The Eye of Winter's Fury

by Michael J. Ward

  A boom and a flash of light.

  The ground at your feet explodes, throwing up shards of stone. You grab Anise and pull her down behind a scatter of rocks. Skoll drops beside you, squinting towards the tower. There is another boom. Something glances off the rock beside you, leaving a charred strip.

  ‘Get back,’ calls a gruff voice. ‘I don’t cares what magic yer got, or any fancy weapons. I got the future, right ’ere in me mitts. And it’ll blow you back into that abyss if yer give me cause.’

  You twist round, peering over the rock.

  Skoll puts his fingers in the charred ash, licks them, then grimaces. ‘What is this magic?’

  ‘Gunpowder,’ you reply grimly. ‘There must be a sniper in the tower.’ Your eyes scan the bleached ruins, focusing on a window near the tower’s summit. Sure enough, there is a figure standing there.

  ‘We mean no harm!’ you call back.

  Another blast of light, this time from the doorway of another building. You feel something whistle past your ear, its passage blowing your hood back from your face. You scowl back in anger. ‘Stop this! I told you, we mean no harm!’

  ‘Well, we do,’ barks the sniper in the tower. ‘Now, turn that ugly face of yours and get yer gone. Those were just warning shots; believe me – we won’t miss again.’

  If you have the keyword repentance on your hero sheet, turn to 55. Otherwise, turn to 10.

  624

  ‘What – you born yesterday? This is a trading post, go find me skins -furs. Then we can talk gold. Otherwise you’re just wasting me time.’ A pause – then a click of a tongue. ‘Humph, okay. Maybe there is something. If you’re headed north, perhaps you could keep an eye out for a friend of mine. Old trapper, veteran – been at it long as I’ve been ’ere. His name’s Bullet, on account of the buckshot lodged in his brain. Made him a little crazy, I think – but I like a little crazy.’

  ‘Where will I find him?’ you ask, shrugging your shoulders. ‘The north is a big place.’

  ‘I dunno – what you think I am, a soothsayer?’ He waves his gun barrels back and forth. ‘Can’t you track or something, sniff the air, follow prints – whatever you darn trappers do? He was looking for a mammoth. Not an ordinary one, mark my words – ’cos this is Bullet and he don’t do anything by halves. No, this beast is a legend in these parts. A giant. They say his pelt’s so big he could decorate every home in Valeron. Rich pickings, I think yer’ll agree.’

  (Make a note of the keyword tracker on your hero sheet.)

  Will you:

  Ask another question? 450

  Discuss something other than news? 685

  Leave? Return to the map

  625

  Your weapons cleave through the beast’s arm, sending the drake head spinning across the chamber in a spray of black blood. Caul steps in, ducking beneath the giant’s remaining arm, and drives his spear through its midriff. The drake keeper gives a gurgling cry then topples backwards, taking out half of a pillar as it smashes through the black stone. After a few heaving, wheezy breaths, the creature finally lies still.

  You examine the corpse, wondering what cruel magic could have been responsible for creating such a pitiful monster. Perhaps the same magic that created the Nisse – the scaled horrors that assaulted Bitter Keep.

  For defeating the fearsome drake keeper, you may now help yourself to any two of the following rewards:

  Drake scales Drake fire cannon Keeper’s collar

  (special) (left-hand: unique) (necklace)

  Use on a cloak, chest,

  gloves or feet item to

  increase its armour by 1 +1 speed +2 armour

  Ability: drake fire +1 brawn +1 magic

  Ability: shackles

  When you have updated your hero sheet, turn to 494.

  626

  You follow the ledge until you are directly beneath one of the fleshy appendages. Its trunk-like form stretches across the gulf, forming a crude but navigable bridge. You can feel the oppressive heat emanating from its cracked skin, but with no other choice you scale the rock wall and leap onto the tentacle.

  Tentatively you start for the other side, where the strange tentacle merges with a tangle of others, climbing up into the dusty haze. You are halfway across when you hear a screeching clamour coming from behind you.

  Glancing back, you startle when you see a host of shadowy demons crawling out of the darkness. Their shape and number are indistinct – at times they seem many, humanoid in shape, then they merge, flowing together into a single confusion of grasping limbs.

  The shadows move with speed, flowing around the tentacle like some virulent disease. With no chance of outrunning them, you hold your ground and prepare to fight:

  Speed Magic Armour Health

  Abyssal shadows 14 7 4 100

  Special abilities

  Tide of darkness: At the end of any round where you do not play a speed or a combat ability, you must immediately take 5 damage, ignoring armour, as the shadows start to surround you.

  Fell heat: At the end of each combat round you must suffer 1 damage, ignoring armour, from the molten-blooded tentacle.

  If you manage to defeat this shadowy swarm, turn to 154.

  627

  The light fades, leaving you jerking and kicking, a pained cry issuing from your lips.

  Eyes snap open. You see a wall of black rock, inches from your face. You shift, trying to move, but your arms are tied. A rough blanket scratches at your chin.

  Trying to remain calm, you wait for the spasms to pass, then quickly set about freeing yourself. The shield fragment is still in your hands, its sharp edge providing the perfect knife. Within minutes the cords are broken. You kick off the blanket and slide off the stone bench.

  You are in a small natural cave. A few candles are lined on a rock shelf, casting the room in a flickering pale light. Thankfully, you are still dressed in your armour, and your weapons lie wrapped in furs nearby. You quickly retrieve them and stalk out of the cave.

  Following the sound of voices, you navigate a short series of tunnels to arrive at a much larger cavern. Black-robed figures stand around a blazing set of coals stacked in a shallow pit. The dancing flames illuminate the pale faces beneath the cowls – each one disfigured by runic markings.

  Pillars of rock are scattered throughout the cave, an iron brazier burning next to each one. You use them for cover, moving from pillar to pillar until you are afforded a better view of the strange gathering. It appears they have prisoners – two bodies, chained to rune-carved boulders. A girl and a half-giant . . .

  ‘Let me go!’ Anise pulls against her shackles, kicking back with her feet.

  There is still some fight in her, unlike Skoll – whose body hangs limply from his own manacles, blonde hair trailing over his face. The runes in the iron flash with dark magics. Dwarven magic. They remind you of the manacles the einherjar used to sap your magic and your will.

  One of the robed figures steps up to the young girl.

  ‘Enough! Hold your tongue.’ A woman’s voice, cold and whip-sharp. ‘Be grateful, my love. I could have killed you while you slept. But I have other plans for you. I’m going to break you, like we did the dragons. Turn you into a willing servant.’

  ‘Arran, where is Arran?’ Anise tugs again at her chains, crying out as magic crackles across the irons, making her convulse with pain.

  ‘Do not worry about him.’ The female acolyte turns and motions to one of her followers, a younger man who is holding an iron brand in the coals. He lifts it out, its pointed tip glowing white with heat. ‘The witch has given your precious prince to Insidious, as a plaything. When that devil’s done with him, I doubt you’ll want to see what is left.’

  The woman takes the brand, then steps closer to Anise. The girl whimpers, trying to draw herself away from the hot tip. ‘The runes cut deep, my dear. They’ll burn that weakness out of you, fill you with a new strength. Power. Yes, then you will be worthy – to join our ranks and stand at her
side.’

  You creep around the pillars, eyeing up your opposition. There are six acolytes in total, each armed with a dagger – and probably some magic to protect themselves. You contemplate your best course of action. Perhaps something you are carrying might aid you.

  Will you:

  Disguise yourself (requirement: coven robes)? 516

  Create a diversion (requirement: explosives)? 187

  Take on the whole of the coven? 375

  628

  You place the ‘four of hearts’ on the discard pile and pick a new stone from the bag. You have gained the ‘two of moons’.

  You have the following stones:

  The monk opens out his meaty fist, showing you his five stones.

  As you reveal your own hand, his look of smug elation turns quickly to one of surprise. ‘It can’t be, your Queen’s Wave beats mine . . . the three of crowns,’ he slams his hands on the table like a petulant child.

  I hope you’re a man of your word,’ you grin, retrieving your gold (you have gained 50 gold crowns). You nod to the book. Grudgingly, the monk removes the chain from across his shoulder and hands it over. You have gained Judah’s Book of Canticles (simply make a note of this on your hero sheet, it doesn’t take up backpack space. Also remove the word scripture from your hero sheet.) You are also rewarded with the following special ability:

  Gambit (pa): Each time you play a death move special ability, roll a die. On a result you may also regain a speed or modifier ability that you have already played – allowing you to use that chosen ability again any time during the combat.

  You bid farewell to the sulking monk, leaving him to drown his sorrows in ale. Turn to 80.

  629

  You reach out and take the spear. Desnar grins, evidently pleased with your choice. ‘Victar!’ He turns and raises his arms to the crowd. There are some approving grunts from his men, but few others. You sense that Desnar is no more liked than yourself – or perhaps the Skards are not ones to show their emotions easily. Nevertheless, you worry that Desnar already considers the test won.

  You are both handed bone javelins and a collection of barbed traps fashioned from hunks of bone and metal splinters. ‘What are we hunting?’ you ask Sura.

  ‘Whatever the land decides,’ replies the shaman. She bows her head. ‘May the ancestors be with you, southlander.’

  ‘You aren’t coming with us?’ You look around at the watchful crowd.

  Sura frowns. ‘This is a test, a feud between yourself and Desnar. Only one of you will return with victory. This is a test of the hunter. The trophies you bring back will speak of your triumph.’

  The crowd part, leaving you a clear path to the edge of the camp where the ocean of snow sweeps away in rippled waves. Desnar gives you a sly grin then breaks into a run, sprinting into the wasteland. You realise this is a race as much as it is a test of skill. Gritting your teeth, you narrow your eyes to the horizon and push forward into the snow. Turn to 738.

  630

  You put the vial to the girl’s lips, watching as the viscous blood pours out, trickling scarlet trails across her cheeks. You tip it back until the vial is empty, watching and waiting.

  Nothing. You feel your eyes burn as they stare upon hers, looking for some flicker of life. But they remain vacant, fixed on the heavens, where a chill wind howls past the broken ruins. It wails mournfully around the chamber, beating at you with its bitter cold – but not cold enough to expel the aching pain.

  ‘No . . .’ You lower your head, admitting defeat – feeling cheated by your own foolish belief in the paladin’s faith. I have failed everyone. Nanuk. Skoll. Anise . . .

  A wet gasp draws you from your reverie. You look back at the girl, almost sure you saw her eyelids flutter.

  ‘Anise . . . ?’

  You lean close, convinced now that it was a cruel trick of the wind. Perhaps a reflex action, nothing more. I’m a fool. This isn’t some storybook—

  Suddenly, the girl spasms, her body arching, legs kicking at the ground.

  You draw back, startled and afraid; no longer sure what ill you may have caused by giving her the blood. You go to grab her hand, but the heat rising from it forces you away. A holy heat, like the sword that always repelled you. Like the paladin’s inscribed skin . . .

  A white glow rolls across her body, softening its dark bruising to a pale unblemished white. You continue to watch transfixed as the hands of time are wound back – flesh folds over bone, limbs reset, wounds close. Her eyes sparkle, a sudden light blossoming from their depths.

  She sits up, chest heaving as she sucks in great lungfuls of air.

  You can only stare at her, feeling frozen in that wondrous moment, a flood of emotions racing through you. Relief, amazement . . . love.

  The girl’s hands go to her throat, tracing the raised line of a blue-grey scar. The only mark to remain on her perfectly healed body. Her eyes meet your own. And her smile, crooked and wan as always, is perfect.

  You have gained the title The Redeemer and the following special ability:

  Salvation (pa): Each time you use a heal, regrowth or greater heal ability you can increase its health benefit by 1.

  You may now return to the map or advance to the final boss monster encounter by turning to 717.

  631

  Searching through the wreckage, you find 60 gold crowns. You also discover a party invitation inside one of the guest’s waistcoats. The invitation is for a private function organised by Lord Edward Eaton, to be held at The Coracle on Ryker’s Island. You may take this party invitation (simply make a note of it on your hero sheet, it doesn’t take up backpack space).

  As you turn to leave, you make another discovery – a small metal casket lying underneath one of the sledges. You quickly retrieve it, hearing the rattle of coins sliding around inside. If you have a skeleton key, turn to 413. Otherwise, you are unable to open the chest. If you wish, you may take this item with you, in the hope that you will discover a means of opening it. (The hunters’ chest takes up one backpack space.) Return to the map to continue your journey.

  632

  You look back across the dusty plain to where the great serpent lies motionless – its scaled body stretching for over a mile until it is lost to the darkness of the abyssal rift. The edge of the world.

  Aslev joins you, a smile turning his lips. ‘We won a great victory, my Drokke.’

  ‘No.’ You turn your head to the wind, letting the chill currents rush through your body, filling its emptiness with a familiar, numbing cold. ‘This is only the beginning. I am Drokke – but I am also king. The rightful king of Valeron. I will win back my throne, unite north and south. One people.’

  You glance at Aslev, awaiting his response, expecting rebuttal.

  The einherjar continues to grin back at you. ‘Then you’ll be needing this.’ He offers you the warhammer – the runed weapon that Skoll had given Aslev as a symbol of his return.

  ‘Surtnost.’ You take the warhammer into your spectral hands, feeling its weight – its power.

  ‘And you’ll be needing these.’ Aslev steps back, gesturing to the assembly of Skards, still nearly a thousand strong, the sunlight sparkling and flashing off their spear-heads and axes. ‘We will take back your throne, Drokke. No army of southlanders can stand against our might.’

  You raise the warhammer into the air. Magic sparks from your fingertips, coursing along the runed handle, awakening the trapped spirits that have been bound within it. A bear, and a wolf, an eagle, a stag – and others: muttok, seal, petrel, sabre cat. You feel them pressing against your consciousness, filling you with their primal energies.

  Animal spirits. One for every Skard tribe.

  Golden light bursts from the hammer, trailing bright ribbons into the azure blue sky. You lift back your head, eyes closed – listening to the cheers of the assembled Skards.

  And in your mind’s eye you picture Cardinal Rile, sat upon the throne of Valeron – your throne. The demon’s words nudge at y
our memory.

  Seeking to win back the throne of Valeron . . . it will not bring you peace, Arran. I am sorry.

  ‘I do not seek peace,’ you intone, speaking into the blustery gale. ‘Only the vengeance that I am owed.’

  Aslev turns his head, surveying the broken wasteland. ‘How do you plan on reaching your homeland, Drokke?’

  You meet his gaze with a smile. ‘If we cannot go over . . .’ Your eyes shift to the dark abyss, scything across the horizon. ‘Then we will go under. Will your people walk such dark paths with me?’

  Aslev flashes another grin. ‘If it will make a song worth singing, my Drokke, we would follow you to the very gates of Hel.’

  Your eyes remain fixed on the abyss, watching the smoke still steaming from its depths. ‘I will hold you to that promise, Aslev. For that is where destiny may lead us.’

  Congratulations! You have now reached the end of this adventure and have earned yourself the additional title The Serpent Slayer! You may now turn to the epilogue.

  633

  Using the open hatch, you wriggle through into the store area. It is much larger than you anticipated, extending back over thirty metres to a rock-hewn wall. Unfortunately, much of the space is on fire. A crate of whisky and other spirits has gone up in flames, not to mention a pile of sackcloth and a stack of hides. The flames are spreading quickly, trailing along lines of spilt oil and whisky towards a set of barrels.

  Not wishing to remain here any longer than necessary, you quickly look around for items of value. At your feet lie the remains of Jackson, a middle-aged man with thick long hair and a wispy moustache. His clothes reek of filth and alcohol, and his body is almost black from grease and grime. It is a grisly task, but you quickly set about searching his corpse for anything useful.

  You find 15 gold crowns and up to two of the following items:

  Smoking buck shot Titanium turncoat Clerk’s signet