The Eye of Winter's Fury

by Michael J. Ward

  Anise smiles when she sees you have followed her. ‘Segg sent him for the wine,’ she states, her eyes glinting mischievously. ‘Come on then, don’t keep him waiting.’ She gestures for you to join her by a copper pot heating next to the fire.

  The cook mutters something, then returns to kneading the dough.

  ‘So, what did you come here for – to poke fun at me like the others?’ She picks up a ladle and starts stirring the mulled wine. Without giving you a chance to answer, she nods over to some shelves. ‘Get one of those bottles, will you? The big one – Segg likes his wine.’

  ‘Are you really a Skard?’ you ask, reaching for the bottle.

  ‘Are you really a dream walker?’ she answers back playfully.

  You freeze in mid-action. ‘What did you say? Dream what?’

  ‘I saw you, when they brought you in. Who else d’you think does all the fetching and carrying around here? Getting water, fresh bandages, medicines . . . Stupid Harris is just plain lazy, so Segg relies on me.’

  Her eyes appraise you for a second. ‘Of course, back then you were all skin and bone. Not like now.’

  ‘I still don’t know—’

  Anise blows out her cheeks, looking exasperated. ‘Just bring me the bottle and hold it. You can do that, can’t you?’

  You grin. ‘Are all Skards so bossy?’

  ‘I’m not a Skard,’ she glowers, slamming a funnel into the neck of the bottle. ‘I was cast out. To them, I have no name. Without a name, I am nothing. ’

  ‘Your name is Anise.’ You watch as she ladles the wine into the funnel.

  ‘That’s the name Everard gave me.’

  You watch as she continues to fill the bottle, noticing her small mannerisms – the way she chews her bottom lip when she is concentrating, bunching her shoulders whenever she lifts the ladle. Everything she does appears careful and meticulous. ‘Stop looking at me!’ she snaps. ‘Do they not have girls where you come from?’

  You wonder if your dead, pallid skin is capable of blushing. The thought brings you back to reality with a jolt – suddenly making you self-aware of the large and ungainly body you now inhabit. The bottle slips in your hand. You catch it, but some of the red wine spills onto your fingers. It burns, more than it should.

  ‘Clumsy me,’ you hiss through the pain.

  Anise takes the bottle from you, swapping the funnel for a cork. ‘Don’t worry, all done.’ She brushes the stray curls from her eyes. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What for – holding a bottle?’

  ‘For talking to me like I’m not a kitchen rat.’ She gives you one of her lop-sided smiles, then turns away quickly. ‘I should be going. Much work to do. I’ll take this to Segg – yes, that’s what I’ll do.’ Flustered, she hurries away, slipping past the cook, who rolls his eyes in exasperation.

  (Make a note of the keyword kitchens on your hero sheet.)

  Will you:

  Return to the hall and talk to the lone soldier? 308

  Leave and return to the courtyard? 113

  179

  Black scars criss-cross the snow as the remaining racers weave between the splintered wreckage of crashed sleds. Light quickly turns to shadow, the land rising up to form a vast mountain, blotting out the sky with its dark immensity. Bleak Peak.

  A narrow pathway winds up around the mountain’s face, spiralling all the way to its lofty summit. To reach it, some racers have opted for the snow-covered foothills whilst others have driven onto a slope of ridged ice – a route that offers a quicker means of gaining the mountain’s winding track.

  Will you:

  Risk the ice slope? 524

  Head across the snow hills? 749

  180

  You pull back your cloak, revealing the bear necklace – the halstek – that marks you as leader of the bear tribe. There is a mixture of astonishment and anger from the assembled warriors. Gurt continues to pick meat from his bone with a nonchalant air.

  ‘Who did you kill for that?’ he asks, before filling his mouth yet again.

  ‘Taulu gave me this necklace,’ you state warily, glancing at the Skards. ‘Before he died. He entrusted me with it. Desnar, his brother challenged me for the right to wear it – to lead the bear tribe. We underwent vela styker and I proved the victor.’

  Gurt shakes his head. With a flick of his hand, he gestures to the warrior beside you. Before you can stop him, the Skard grabs the necklace and rips it free, scattering the bones and claws across the table. You reel back in shock, feeling the manacle bite hard into your arm as Nanuk fills your mind with a demented howl.

  ‘No . . . you cannot . . .’

  Gurt stares at you from beneath his brows. ‘My patience is wearing thin. And you’re ruining a good meal.’

  Will you:

  Agree to fight the einherjar? 318

  Pledge your allegiance to Gurt? 200

  181

  You pick up the tile and push it into the square-shaped hole. Leaning back, you wait expectantly for something to happen. However, it appears that you have chosen the incorrect rune. As you hurriedly try and prise the tile back out of the grid, you hear a sudden crack of branches followed by another barking cry. If you don’t run now, the other fengles will find you! Frantically, you spring to your feet and sprint for the cover of the opposite treeline. Turn to 175.

  182

  As you drag the sack through the dirt, something scrapes and catches against a rock. Lifting up the sack, you see that there is a tear at the bottom, causing several sword hilts to poke through. Other items now lie scattered along the trail, having fallen out of the hole. You retrace your steps, stooping to retrieve the stolen equipment.

  Amongst the weapons and fragments of armour, you spot a pair of black-enamelled gauntlets, etched with magical runes. You are immediately reminded of the warrior you spoke with in the main hall, who described a similar set of gauntlets that had gone missing.

  If you wish to keep these magical gloves for yourself, then you may add the following item to your hero sheet:

  Ran’s beaters

  (gloves)

  +1 armour

  Ability: charge

  If you would rather return the gauntlets to their rightful owner at a later date, then remove the keyword thievery from your hero sheet and replace it with the keyword gains. When you have made your decision, turn to 221.

  183

  Your feet become tangled in the bloodied canvas. Losing your balance, you drop to the ground – a mishap that quickly becomes a blessing. The yeti’s next swing sweeps overhead, exposing its body to a counter strike. You take the opening without a second thought, driving your weapons hard through the fur and fatty tissue to puncture whatever vital organ you can reach. You keep pushing until you feel the beast’s body go slack, then you release your grip, rolling away as the enormous yeti topples forward.

  There is a sticky-sounding splat.

  You find yourself face down in a treacle tart. Grimacing, you scoop the goo from your eyes, spitting out a mouthful of pastry. ‘Some party,’ you remark dryly.

  If you are a warrior, turn to 440. If you are a mage, turn to 131. If you are a rogue, turn to 561.

  184

  The troll slams its hammers against the ground, sending a shockwave ripping through the stone of the keep. Soldiers are thrown up into the air by the force of the blast, including several of the reptilian monsters.

  For a brief moment, the battlefield is obscured by stone dust.

  Then a dark shape rushes past you.

  Rook is sprinting towards the troll, his cloak now tattered ribbons whipping back from his shoulders. He sends knives spinning towards one of the scaled warriors. Several thud deep into its chest but appear to do little harm. Without slowing, he skids underneath the creature’s sword swing, drawing another dagger to hamstring it as he slides past. The reptilian stumbles then falls. Before it can recover, you take off the creature’s head with a well-aimed swing of your weapon.

  Rook rolls to his feet, givin
g you a brief nod. ‘Still alive?’

  ‘Barely,’ you grunt, spitting dust from your lips.

  The ground has started to tremble again – but this time the cause is evident. The troll is lumbering towards you, flanked by two of the tall warriors. As they approach you notice their scaled flesh shimmer, then start to change colour – going from blue-black to a cold grey.

  ‘Stone blood,’ hisses Rook. He motions to a group of guards on the inner wall. They move to the edge, holding buckets which you assume contain tar. One member of the group has a lit torch, waving it in answer. It is time to fight:

  Speed Brawn Armour Health

  Nisse troll 4 3 3 20

  Nisse warrior 3 2 2(*) 15

  Nisse warrior 3 2 2(*) 15

  Special abilities

  Petrifying peril: The warriors are coating themselves in stone. At the end of each combat round, their armour is raised by 1 – up to a maximum of 5.

  Regeneration: The troll heals 2 health at the end of each combat round. Once the troll is reduced to zero health, this ability no longer applies. (This cannot take the troll above its starting health of 20.)

  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 have any tar barrels recorded on your hero sheet, you can use them at the end of a combat round. Each tar barrel causes 1 damage to all opponents, ignoring armour. You can use up to four barrels per combat round. (Remember to remove any used tar barrels from your hero sheet.)

  If you manage to defeat your opponents, turn to 427.

  185

  You swing out blindly, your makeshift club sending chunks of toadstool flying in all directions. Eventually you find an opening and push forward, the edge of the forest dimly visible through the rotting haze. But, just as you are about to reach the safety of the tree line, one of the toadstools shuffles into view. Without slowing, you swing your arm back and deliver a punishing whack with your club. There is a satisfying explosion of pulpy flesh as the remains of the toadstool shower down around you, coating your clothing in sticky goo.

  You have gained the following bonus:

  Death cap fungus

  (special)

  Add 1 armour to a chest, feet

  or cloak item you have equipped

  At last, your way is clear. You plunge into the forest, stumbling and tripping over roots and stones in your haste to escape. Only when you finally drop to your knees, half-blinded by sweat and sticky toadstool slime, do you pause to take breath.

  Looking back, you are relieved to see that there is no sign of pursuit. After taking a moment to recover, you continue onwards through the tangled undergrowth, determined to put as much distance as you can between yourself and the peculiar ring of toadstools. Turn to 161.

  186

  (If you have the word fractured on your hero sheet, turn to 88. Otherwise, read on.)

  You push against the wide double-doors, their hinges creaking and groaning as they slowly open out onto the great hall. To your surprise it is a grander chamber than you had expected, although still a pale imitation of the royal court back at the palace.

  Two rows of trestle tables run the length of the hall, framed on either side by frosted-glass windows and fluttering house banners. At the opposite end, stairs lead up to a high table where you assume Everard and his top-ranking officers take their meals.

  A gust of wind follows you into the hall, sending the nearby torches fluttering in their sconces. ‘Shut the door,’ grumbles a nearby soldier, waving his mug in your direction. He is plainly a grizzled old veteran, his craggy pock-marked face made rougher by his thick tangle of hair and beard.

  Further along the same table, a group of young recruits are talking and laughing. One of their number, a blond-haired male with arms as thick as barrels, is recounting some tale of battle, making stabbing gestures with his leg of mutton.

  Will you:

  Talk with the lone soldier? 308

  Join the recruits? 199

  Leave and return to the courtyard? 113

  187

  Your eyes are drawn to the flames licking around the coals. Most of the acolytes are standing around the fire, their attention focused solely on the ritual. You dart from pillar to pillar, seeking the best angle for your attack, then – praying that your aim is true – you toss the explosives into the fire.

  They tumble across the coals in a shower of sparks. There are a few gasps of alarm, then suddenly the cavern is lit by a bright explosion, sending rock and bodies flying through the air. With weapons drawn, you are already moving forward, striding through the smoke, slashing and cutting at the staggering acolytes that get in your way.

  ‘What’s happening?’ The woman shrieks. ‘It’s impossible . . .’

  You emerge out of the dust, stepping over the scattered coals. The female and two of her coven have survived the blast. You meet her cold glare with a twisted grin.

  ‘I like to defy the odds.’

  ‘The fool! Insidious has failed us!’ The woman draws out her wand, aiming its spiked head towards your chest. ‘I will not make the same mistake!’ It is time to fight:

  Speed Magic Armour Health

  Coven matriarch 11 7 5 40

  Coven acolyte 10 6 4 30

  Coven acolyte 10 6 4 30

  Special abilities

  Matriarch’s malice: The matriarch has magical wards carved into her skin. While the Matriarch has health, you cannot use modifier abilities during this combat.

  Dark mending: At the end of each combat round, each opponent will heal themselves for 2 health. This cannot take them above their starting health and once their health is reduced to zero, this ability no longer applies.

  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 villainous mages, turn to 523.

  188

  A set of worn stairs brings you to a narrow landing, with an open window at either end. In the wall facing you are two doors, both looking identical. From behind the door on your right you can hear the chinking of armour and a muffled grunting noise.

  Will you:

  Take the left door? 12

  Take the right door? 76

  189

  ‘Race one is across the shattered sea,’ explains the organiser. ‘Thirty racers, split into two rounds of fifteen. The top five racers in each round go through to the final. Understand? Good – let’s get you onto the ice.’ Turn to 222.

  190

  The Skard sentries escort you back into the longhouse. Gurt grimaces with disappointment as he lifts his eyes from his bowl of stew. ‘You’re back, to waste more of my time.’ He licks his fingers, pushing the last of his meal aside. ‘I’ve told you, you ain’t getting an audience with the asynjur . . .’

  You pull the bottle of Bowfinch from your pack and then roll it down the table. Gurt splutters in surprise, almost lifting up the table as he struggles to lean forward, snatching the bottle before it drops off the edge.

  You fold your arms, waiting.

  Gurt empties his mug over the floor then, after shaking it free of dregs, proceeds to fill it with wine. He sniffs the contents suspiciously then tips the mug back, gulping it down. When the mug is dry he slams it back down onto the table, giving an appreciative belch.

  ‘Well?’ you enquire.

  Gurt pours another cup, licking his red-stained lips. ‘You’re a persistent little hound, I’ll give yer that.’

  You have gained the following special ability:

  Dogged determination (mo): You may reroll any/all of your hero’s speed dice, accepting the result of the rerolled dice. This ability can only be used once per combat.

  Gurt waves his mug through the air, sloshing wine down his sleeve. ‘All right then. Take him to the hall. Let’s see
what Syn Hulda makes of my lapdog!’ Turn to 521.

  191

  You slump into the nearest chair, giving a sigh of contentment. It is good to feel safe and warm again. While Sylvie stirs the pot, you take a moment to study her. Clearly she is an outdoors woman, used to fending for herself. There are no airs or graces to her appearance, the tangles in her grey hair and the patches on her clothing testament to a make-do attitude. Her build is stocky, with broad shoulders and a plump roundness to her figure. A far cry from the noble women at court – thin and pale as porcelain, dressed in sweet smiles and elegant dresses, no different to a toymaker’s doll.

  You glance down at your own clothing, torn and muddied – the lace on the sleeves hanging loose in several places. What would those fine ladies think of me now?

  Sylvie takes a bowl and ladles out some stew, then places it on the table. You wait expectantly for some cutlery, but the woman has already moved on to serving her own portion, before taking a sip from the edge of her bowl. ‘Hmm, delicious.’

  Evidently court manners have no place here. With a shrug, you grab the bowl in both hands and bring it to your lips. You take a gulp of the hot meaty stew, then notice Sylvie’s eyes regarding you with interest, presumably waiting for your verdict. ‘It’s good,’ you lie. The truth is, the stew is watery and over-spiced, with a fatty residue that clogs in the throat. Not what a prince like you is used to. But you are famished, so you greedily take another mouthful. ‘It’s perfect,’ you add, struggling to swallow a lump of gristle.

  While you continue to eat, your attention drifts to your surroundings. Books and scrolls appear to take priority in the main room, along with the bewildering menagerie of plants. A small work table is set against the far wall, scattered with twigs and leaves, and a number of half-finished charms.