Talia halts before entering, her eyes scanning the archway of stone. Lines of scripture have been carved into its panelled border, pulsing faintly with a soft white light. You draw back, feeling the heat of the holy magic prickle against your dead skin.
Seemingly oblivious to your discomfort, Talia turns and holds out her hand. ‘The book, sweetie.’ You relinquish the tattered volume and proceed to watch as the woman flips through the pages, her eyes scanning the print and then the words around the arch. (Remove Judah’s Book of Canticles from your hero sheet.)
At last she gives an elated gasp. ‘Here it is, the missing words of the canticle. Okay, let’s try it.’ She takes a step back, then gestures to the archway as if addressing an audience. ‘As by man came death, and by man the light of His truth will shine again.’
There is a moment’s silence, then the scripture flickers and fades, leaving only dark stone around the archway. Talia glances back at you, shrugs her shoulders, then steps through. When nothing seemingly untoward happens, the woman urges you to follow. Turn to 741.
580
A black smoke starts to rise up from the stone around your feet, the air suddenly stinking of ashes and something else – an ancient, decaying evil. ‘What’s happening?’ Anise turns on the spot, watching as the sooty tendrils are lifted up on the wind.
A ghostly laughter fills your ears.
Then you are falling. It is as if the ground has been swept away from you, swallowed by a vast abyss of darkness. You hear Anise scream, but you cannot see her – wind batters against you as you are spun like dust in a whirlwind, spinning round and round, faster and faster . . .
You hit the floor hard. Bones crack. Your mouth fills with a foul-tasting bile and fragments of tooth. You spit them out, scrabbling to your feet, aware that the ground is wet and slippery. An acrid stench fills your nostrils – sharp and sweet.
Blood.
You are back in the entrance chamber. Your eyes follow the crimson streaks as they sweep away, forming a dazzling pattern of circles and runes. Standing at their centre is a man – or what might once have been a man, before death and time had their way. He is corpse-thin, clad in cobwebbed robes, black as midnight. Of his face, there is little left – only a few tatters of skin sagging off yellow bone, a single eyeball.
Harris lies at the creature’s feet, eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling. Dried blood and bruises cover his neck, where a chain looks to have constricted itself, choking him. On the end of the chain is the black prism.
‘What . . . what’s happened?’
A girl’s voice. Anise. You turn to see her lying near the wall, holding her head woozily. Not far from her are the remains of Brack. You look away in revulsion, the source of the blood now clearly apparent.
‘Welcome,’ whispers the robed corpse.
You draw your weapons – your first thought to protect Anise.
‘Ah, so impetuous.’ A chill laughter echoes around you. ‘Just like Harris. And he served me so well. I pulled the strings and he danced, brought me here so I could be free once again.’ The single, half-rotted eyeball twists in its hollow socket, gazing down at the prism resting on the dead boy’s chest. ‘And you will serve me too.’
‘Think again!’ You start to charge – then suddenly you hit something, hard as stone. An invisible barrier. It closes around you, pressing hard against your cadaverous body. Desperately you struggle to break free, but your limbs have become frozen; too heavy to move.
‘Interesting.’ The necromancer folds his arms, the bones creaking and scraping together. ‘You are already almost a corpse. Fit to serve me.’
At the back of your mind you hear a roar – a primal anger desperate for release. You try and move again, but your body is refusing. It feels like a dead weight, hanging cold and useless, a prison for your mind. You want to scream, but your jaw is clamped shut.
‘Perhaps a little display is in order,’ chuckles the dark mage, ‘to prove to me your newfound allegiance.’ His single eye flits to Anise, who is struggling to stand, her ragged dress streaked with soot and grime.
Your body starts to move, like a marionette. The motions are jerky and abrupt, legs and arms pulled painfully against your will as they snap into position, driving you forward towards Anise. As your arms are lifted and your weapons catch the ghost-light sparkling around the dread necromancer, you realise his intentions.
Anise backs against the wall, watching your advance with terror in her eyes. ‘No, please,’ she whispers, shaking. ‘Don’t do it. Fight it!’ Her words seem distant to you, like echoes rippling back from another time and place. But her face remains vivid, every detail pin sharp – screaming at you to stop. Anger . . . fury . . . fear.
These are emotions you know. You can feel them surging through you, pushing strength into your limbs, your mind pulling open in a thunderous snarl of rage. For an instant you glimpse the bear – the strange creature that you met in the dreamscape, your guardian. His amber eyes fill your vision, his vitality and power passing into you.
‘No!’ You spin round, your body now your own again, wrested free from the necromancer’s magic. Without hesitation you throw yourself against the mage, hearing bones snap as you crash together. Then a bolt of magic streaks into your side, throwing you back to the ground. When you look round the necromancer is hunched over, an arm bent back at an unnatural angle. The light that once glowed around him now seems diminished.
‘Fool!’ The mage straightens, his bones sliding back into place. With a wheezing breath he raises a hand, his wrinkled fingers distending towards you. ‘If you will not serve me in death, then you will suffer the same fate as I did. Imprisoned within the soul stone!’
There is a bright flash of light – and suddenly you find yourself surrounded on all sides by black panes of glass, each perfectly smooth, mirroring your anguished face into an endless infinity. Somehow, you know what has happened, even though your mind is still struggling to comprehend it. The necromancer has trapped you inside the black prism. Unless you can escape, you will never be able to defeat him. It is time to fight:
Speed Magic Armour Health
Necromancer 3 2 2 10 (*)
Prismatic prison 0 0 3 20
Special abilities
Prison break: You cannot attack or deal damage to the necromancer until you have broken out of the prison. Your attacks against the prison automatically hit (the prison has no speed). Once the prison has been reduced to zero health, it is destroyed and you are freed.
Soul surge: For each combat round you spend in the prison, the necromancer grows in power, gaining 5 health at the end of each round that you are trapped. Once the prison is destroyed, the necromancer no longer gains health – and you can attack him as normal. R Glass walls: The prison is immune to all passive effects, such as barbs and bleed.
Guards, guards!: If you lit the tower’s banner, guards will join you in your fight against the necromancer, raising your damage score by 2 for the remainder of the combat. You only gain this bonus once you have broken out of the prison.
If you manage to send this villain back to the grave, turn to 437. 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.
581
To your relief your dogs prove vicious fighters, whilst the sled itself manages to withstand the constant knocks and bumps from the other racers. Gradually, you manage to pull away from the pack and start to gain ground on the leaders. Turn to 471.
582
Boss monster: Avalanche
(Note: You must have completed the red quest The Hall of Vindsvall before you can start this challenge.)
Skoll is standing alone at the foot of the glacier, his head tilted as if listening to the wind. Behind him, a full backpack rests against a rock – with various ropes, spears and knives bound to it by loops of sinew. A breeze stirs the fur of his hood, pushing it back to reveal a dark helm fashioned from rune-carved stone – the symbol of his
status. The crown of the Drokke.
He shifts his stance as you approach, extending his forearm to the sky. Scanning the clouds, you spot a bird circling overhead. Its white feathers and jet-black crest remind you of a tern, but its size hints at a much larger bird of prey. With a hacking screech the bird sweeps down on its great wide wings, alighting gracefully on Skoll’s gloved arm.
‘Ah, Habrok,’ grins the half-giant. He scratches affectionately at the soft white down beneath the bird’s throat. ‘After all these years. I have need of you, old one. The time has come.’
The bird flicks its head, turning a single beady eye to the Skard. You feel a flow of magic between the two. Communication, you sense. Like your own bond with Nanuk.
‘Take my message to the chieftains of the tribes. They will come to Vindsvall and see the shattered hall; the broken throne that was my prison. They will know I have gone north and they will follow.’
The bird gives an answering caw, then spreads its grey-feathered wings and lifts into the sky. You watch as it wheels above you in ever-widening circles before streaking southwards.
Footsteps crunch, dragging your attention back to the glacier. Aslev approaches, his white horn and rune-carved axe bouncing at his hip. Beside him is Anise, wincing as she shoulders a heavy pack, its weight forcing her to bow her back.
You look to Skoll, startled. He reads your expression, answering with a smile and a shrug of his shoulders. ‘She would not listen to me.’ He regards her thoughtfully, the fondness in his gaze not going unnoticed.
‘I’m ready,’ she states boldly, glaring at you with a challenging stare.
‘Anise . . .’ You shake your head. ‘Please, stay at the hall . . .’
She rolls her eyes in exasperation. ‘And have me sing songs while I wait for my beloved to return? Is that what you expect of me?’
You start to answer, but she shakes her head. ‘Don’t. I’m stronger than you think I am – and I’m coming with you.’
Skoll slaps you on the shoulder. ‘See, she will not be turned.’
Aslev bows before you both. ‘Drokke. Seff. What is your duty for me?’
Skoll unstraps his hammer and holds it out to the einherjar.
‘Take it,’ Skoll insists. ‘For the chieftains will need to believe I have returned. This is my great-grandfather’s warhammer. He named it Surtnost, the troll-bane, for it was the weapon to smite the mightiest of their kin. Surtnost has never left my side. It has a glamour, a magic. It will always return to its master. And you will bring it to me, with the chieftains at your side. Understand?’
Aslev takes the weapon in his palms, his eyes widening as he looks upon it with reverence. ‘A . . . a mighty gift, my Drokke. I will guard it with my life.’
‘No,’ grins the half-giant. ‘The hammer will guard your life.’
Aslev lifts his gaze with a worried frown. ‘What if the chieftains do not come? It has been many years. They may not believe . . .’
Skoll gives a surly grunt. ‘Then they are cowards and they will die nameless. All of them. Come, Bearclaw. We go north.’ He stoops to pick up his pack. As he hefts it onto his shoulders, you notice the fragments of the shield poking out of the top-flap.
‘What about the third piece?’ you ask. ‘Without it we cannot remake the shield.’
Skoll puts his hands to the straps, tugging them down. ‘The weaver will have the answers.’
You look to Anise, who appears equally baffled. ‘The weaver, right. And, where do we find this weaver-person?’
‘We don’t,’ grins the warrior. ‘They will find us.’
He nods to Aslev, then turns to face the newly-risen sun, its pale light edging the scars running down his cheeks. ‘When I see you again, Aslev, it will be the end of days.’ He glances back with a mischievous smirk. ‘Don’t be late.’
‘My Drokke.’ Aslev falls to one knee, head bowed. ‘May the ancestors go with you.’
Skoll flashes you the same smile, then together the three of you begin your long journey northwards. Turn to 703.
583
You search the goblins’ bodies. Their armour and weapons are mismatched and of poor quality, possibly filched long ago from various corpses or victims. However, a few items catch your eye. The leader has a leather pouch tied around his neck. You open it up to find 40 gold crowns inside. He also has a gourd fastened to his belt, containing a thick oily liquid. The cap on his head, while plain and grubby, has a faint glimmer of magic about it.
You may take any/either of the following items:
Goblin grog (2 uses) Grubnose’s smart cap
(backpack) (head)
Use any time in combat to
restore 4 health +1 brawn +1 magic
Ability: trickster
You turn your attention to the rock fall. Peering through the space where the goblin had his arm, you see the half-covered face of a statue peering back at you. The one visible eye is fashioned from a bright green emerald. You reach in and pull it free without too much trouble. Sadly the gemstone is chipped in several places, possibly through the goblins’ attempts to prise it out.
If you wish, you may take the chipped emerald (simply make a note of it on your hero sheet, it doesn’t take up backpack space.) With nothing else of interest in the cave, you leave via the tunnel. Turn to 2.
584
A sudden lurch. You feel yourself being lifted, legs kicking through empty space. Above you, powerful wings beat against the air.
‘Stop struggling,’ hisses a voice, barely audible over the cracking, booming crescendo of splintering earth. From below, great plates of rock are thrown up into your path, whilst spinning stone and masonry whip past at speed. Somehow your winged rescuer is able to weave their way through the confusion, as if possessing some innate sixth sense.
An archway looms ahead, cut into a high wall of stone. For a moment you are headed straight for it, then an abrupt turn takes you hurtling away – just in time, as a cart-sized boulder smashes into the wall, obliterating everything in a cloud of dust.
A series of rocky ledges stream past, blurring into a dark streak.
‘Let me go!’ You grab the wrists of the creature – its claws having hold of your jerkin. Cold fire races from your fingertips, searing into its flesh. You hear a snarl of anger.
‘Let me go,’ you intone again.
Black stone rushes up to meet you. The impact is sudden and hard; one that would surely have broken every bone in your body. Instead, you feel the shudder of the impact, then the disorientating sensation that you are sliding backwards. The ground is tilting, rising up like the prow of a ship meeting the surge of a wave. Once again you try and grapple for a hand-hold, but the stone is smooth as glass. From below you, a terrible heat hammers against your body. It fills you with pain.
Wings sweep across you again. A clawed hand settles around your arm. ‘Do you want to be saved, fool?’ booms the voice.
Without waiting for an answer you are lifted up as the stone crumbles and drops away beneath you, falling into a fiery void. You are rising, wings beating either side of you, filling your head with thunder. Then you are travelling at speed along a widening crevasse, its dark walls dropping away with a menacing, grinding din. Another sickening lurch and you are ascending still further, towards a wide shelf – where you are finally released, left to roll and tumble across the rock.
You come to rest on your back, dizzy and disorientated., The demon has alighted on a nearby boulder, his silver-flecked wings folding back to reveal black-scales and runed armour.
You start to draw your weapons, then hesitate. The demon has made no move to attack you. He simply watches you, as if waiting for something.
Recognition to dawn.
‘You! You’re the one who saved me from the Wiccans.’
The demon shrugs his broad shoulders, spiked with bone. ‘A means to an end. Come.’ He flexes his wings then kicks off from the stone, gliding across a slope of rubble to another plane of rock above. As you follow him
up the slope, you realise you can no longer see the sky or the ruined city; you are underground. It must be utterly dark, but your eyes can see as perfectly as day.
You scrabble after the demon, scaling the rubble to find yourself at the edge of a vast, cathedral-like chamber. The walls are perfectly smooth, rising up to form an immense multi-faceted dome above. Green light dances across the dark stone, illuminating the eight giant statues that stand silent at the centre, facing inward to where a pool of emerald radiance shimmers and dances.
You pull yourself up, looking around for the demon. His winged shadow whirls across the heads of the statues – then there is a crunch as the beast lands at the very edge of the pool. Green light dances along his curved horns, picking out the sharp bones jutting from his arms and elbows. A spiked tail flicks back and forth.
You approach the circle, passing the skeletal remains of sorcerers, their black robes curled in tatters around half-melted bone. Crystal fragments crunch underfoot, giving voice to the only sound in the silent chamber.
‘What is this place?’ You step over another body, moving to inspect the nearest statue. Each one stands over six metres tall – humanoid in shape save for the narrow sweep of their heads, curving back into immense pronged ridges. The stone is black and smooth, like obsidian, and veined with mineral hues of iron and copper. A silvery runic band spirals down from their broad shoulders, winding around their torso and limbs like a cobwebbed cloak.
Tentatively you put a hand to the surface of the stone. It is deathly cold to the touch. And yet, just like the witch’s statues, you sense a life beating deep within – weak, like a dying flame.
The statues form a circle, arms raised, palms held outwards, bodies leaning in as if pushing against an immense weight. Your eyes follow the line of their blank, staring eyes to the whirling pool of green light.
‘The Well of Urd,’ you gasp, remembering what Skoll had told you. ‘These are the Titans – they sacrificed themselves to hold back the demons, to stop them from using the well to enter our world.’ You glance back at the burnt remains of the mages.
The Eye of Winter's Fury Page 49