The bear’s eyes have merged into a blinding tunnel of light. You blink, trying to look away. Your body feels heavy again, as if it has become stone: impossible to move. Voices.
We should end this. It is an abomination.
I won’t have it. Such an act would be treason.
No, it would be a mercy.
The light grows brighter still. You squirm away, buffeted by its heat, desperate to find the comfort of darkness once again – but the Norr has gone, and your eyes are wide open . . . refusing to close.
‘Will you get that thing out of my face!’
The light swings away as a man leans in close, his pale skin wrinkled with age. A golden earring flashes with jewels. ‘Tell me your name. Tell me your name, boy.’
You go to draw breath, but there is no air. Gasping, you lurch forward, startling the man who quickly jerks out of your way. You sit up in bed, hands grappling at sheets. Then your muscles cramp, an excruciating pain like nothing you have ever known before. Unable to breathe, you kick and squirm.
‘Hold him!’ booms a commanding voice.
You roll off the bed, slamming down onto a hard stone floor. For a second, you catch sight of your hands. Large and brightly veined, the skin almost translucent. Then another convulsion throws you onto your back, leaving you bucking and writhing like a fish out of water. Dimly, you sense shapes moving around you – a glint of armour, a swish of crimson robes. Hands reach out and lift you up.
‘Tell me your name!’ A voice hisses in your ear. ‘Else we will end your life, demon.’
You can hear wind and rain battering against a nearby window. The shutters rattle angrily, as if desperate to fly open and let the storm sweep inside.
‘Arran!’ you croak hoarsely. ‘I’m Prince Arran!’
Somehow, you manage to break free of your captor. You stumble away, hitting a wall, lurching from one surface to the next. As you move, your body feels different. Muscles pull against the thinness of a nightshirt. Along your arms, corded veins throb with a vibrant energy.
Full of life, and yet – your chest remains heavy and still. Unmoving. Again you suck hungrily for air, trying to push something into your lungs. Instead a wheezing rattle tumbles from your cracked lips.
You put out a hand to steady yourself, struggling to focus on the shapes coalescing in the flickering lantern light. ‘What . . . what has happened to me?’ you rasp.
‘Arran, calm down. You’re in shock.’ The deep voice belongs to a thick-set man, dressed in brightly-polished armour. His hair is cropped close to his head, peppered with grey.
‘Who was your father? Answer me?’ The persistent questions come from a thinner man, the elderly one with the earring. Crimson robes spill from the golden circlet around his neck, sparkling with rubies.
‘The king . . . my father . . . Leonidas . . .’ Your throat is dry and sore. The words cut you like daggers.
‘Enough!’ The armoured knight raises a hand. ‘We can safely assume this is no demon.’
The red-robed gentleman scowls, his distrust still evident.
Your eyes flick to the third. A wiry man, his face hidden by the shadows of his cowl. He stands with his back against the door, arms folded across his chest. Daggers and knives protrude visibly from his belt. His manner exudes a deadly confidence.
‘This does not sit well with me,’ the rogue drawls from the shadows. ‘This is necromancy.’
‘I won’t hear it,’ snaps the armoured knight, waving the hooded one to silence. ‘Prince Arran. We are honoured by your presence.’ He pushes back his cloak, then drops to one knee, head bowed low. ‘And we are at your service.’ With reluctance, the crimson-robed man and the hooded one both dip their heads in reverence, but their refusal to kneel is made plainly evident.
For a moment, the only sound comes from the creak of the shutters and the gale venting its fury on the other side. A stray breeze brushes past you, ruffling through your unruly fringe. Trembling, you put a hand to your head, feeling the matted curls of hair, the coldness of your scalp. Cold like death. You draw your hand away, startled when you see clumps of loose hair still tangled between your fingers.
The knight looks up, kindness – or perhaps pity – written on his face. ‘You have been through a lot, my prince. I understand you must have questions – as we do ourselves.’
‘Who . . . who are you?’ You force the words past the soreness in your throat.
‘I am Lord Everard,’ states the man in armour. He rises to his feet, before gesturing first to the crimson-robed gentleman and then to the rogue. ‘And this is Segg and Rook. Both sworn to Bitter Keep – to its rocks and mortar, and to the blood of the Last Order. For Valeron and its king, we serve.’
‘King?’ Rook shakes his head and turns away. ‘There is no king.’ He pulls open the door and leaves, his black cloak trailing after him like a living shadow. The door clatters closed of its own accord.
The Last Order. You have the heard the name many times – a group of hardy soldiers who defend the walls and castles along the Great Rift, protecting the kingdom from the monsters and barbarians of the north. You had always pictured it as a remote place, far from anywhere, on the very edge of the world – where civilisation meets the chaotic, frozen wastes of Skardland. The Last Order. So-called, because no one ever comes back.
You glance down at your body – now a slab of thick-set muscle. Gone is the thin, weakling prince. In his place, something else has been dragged into life. Something different. Something changed.
Will you:
Ask how you came to be here? 61
Ask about what happened to your body? 9
Ask what they know about the attack? 22
Ask to go home (ends the conversation)? 98
292
You awake to cramping muscles. Unable to support yourself, your legs give way and you fall – slamming hard against the ground. Beneath you, the wooden floorboards are rattling as they knock against each other, their foundations rocked from side to side. All around you, the air is thick with dust and ice – the groaning and shuddering of the hall a grim reminder of what occurred at Bitter Keep.
‘Anise,’ you manage to gasp through locked teeth.
You try and rise but are thrown sprawling back onto your stomach.
There is a scream from somewhere behind you, then the sound of earth being ripped apart.
With effort, you manage to shut out the confusion – relaxing your body, pushing the magic into your dead limbs, bringing them steadily back to life.
With a brutish roar you spring to your feet, weapons drawn and ready.
Through the ice you can see Skoll, seated on his throne. You can feel the heat, the magic, emanating from his body. The frozen walls are starting to crack, accompanied by a thunderous boom as the half-giant’s awakened power pummels against his prison.
‘Arran! Help us!’ A young girl’s voice.
You snap round, looking for its source.
‘Arran!’
Your sharp eyes penetrate the dusty fog, settling on Anise and the white-haired einherjar Aslev. Both are struggling to move debris aside to rescue a trapped warrior. He is pinned to the ground, his legs and arms tangled around the body of the wooden statue.
‘Allam’s teeth, what are you doing?’ A familiar, flabby face leans out of the rubble, barking orders angrily. ‘Use your axe,’ spits Gurt. ‘Come on, you fools, try harder!’
You start towards them, but a warning from Nanuk draws you up short – a raw snarl that diverts your attention to an open doorway.
Three crimson-robed women are hurrying through it, their skirts bunched in their fists. They are followed by a fourth, moving with slower, more confident strides, her slender body dressed in a glittering gown of frost-blue silk. Charms and trinkets flash amongst her braided white hair. Syn Hulda.
The tremors subside, but their fury is now written on the asynjur’s face. ‘What is this?’
Another crack of ice.
The woman’s eyes
widen as they look upon Skoll’s throne. Deep fissures are now forking outwards from the entombed warrior – crumbling the ice and breaking it apart. ‘It can’t be,’ she chokes in horror. ‘He returns!’
Her furious gaze sweeps across the hall, alighting on you with a chill look of hatred. ‘Fools! I will have your souls for this! You are all traitors – and you will be destroyed!’
The asynjur throws back her head, a fierce blue light radiating from her eyes. ‘Now, look upon me – and fear!’
Her pale skin hardens to ice, her body bulging as it begins to grow, splitting through the seams of her gown. Horns slide outwards from her brow, curving and branching to form a pair of barbed antlers. There is a snapping of bones, the ripping of muscle. You watch transfixed as the beast’s legs fold back on themselves, toes curling inwards to become cloven hooves.
Syn Hulda has transformed herself into a demon.
The other asynjur share your horrified amazement, backing away from the terrible apparition. As one, they begin to chant a spell – some enchantment to ward themselves from this evil. But they are too late.
With a snarl the demon raises a clawed hand, sending spears of frost lancing into each of the mages. Their shrieks are deafening as flesh turns to ice, their bodies distorting and reshaping themselves into devilish monsters. They drop onto all fours, scampering to their mistress’s side. She pats at their frozen manes with a loving affection. ‘Ah, loyalty – so rare and precious a thing.’ Her frosted lips crack into a fang-toothed smile. ‘You will kneel before me too, southlander. Or suffer the same fate!’
Desperately, you look back to the throne. The ice continues to crumble and melt, but Skoll is still trapped inside and unable to aid you. Anise scoops up a discarded sword and starts forward but Aslev snatches her arm, pulling her back.
‘Let me go!’ she snaps angrily. ‘We can fight!’
‘Don’t you dare turn your back on me!’ splutters Gurt, kicking his legs feebly in the air. ‘Free me, now. That is an order!’
Aslev grinds his teeth, clearly torn by some internal struggle. ‘The hall is lost,’ he says gruffly. ‘We should rally the others.’
‘To Hel with the others!’ roars Gurt. ‘Now get me out of here!’
Anise continues to wrestle against Aslev. ‘The hall is not lost!’ she asserts, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Remember your duty! The einherjar are sworn to protect the Drokke!’
Aslev looks to you, questioningly.
‘Stay back!’ you command, waving them away. ‘Aslev is right. Fetch aid – summon the others!’ You spin to face the grotesque demon, hoping to buy time for your companions to escape. With weapons raised, you advance towards the former asynjur.
‘What is this?’ snorts the demon. ‘A show of courage from the young whelp? Too foolish and stubborn to know when to kneel before your betters.’
You bare your teeth in a snarl. ‘I am the last blood of King Leonidas, a crown prince of Valeron – and I kneel before no-one!’ Magic ignites the air, sparking around your enchanted weapons. From the Norr, you feel Nanuk’s spirit wash into you, filling you with a primal strength. You tense, ready to attack . . .
‘Wait!’ You hear the scuff of boots as Aslev races to your side. ‘You will not face this evil alone, prince of Valeron. I am an einherjar – and this is my hall to protect.’
Anise takes position at your other shoulder, glaring at you past a hard frown. ‘Leave it to a woman to talk sense,’ she scowls. ‘Think you’re the only one with a score to settle?’
The einherjar lifts an ivory horn to his mouth, then blows a single shrill note into the air. Its piercing blast awakens something deep inside you. Your body pulses, your powers quickening.
You meet the warrior’s gaze – and in that briefest of moments, you share a connection: a kinship.
‘For Valeron!’ you cry.
‘For Skardland!’ calls Aslev, raising his axe.
‘Free me, you fools!’ screams Gurt.
Then together the three of you charge the demon, your battle cries joined by the frenzied clash of iron and magic. It is time to fight:
Speed Magic Armour Health
Syn Hulda 8 5 10/4(*) 80
Frost hound 7 4 3 15
Frost hound 7 4 3 15
Frost hound 7 4 3 15
Special abilities
Sound the charge!: For the first two rounds of combat your speed is increased by 2.
Ice skin: (*) Syn Hulda has an armour of 10. Once her health is reduced to 40 or less, her armour is lowered to 4. (Note: Syn Hulda is immune to any abilities that would ordinarily lower her armour.)
Ice fangs: At the end of every combat round you must take 1 damage, ignoring armour, from each frost hound still in play.
Ice breaker: When a frost hound is reduced to zero health, its body explodes into fragments of jagged ice. Each hound causes 5 damage, ignoring armour. (If you have the insulated ability, this damage is reduced to 2.)
Ice prison: Roll a die at the end of each combat round. Once you have rolled three results, Skoll will have freed himself from his ice prison and will join you in combat. He will immediately heal you, restoring 6 health, and increase your damage score by 2 for the remainder of the combat.
Body of ice: Your opponents are immune to bleed, decay and venom.
You must defeat Syn Hulda and the three frost hounds to win the combat. If you are successful, turn to 568.
293
‘Look, the dog’s come sniffing back,’ shouts Rutus, stepping out of line to face off against you. ‘Ready for another fight, or you just here to play maids’ lapdog?’ He jerks a thumb towards the straw target dummies.
The other soldiers halt their training, watching the confrontation with interest. The trainer folds his thick arms across his chest. His voice rings out loud and crisp in the chill morning air. ‘Well, I think we have ourselves a grudge match. Careful there, Rutus. This one looks hungry.’
The soldier grins, revealing several missing teeth. ‘Yeah, I’m beating this dog back down to the ground. Ready to eat some mud, rookie?’
You are both handed swords, then proceed to circle each other warily. It is time to fight:
Speed Brawn Armour Health
Rutus 3 1 1 45
Special abilities
Training yard: You cannot use any special abilities or backpack items in this combat.
I yield: Once Rutus is reduced to 10 health or less, roll a die at the start of each combat round. On a roll of or more, he yields to you, winning you the combat. Otherwise, the combat continues as normal.
If you manage to defeat this skilled soldier, turn to 147. If you lose the challenge, turn to 258.
294
Unable to break free from the growth, you are dragged inside its snapping jaws. You must immediately roll on the death penalty chart (see entry 98) and apply the result to your hero. Remember, you may be given an opportunity later in your adventures to remove this effect.
You drop back to the ground, a shower of black blood spattering the dirt. It takes a moment to realise that it is seeping from your own wounds. Anise moves to stand over you, holding her magical torch above her head. The growth seems to recoil from the blue flames, its cruel mouth now emitting a pitiful whine.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks, her voice shaking with fear.
You pick yourself up, staggering as you find your balance. ‘I’ve been better.’
‘You’re bleeding.’
You brush her hand away. ‘I’m fine, please . . .’ Blood soaks your sleeve and your jerkin, and yet you feel no pain. It is as if the skin underneath is numb – dead, like a corpse.
Anise studies you a moment longer, chewing her bottom lip nervously. Then she raises her torch and turns away. ‘Okay, you’re right – let’s keep moving.’ Turn to 366.
295
‘Tricked?’ Sylvie straightens in surprise, her brow creasing as if pondering the question. ‘Well, I suppose I did. But it was for your own benefit.’
‘
My own benefit?’ Your hands grab the back of the nearest chair, gripping it tight to stop them from trembling. ‘Do you even know what it’s like when I sleep? You can’t possibly—’
‘You travel,’ replies Sylvie, matter-of-factly. Her attention turns back to the breakfast.
You start to sound an answer, but find yourself stammering instead, your thoughts tangling in a jumbled confusion.
‘The moment I saw you . . . I just knew,’ Sylvie continues. ‘And I can’t tell you why. I sensed the magic within you. But not like a mage – not one who chooses to use it, takes it and moulds it to their will. No, with you it’s different. It is like the magic is just a natural part of you. As it was with Randal.’
‘Your husband?’ you croak, still feeling sick.
‘It’s old blood,’ she replies, nodding. ‘He thought he was the only one. I thought it too, until I laid eyes on you. I had to be sure.’
‘You knew! Then that makes what you did . . . it only makes it worse!’ You push the chair away, knocking it into the table. ‘You knew what would happen!’
‘I did.’ Sylvie breathes a guilty sigh. ‘But you can’t keep running from it. You have to learn to master that power, before . . . it masters you.’
Will you:
Ask her to tell you what she knows about the dreams? 165
Leave the cabin? 261
Agree to fetch the water? 78
296
You notice a number of treasures tangled up in the drake’s parasitic tentacles. If you wish, you may now take one of the following rewards:
Dark matter Lurid shroud Titan’s touch
(main hand: wand) (chest) (gloves)
+1 speed +2 magic +1 speed +1 magic +1 speed +2 magic
Ability: vortex Ability: anguish Ability: arcane feast
You hope, with the death of the corrupted Titan, the explorers and Caul are now finally at peace. After giving the frozen trapper a final nod of farewell, you head into the glacial tunnels – following them back to the surface. (Return to the quest map to continue your adventure.)
297
As you near the tower, you are almost disappointed by its plainness. No grinning skulls or ghostly apparitions, just an expanse of grey, crumbling rock and dark empty windows. There isn’t even a warning sign saying ‘turn back now’.
The Eye of Winter's Fury Page 27