The Eye of Winter's Fury

by Michael J. Ward

  ‘I know, I was sent here to find them too.’ The man sighs heavily. ‘But you saw what I saw. For the ice to take them like that, those explorers must have been there a very long time. Months, I’ll wager. Maybe even longer.’

  ‘Months?’ You baulk, glancing back at the blood trail. ‘But Reah . . . Diggory, they . . .’

  ‘This place isn’t right.’ He looks around, his face twitching nervously. ‘I should have turned back when I had the chance. Maybe we both should have.’ Turn to 573.

  18

  Skidding round a particularly tight corner, the sled loses traction on the slippery ice. Unable to right yourself, its bone frame slams against the tunnel wall, splintering one of its runners and sending you zigzagging out of control. Your dog-team continues to slog up the next slope, but the steepness of the grade coupled with the drag of your damaged sled slows them to a crawl. Unable to recover, you realise that the infamous corkscrew has beaten you.

  You have failed to complete the race and are now disqualified from the tournament. Replace the keyword rookie with underdog. Return to the map to continue your adventure.

  19

  You make to leave, but are brought up short when you hear a squelching sound coming from behind you. Spinning round, your eyes sweep across the ring of toadstools, looking for the likely cause. But the noise has gone and there is nothing there – although you are almost sure the toadstools have shifted position, standing a little closer to you.

  Another squelch from somewhere behind. A quick look confirms there is nothing creeping up on you, but again, those toadstools . . . They look even closer now, their black bodies almost touching as they form a dark wall around the clearing. Turn to 202.

  20

  The passageway slopes downwards, sweeping into a gentle curve. The walls and ceiling are perfectly smooth, without any imperfection or unevenness. You wonder if this is the work of the ancient Dwarves, who used their magic to manipulate and sculpt stone into fabulous structures.

  Your eyes adjust quickly to the gloom, allowing you to progress at a fast pace. The tremors appear to have stopped – for now – but you are still keen to find a way back to the surface as soon as possible, rather than become trapped underground.

  To your relief the passage soon levels off, widening into a circular chamber. It is bordered by a ring of stone statues, depicting squat humanoids bedecked in various styles of armour. They all face inwards, towards the centre of the room, where a large circle of bronze has been sunk into the ground. A plinth of black stone stands in the middle of this circle, faintly glowing with magic.

  The only exit from the room is provided by another archway. Rubble spills out of it, suggesting a rock fall in the passageway beyond, but perhaps it will still prove navigable.

  Will you:

  Investigate the stone plinth? 110

  Continue onwards into the passage? 2

  21

  You raise Anise’s head to the lip of the canteen. ‘Here, try some of this.’ You watch as she sups greedily at the water, her thirst forcing her to drink too fast. She pulls back, wracked with a fit of coughing.

  ‘More,’ she manages to gasp, once her breath returns.

  Carefully you place the canteen in her trembling hands, helping her to guide it back to her mouth. ‘Easy, Anise. Not too quickly.’

  You glance over your shoulder, to where Skoll is chewing vigorously on a length of cured meat. He pushes more into his mouth, stuffing it full.

  You rise and move toward him, putting out a hand for the bag he clutches to his chest. He glares at you, then grudgingly surrenders the rest of the meat. You snatch it from him and return to Anise, all the time feeling the paladin’s eyes watching you.

  ‘How long have you been on the road?’ he asks.

  ‘We lost track,’ you reply. ‘Two weeks, perhaps longer. We weren’t prepared for the lack of hunting. The land is so dry and barren.’ You break off a small piece of meat and offer it to Anise. ‘Careful now. Chew it.’

  The sounds from the nearby cave suggest the bird is doing the same, steadily devouring its own meal.

  ‘A hard journey,’ the paladin nods. ‘I have witnessed the destruction. It spreads far and wide, from the westlands to the Circle Sea. I heard tell that the Holy Lands were the first to fall. Whole mountains gone. Such destruction. Is the cause of it here, I wonder?’ He lifts his eyes to the ceiling as if seeking to penetrate the layers of rock, unlock its secrets.

  ‘If I told you, I’m not sure you would believe me.’ You tear another strip of meat and give it to Anise, finding comfort in seeing her chew with renewed vigour.

  ‘I had half a mind to seek succour at Bitter Keep,’ says Maune, his stare remaining distant. ‘I would have liked to have seen my daughter again.’

  ‘Daughter?’ You fail to hide your surprise, turning quickly. ‘You had a daughter at the keep?’

  He smiles. ‘Yes, Henna. The posting was her choice. I tried to . . .’

  ‘The keep has fallen.’ Your words carry across his own, drawing him to silence. ‘I was there. It was taken into the rift, and everyone with it. We,’ you gesture to Anise, who is watching the paladin with a worried expression, ‘were the only ones to survive.’

  Maune frowns, then looks away, his mouth moving, searching for words. He glances sideways at you, raising a finger, trembling. ‘Do not lie to me.’

  You rise to stand before him. ‘I would not lie. I fought by your daughter’s side. She held her faith to the end. Her actions, her strength, were what rallied the men. We were attacked by creatures from the underworld – the Nisse. Before the keep was lost we fought them for every stone, every soldier that fell.’ You lower your head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Maune blinks, tears glistening at the corners of his eyes. Angrily he brushes them away, setting his jaw straight, trying to reassert control over his emotions. ‘War has casualties.’

  ‘I know.’ You turn your hands over, noting the frost-bitten skin, the jagged scars.

  Maune tilts his head, frowning. Then he reaches out, taking the edge of your hood. You flinch, feeling the heat from his inscribed flesh as his arm passes close. It is an effort but you manage to hold your ground, letting him reveal your ravaged face. He drops his hand away, releasing a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘Lord of light . . . .’ He touches his cross.

  ‘I must be an affront to your faith.’ You avert your eyes, trying to avoid the man’s look of disgust and horror. The holy cross sparkles against his breast. ‘You are a better man than me, to stay your weapons.’

  Maune takes a step back. ‘A better man knows to keep his steel in check. A blade cannot make reasoned judgements.’

  You pull your hood back over your face.

  ‘There is no light inside of you,’ states Maune carefully. ‘Neither of you.’ He casts his gaze to Skoll, still feasting on the meat as if it was his last supper. ‘You have the taint of the shroud. An evil darkness . . .’

  From the adjoining chamber there is a sudden, piercing squeal.

  ‘What was that?’ Anise asks, alarmed.

  Maune is already hurrying into the passage, his sword in his hands. ‘Gwen? Gwen!’

  You nod to Skoll, telling him to follow. The warrior pushes the last of his meat into his mouth, then draws his axe and races after the paladin. You turn to Anise, helping her to stand.

  ‘Come, we have to move. I can’t leave you here.’

  ‘I know.’ She staggers into you, putting her head against your shoulder. Wrapping an arm around her, you walk together into the passage – fearing what you may find on the other side. Turn to 405.

  22

  The men exchange wary glances. Lord Everard is the first to answer. ‘Yes, we heard you were headed out to Lord Salton’s castle. We also heard you were ambushed by Wiccans.’

  The elderly man raises a gnarly finger. ‘Understandably, we thought you dead. And why wouldn’t we?’ His robes swish around his heels as he paces the room. ‘The Wiccans spare no one. T
hey don’t see the value in keeping hostages. Rather send their message in blood and ashes.’

  Lord Everard frowns. ‘Although the palace says otherwise,’ he adds stiffly. ‘They say you are a hostage. No doubt to rally support for the war.’

  You shake your head at that. ‘They lie, we were betrayed. I was never meant to reach Lord Salton’s castle. I think it was part of a plot. To be rid of me.’ You glance between the two men, expecting them to baulk at your claim. But they remain silent. Lord Everard sighs and nods.

  ‘I had suspected that was the case,’ he says. ‘We have much to tell you, Arran. And some of it will be . . . hard to take.’

  Return to 291 to ask another question, or turn to 98 to end the conversation.

  23

  Your weapons cut a swathe through the nightmarish creatures, their twisted bodies crumbling to dust around your feet. From the remains a ghost of each asynjur rises into the air, their tattered robes fluttering in an unfelt breeze. Then, one by one, they vanish – leaving only black whispers of smoke to trail away into the gloom.

  Rummaging through their dusty remains, you discover one of the following rewards:

  Sinner’s shroud Eir’s treads Voice of Var

  (head) (feet) (ring)

  +1 speed +1 armour +1 speed +1 armour +1 brawn

  Ability: bleed Ability: heal Ability: blood oath

  With the asynjur defeated, you approach the base of the tree. Straight ahead the ground drops into an uneven slope, leading into an earthen tunnel. To your right a series of knotted roots form a makeshift pathway, winding up around the trunk.

  Will you:

  Enter the tunnel? 418

  Follow the winding roots? 372

  24

  Quest: Tar and feathers

  The sky is a vast grey emptiness, barely touched by the dawn light. Frost cracks underfoot, dripping from the links of chain and iron struts – and the hundreds of cruelly-barbed spears that block your way. With a cry from one of the soldiers, there is a grating rumble as some hidden mechanism is activated and the chains clatter back through their ring loops. A moment later and the spear walls are lowered, one by one, like waves of grass, beaten back by the wind. And there, ahead of you, across a mile of iron-worked bridge, is the country beyond the rift. Skardfall.

  The cart horse whickers nervously as Kirk leads it across the bridge spanning the eerie emptiness of the Great Rift. He is a short, well-built man, with a pug-nose and permanently disgruntled expression. He reminds you of a pit dog your brother Malden once owned, its face crumpled up into a mass of nostrils and teeth. Further ahead, silhouetted by the light, is a taller soldier, all lean muscle and sharp angles. He looks back at you, his hooked nose the only thing visible beneath his dark hood. Lawson, the other soldiers had called him. A short-tempered man and not one to be easily crossed.

  You follow at the rear, with two fresh-faced recruits – Mitch, a young farm boy, enrolled in the army to earn coin for his family. He is thin and gangly, constantly on edge, as if at any moment he might bolt into hiding. Your last companion is the stark opposite. Confident and assured. A female knight fresh from the academy, her burnished armour the only bright thing on this sullen day. Her name is Henna, and aside from the briefest of greetings, she has been content to maintain a dutiful silence.

  Looks like you’re in for a fun day.

  Loaded into the back of the cart are twelve barrels. Everard wants them filled with tar to help bolster the keep’s defences. As most of the horses won’t stand to be near the acrid-smelling pits, you’re going on foot – save for the cart horse, which Kirk insists won’t shirk away from anything. He tugs roughly on the reins, muttering curses as he attempts to coax the horse across the bridge. Evidently, heights didn’t factor into his decision.

  Not the best of starts, but you won’t let it dampen your spirits; after all, this is your first chance to get out and explore the untamed wilderness of the north. The land of the Skards.

  Once across the bridge, it proves a little disappointing. Bare rock and loose stone litter a featureless plain, occasionally zigzagged by crevasses and impassable ridges. Negotiating it with the cart is both tiresome and frustrating.

  After several gruelling hours the land finally dips, bringing you into a valley of wind-sheared pillars and canyons. The ground is smoothed stone, occasionally forming shallow basins of still grey water. Kirk insists this area was once covered by ice, back in the day. But every year, the ice has crept a little further north, leaving channels of ice-melt in its wake.

  A cold air gusts along the narrow gullies, pulling at clothes and biting at skin. Its mournful howl is accompanied by the shrieking cries of the birds, circling overhead and nesting along the jagged ledges.

  ‘Petrels,’ hisses Lawson, nocking an arrow to his bow.

  ‘Leave them be,’ grunts Kirk, glaring up at the pitted rock. ‘This is the birdman’s territory. Let’s not ruffle any feathers, eh?’

  ‘The birdman?’ echoes Mitch nervously. His eyes are already darting from side to side.

  ‘Yeah, one of the convicts from Ryker’s Island. Went a little crazy, you know. Thinks he can fly or something. Ah, here we go.’ Kirk halts in front of the party, throwing back his head to take in a deep breath. ‘Smell that?’

  You pick up a sweet, pungent oily smell. ‘The tar pits?’ you venture.

  ‘Indeed, my green-gilled friend.’ Kirk flashes you an ugly grin. ‘Black gold. Come on, let’s get these barrels filled.’

  The canyon widens, bringing you to the banks of an immense lake of black tar. Smaller pools lie to either side, several dotted with islands of rock and coarse grass. As Kirk and Lawson start to unload the barrels, you become aware of a grief-stricken howling. At first you wonder if it is a trick of the wind, but the sound only intensifies, reverberating from the walls of the canyon. It sounds like some creature in distress.

  ‘Look, over there!’ Mitch is already scurrying down the slope, to where the black tar laps thickly against the pebbled shore. He hops onto a boulder to give himself an elevated view of the lake. You hurry to his side, scanning the black waters until you spot the disturbance. A large, shaggy-haired creature is mired in the tar, beating its arms as it tries to free itself. But each frantic movement only serves to ensnare it further, the sticky tar clinging to its matted hair.

  ‘What is it?’ You squint, trying to make out some features. The tar already coats much of the beast, but you get the sense of a muzzled face, a pronounced forehead and two curving horns.

  ‘Yeti,’ says Lawson, taking aim with his arrow.

  ‘What are you doing?’ gasps Mitch, putting out a hand to stay the intended shot.

  ‘What do you think I’m doing, runt? Putting it out of its misery,’ Lawson furrows his brow in concentration. ‘It’s just a juvenile. Ain’t got a hide worth skinning.’

  ‘Don’t waste the arrow, Law,’ grumbles Kirk, walking over.

  ‘But you can’t just leave it!’ Mitch looks around frantically, then his eyes fix on the cart. ‘We could use a rope. Get the horse to pull it free.’

  Henna appears at your side, hand resting casually on her sword hilt. ‘It’s hardly likely to thank us, is it? I don’t fancy a crazy yeti on the loose.’

  Lawson lowers his bow, glancing towards Kirk. ‘What’s it to be?’

  The pug-faced soldier grins. ‘Let the rookies decide. One vote to save, one to kill. Up to you now, green gills.’

  Will you:

  Vote for the beast to be saved? 216

  Insist the beast is put out of its misery? 128

  25

  You ascend a short staircase into a wide, vaulted chamber filled with musty-smelling shelves and stacks. The sight of the familiar library chokes you, bringing back memories of your days as a child, hiding here, lost amongst the many storybooks. You pass between the tightly-packed shelves, your hands running along the spines, leaving a smudge of dust on your fingertips – everything feels real. Exactly as you remember.

 
; You pass the empty tables, passing through a doorway into a small reading room. This had always been your favourite place – the one you came to at night, to read and be alone, to stay awake and avoid the nightmares.

  You see yourself, a pale ghost, reclining on the window seat beneath the pitted pane. Moonlight filters in through the glass, joining the amber flickering radiance from the candles on the table. A dozen books lie scattered across it, all your favourite storybooks. Whereas most of them lie open, their pages flicking back and forth in an unfelt breeze, two of them are closed, their titles glowing with a green light of their own.

  Drawn to the closed books, you scan their titles, already knowing from their binding and size what volumes have been highlighted to you: The Astounding Adventures of Skyhawk the Sharpshooter and The Magnificent Mind of Theomus the Thinker.

  Will you:

  Open Skyhawk the Sharpshooter? 767

  Open Theomus the Thinker? 648

  26

  You hurry to the centre of the clearing, grabbing the discarded water flask from next to the traveller’s body. To your relief it is nearly full, the sound of sloshing liquid audible from inside. Popping open the lid, you put it to your mouth and take a thirsty gulp of its contents.

  It isn’t water. You turn your head away, preparing to spit it out. But then you pause, realising that its flavour is far from unpleasant – putting you in mind of milk and honey, with the sharpness of cinnamon. You swallow it greedily before taking another mouthful, marvelling at the surge of strength now flowing through your body. Its effects are almost as potent as the dragon leaf.

  Congratulations, you have now gained the following backpack item:

  Pot of might (2 uses)

  (backpack)

  Use any time in combat to

  raise your brawn or magic

  by 2 for one combat round

  As you are about to leave, a glint of something bright catches your eye. Leaning in closer, you see a ring on one of the skeleton’s fingers. Its silver band glows with a soft green light, suggesting it could be magical in nature.