismounted and wounded, he is now fending off a giant Wiccan warrior, a mountain of a man, with long braids of dark hair forming a mane about his shoulders. His bare chest glistens with sweat and rain, and a dizzying array of bright runes that flash and spit in anger.
A sharp, splintering crack.
You jump at the sound. To your left the cart has collapsed, its wood now charcoal black as the flames continue to consume the wreckage. You see no sign of Molly. You stumble towards the blaze, but the heat forces you back, its thick smoke drifting quickly across the road – reducing the battle to shadows darting back and forth, an occasional clank of armour, a harsh clatter as weapons meet.
Then a pained cry drags you back to Tarlow. The captain has stumbled to his knees, struggling to raise his sword with a torn and bloodied arm. The Wiccan stands over him, eyes bulging beneath a heavy brow, sharpened teeth bared and hissing. Then the axe falls. There is a dull-sounding thud. You wipe the grime from your eyes, trying to focus, to make sense of the scene. It is oddly silent. A moment frozen in time. Tarlow leans back, arms outstretched, the axe buried deep in his shoulder. Above him, the giant stands rigid, muscles bunched, the angry fire of his runes making him look more demon than man.
Conall, you gasp. That must be Conall. Their chief. The one who killed Lazlo.
The giant grunts as he tugs his axe free. There is a spray of blood then Tarlow topples over, his expression a mask of pained bewilderment. As he crashes into the mud, neck twisted to face you, his dead eyes come to rest on your own.
‘No . . .’ His stare is like a spear, running you through with its damning accusation. In all your years, you have never known him to leave your father’s side. His loyalty was unquestionable. And yet here he is, miles from the capital, lying dead on a road in the northern wilds. He should have stayed with your father, with the throne he was sworn to protect. It’s all my fault.
The Wiccan warrior throws back his head and issues a mighty roar. The sight of him, so huge and fearsome, like something from another world, another time, fills you with dread.
You are running before you realise it, before you even have a chance to question your actions. Blind fear powers your limbs, filling you with an energy no herb or potion could ever match. Splashing through the mud, you make for the trees, not caring what direction you head in, only that you must save yourself.
Coward! Stupid coward! Your conscience screams in your ears, but the words carry no meaning – no shame. You just want to live. What else can I do? On hands and knees you scrabble madly up the hillside, stomach heaving from the stench of smoke and blood. But I have to go back . . . I should fight . . . You reach the top of the rise, plunging into the maze of forest. Branches claw at your face, tearing at your clothes. I have to get away . . .
You don’t see the Wiccan until it is too late. His shoulder hits you in the side, throwing you back against the trunk of a tree. His face is painted in a hideous mask of runes, the musky smell of wet animal clinging to his tattered clothes. He shouts something, barking out the words in a stream of guttural noise. They make no sense to you. Nothing makes sense anymore.
‘Please,’ you plead, tears streaming down your cheeks. ‘Don’t kill me. I’ll give you anything . . .’
The warrior steps back, wrinkling his nose, glaring at you with a look of disgust. His eyes rove up and down, taking in the sight of your muddied silks and pretty lace. He sees a fool, you realise bitterly. A damn fool.
His gaze settles on your blade, rotten teeth widening into a grin. You look down at the sword’s diamond pommel, realising his intent. Of course, he wants Duran’s Heart – a trophy worth a kingdom in gold.
‘Yes! Yes, take it!’ You start to unstrap the belt.
The Wiccan snorts, shaking his head. ‘Not give. Fight!’ He raises his bloodied axe and takes a step back, giving you room to draw. ‘Fight!’
‘No . . . please . . .’
‘Fight!’ He shakes the axe. ‘Fight!’
‘I can’t!’ you scream back, snot and spittle flying from your lips. ‘I don’t know how to!’
The Wiccan recoils at your outburst, momentarily surprised. Then anger quickly returns. ‘Craven,’ he growls. ‘You no warrior.’
You slide to your knees, hitting the dirt. ‘No. I am no warrior.’ You lower your head, shamed by what you are. A weakling. A prince who can’t even defend himself. ‘I yield . . .’
As you wait for the axe to fall, you picture Captain Tarlow lying twisted in the mud, his dead eyes glaring back at you. Did he know? Did he know we were sent here to die? The Wiccan’s boots trudge closer, his animal stink filling your nostrils. He mutters something in his gruff language.
Then darkness.
It is as if a shadow has been cast over you, turning day to night. You look up, aware of a thunderous beat, like giant wings, getting louder and louder. Then the crack of snapping branches. The Wiccan warrior seems equally surprised, craning his neck to study the skies. The axe blade has stopped inches above your head.
‘Sanchen!’ he growls.
A blue-black shape drops from the heavens, accompanied by a flurry of broken branches and leaves. It lands with a teeth-jarring thump, wings of mottled white obscuring an immense body. Then they sweep back, revealing a nightmarish creature – its body rippling with scales.
A demon prince.
It rises to its full height, over three metres tall, its head crowned by a pair of gold-banded horns. Runed armour clings to its broad chest and shoulders, coating the beast in arcane sigils of dark magic. They smoulder like coals, sending thin columns of smoke spiralling up into the gloom. You cower down at the base of the tree, feeling dwarfed by the size of the monster and its dread aura of power . . .
‘Halt!’ The demon raises a hand towards you, its dark brow creased with concentration. ‘Halt, I command you!’
It takes a moment for you to realise the demon is addressing the warrior. The axe has started to tremble, as if the Wiccan is fighting against something unseen, his muscles straining.
‘I told you all, not the boy.’ The demon’s crimson eyes flick to you. ‘Go, Prince Arran. Or this will be your end!’
He knows my name.
The warrior is now grunting and hissing with exertion, his axe edging steadily closer. Whatever magic holds him in thrall, he seems intent on breaking it. And if he does, the axe will complete its downward arc, cleaving your skull in two.
‘Make your choice,’ the demon hisses.
You quickly find your feet, edging around the paralysed Wiccan and his trembling axe. The demon watches you intently, the rain streaming from his wings and horns. He saved my life, you realise suddenly. He wants me to escape. You turn away, to look upon the forested valley. It rises abruptly into a series of steep hills, thick with boulders and nettles. In the distance, you can dimly make out a bluff of grey rock, its summit lost to the chill, low-hanging cloud. As if on cue, a peal of thunder breaks overhead, followed seconds later by a pulse of ghoulish lightning. The steady drizzle quickly becomes a deluge, pounding against the earth in thick grey sheets.
Shivering, you turn back to the demon. ‘I . . . I have nowhere to go,’ you shout, dispiritedly.
The demon gives a roar of fury, more deafening than the storm. ‘Fool! The fates have set you on this path.’ He gestures angrily towards the valley. ‘Do not try my patience. GO!’
The vehemence in his words sets you to running, your feet slipping and sliding through the
river of mud. You feel a little foolish, dashing madcap into the forest with no idea where you are headed. But you are alive. And for now, that is both a surprise and a comfort. Holding your hood down over your face, you charge into the stormy tumult, desperate now to put as much distance as you can between yourself and the horrors at your back.
Turn to 11 to begin the first stage of your adventure.
1
You place the plain glass orb onto the podium. (Remove this item from your hero sheet.) After studying the complex carvings at length, you discern pockets of magic focused in three of the outer circles. One pertains to frost, one to earth magic and the last to the darker shadow arts. By activating the runes around a circle, you will be able to call on the spirits that embody that power.
Will you:
Activate the frost runes? 719
Activate the earth runes? 667
Activate the shadow runes? 518
2
Progress through the tunnels is slow and frustrating, your way often blocked by gaping chasms or fallen debris. Often you are forced to backtrack and find alternate routes, other times you have no choice but to jump a gap or dig your way clear, clambering on all fours through narrow openings.
Eventually, after what feels like hours of trekking through the maze-like tunnels, you finally see evidence of daylight – a white brightness edging the hollows of a rock fall. Overcome with relief, you race up to the barrier, fingers clawing at the crumbling stones, pulling them away to clear an opening. Nanuk’s strength floods into you, powering your limbs, driving you onwards.
At last, fingers raw and bleeding from the effort, you drag yourself out into the light. Turn to 169.
3
With the diseased bear defeated, you set about searching its cave. Amongst a pile of half-eaten remains you find 30 gold crowns and one of the following items:
The Eye of Winter's Fury Page 3