Two huge dragons are clinging to the rock. Most of their black scales have rotted away, leaving only bared ribs and gangrenous tissue exposed. One of them cranes its bony neck around, leering at you with a skull-like face.
Then a scream fills your ears, a horrible unending screech.
Moving as one, the two dragons drop from the rock, their tattered wings unfolding to catch the thermals. Their ancient bones crack and groan as they twist their bodies, levelling themselves out into a full-on pursuit.
‘Keep going!’ shouts Skoll, ducking to avoid a torrent of green-tinged flame. ‘We’ll never survive an open battle!’
The dragons snap and claw at your rear, seeking to knock you from the skies. In desperation, you look around for a means of escape. Straight ahead a criss-crossing wall of magic has been woven between islands, forming a spider-like web. You suspect it to be another of the witch’s traps, but it might offer you a slim chance of losing the dragons.
‘There!’ Skoll points to your left. ‘Head for that!’
A mass of rock and dust glitters in the half-light, all turning and spinning through a deadly orbit. The dragons are large and less agile than your craft – you may have a better chance of navigating the rock belt. Even so, it will be a dangerous test of skill.
Will you:
Ride through the magical web? 536
Navigate the rock belt? 458
493
To pass the goblins without being seen, you will need to pass the following speed challenge:
Speed
Creepy crawly 10
If you are successful, turn to 243. Otherwise, turn to 316.
494
As you descend deeper into the mountain, you become aware of a thunderous roar echoing in the distance. It grows steadily louder, until a turn in the passageway brings you to an open ledge. You step out cautiously to find yourself looking out across a vast chasm, cleaving the mountain in two. Brown glacial waters rush below, bouncing and crashing past a field of boulders to finally drop away into a billowing curtain of angry noise, its destination lost to the inky darkness.
Across the other side of the gulf, you can see a myriad of ledges and open doorways carved into the black rock. You can even make out towers and other structures extending out over the abyss, connected by bridges and winding pathways.
An underground city.
‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ Caul shouts over the roar of the water.
You realise that this must have been what Reah and the others were looking for – evidence of a lost civilisation. Dwarf. Titan. Perhaps both.
Wrenching your gaze from the distant city, you turn your attention to more immediate concerns – such as how to progress. There are no bridges or means of crossing the gulf. Instead, your only way forward is a narrow ledge, sweeping down from where you are standing to another doorway in the rock wall, situated at a lower elevation. Trying to ignore the precipitous drop and the churning waters below, you carefully make your way along the tight path, with Caul bringing up the rear. Turn to 257.
495
The man slides out from beneath the sled, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘Name’s Mech. You needing repairs?’ He notices you admiring the three sleds behind him. ‘Ah yeah, I worked up quite a few damaged racers in my time, made them good as new. Doubt even a Skard runner could pull faster than these beauties.’ He tugs at one end of his thick moustache, cracking the ice frozen to the bristles. ‘I got a deal with Leeta at the kennels. Buy a sled and you get a free dog-team. One of the racers gone missing – think he ended up, you know . . .’ the man gives a click of his tongue, whilst drawing a finger across his throat. ‘One man’s misfortune is another man’s gain, as they say.’ He shrugs his shoulders. ‘So, you interested in buying a sled – or maybe one of me upgrades, to give yer an edge in the tournament?’
Will you:
Purchase a sled? 432
Ask about the upgrades? 322
Explore the rest of the compound? 106
496
Maune gives you a sharp look. ‘You’re asking me to believe the demon’s lies? He called you Arran, but it cannot be . . .’
Skoll steps away, letting you approach the startled paladin. You stand before him, letting his eyes search your own. ‘I know it must be hard to believe. I was betrayed by the church; they murdered my father, my brother. I would have shared the same fate; I was meant to share that fate . . .’ A shudder runs through you, remembering back to the roadside and the frightened naïve boy who was lost to the wilds. ‘Everything was taken from me. Everything.’ You glance at Skoll, who is watching intently from beneath a clenched brow. ‘But not my humanity.’
The Skard startles. ‘Bearclaw. We have to do this!’
You turn squarely to face him. ‘No, we don’t. We are better than that. I am better than that.’
There is a clink and scrape of metal. Maune has fallen to his knees, his sword resting across his outstretched palms. A show of fealty and submission.
‘My king. The One God has led me to your side.’
You catch Skoll’s scowling retort.
‘We will fight the witch together, my friend,’ you insist. ‘With faith and steel, and magic. We will be remembered as heroes, Skoll. Not as murderers or cowards. My father was a soldier, a great warrior. But he was a weak man. I will not be my father.’
Your gaze holds Skoll’s, daring him to challenge you. His eyes shine with anger, his mouth twitching, fingers flexing around his axe. You are on the edge of summoning your spectral claws. Nanuk’s magic is almost palpable on the air, flickering about you.
‘This is an ill decision,’ mutters the Skard, dropping his eyes. He turns his back on you, and says no more.
An arm slides around your waist, taking you by surprise. You twist round, finding Anise staring up at you, a tired smile turning her lips. ‘No, you made a brave decision. And one worthy of a king.’
Maune stands, sheathing his blade. ‘I will lay down my life for you, my king. And if needs be, fight to retake the throne you lost.’
You nod in thanks. ‘Henna would be proud of her father.’
The fires of the forge continue to rage green, flaring angry claws at the brightening dawn skies. Without the shield, you realise you will be at a disadvantage when facing the witch queen Melusine. This is her victory – but as your eyes sweep back to the paladin, a veteran warrior of countless crusades, you wonder if you may have gained something greater. (Make a note of the keyword repentance on your hero sheet.) Return to the quest map to continue your adventure.
497
You lift the creature into the air and hurl it across the room. With an angry squeal, the riftwing slams into the opposing wall then drops through the hole into the room below – where you suspect the green gas is still escaping from the open barrel. If you have the keyword flame on your hero sheet, turn to 409. Otherwise, turn to 485.
498
‘Never even knew they were here.’ Caul shrugs. ‘I was following yeti tracks, thought I’d get me some nice hides to add to my collection. Then I found the explorers, like I said. They seemed to think this place was important; something to do with Titans.’ He pauses, his gaze following a vein of rock that branches through the ice. ‘Seems plain to me this place ain’t anything natural. Could be riches here – treasure, if we can get deep enough.’
Will you:
Ask if he has any weapons or supplies? 609
Ask why he thought you were a ghost? 481
Ask if he will accompany you? 384
499
You swing your legs into the opening, pushing yourself forward as quickly as you can. To complete the manoeuvre, you will need to pass a speed challenge:
Speed
Race against time 10
If you are successful, turn to 610. If you fail, you manage to make it through, but not without suffering a serious injury. You must roll immediately on the death penalty chart (see entry 98) and apply the penalty to your hero. Once you have updated yo
ur hero sheet, turn to 610.
500
Quest: The Hall of Vindsvall
The storm has abated. In its wake a crystalline mist hugs the white landscape, throwing your surroundings into an indistinct haze. You stagger onwards, the effort excruciating. Next to you, the two Skards are impassive to your suffering, their thick polar boots crunching through the mantle of snow, setting a pace that you struggle to maintain.
They had come out of nowhere. Not even Nanuk had sensed their presence – or perhaps he chose not to alert you. Two warriors. Their furs stitched with plates of black iron, snaked with runes. You had raised your hands in surrender, asking to be taken to the Hall of Vindsvall.
Then they snapped the manacle around your wrist.
The pain still draws sobs from your lips. Pain the like of which you had long forgotten – an itching, burning sensation that boils beneath your skin. Dark spumes of smoke rise from the burnt flesh where the manacle rubs, its rune-worked chain coiled in one of the warrior’s fists. If you fall behind he yanks on the shackle, tugging you forward – drawing further cries from your frost-cracked lips.
They do not slow. When you beg for release, you are met by the same blank stares through the visors of their winged helms. No concern or remorse. The warriors simply stride ahead with the same determined purpose, seemingly knowing their direction even though you have spotted no discernible landmark or even the sun.
When you finally sight the longhouse it is a blessed relief. You can make out white-timber walls, braced with beams of a darker wood. A carving of an eagle looms overhead, its wings spread wide as if taking off in flight. It guards the impressive doorway, two large double-doors of the same pale wood as the rest of the hall, carved with branching runes that sparkle with a silver light – like patterns of frost on a window pane.
One of the warriors unslings a horn from his shoulder, raises it to his lips and blows a single short note into the frigid air. There is the sound of a wooden brace being lifted, then the doors swing inwards. Without ceremony, the two warriors advance into the room – the chain-handler dragging you between them.
You were expecting an expansive chamber, stretching back beneath wooden beams. Instead you find yourself in a much smaller room, dominated by a long table. Braziers line the walls, filling the room with a thick heat. It only serves to heighten the stench of sweat and dampness.
Two warriors stand at the head of the table, flanking a high chair where a repulsive toad-like man sits hunched over a platter of meats. Other bowls and dishes surround him, all full of rich foods swimming in grease.
The man is laughing, evidently having just shared a joke or anecdote. The warriors behind him, both tall and muscular Skards, continue to stare straight ahead. Their helmets are removed, tucked under their arms, displaying faces that are weather-worn and scarred. The warrior on the left glances your way, his snow-white hair sparkling like silver in the firelight.
You almost detect a smile, as his gloved hand tightens around his sword-grip.
The seated man looks up with a grunt, the mirth fading from his eyes. ‘What in the name of . . .’ He pauses, swallowing. ‘You look like you were spat out the gates of Hel.’
‘Perhaps I was,’ you hiss, your teeth clenched from the pain. One of the warriors grabs you by the shoulder and pushes you forward. You stagger against the table, grabbing hold of its edge to support yourself. The snickering laughter from the seated man only serves to stoke your fury. You lift your eyes, taking the measure of this stranger.
His frame is massive, a bulging mass of bloated flesh that struggles to even fit into the chair. Above his neck folds, the man’s paunchy face is surrounded by a wild mass of black hair, like a thunderous cloud. Grease and spit drip over his chin, where a short black beard sprouts unevenly from the pockmarked skin. Piggy eyes and a ruddy cauliflower nose complete the repulsive portrait.
‘You aren’t a Skard,’ you say sluggishly.
‘No, but I am a man,’ he grins, his hand finding its way into one of the bowls. ‘Which is more than I can say for you.’ He scoops a chunk of pickled fish out of the oil and pushes it into his greasy mouth.
‘I was sent here by Sura, a shaman of the bear tribe. She believed . . . I believe that I can help your leader.’ You look around at the faces of the men. The Skards are exchanging glances, but the man at the table merely belches, then a deep laughter rolls out from his enormous belly.
‘A hag’s errand!’ He snorts, then wipes a sleeve across his spit-flecked lips. ‘I am Gurt Bloodaxe and I lead the einherjar – the fated warriors who guard the Hall of Vindsvall. You are not fit to stand before me. You are not even fit to beg for the scraps from my table. Take him away!’
The Skard handler pulls on your chain, but you struggle to resist.
‘I was told to come here!’ you snap furiously. ‘I have a power . . . I can help the asynjur. I can help rescue Skoll!’
The man’s eyes bulge. ‘Is this some dare? Some joke?’ He glances darkly at the white-haired warrior next to him. ‘Aslev, do you seek to mock me?’
The Skard frowns, his body straightening. Clearly the accusation has stung him.
You decide to press on. ‘I am a shaman . . . I have the powers of your asynjur . . .’ You grimace as the iron manacle bites deep into your flesh, driving you almost to your knees. You can feel your magic ebbing away, being drained by the hungry runes worked into its metal. ‘Release . . . me, let me show you.’
Gurt leans forward, his rolls of fat bunching against the edge of the table. ‘You believe you can succeed where a hundred asynjur have failed?’ His wobbling paunches make it difficult to tell if he is smiling or scowling. ‘Skoll sits the high chair, frozen in the ice. A relic. A reminder of glory days long past. There is no going back.’
You notice the Skards looking again at one another, sharing questioning glances. The white-haired warrior, who the man referred to as Aslev, shifts uneasily. His hand continues to clench and unclench around his sword.
Sensing their anger you try a different tack, addressing the warriors. ‘Listen to me . . . I am here to help your people. The Ska-inuin. Your tribes are broken . . . separated . . . they wait for a new leader to bring them together. Make them strong. They need a Drokke.’
The Skards merely glare at you, looking affronted by your words. The chain-handler’s eyes flick to the man at the table, awaiting a command.
‘They follow me,’ drawls Gurt, dipping a hunk of salt bread into a meaty bowl. ‘I didn’t always look this way, see. Back in the day I could fell a troll with one swing of my axe. I earned my name – I earned my title.’ He shovels the bread into his mouth, juices running over his pot-chin. ‘They gave their word,’ he continues, chewing on his food. ‘Skards are hot-headed, by Hel’s teeth everyone knows that, but when they swear allegiance – they cannot break their vow. Else, they believe the spirits will curse them – and their bloodline.’ His eyes shift nervously around the table, looking at the Skards as if daring them to challenge his words. Satisfied, his eyes roll back to you.
‘So, you see,’ he grunts, patting his enormous belly. ‘I am the gate-keeper. No one enters the Hall of Vindsvall without my say. No one has audience with Syn Hulda without my say. So, I’ll give you one last chance to impress me. Or else I’m having my loyal subjects,’ he gestures to the four warriors to emphasise his words, ‘drag you back out in the snow and kick those corpse teeth out of that ugly face of yours.’ He reaches for a leg of meat from his platter, glaring at you as he rips a greasy chunk from the bone.
Will you:
Show your bear necklace? (If you have the keyword triumph) 180
Agree to fight the Einherjar? 318
Pledge your allegiance to Gurt? 200
501
With Nanuk you feel whole again. The two of you move in harmony, your thoughts flowing together, every action becoming natural and instinctive. The night terrors are powerful spirits, but against your combined might they are hopelessly outmatched. Within m
inutes they are left lying across the sand, their mouldered robes still flapping in the wind.
You may now help yourself to one of the following rewards:
Oblivion hood Band of suffering Dreamer’s cord
(head) (ring) (necklace)
+1 speed +2 brawn +1 brawn +1 magic +1 speed +1 magic
Ability: decay
(requirement: rogue) Ability: thorns Ability: focus
The euphoria fades and quickly your attention turns to Nanuk. But your surroundings are fading, and the bear with them.
‘Nanuk?’ You reach out, but your knuckles bruise against stone. A dark laughter fills your ears, malicious and cold. Looking round, you see walls and pillars rising up out of the sand. Within seconds you find yourself in a wide corridor of white marble, lined with gilt-framed paintings. Regal faces stare back at you with dead eyes. All unnervingly familiar.
‘The palace,’ you gasp.
‘No place like home,’ whispers a voice in your ear.
You jerk aside, your weapons spinning round to catch your tormentor. But they meet only air, turning you to face the length of the corridor. To your left is an archway, leading through into the palace gardens. Further along and to the right, an open oak door beckons you to one of your favourite haunts – the library.
Will you:
Enter the gardens? 635
Go to the library? 25
502
‘Some riders don’t bother with a good alpha,’ explains Leeta, peeling her bloodied mitts from her hands. ‘But then, they don’t make it very far. Dog-teams will buckle under the pressure, bicker amongst themselves. A leader will help you keep them in line. Here, take a look at these three.’
You follow her to a row of smaller pens, where three hounds are snapping and snarling at each other. If it wasn’t for the wire-netting dividing them, and the chains straining around their thickly-muscled necks, you could well imagine the dogs ripping each other to shreds.
The Eye of Winter's Fury Page 42