The Eye of Winter's Fury

by Michael J. Ward

  Your words falter to silence, waiting expectantly for a response.

  The woman regards you for a moment longer, then gives a dismissive snort. ‘I’ve heard some tall tales in my time, boy . . .’

  ‘It’s true,’ you implore, feeling your anger surge once again. ‘Would I have this if I was just some . . . some commoner?’ You lift the scabbard at your side, showing her its jewels and the holy inscriptions on the hilt. ‘This is Duran’s Heart. A named blade, given to me on my thirteenth birthday.’

  The woman takes a step closer, but her eyes linger on your face rather than the blade. ‘You could have stolen it.’

  Her accusation startles you. ‘I’m no thief! You can have the sword – I can’t even touch the cursed thing.’

  For the first time, the woman exhibits surprise. ‘Is this true?’ she gasps.

  Too late, you realise what you have done, blurting out your secret with no mind to the consequences. To confess such a thing is almost tantamount to treason.

  ‘I can only touch the scabbard,’ you reply honestly, seeing no reason to spin a lie now you’ve gone this far. ‘Since I was given it, the inscriptions have always . . .’ You struggle for the words.

  ‘Rejected you?’ the woman supplies thoughtfully.

  You nod, trying to gauge her reaction. This secret is one you have only shared once before, with your nursemaid Molly. And you doubt she’ll be telling anyone now. I have to get home. I have to tell them what happened . . .

  ‘You’re no witchfinder, then,’ the woman’s brow creases. ‘Perhaps there is some truth in what you say after all.’ Make a note of the word prince on your hero sheet, then turn to 256.

  227

  The knight has you beaten, his sword raised for a killing blow. But before he can bring it down, you hear a cry. Anise charges into view, using her torch as a weapon to batter against the knight’s dark armour. With an angry hiss he turns to face her, thrown off balance as he tries to swat her away with his sword. The girl’s distraction gives you the perfect opening. Quickly, you drive your weapon between Mott’s armour, pushing deep into whatever spectral body resides within.

  When the weapon is withdrawn, the knight goes staggering back, the pieces of black plate dropping one by one to the ground. Once the suit is lost, you are left with the ghost of a young man, dressed in the true armour of a Valeron knight. Angrily, he tosses the sword aside as if it suddenly disgusts him, then his glowing eyes fix on you.

  ‘My brother . . .’ He holds out a gauntleted hand. From its end dangles a bright medallion, hanging from a gold chain. ‘Take it and be at peace, brother.’

  You realise that the knight is still trapped in the past, believing that you are his brother Rinehart – the one who was forced to kill him by the evil necromancer. Anise moves to your side, helping you to stand. ‘Have nothing to do with it,’ she says, scowling at the proffered medallion. ‘This place is full of tricksters and evil.’

  The outline of the ghost starts to flicker and fade, returning to whatever half-world it came from. Of the other spectre, there is no sign, although you are certain you have not seen the last of him.

  Will you:

  Take the medallion? 252

  Refuse the spirit’s gift? 176

  228

  The air is thick and heavy with sand. You can feel the solid particles cutting and tearing at your dead skin. Ahead of you a surging wall of crimson wind rushes across the plain, forming an impenetrable barrier.

  Skoll snatches a skull from amongst the rocks, bleached white by the fury of the storm. He swings back his arm, then throws the skull into the midst of the churning, fast-moving tempest. The skull barely reaches its outer edge before splintering into jagged fragments – snatched away by the wind in the blink of an eye.

  Skoll continues to glare at the whirling sand, then tilts back his head and howls. A bestial, dirge-like outpouring of despair – a sound to rival that of the raging storm.

  Anise is beside you, eyes narrowed over her scarf. ‘This wind is an act of sorcery. There must be some way to break its spell.’

  You stagger against a boulder, barely able to support yourself on your exhausted legs. ‘Look at it – what hope do we have?’

  Skoll bares his teeth – and starts forward.

  He gets only a few metres before he is forced back, his exposed flesh cut and bleeding from the bite of the spinning debris. ‘Beriliv bak, hurt nasar!’ He spits his curse into the face of the storm.

  ‘We could wait,’ insists Anise. ‘For the others – the Ska-inuin will come. Perhaps our combined might . . .’

  Skoll spins on her, his eyes bright with an angered madness. ‘They will not come!’ He gestures back to the wasteland. ‘They did not heed my call.’

  ‘There is still time,’ Anise implores. ‘The land is not what it once was – their passage will be difficult.’

  Skoll snorts and spits again. ‘Ska-inuin have proven weak. We are done for. It is over!’

  You push off from the boulder. Tentatively, you approach the storm.

  Whipped-up chunks of debris clatter against your armour, tearing at cloth, raking across your cadaverous skin. You feel no pain, but you know if you took another step – and then another – you would simply be torn to pieces.

  ‘No flesh or bone can pass . . .’ You step back, your gaze drifting to Anise. The girl glares back at you with a mix of desperation and confusion.

  ‘Is this the end?’ she asks, almost challengingly. ‘If we stop now, we have failed.’

  ‘Bah. I will not be weak,’ snarls Skoll. ‘I will not lie down and die!’

  ‘You won’t have to.’ Your words are softly spoken, and yet somehow carry over the keening gale.

  The Skard’s scowl grows deeper. ‘Magic will not avail us.’

  A sacrifice will have to be made, boy. Only you will be able to choose, life or death.

  The spinner’s words. Their sudden meaning pierces you like a blade. ‘The sacrifice. It’s me.’

  Your companions look at you, baffled.

  It was never the paladin. I am the sacrifice.

  Anise suddenly grabs you by the arm. ‘What are you saying? Please, Arran. Don’t!’

  You close your eyes, casting your mind towards the Norr, reaching for its magic – for Nanuk. His spirit has grown weaker – you have taken much from the bear, burning through his reserves of magic like a flame melting at tallow. But the bear has more to give. You reach out again, moulding your will into a spear-head. I need your magic, Nanuk. I need all of it, if I am to become what I must. Turn to 668.

  229

  The sprites fall to your weapons as the final candle flame winks out. The room is thrown into darkness, the dusty air filled with smoke and the acrid stench of sulphur. Slowly the edges of your surroundings sharpen into focus, tinged by the same brilliant light as before.

  Segg starts to raise his fingers, to relight the candles. You pre-empt him, sending a wash of magic spiralling around the room. One by one, the candles ignite, each capped with a bright green flame. Their deathly pallor illuminates Segg’s surprised expression.

  ‘Impressive,’ he states, raising an eyebrow. ‘I’d say that brings your training to an end.’

  Congratulations – you have learned the path of the mage. You may now permanently increase your health by 10 (to 40). You have also gained the following special ability:

  Recharge (dm): You regain a speed or modifier ability that you have already used in combat – allowing you to use it again. Recharge can only be used once per combat.

  When you have updated your hero sheet, turn to 388.

  230

  For defeating the entire coven, you may help yourself to 50 gold crowns and one of the following rewards:

  Ritual end Shade’s vice Necropolis stalkers

  (main hand: dagger) (ring) (feet)

  +2 speed +2 brawn +1 brawn +2 speed +2 magic

  Ability: eviscerate Ability: mortal wound Ability: poison cloud

  (requirem
ent: rogue) (requirement: warrior) (requirement: mage)

  When you have updated your hero sheet, turn to 523.

  231

  You flee back into the trees, the sound of brutal carnage and the inquisitor’s roars of pain providing all the incentive you need. Your own wounds stab with pain, forcing you to stagger as the trees and branches blur into a haze.

  For a second – a heartbeat – you feel yourself slipping away, to that dark place you have always dreaded. You can feel its chill inside of you, its black hooks pulling you in, dragging you back to the dreams, the nightmares . . .

  ‘No!’ Somehow you manage to find your pouch, hands fumbling as you push the dragon leaf into your mouth. Biting down on the bitter leaves, you feel their familiar warmth surge through your body, forcing away that dreaded chill.

  And for a while, they numb the pain.

  Grappling through the wall of branches, you emerge on the banks of a fast-flowing stream. Ahead, a lip of granite juts out into the white-frothed shallows, forming a series of pitted stones that stretch to the far bank. You splash into the waters, almost losing your footing as the force of the rushing tide churns around your ankles. Clambering onto the nearest rock, you use it as a stepping-stone, hopping from one surface to the next, until you have reached the far bank.

  A sudden howl lifts over the roar of the water, followed by a chorus of wails.

  You glance back, startled to see a group of wolves sitting by the shoreline. Their heads are tilted back, calling to their pack mates.

  You are running once again, dragging your now flagging limbs up the slope and back into the forest. The ground is harder here, ridged with bands of stone. Through the wiry tree-limbs, you spy high walls of grey rock. The air hangs heavy with musk and decay.

  You break from the trees, stumbling into a wide clearing – hemmed in by a tumble of slate boulders. Bones litter the floor, hundreds of them – small ones, large ones, skulls, spines. They crack underfoot as you turn in a slow circle, scanning the rocks and the trees behind you. Another howl rends the air, but you cannot determine the direction.

  Then you see them, slinking out from the undergrowth, heads hung low, tongues lolling from between glistening canines. You back up into the bone-strewn ravine, realising that the wolves have you trapped, penned in by the walls of stone. Another step and something pushes hard against your back; you half-turn to see the broken rib cage of some enormous animal poking out of the mud, its bones picked clean, shining bright in the gloom.

  A deep, reverberating growl.

  Your eyes lift to the nearest wall of slate. Standing on the topmost rock is a huge black shadow, its body seemingly swallowing the light. Only the creature’s eyes seem to hold any semblance of life, golden orbs smouldering with hunger.

  You realise this must be the alpha male, the leader. You stare back at him, too afraid to move, too afraid to do anything but wait. Already you can feel the warmth of the dragon leaf starting to fade; tiredness and pain begin to return with a vengeance.

  It’s over . . . too tired to fight it . . . too tired . . .

  Your eyelids flutter. Unconsciousness, darkness . . . you hear the dreams calling, whispering, growing stronger; the coldness of that other place settles around you like a shroud.

  You lurch forward dizzily, slipping on loose bones, just as the wolf kicks off from the rock and springs into the air. Turn to 5.

  232

  Using your weapon you prise open the lid, jerking back in surprise when you see a skeletal hand scuttling around inside the box, grasping and clawing to get out.

  ‘Ugh, that’s disgusting,’ cries Anise, pulling a revolted expression.

  The hand suddenly makes a leap for the edge of the box, its bony fingers closing around the rim. Then, with another hop, it lands on the floor, skittering across the ground like a spider.

  Will you:

  Try and catch the hand? 124

  Ignore it and open a barrel? 156

  Climb the rubble to the room above? 272

  Retrace your steps and use the stairs? 111

  233

  Your weapon splinters the Skard’s javelin, your foot catching him in the chest and driving him back to the ground. He reaches out, fingers closing around the black wand still lying in the dirt. He mutters a curse as the wand starts to glow.

  Then Henna’s sword comes slicing down in a brilliant arc of steel. You turn away from the blow, not wishing to see it land.

  ‘Funny. With a face like yours, I didn’t think you’d be so squeamish,’ grins the female knight, lifting her bloodied sword to rest against her shoulder.

  Mitch crawls out from hiding, covered head to foot in dust and grime. ‘Is he dead?’ he asks nervously, staring at the corpse as if it might leap up at any second and attack.

  ‘Without a head, I’d say it’s a safe bet,’ you reply grimly.

  ‘Is that the last of them?’ He looks anxiously to Henna.

  She nods. ‘I think so. Took down the other hunter. His dogs too.’ She winces as she lowers her sword. ‘Think I may need a healer though – and a good bath.’

  You take a moment to search what remains of the Skard. If you wish, you may now take one of the following rewards:

  Bone smile Red gutter Atataq

  (necklace) (main hand: dagger) (main hand: wand)

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

  Ability: reckless Ability: bleed Ability: sear

  When you have updated your hero sheet, turn to 360.

  234

  ‘I should probably offer you an apology.’ The elderly mage sighs, running a hand through his fine, white hair. ‘I was concerned for your well-being. You have to understand that.’ He lifts his eyes to look at you, both pity and regret written on his lined face. ‘This . . . what happened to you, I have seen its like before.’

  You shift uncomfortably, waiting for him to continue.

  ‘Powerful mages can store a part of their essence, their soul, in an object. This can allow them to return to their body – even after death.’

  ‘I am no mage,’ you protest. ‘I don’t see how—’

  Segg waves you to silence. ‘That’s just one way; one that I have seen myself. But you – I feared that you had something else inside of you, something that wanted to use your body. That is why I thought it better we . . .’ His eyes flick to the flames, crackling in the brazier. His message is clearly understood.

  ‘But something changed your mind.’ You press him cautiously, the heat in the room suddenly feeling more oppressive.

  ‘Everard believed in you, even when I did not. And now, I harbour no doubt that you are Prince Arran. That makes you the sole remaining heir to the throne of Valeron.’

  You snort dismissively. ‘Do you really think they would welcome me back with open arms – kneel and swear allegiance to this?’ You glare down at your transformed body, the firelight making the pallid skin look even more alien. ‘Perhaps you should have burned me, stopped me before—’

  ‘Enough of that!’ Segg fixes you with a fierce-eyed stare, the fire in the room flashing high in anger. ‘Command respect, Arran, and the people will follow. Do not pity yourself or what you have become. This is a second chance for you – use it wisely.’

  Will you:

  Ask about learning magic? 342

  Ask if he knows anything about the dreams? 120

  Return to the library? 353

  235

  You dart past Willow’s scratching claws then feint in the opposite direction, wrong-footing her. Too late, the sprite’s eyes widen – realising her mistake. The whirling swarm of leaves slice straight into her, cutting through the bark-skin body and shredding her wings to ribbons. She stumbles to her knees, amber sap bubbling from her many deep wounds. Before she can recover you raise your weapons, reverse their blades, then spear them into the sprite’s wounded form – pinning her to the ground.

  The creature’s body cracks and crumbles, then spills across the ledge in a spray of
amber and splintered wood. You may now help yourself to one of the following rewards:

  Willow wrap Nature’s foil Sprig steps

  (chest) (main hand: dagger) (feet)

  +1 speed +2 brawn +1 speed +2 brawn +1 speed +2 magic

  Ability: counter Ability: gouge Ability: quicksilver

  With your way now clear, you race up the walkway towards the summit of the colossal tree. Turn to 597.

  236

  You slump against the rock, your limbs aching with exhaustion. But it is not over yet. The crunch of stones announces the approach of one of the Skards. You stagger to your feet, eyes fixed on the narrow tunnel.

  After several tense moments, the hunter appears around the corner, an axe in one hand and a bone knife in the other. His matted hair hangs across his face, framing a twisted sneer of contempt. With a bestial roar, he leaps over the bodies of his fallen dogs, looking to exact his brutal revenge. It is time to fight:

  Speed Brawn Armour Health

  Hunter 2 2 1 30

  If you manage to best this savage hunter, turn to 317. 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.

  237

  ‘We were part of an expedition . . . are part of an expedition,’ corrects the woman. She makes a gesture behind her, to the widening canyon. ‘We came to investigate the caves to the north. There is evidence of a much older structure. We believe it has some connection with the Titans.’

  You look back to the single tent – and the few boxes and sacks of supplies coated in thick sheets of ice. ‘How many of you are there?’ you ask, frowning.

  ‘There were nine of us,’ says the man briskly. You notice that his hand has not left his knife. The fingers are trembling, blackened by frostbite. ‘We were due to return to the coast, take our ship back to the mainland, but then one of our team found the rock. So we . . .’ He trails off, a sudden despair evident in his baleful eyes.