The Eye of Winter's Fury

by Michael J. Ward

Will you:

  Ask why she chose to live in this remote place? 42

  Ask about the plants? 145

  Ask about the charms? 239

  Ask about the books and scrolls? 109

  Ask for directions to the nearest settlement? 94

  Finish your meal (ends the conversation)? 207

  192

  The race organiser furrows his brow. ‘What you doing, showing your face here? Everyone saw you crash and burn out on the ice. I got no time for losers – now get gone!’ He waves you away, tutting the whole time. Return to 106.

  193

  Taking Caul’s advice, you head back through the chambers and passages to arrive at the trapped corridor. You opt to go first, throwing yourself into a full-on sprint. Fire roars all around you, the glyphs sparking with magic as your boots strike the stone. To survive the ‘corridor of doom’ you must pass a number of speed challenges. Each challenge you successfully complete allows you to move to the next challenge on the list.

  If you fail a drake fire challenge you must immediately take 10 damage, ignoring armour. You may then move onto the next challenge. If you fail a lightning challenge, you are knocked back to the previous challenge on the list, which you must pass again to proceed:

  Speed

  Drake fire 12

  Lightning rune 13

  Drake fire 12

  Lightning rune 13

  Drake fire 14

  Lightning rune 13

  If you still have health remaining after completing all of the challenges then you have reached the end of the corridor. Turn to 637. If you lose all your health, you must count this as a defeat on your hero sheet. You may then try the challenge again.

  194

  Your newfound strength is a bonus, but not enough to make up for your lack of climbing experience. You have barely made it five metres before you lose your footing and fall, plummeting back to the ground in a flurry of dust and stone.

  You scramble to your feet, just as the dog-team comes skidding round the corner. Trapped against the wall, you have no choice but to fight:

  Speed Brawn Armour Health

  Pack dog 2 1 1 12

  Pack dog 1 1 1 10

  Pack dog 0 1 1 10

  Special abilities

  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 send these dogs packing, turn to 236. If you lose the combat, remember to record your defeat on your hero sheet. You may then attempt the combat again or return to the map.

  195

  At the rear of the chamber you discover a rectangular depression cut into the wall, where an iron ladder rises up to the inky night sky. Holy inscriptions have been etched along the sides of the shaft, now mostly worn away or painted over in arcane whorls of grime and blood.

  Anise is first onto the ladder, hurrying up the metal rungs to the top. She disappears over the edge, then a second later beckons you to follow.

  Climbing the ladder, you find yourself on the roof of the tower. The wind is fierce, stabbing at you with its cold daggers, whipping back your cloak and forcing you to stagger. Ahead, you can see the ghost of a knight, standing on the edge of the battlements. There is a wild look to his eyes as the wind sweeps back his long auburn hair.

  ‘Rinehart?’ Anise shouts the name over the roaring gale, her expression more baffled than fearful.

  The knight looks back at you, the ghost-light flickering in his pained glare. ‘Do not stop me! I betrayed my family, betrayed my vows.’ He takes another step, his feet on the very edge of the stone, his balance wavering as he looks down at the vertiginous drop. ‘My brother . . . he can never forgive me for what I did!’

  If you have Mott’s medallion and wish to offer it to the knight, turn to 533. Otherwise, turn to 343.

  196

  You lift up the latch and push open the door. The interior of the cabin is awash with warmth and light, cast from the roaring fire that blazes in the hearth. An iron cooking pot rests on the hearth’s lintel, a cloud of steam rising from its bubbling contents.

  Tentatively, you call out again, to check if anyone is home. There is no answer.

  ‘Suppose I should make myself at home,’ you grin, stepping inside and leaving the door to close behind you.

  The main room of the cabin is small and cluttered, dominated by a wooden table covered in pots, plants and jars of herbs. The opposite wall is lined with shelves, where books and scrolls are pushed into every available space.

  Hungrily, your mind wanders back to the cooking pot. Surely no one would mind if you just helped yourself. As you start towards the fire you notice a small table, tucked underneath the window. The top is covered with twigs, leaves and herbal mixtures – and several half-worked charms.

  Intrigued, you cross to take a closer look, wondering if there is anything here that might be useful. Rummaging through the freshly-picked wood litter, you recognise burdock root and sage, and strips of cherry bark. Most of the herbs and mixtures are medicinal in nature, simple cures and tonics for everyday ills. Of greater interest is the small carved box, resting next to a sheaf of papers. You also spot a black-handled knife that has been used to shave the bark. A series of runic symbols glow along its iron blade.

  Will you:

  Take the knife? 170

  Open the box? 65

  Refuse to tamper with someone’s belongings? 102

  197

  A drum beat resounds across the camp. Sura turns her head, her grey eyes falling on the small group that is gathering. ‘It is time,’ she whispers.

  You follow the old woman into the crowd. Men and women move reverently aside for the old woman – for you, they give glares and gruff curses. Your back prickles from the imaginary knives you can picture sinking into your flesh.

  ‘They do not want me here,’ you hiss at Sura. ‘I should go . . .’

  Sura ignores you, coming to a halt at the centre of the circle. The drum beat falls to silence. For a time, the only sound is the low despondent moan of the wind. Desnar steps forward, his black hair now braided and tied back by a leather band. He is followed by a shorter man, thin and wiry, with a long drooping moustache tipped with red dye. In his hands he holds a spear and a bone knife.

  Sura speaks in Skard, her voice raised to the assembled crowd. Then her eyes flick to you.

  ‘By nightfall we will have a chieftain. The two of you will take the blood test. Only one may wear the halstek.’ Sura nods to the Skard holding the spear and the knife. He takes a step forward, offering them both at arms length. Sura moves aside, gesturing for you to approach the man. ‘As you challenge one of our own, southlander, you have the right to decide the test. The spear is the test of the hunter. A chieftain must provide for his people. Without the hunt, we are nothing.’

  ‘And the knife?’ you croak, nervously.

  ‘The test of the warrior. The fighter. A chieftain should have the strength to lead. The strength to best his enemies in battle.’

  Will you:

  Choose the spear? 629

  Choose the knife? 488

  198

  Unable to react in time, your sled skids sideways across the snow, ploughing into a steeped bank. You are thrown up into the air, your sled flipping over and dragging your yelping dog-team with it. By some miracle you manage to twist out of your fall, spectral claws extending from your fingertips. They scrape along the edge of the crevasse, throwing up a flurry of white splinters until they finally find purchase, stopping you from plunging into the ice-cold waters.

  You may have avoided taking a dip, but unfortunately you have failed to complete the race. You are now disqualified from the tournament. Replace the keyword rookie/veteran with underdog. Return to the map to continue your adventure.

  199

  As you approach, several of the recruits turn their heads, watching you with interest. The blond-haired warrior continues
to jab and swing his mutton, until he realises he is no longer the centre of attention. Grumpily, he shifts round in his seat, his eyes narrowing when he sees you.

  ‘What in Hel’s fire is that?’ he gawps, looking you up and down.

  ‘Something with more brains than you, Brack,’ grins the lone female of the group. She is perched on the edge of the table, feet resting on the bench. Of all the recruits she is the most well-groomed, resplendent in plate armour that has been polished to a high sheen. Her auburn hair is close shaven, given her a boyish look. A scar along her cheek does nothing to diminish her natural beauty. ‘It’s our handsome new recruit.’

  Her comment draws sniggers from her companions. You can well believe that your appearance is nothing short of peculiar – with pale, rheumy eyes and skin mottled with broken veins and bruises. But being the outsider is nothing new to you.

  ‘If that’s what the fever does, oh man . . .’ Brack rips a piece of meat from the leg, chewing it noisily with a half-open mouth.

  ‘Actually, for me – it’s probably an improvement,’ you shrug, playing along with the joke. It appears to work, eliciting more laughter from the soldiers.

  ‘I’m Brack,’ grins the blond-haired warrior, holding out a ham-sized fist.

  You look at the proffered limb, then back at him, confused.

  ‘Touch fists, man. Show respect,’

  Awkwardly you make a fist and knock it against his own. Brack seems pleased with the gesture, nodding and ripping another chunk of meat from his mutton bone. ‘That’s Henna,’ he says, jerking a thumb at the girl. ‘I’m teaching her good table manners, ain’t I, lady?’

  The female nods her head in a more civil greeting. ‘Brack is our resident jester. He just forgets to wear the bells.’

  Brack licks grease from his fingers, grinning. ‘Don’t listen to her, she’s from the academy. All posh and proper like, not like us rough boys, eh?’ He punches one of his companions on the arm, a thin-looking lad with braids in his hair. His sinewy arms are covered in various tattoos. He grins at Brack, nodding eagerly – evidently keen to please.

  ‘This is Jarrow,’ says Brack, tossing his bone into the other boy’s bowl. ‘He don’t say much, which is why I like him. So, what about you then, fever man? What yer got to say for yourself?’

  You are about to answer, when your attention is caught by a redhaired kitchen girl, collecting empty plates from a nearby table. She looks anything but pretty, with a squared jaw and pinched nose, and a lip made crooked by a scar.

  And yet you can’t take your eyes off her – perhaps it is the way she carries herself. Sure and confident.

  Brack is the first to notice. He makes a rumbling at the back of his throat, then spits in the girl’s direction. ‘Damn Skard,’ he growls. ‘The only good Skard is a dead ’un, that’s what my pa used to say.’

  Jarrow shrieks with laughter, an unsettling noise in the sudden uneasy silence.

  The girl looks your way and offers a half-smile, before turning quickly and heading back to the kitchens.

  ‘Her name is Anise,’ says Henna. ‘I understand they found her when she was a babe. Her people left her to die . . . out on the ice fields.’

  Brack smirks. ‘And I can see why. Fetch me more meat, girl!’ He shouts after her. ‘Stupid Skard. If I had my way . . .’ He puts a hand to his dagger. ‘What you say, Jarr?’

  The younger lad gives another of his hyena laughs. Henna rolls her eyes, pushing off from the table. ‘Suddenly, I don’t like this company,’ she sighs. ‘I’m heading off for duty.’

  Will you:

  Follow Anise into the kitchens? 178

  Talk to the lone soldier? 308

  Leave the hall and return to the courtyard? 113

  200

  The rune-carved manacle continues to sap at your strength, draining your magic and leaving you weak and nauseous. You drop to your knees, out of exhaustion rather than submission, but it is a gesture that pleases Gurt.

  ‘The dog has learnt to beg.’ He sucks the last of the tender meat from his bone then tosses it at your feet. You glare down at the greasy item, then lift your eyes to meet his wide expectant grin. ‘There are scraps on that bone, don’t let it go to waste.’

  You glare back at Gurt, then at the grinning Skards. Taking the bone, you make a show of pulling at the remaining fatty strands, forcing them down your dry, dead throat. Finally you suck out the soft marrow, before tossing the clean bone aside.

  Gurt sniggers like a cruel child. ‘Good, now you’re going to perform a new trick. I tell you what I want and you go fetch. Simple enough for you?’ He lifts his tankard, taking several noisy gulps. Then he slams it back onto the table with a rumbling belch. ‘This so-called beer tastes like barrel water. What I want is something more refined, more suited to my standing.’ He wipes the foam from his lips, then knocks the tankard away with his fingers. ‘Normally I get supplies from the trappers, but they’re thin on the ground. So, you can go to Ryker’s. They’ll have shipments in for the winter months. Get me a bottle of Bowfinch, the ’55 vintage.’

  You stare back at the man with genuine surprise. ‘You want me to get you a bottle of wine? Is this how you test my courage?’

  Gurt slams his fists on the table, rattling the pots. ‘Courage? I’m seeing how far you want to go to make a bigger ass of yourself. These are my terms. If you don’t like them, you know what you can do. Now, remove this . . . thing.’ He waves a hand at you, turning his head in feigned revulsion.

  You are dragged out of the hall, your cries of agony resounding in your ears. Once you are back on the snow fields the manacle is removed from your arm, then the two warriors melt back into the pale mist. You are left lying in the snow, clutching at your burnt flesh, teeth still gritted against the pain.

  You realise that the only way to gain entrance to the Hall of Vindsvall is to please the vile Gurt. Surely it can’t be that difficult to get hold of a bottle of Bowfinch ’55. (Make a note of the keyword Bowfinch on your hero sheet. Then return to the quest map to continue your journey.)

  201

  The fight soon descends into an inelegant scrap, both of you slipping and sliding on the churned-up snow. A lucky opening finally presents itself – and with a snarl you drive your weapons through the man’s torso, pinning him to the alley wall.

  You sheathe your weapons, then quickly search the man’s corpse – already sensing the previously timid onlookers moving closer, hungry for any spoils. You manage to grab a money pouch (you have gained 30 gold crowns) and two muttok pelts (simply make a note of these on your hero sheet, they don’t take up backpack space). You may also take one of the following:

  Without prejudice Avianators Blood scent

  (gloves) (head) (ring)

  +1 speed +1 brawn +1 speed +1 magic +1 brawn

  Ability: savagery Ability: finesse (requirement: mage) Ability: bleed

  Remove the word ashes from your hero sheet. You may now head towards the docks (turn to 659) or the compound (turn to 426).

  202

  You step towards the edge of the circle, hoping your fears are unfounded. However, as soon as you come within range of the toadstools, they start to shuffle forward, their black caps belching clouds of spores into the air.

  Desperately, you look around for a means of defending yourself. Next to the skeleton you spot a broken branch of willow. With no other option, you hastily pick it up, brandishing it like a club. You have now gained the following item:

  Whacking willow

  (main hand: club)

  +1 brawn

  You realise your only chance of survival is to bash your way through the circle of toadstools. It is time to take on the might of:

  Speed Brawn Armour Health

  The terrorstools 0 1 1 12

  Special abilities

  Spore cloud: At the end of each combat round, roll a die. If the result is or less, you are caught in a blinding cloud of spores, reducing your speed by 1 for the next combat round only. If you roll
or more, you have avoided the spores.

  If you manage to defeat these fearsome fungi, remember to restore your health to full, then turn to 185.

  203

  ‘It’s a colourful history, to be sure,’ says Harris with apparent relish. ‘It used to be a watchtower, manned by guards from the keep. Now it’s strictly out of bounds. No one is allowed to go there.’

  ‘With good reason, I am sure,’ you interject.

  Harris snorts. ‘Yes, something bad happened there. I found out about it in one of Segg’s books.’

  ‘I know I’m going to regret asking this,’ you sigh. ‘So, why is the tower out of bounds?’

  ‘It was over-run by creatures from the rift,’ answers Harris. ‘There were guards trapped inside – some powerful magic surrounded the tower, stopping anyone from entering or leaving. With no chance of rescue, the guards holed themselves up in a storeroom, tried to survive. But the dark things still found them . . . pounding and beating against the door. It was only a matter of time before the creatures broke in, and set to the guards with their claws and teeth.’

  Anise shivers, pulling her cloak tighter around her body. ‘That’s a horrible story.’

  Harris looks over at her with an upraised eyebrow. ‘You think that’s the end? The guards were dying one by one – horribly, screaming and crying as they were torn to pieces. Only one remained, a mage. He resorted to the forbidden arts in a desperate attempt to save himself. He used necromancy. He raised his fallen companions from the dead and turned their corpses against the enemy.’

  Harris’s eyes flick to you, taking in your mottled, grey-flesh. ‘Somehow, he was able to break the magic that surrounded the tower. When the soldiers finally managed to get inside, they found a blood bath – but no survivors.’

  ‘This was a long time ago, right?’ Brack is still smiling, but you sense his anxiety.

  Harris clicks his tongue. ‘Stop interrupting, you buffoon. In the years after, it was clear that there was something wrong with the tower. Things kept happening, strange occurrences – soldiers going missing, reports of strange sounds, many refusing to set foot inside. Then, the necromancer returned. A shadow of his former self, but somehow alive once again, as if the tower itself had willed it. Only three soldiers were brave enough to go against him. Two brothers, Mott and Rinehart – and a cavalier, Caeleb.’