You regard the pair, taking in their haggard features, the blue-tinged lips, the glassy and staring eyes. Like ghosts. You doubt they have eaten properly for weeks, and from the look of their meagre supplies the outlook is bleak. But there is still something in their eyes, a spark of hope, perhaps – a stubborn reluctance to give up on their companions. Maybe that is all that is keeping them alive.
‘Yes,’ you find yourself saying, before you have even thought it through. ‘I’ll see if I can find your team – bring them back.’ You offer out your hand. The man takes it quickly into his frost-bitten fingers, his grip surprisingly firm.
‘I am Diggory,’ he grins, displaying rotted stumps for teeth. ‘Please, bring us peace.’
You nod awkwardly, then look to Reah.
The woman is silent. She bows her head and walks to stand outside the tent. Then she starts to hum a song. A slow, sorrowful tune that seems to rise and sigh with the wind. You don’t catch the words, but the rhythm is familiar – you can picture a mourner at your mother’s funeral, their black veil rustling in the wind. They were singing. A song of loss and farewell.
After giving the man a last reassuring nod you start into the canyon, wondering what you will encounter in these mysterious caves. Turn to 361.
147
Rutus loses his footing in the wet slush, forcing his intended blow wide of its mark. As he goes to re-balance himself, you drive your shoulder into the warrior’s chest, your momentum taking you both down in a tangle of limbs. Swords forgotten, you end up in a frantic wrestling match, looking to grapple each other into an inescapable lock. Thankfully, your newfound strength proves its worth and soon Rutus is gasping for air – begging for release from your choking hold.
‘Well, this one’s got some teeth,’ says the trainer, his admiration beaming in his smile. ‘I’d let him go now, he’s turning blue.’
You release your grip, the anger in you finally beginning to subside. It isn’t until you wipe the spittle from your mouth that you see the other men watching you with a sense of unease.
‘You smell like a dog, and fight like one too.’ Rutus rubs his throat, where red welts are already starting to show. ‘Man, where’d you learn to fight like that – the pit?’
You stagger to your feet, then offer out a hand for Rutus. He glares at it, scowling. ‘Keep your paws to yourself,’ he rasps, his voice still raw from his beating. With a pained grunt, he levers himself back up, then retrieves his sword from the churned-up mud.
‘Come on ladies, back to work!’ The trainer cracks his riding crop against his boot. ‘Stop gawking, Henson.’ As the men fall back into their sparring lines, the trainer glances your way, nodding his head in respect. ‘Not a bad show,’ he says. ‘But don’t let it get to your head.’
For your victory over Rutus, you have now gained the following special ability:
Intimidate (mo): Use to reroll all dice for attack speed, for both yourself and your opponent. You must accept the rerolled results. You can only use intimidate once per combat.
Record the keyword brawler. (If you previously had the keyword baited, you may now remove this from your hero sheet.) Turn to 113 to revisit the main courtyard or 168 to climb the stairs to the battlements.
148
You methodically slide the bottles out of the racks, turning them round to read their labels. To your relief you manage to uncover a full bottle of the infamous Bowfinch ’55, which Gurt asked you to find. Carefully you wrap this item in a cloth and place it inside your pack.
Congratulations! You have acquired a bottle of Bowfinch ’55 (simply make a note of this item on your hero sheet, it does not take up backpack space. You can also remove the keyword Bowfinch from your hero sheet.)
Make a note of paragraph number 190. When you wish to return to Gurt and hand over this rare item (to continue the red quest, The Hall of Vindsvall) turn to 190 at any time.
You may now search the cellar (turn to 380) or leave (turn to 80).
149
Your tarred shoulders are now covered in the birdman’s feathers. You may upgrade your cloak item to the following:
Tar and feathers
(cloak)
+1 speed
Ability: immobilise, charm
When you have updated your hero sheet, turn to 114.
150
You head round the side of the cabin, looking for any clues as to the whereabouts or identity of its owner. The vegetable patch you spied earlier has certainly been well-tended, with neat rows of cabbages and radishes, and pea plants growing around a small trellis. An axe rests on a chopping block nearby, with several stacks of split wood piled next to it, covered by a leather awning.
As you pass around the back of the cabin, the wind stirs a solitary beech tree, sending the chimes in its branches tinkling and spinning, their bright beads catching the leaden light. Beneath its boughs a pen has been built, housing a group of chickens, clucking and scratching at the mud. The top of the wooden fence has been woven with thorny vines, reminding you of the charm that you saw on the door.
Everything points to a careful and hard-working owner – someone who clearly takes pride in their home as well as being mindful of the necessary precautions. You eye the sharp thorns on the chicken pen, wondering what type of predator they are designed to keep out.
‘Excuse me?’
The voice makes you jump, having been certain you were alone. You turn to see a woman striding down the hillside with a covered basket nestled under one arm. She looks stocky, although her saggy tunic and heavy overcoat may be exaggerating her build. The woman stops by the chopping block, the axe not far from her reach. ‘Can I help you?’ she enquires, her tone remaining neutral. A gust of wind whips at her hood, pushing it back to reveal a fringe of greying hair.
‘I . . . I didn’t mean . . . I’m . . . lost,’ you stutter, suddenly not sure what to say.
You can feel the woman’s eyes appraising you with suspicion. First the sword, then the blood on your cuffs. You realise you must look a puzzling sight, your once expensive clothing now weathered and torn. ‘I can explain,’ you reply, offering what you hope is your friendliest smile.
‘Go on then,’ mutters the woman stiffly. ‘Surprise me, but it better be good.’
Will you:
Admit you are a prince who was attacked by Wiccans? 226
Pretend you are a simple traveller in need of shelter? 127
151
‘Want, want,’ Jackson mutters. ‘Everyone wants. What do I look like, a darn charity? What I got costs gold and you earn that by good honest workin’.’
‘I have gold,’ you reply sharply. ‘What do you have?’
There is a piggish snort from the other side of the wall. ‘Gold, I got gold he says. Did your mama send you out with a shopping list, eh?’ Another series of honking snorts, which you assume passes for Jackson’s laughter.
‘Do you have . . . anything?’ you ask, frowning with impatience.
‘This is a trading post, ’course I got things. I got weapons, clothing and essential equipment, all standard White Wolf issue – all approved by the company. Prices are fixed, so don’t try any of that hagglin’ nonsense or I’ll skewer that tongue of yours with Mildred and Hetty. Yer hear me?’
You glance at the two crossbows, nodding warily.
‘Good. I’m also willing to hire out space, give you one of me lockers. Ain’t nowhere safer to keep your valuables. I protect ’em likes they were me own.’
Will you:
Ask to view the weapons? 566
Ask to view the clothing? 262
Ask to view the equipment? 72
Purchase a storage locker? 707
Discuss something else? 685
152
You push past the soldiers milling in the archway. As you break through their lines, you skid to a halt, suddenly realising the reason for their hesitation.
You are met by a scene of both horror and destruction. One of the walls has fallen inwards, spilling
chunks of rock across the courtyard. The whole west-wing of the keep has also collapsed. Dust hangs heavy in the air – and the miasma of blood.
Over the wall and through the breach, black-scaled bodies spill into the yard. Reptilian monsters of all sizes and shapes, some wielding mighty swords and axes, others using whatever they can get their hands on – splintered wood, rocks, human body parts . . .
‘What are they?’ you hear one of the soldiers shout. ‘Did they cause the quake?’
A cloud of winged shapes sweep across the courtyard, filling the smoke-hued sky with hellish shrieks. You try and follow them as they pitch and dive through the air, swooping on the beleaguered soldiers below. From one of the nearby towers you see spears of fire streaking through the air, slamming into the winged reptiles and sending them burning to the ground. A flash of crimson from the tower’s steeple confirms that it is Segg – the keep’s resident pyromancer.
All of a sudden you are being jostled and pushed as soldiers rush past you to meet the advancing horde. Explosions continue to tear through the wall, showering dust across the yard and spreading confusion. A nearby monster sprints forward, its scaled body cracked by veins of rippling fire. From its flared nostrils, smoke gouts in thick black plumes. A soldier heads it off, driving his sword into its body. The monster gives a snickering hiss, almost like laughter, as it drags itself up the blade, pushing the steel deeper into its scaled flesh. The soldier struggles to tug the weapon free, but the monster’s claws already have him, gripping him close in a fatal embrace.
Then the monster explodes. You spin away, ducking down as blood and bone, dust and metal fall like rain. When you look back, there is nothing left save a smoking crater. Three more of the creatures have jumped down off the wall and are hurrying towards the hall. You look around for support, but the surrounding soldiers are all locked in combat. It is now up to you to defend the keep from these exploding monstrosities. It is time to fight:
Speed Brawn Armour Health
Ember wild 3 2 2 20
Ember wild 3 2 2 15
Ember wild 3 2 2 15
Special abilities
Combustion: When an ember wild is defeated it immediately explodes, inflicting 4 damage to your hero, ignoring armour.
If you manage to defeat these hot-blooded horrors, turn to 537.
153
The three statues tower over the soldiers, each one a depiction of a reptilian-looking humanoid with spiked crests running along their arms and back. One of the soldiers is being egged on by his companions, while he draws a moustache and beard on the largest of the statues using a piece of charcoal.
‘Can’t believe they got this far,’ mutters one of the younger men. ‘Do you think there’s going to be more?’
An older veteran with pepper-black hair shrugs his shoulders. ‘I’m more concerned by the men we lost. Seven body bags in the chapel and all down to these three.’
There are hoots of laughter from the others as the soldier with the charcoal steps back from his creation. ‘Looking better already!’ he chortles.
You approach the veteran, who is the only one not amused by the prank. ‘What happened?‘
He glares at you in surprise, wrinkling his nose. ‘Hey, you’re the one who . . . Allam’s teeth, yer look like death.’
You offer him a shrug of your shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not contagious.’
The soldier leans away, plainly unconvinced. ‘Well, seeing as you asked, these things scaled the wall the other day. Took eight men to finally stop ’em. Soon as they was wounded, the monsters turned to stone, used it like armour to defend themselves.’ He points to a sword, half-protruding from the torso of one of the beasts. ‘Segg calls it Titan blood or something. He’s always muttering strange things that one, full of fancy ideas. I just see it plain – these things are strong. And if there’s more of ’em, then we’re in trouble.’
The other soldiers seem undaunted by the strange creatures; the prankster is now attempting to climb onto the largest and straddle its shoulders.
‘Cut it out, Filch,’ growls the veteran. ‘Show some respect, will yer – we got good men dead ’cos of these.’ He turns and walks away, shaking his head. Filch waves him off, his enthusiastic motion forcing him to lose his balance. He slips from his perch, hitting the ground to a further roar of laughter.
You may now:
Enter the main hall? 186
Climb the stairs to the battlements? 168
Investigate the training yard? 348
Join a quest? Return to the map
154
Your way is clear to the other side. Reaching the wall, you start to climb the interwoven tentacles, using them as a ladder. Higher and higher you rise, until you spot a shelf of rock jutting out above you. The knot of tentacles crawls across its underside, sweeping over its lip and disappearing from sight.
Those last few metres present you with a scary ascent, your weight solely suspended by your spectral claws. Groaning in agony, you finally drag your pain-racked body over the ledge and lie there, gasping – the heat still pressing close on all sides, unwilling to give you a moment’s respite.
You rise, swaying slightly as you try and gain a sense of your surroundings. The tentacles continue to wind past you, as do hundreds of others, all coiling and weaving over each other to meet the gigantic brain-like mass that fills the cavernous space.
This must be the demon. Cerebris.
There is no obvious shape or form to its body, if indeed it has a body at all. The fleshy folds seem stacked on one another, leaking a foul green pus that fills the air with a corpulent stench. Crimson veins criss-cross beneath the surface of its translucent skin, occasionally blossoming with a fiery light as parts of the bloated mass swell and deflate.
Weapons ring into your hands. You advance towards the demon, wondering – hoping – that you have the strength to penetrate its bulbous form and end whatever life lurks within.
The ground starts to shiver – another tremor building. You quicken your pace, eyes scanning the creature for any sign of weakness. Halfway along its glutinous bulk you spy a glowing red sphere, bulging between creases of pus-coated flesh. It beats with a fell energy, radiating waves of searing magic – bright as a sun.
The demon’s heart. Its kha.
You leap onto its lower haunches, stepping over the ridges of flesh to draw nearer to its heart. Tendrils of frost spiral along your weapons, coating them in hard ridges of barbed ice.
‘It ends here!’ You throw back your arm, preparing to pierce the heart . . .
A muffled scream draws you up short.
You spin round, so fast you almost fall – your soul drawn to the sound of that voice, as surely as a moth to a flame.
‘Anise!’
She hangs in the witch’s outstretched hand, the woman’s pale fingers gripped around the underside of her chin. A dry clicking comes from the girl’s throat as she struggles to breathe, sucking desperately at the air. Her throat is one dark bruise, extending up the side of her face. An eye is swollen shut, dried blood caking her hair. The breeches she wears are torn, the ragged material stuck around a nasty wound.
You are too late, Arran. The witch’s scratchy voice rakes through your mind. Anise tries to struggle, to break free of the woman’s grip, but her arms are pinned to her side by some magic. Tell me, how does it feel when hope crumbles, when all you once coveted is finally taken away? Look at me, Arran. I want to see that pain – the pain of knowing you have lost everything.
You find yourself moving, stalking closer – rage building.
Melusine raises her other hand, revealing a long wand-like sceptre, white and sharp as a fragment of ice. She teases it against the girl’s throat, forcing her to buck and whimper at its touch.
Anise. What a sweet name. A rose, caught between two thorns. The wand continues its slow caress, each stroke drawing a broader line of crimson. Cutting deeper.
You cry out, steps faltering. ‘Don’t do this!’
‘Let her go. ’ Your eyes narrow in warning.
Or what, Arran? What will you do? Her deformed visage is hidden behind a crowned veil, but you can feel the icy heat of her gaze beating through it. The last seals weaken. When they break, the world serpent will be released. Everything will be brought to ruin, and yet you stand here begging me to save a single life?
The wand presses deeper, forcing out a gurgling scream. Do you need her, Arran – to hold your hand when the end comes?
You tense, judging the distance – preparing to strike. ‘I said . . .’
Yes, let her go.
The witch snaps back her arm. You see a fountain of blood, bright against bruised flesh. Then Anise is falling, crumpling silently to the ground. The witch steps over her body, the veil peeling back of its own accord. Your eyes meet – and in that horrifying instant it is as if the world has already ended, exploding in a freezing torrent of pain.
Screams.
It takes a moment to realise they are yours.
The agony is all-consuming – a fierce cold that overwhelms your own.
It stiffens your limbs, cracks your jaw rigid, pushes inside your mind . . . tightening like a vice. Only a desperate last effort of will saves you – your predatory instinct surging up to defend itself. Screams become guttural, spitting roars.
Painfully, like tearing skin from ice, you manage to avert your gaze . . .
You take a slow and heavy stride, your body feeling like a corpse again. Leaden, unresponsive. You look down, still shaking . . .
A green ice has started to form around your legs, seeking to entrap you like the tortured souls in the hall. Gritting your teeth you expel a burst of magic, splintering it to pieces. Freedom leaves you stumbling off balance; but you quickly recover, turning your stagger into a desperate charging lunge. It is time to fight:
The Eye of Winter's Fury Page 15