The Eye of Winter's Fury

by Michael J. Ward

  ‘You don’t?’ Sura sounds disappointed. She tips the contents of the bag into the palm of her hand. A black flaky herb that gives off a sour smell. ‘But Nanuk has chosen you. One of the great ancestor spirits of our tribe.’

  You roll your eyes, giving the woman a pained expression. ‘Please, I told you – I am not interested. I am not a leader, look at me . . .’

  Her eyes remain fixed on your own. ‘I am. And I see the bear spirit in your eyes. Unusual for a man to have the magic, and so strongly. You are a shaman, like myself. You could lead, but you need to find your strength. You need to find . . .’ She leans forward, prodding your chest with a gnarled finger. ‘Your heart.’

  ‘It’s dead,’ you snap, brushing her hand away. ‘I’m dead. Can’t you see that?’

  The woman shrugs her scrawny shoulders, then proceeds to push the herbs into a small bone pipe. ‘I see you have questions, southlander.’ With a flick of her fingers, she sends a green flame dancing from her fingertips. It ignites the herbs, filling the shelter with the aroma of cinnamon and wood smoke. ‘So ask away, and let Sura answer.’

  Will you:

  Ask about the shaman’s magic? 688

  Ask about the bear necklace? 545

  Ask what ‘vela styker’ means? 587

  End the conversation? 575

  359

  As you glance along the dusty spines, you begin to spot names that seem oddly familiar. You say them to yourself, repeating them in rhyme, trying to place where you have heard them before. Then you remember – the ghost in the tower, who scratched out the strange message on the table. The words are the surnames of various authors: Pendegost, Frayling, Augur and Volst.

  You reach for each book in turn, surprised to discover that they are false spines, hinged on some sort of hidden lever system. As each book is pulled in sequence, there is a dull click. Suddenly the room starts to spin, as the section of wall revolves round on a hidden platform, taking you into a secret chamber. Remove the keyword secrets from your hero sheet, then turn to 278.

  360

  Thanks to Mitch’s intervention, the barrels of tar were saved from the Skard’s fire. (You should have a note of how many barrels you managed to fill. Keep this, as it may be important later.) Turning the cart around, you prepare for home – and probably a lot of questions.

  ‘Guess those thieves got their just deserts,’ says Henna with a sigh. ‘Never thought soldiers would stoop so low.’

  ‘Hey, wait up! Can someone help me out here?’ You both turn, to see Mitch struggling after you with the sack of stolen equipment.

  If you have the word thievery on your hero sheet, turn to 4. Otherwise, turn to 383.

  361

  The walls of the canyon part like grey-white curtains, presenting you with a vast expanse of ice and razor-edged rock. Ahead, through the haze of powdery snow drifting like smoke across the silent wasteland, you see what can only be ‘the caves’. They loom tall, a double-peaked mountain formed by two glaciers pushed together. Its uneven slopes are pitted with nooks and fissures, many of which bleed waterfalls of ice, their spear-like prongs glistening in the dawn light.

  You approach with caution, acutely aware of the crevasses that zigzag through the ice. There are no snow bridges to hide them, but the crossing is still slow and treacherous. Beneath your feet, black rock can be glimpsed through the many inches of ice. In some places there is only a frozen emptiness; each pop and crack of the ice sets your teeth on edge.

  After an hour of carefully navigating the fractured plain, you come to the foot of the mountain. A mound of tumbled rock covers nearly half-a-mile of its base. You wonder if the main entrance had been somewhere behind it, trapping the other explorers inside.

  You crane your neck, shielding your eyes as you take in the ridges and ledges that protrude from the ice-covered walls. Above one area of rock-fall, about forty metres up the face of the mountain, you can see an icicle-dripping shelf and what looks like an opening behind it. The climb would be difficult, but the shelf appears to be the only reachable means of entering the caves.

  Alternatively, you could trek around the base of the mountain, looking for an easier way inside.

  Will you:

  Attempt to climb to the rock shelf? 67

  Look for an alternative entrance? 275

  362

  For defeating the ancient wind demon, you may now choose one of the following rewards:

  Hailstorm Tundra span Grips of the gale

  (left hand: glass sword) (cloak) (gloves)

  +2 speed +3 brawn +1 speed +2 armour +1 speed +2 brawn

  Ability: piercing Ability: windfall Ability: haste

  When you have made your decision, return to the quest map to continue your adventure.

  363

  You maintain your current heading, accelerating across the top of the island. The air hums and crackles around you as the towers charge up their blasts – then suddenly jagged strips of lightning surge forth, tearing towards your transport. In order to avoid these deadly strikes, you must take a challenge test using your transport’s speed:

  Speed

  Fire in the sky 14

  If you are successful, turn to 711. If you fail the challenge, turn to 44.

  364

  With the cat gone, you are free to inspect the strange corpse. Whatever this creature was, there is no obvious sign of how it met its end. A box lies in the grass next to an outstretched claw. The lid has been smashed open and whatever was inside has been looted.

  You hear the crunch of stones behind you. Turning, you are relieved to see Kirk and Lawson. ‘What you found?’ asks Kirk, stepping around the body. ‘Oh, one of the scalies. Bunch of these attacked the Keep the other day. Tough as nails, gave us a real beating.’ He crouches down to pick up a feather from the ground. ‘Hmm, if there was anything of value, the birdman will have got it now. Nothing comes and goes around here without him knowing.’

  ‘Segg might be interested,’ you glance at each of the soldiers. ‘He could study it. Find out more?’

  Lawson grunts. ‘Yeah, crazy fool would probably like that.’

  ‘All right, enough gawking.’ Kirk tucks the feather behind his ear. ‘Let’s get this back to the wagon and get those barrels on board.’ Make a note of the word envoy on your hero sheet. Then turn to 242.

  365

  Tankards and chairs go flying as two ale-soaked men punch and grapple with each other, spitting drunken curses. Their boots scuffle back and forth across the sawdust-covered ground, neither able to land a decisive blow. The rest of the patrons continue to drink and converse, unconcerned by the unruly display of violence; clearly brawls and drunkenness are the norm around here.

  You push through the fetid press of unwashed bodies, keeping your hands tightly clutched to your backpack and gold pouch. More than a few eyes and hands have moved in their direction, but quickly draw back when they catch your chilling gaze.

  You find a space at the bar, a makeshift arrangement of planks and barrels soaked with ale and grease. Putting your back to the counter, you take in the size of the place. As its name suggests, the Jailhouse Rock has been hewn out of the granite peak, resembling more a vast cavernous chamber than a building. Wooden walkways form a haphazard web-work up and down the walls, leading to side rooms and alcoves. Most are obscured by a filthy haze of smoke.

  Will you:

  Talk to the barman? 420

  Take a seat in one of the alcoves? 634

  Listen to the conversation at the bar? 534

  Leave? 426

  366

  The mould covering the walls gets thicker and more virulent, forcing you to pick your way past drooping growths and snarled roots. Eventually you both emerge in a large rectangular chamber.

  The floor, ceiling and walls are all covered in the same decaying mould.

  As you step into the room, you hear an unsettling creak beneath your feet. Looking down, you see that the floor is wood rather than stone – the floorboards warped
and rotted. You wonder if they are still capable of supporting your weight. To your right, an open doorway leads through to a narrow corridor.

  ‘Careful,’ whispers Anise.

  You take another step into the room, wincing as the wood groans and cracks. Then another, distributing your weight as best you can. Anise shadows your movements, her pool of torchlight slowly filling the room.

  A sudden rush of movement alerts you to danger.

  You swing round, eyes following a dark shape as it drops from the ceiling.

  ‘It’s a riftwing!’ Anise shrieks, ducking behind your back. ‘Watch out!’

  The creature resembles a cross between a goblin and a bat, with black leathery wings and peaked furry ears. From beneath its flayed nostrils you see two rows of needle-like teeth steadily opening wider.

  With a hiss, the monster lunges for you. Reacting on instinct, you manage to catch one of its spindly wrists, stopping its taloned fingers just shy of your throat. The other limb ends in a scarred stump, battering uselessly against your chest. As the two of you stagger back against the wall, you notice one of its wings is hanging loose from its back, the membrane torn. The creature must have been in a previous fight, which has left it injured and weak.

  If you have the word methane on your hero sheet, turn to 497. Otherwise, turn to 371.

  367

  ‘That is holy scripture.’ You nod to the glowing lines etched into the man’s skin. You cannot imagine the pain and the commitment of those who would endure such an act, all for the devotion of their god. ‘Tell me, how many inscribers died to give you that shiny coat?’

  The paladin flinches at your scorn. ‘It is necessary if we are to fight in His name. The inscribers are as dedicated as we are. They give their lives willingly.’

  You snort.

  ‘Do you have reason to fear the Church?’ Maune takes a step forward, leaning his head to try and peer at your face. ‘You are a wayward child, I can see that. And keeping company with a northern savage.’

  It takes a moment for Skoll to react, an angry growl issuing from his lips. He moves to attack but you manage to put an arm out, urging restraint. ‘Do not rise to it,’ you intone slowly. Your attention returns to Maune.

  ‘The Church has wronged me and my family,’ you reply. ‘I have lost everything. Your god is not one of mercy or compassion.’

  Maune eyes you levelly, his emotions masked by a stern exterior. ‘Men are corruptible. The holy light is not.’

  Will you:

  Ask what he knows of Rile’s betrayal? 507

  Ask Maune why he is here? 97

  Ask for food and water? (ends the conversation) 433

  Attack the paladin? (ends the conversation) 486

  368

  ‘The many weigh heavier than the few.’ You take Skoll’s hand, finding some small amusement in the pain caused by your chill touch, its cold sending fingers of frost crackling across his knuckles. He hoists you to your feet, then averts his gaze.

  ‘You did not have to become this.’ He glowers, rubbing his smarting hand. ‘We could have found another way.’

  You retrieve your weapons. ‘What’s done is done, remember? Now we must avenge those we have lost.’ Your gaze turns to the yawning chasm. ‘Do you know where this demon is – the one we must destroy?’

  He nods. ‘We need only follow these.’ He gestures to the stippled tentacles, branching through the stonework. ‘Come, this way.’

  You follow the Skard along the ledge until you are directly beneath one of the appendages. Its trunk-like form stretches across the gulf, forming a crude but navigable bridge. Skoll holsters his axe then starts climbing, using the cracks in the wall to lever himself higher. Then, with a grunt, he leaps onto the tentacle, straddling it like a horse. The appendage holds, its ends tethered deep into the rock to either side.

  You can feel the heat emanating from the tentacle’s cracked skin, but with no other choice you scale the wall and join the Skard. He seems unperturbed by the molten blood flowing through the beast’s innards, but for you its heat scolds your spirit-body, like a thousand hot needles piercing beneath your skin.

  ‘Let’s be quick,’ you gasp.

  Skoll finds his balance then starts across the void, his eyes set firmly on the other side. You are halfway across when a sudden, shrieking clamour forces you to turn.

  A host of shadowy demons are crawling up out of the darkness. Their shape and number are indistinct – at times they seem many, humanoid in shape, then they merge and become one, flowing together into a single confusion of grasping limbs.

  The shadows move with speed, flowing around the tentacle like some virulent disease. They are headed straight for you.

  Skoll draws his axe and nudges back past you. ‘Go.’

  You look at him in confusion.

  ‘They come too quick. I hold them. Go.’

  The Skard does not wait for your answer. He strides towards the surging darkness, limbering his shoulders, making practice cuts with his axe. You doubt he can possibly fend them all off.

  As if sensing your hesitation, he calls back. ‘The many weigh heavier than the few. Now run, or I’ll kick you there myself!’

  You bow your head in farewell, then turn and follow the Skard’s instruction, hurrying to the other side. Turn to 154.

  369

  Quest: The bitter end

  It feels good to breathe again. To enjoy the rhythm of your body, the throbbing beat beneath your breast. Odd you could miss something so normal and everyday – and rediscover its joy here, in this place of creeping shadow and dead things, where you feel more complete. More human.

  At your side sits the bear. His name presses against your mind once again – Nanuk. He seems diminished now, not as large and imposing as he once was, as if part of his being is now within you. Muscles ripple along your arms where once there had been only skin and bone. You feel the power in every fibre of your being – not just a physical strength but something older, more primeval.

  The dreamscape shimmers around you. Norr. The bear forms the word for you as he brushes up against your legs, letting you stroke the soft fur between his ridged shoulder blades. Simply touching him sends shimmering light branching across your fingertips. His magic. Your magic.

  Oneness.

  The stonework of the fortress stands stark against the green, but wavers in and out of reality as if clinging to a thin thread of existence – a shadow. Your eyes sweep back across the walls and towers. They are both familiar and unfamiliar, twisted a little, misshapen at the edges. It is as if the builder had been given a plan of the keep and then, part way through, had given in to madness, turning his creation into some tortured mockery of its intended purpose. This is the shadow of Bitter Keep. Somehow its presence pushes through the veil into this world – the one of spirit.

  For days you have walked the silent battlements with only Nanuk for company. The silence is welcome – the solitude also. The demons have come many times, as they always do. Frightening nightmares from out of the wasteland. They have left you wondering if they are shadows of something too, damned spirits like yourself that have been trapped here so long that their humanity has become lost.

  Each time the demons come, Nanuk sees them off with tooth and claw. And now you fight by his side as an equal. No longer the weak and sickly prince that you once were. Magic courses from your fingertips, strength powers your strikes. In battle you feel at one with Nanuk – as if your minds have become joined, a union that goes deeper than anything you have experienced before. It is tempting to stay here in the dream . . . walking the walls of the shadow keep forever.

  Just breathing. In and out. Feeling alive once again.

  ‘Arran!’

  The voice wakes you to the familiar pains and cramps. Sitting cross-legged in your room, you open your eyes to a piercing light. Then you find yourself clawing at the ground as your muscles spasm, the sinews snapping taut like rope. You clamp your teeth together, spitting and snorting, resenti
ng being brought back from your meditations – back to this mockery of a body. A dead weight. A dead corpse.

  Everard strides across the room to the open window. ‘Allam’s teeth, it’s like a morgue in here.’ He pushes the shutters closed against the chill wind, his gaze shifting to the fireplace that has never been lit. ‘Do you not feel the cold, boy?’

  You wait for the muscles to relax before levering yourself to stand, using the bed for support. ‘No,’ you reply, the word burning in your throat.

  ‘Segg is worried about you. He says you are spending longer,’ Everard throws you a hard look ‘meditating, or whatever you do. I doubt it’s healthy for you, Arran. You have responsibilities. Running from them will not solve anything.’

  ‘Running?’ You stare across the cold room, eyes adjusting to the gloom. The slatted light competes with the hard lines of Everard’s face. ‘What would you have me do?’ You glance down at your trembling hands, black and bruised.

  The knight grimaces, thinking. ‘We need to get you away from here. Either across land to the south or charter a ship. Perhaps Ryker’s Island.’

  ‘The prison?’ You have heard many stories of that dread place – a forgotten outpost on the coast of the frozen north, where your father’s predecessor had housed the worst of the worst – the criminal elite. King Hark had been a church man, a devout follower of the One God. He believed that even the darkest wrongdoer was capable of repentance – if given enough time for reflection. And where better to do that than a remote prison with no chance of escape, surrounded by miles of ice flats and frozen sea?

  ‘Not any longer,’ sighs Everard. ‘There was a uprising some time ago, the inmates seized control. I thought you would have known. The prison is more an outpost now. A pit of murderers and scoundrels, for sure, but also traders and hunters. Some would even go as far as to call it . . . civilised.’

  ‘And where then?’ you ask with some bitterness, not sure you like your life being mapped out for you, pushed from one place to the next at someone else’s discretion.