The seal tribe had evidently made this spot their temporary home. Hide shelters have been left flapping in the wind, the remains of cooking pots and other equipment lie discarded amongst the rocks. As well as the human bodies, you see the remains of animals – goats and dogs, and some bovine creatures covered in thick white hair.
The hunters are silent as they pick amongst the ruins, turning over bodies, kicking over rubble, scavenging anything that might be useful – weapons, tools, armour. There is no sense of loss or show of regret in their hard faces. You wonder if such scenes, such horrific suffering, are commonplace out here in the wilds.
But you feel it. And your eyes start to see it.
Everything here is touched with a green veil, glimmering in the fading light – a magical sheen that reminds you of the dreamscape. At the back of your mind you feel Nanuk’s presence pushing forward, more powerful than before. From the dead lying around you, motes of light drift towards you, coalescing around your body and then sinking into the deadened flesh. A cold energy begins to fill you, growing steadily more intense the longer you remain in the ruins.
Feeding off the dead. The thought sickens you, but you are almost sure it is true – somehow, the barrier between this place and the shroud, the place of the demons and the dreams, is thin. The magic of that other world is seeping through, giving you strength and power. You also wonder, with a sudden pang of dread, what else might be able to slip through . . .
Soul charge: Your body has been able to heal. You may now remove three defeats from your hero sheet or one death penalty effect. If you are inflicted with rift rot, this disease is also removed.
The leader of the hunters, Taulu, is standing alone, his head bowed. You join him, your eyes wandering to the corpse sprawled against the nearby pillar. A man, broad and muscular, with dark hair blowing across his scarred face. A pile of Nisse bodies lie in a circle around him, their black blood spattering his seal-skin clothing. He accounted well for himself, a noble last stand.
‘Drungen.’ The hunter lifts his head, looking out across the ruins to the ice plains beyond. Then he begins to sing. A deep, sonorous melody filled with every emotion these hard men seem unwilling to show. The words are Skard, but you feel them, the sadness and the reverence in their tone – and know that they honour their heroes, their fallen.
A scuff of boots. You turn to see the others joining you – Hale and Ninvuk. They glance at the dead warrior, silent in death, and then they add their own voices to that of their leader, eyes staring off into whatever places, whatever thoughts, the words now take them to.
Then it is over. And in the distance, a different chorus. Taulu cocks his head to one side. The baying of wolves sounds across the cliffs and valleys, mournful and desolate. The sound makes you bristle in alarm, your weapons finding their way into your hands. You are reminded of your previous encounter with wolves, and do not wish to repeat the experience. Nanuk brings a wary growl to your lips.
‘Varagan.’ Ninvuk, the shaven-headed Skard, has started to sniff the air, looking alert.
You glance at the leader, sensing that they now share your unease. ‘Wolves?’
Taulu looks around, eyes scanning the ruins. ‘Dead place. Brings spirits. Witch. Much danger . . .’
The hunters quickly find positions, ducking behind cover, their attentions focused on the same area of cliffs to your right. A pale green mist is now curling over the broken rocks. You feel Nanuk’s agitation growing, his mind shifting inside you, urging you to seek safety.
A giant wolf prowls out of the thickening fog.
This is no earthly creature – you see its body is translucent, edged with a faint green glow. The wolf moves quickly, its huge strides eating up the distance, muzzle hanging low as if tracking a scent. Then it lifts its head, the green-flecked surface of its eyes glowing with a sudden vigour.
‘Fenrir.’ The word is spat like venom into the air. Taulu gives you a look – and for the first time you see real fear written there. ‘The witch’s hunter.’
The wolf ’s jaws crack open, green spittle hanging in drooling strands from its enormous teeth. You half expect it to give a dread howl – one designed to put terror into your hearts. Instead the beast appears to convulse, its flanks arching back, the head swinging to and fro in painful discomfort. A blackness starts to swirl in the beast’s stomach, slowly winding itself together into something large – solid.
Suddenly the throat bulges, the jaws locking wider as a pair of black hands emerge from inside the wolf ’s mouth. They grab hold of the front teeth, dragging the darkness out into the pale light.
The shadow slides like spittle from the beast’s jaws, pooling on the frost-webbed ground. You watch transfixed as the dark matter bubbles and hisses then starts to stretch, rising up to form a vaguely humanoid shape with a myriad of tentacles sprouting from its black body. Each one ends in a tooth-like fang, flickering with magic.
The shadow streaks towards the ruins, the fangs blurring as they slash back and forth. Behind it the wolf throws itself into a bounding charge, finally emitting a deep-throated howl that seems to still the very world and announce its ending. It is time to fight:
Speed Magic Armour Health
Fenrir 5 3 4 40
Jaws of Fenrir 4 2 3 40
Special abilities
Corrupted claws: Each time you take health damage from Fenrir you must lower your brawn and magic by 1 for the duration of the combat.
Jaws of Fenrir: At the end of each combat round you must take 4 damage, ignoring armour, from the shadowy fangs. Once the jaws are defeated, this ability no longer applies
Baiting the beast: The hunters’ weapons seem ineffective against your ghostly enemies, unlike your own. However, they are able to distract Fenrir and his minion. If you lose a combat round, roll a die. If the result is or less, your enemy is distracted and does not roll for damage. or more and the combat round proceeds as normal.
If you manage to defeat both enemies, restore any affected attributes and turn to 712.
699
Boots scuff through the dirt. You look up to see Maune stumbling towards you, his body leaning to one side, favouring his left leg. The glow of his scripted skin is barely visible through a thick film of dirt and blood. It flickers, like a dying flame.
He drops to his knees next to you, mail and plate clattering against the stone. From his brow a deep cut runs back across his pale scalp, the blood already congealed into a dusty paste. Spittle hangs from his cracked lips, swaying with each rasping breath.
He doesn’t speak, merely looks at Anise and then to you. His bloodied fingers reach for his belt, tugging something loose. He offers it out, a metal vial attached to a silver chain.
You take the vial from him, surprised at the heat emanating from within – the same heat which rises from the paladin’s body.
‘Martyr’s blood,’ he whispers. ‘Will give . . . life.’
His head lolls forward, his shoulders slouching. He remains kneeling, as if in prayer, the light from above pooling over him, illuminating the last weak flicker of his magic.
You lift up the vial, turning it over in your hand. Martyr’s blood – said to be drawn from the holiest of the One God’s disciples. Your mind races back to the attack on the road, and the Martyr who tried to kill you. Can such a gift be trusted?
Will you:
Use the Martyr’s blood? 630
Refuse the paladin’s gift ? 550
700
You send the girl sprawling onto the ice – just as you pass between the fluttering banners that mark the end of the race. Above your head, the bright yellow lights of the canaries zip back and forth, no doubt sending pictures of your accomplishment back to the prison.
Congratulations! You have won the ice sled tournament and receive a prize of 300 gold crowns. When you return to Ryker’s you are met by a deafening crescendo of cheers – and people chanting your nickname ‘ghost’. You have gained the following special ability:
Ice slick (mo): If you roll a for attack speed, you may roll an extra die. This ability can only be used once per combat.
An entourage of men, each as ugly and mean as the last, escort you through the prison to a lush office where a small unassuming gentleman reclines on a chaise lounge. Unlike the scruffy prison uniforms of his men, Ryker is wearing a white suit trimmed with ermine. His ears and fingers are adorned with gold jewellery and gemstones.
He makes no attempt to speak, merely waves to the low table at the centre of the room. There are maps and what looks like a small model of a mine, but what really captures your attention is the large white diamond resting on a cushion. Lifting it up, you turn the jewel towards the candlelight, marvelling at the coruscating colours that seem trapped within it, almost like blue-green flames.
‘Take it.’
A thin reedy voice. You glance back towards the door, where another man is standing. You recognise him instantly as the vagabond thief you first met when you entered Ryker’s. But now he is dressed in an opulent robe of crimson velvet, decorated with runes and charms.
If you wish, you may now take the following special reward:
Winter diamond
(backpack)
A flawless crystal
imbued with frost fire
Before you have a chance to ask questions, you are roughly escorted out of the prison – and deposited back onto the dark, filthy streets of Ryker’s Island. Return to the map to continue your journey.
701
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.
Through the shimmering haze, you pick out a lone figure. Their clothes hang in tatters from their body, a spear in one hand and a sword in the other. Both blades drip with blood, spattering a trail across the wasteland.
A girl.
No. A warrior.
‘Anise.’
She stops at the foot of the ridge, swaying slightly with weariness. ‘It is done.’ Her eyes find your own, lips crooking their familiar smile. ‘Did I earn my name?’
You grin back at her. ‘You will always be my Anise.’
She tilts her head, nodding with satisfaction. ‘Queen Anise. I could grow to like that.’
Aslev appears at your side. He takes a long, deep breath – as if savouring the air. ‘We won a great victory, Drokke.’
‘Indeed.’ You turn your head to the wind, letting the chill currents rush through you, filling your emptiness with a familiar, numbing cold. ‘But 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 simply nods. ‘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.
Green 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 your 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?’
‘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 puts a hand to your shoulder, gripping it tight. ‘If it will make a song, my Drokke, we would follow you to the very gates of Hel.’
Your eyes remain fixed on the abyss, watching the smoke 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.
702
Desnar heads eastwards, bringing you to the banks of a vast frozen lake. To your surprise his steps do not falter, his confident strides taking him straight out onto the sparkling ice. When he senses your hesitation, he turns and gestures for you to follow.
‘An ice lake? This is your choice?’ You glower at the grinning Skard, trying to shield your eyes from the glare of the sunlight.
Desnar walks to the centre of the lake, then spins his staff in his hands, the antlered head whipping through the air in a white-grey blur. ‘Vestek nan Hur,’ he spits. The butt of the staff cracks down onto the ice, sending cracks branching out across the lake.
You step onto the ice, almost losing your footing the instant you put weight on its slippery surface. The ice creaks beneath your boot heels as you take another tentative step, and then another. The mantle is thin, threatening to break at any moment.
Desnar moves swiftly, taking advantage of his lighter frame. Before you have even found your balance he is running towards you, his staff spinning above his head. Unable to block the strike in time, you find yourself being knocked to the ground, a follow-up swing sending you sliding forward across the broken ice. Fresh cracks fork outwards as you scrabble desperately to your feet. Desnar throws back his head and laughs – finding evident amusement in your awkward recovery.
You hunker down, trying to spread your weight, conscious that the ice around you is unstable, the cracks continuing to spread with each vibration of movement.
‘Winter take you, southlander!’ Desnar comes striding in again, staff whirling about his body. Clenching your teeth, you prepare to meet his deadly assault. It is time to fight:
Speed Brawn Armour Health
Desnar 6 5 4 60
Special abilities
The ice vice: Create a copy of the diagram above. This represents the ice lake. Your hero is represented by the circle on the fifth column. You may wish to use a counter or die to represent your position.
Losing ground: Each time you lose a combat round and take health damage from Desnar, you are forced back one column. If you win a round, you may advance a column (you can’t advance further than the starting column, on the far right.)
Cracking ice: At the start of each combat round, the cracking ice advances one column (so at the start of the first round it would move to the 1 column, at the start of the second round the 2 column, and so on.) If your hero ends a combat round by standing on cracked ice, roll a die. If the result is or less, the ice gives way and you plunge into the lake. This automatically loses you the combat. If the result is or more, you manage to maintain your footing and the combat continues.
Surefooted: Desnar is immune to the cracking ice – he must be defeated in combat for you to win the challenge.
If you manage to defeat Desnar, turn to 714. If you lose the combat, record your defeat on your hero sheet as normal, then turn to 613.
703
By midday you are affo
rded your first glimpse of the North Face, a huge edifice of rock ranging across the entire horizon. Even from a distance it presents a formidable sight – one that only grows more daunting the nearer you get.
The width of the elevation is soon matched by its height, a vast summit of smoothed ice, sculptured by a millennia of northern winters. Its shadow stretches for miles across a tumbledown plain of boulder-strewn scree riddled with dangerous fissures and pitfalls. Progress is slow and wearisome, the chill wind lashing against you as if seeking to drive you away.
It isn’t until you reach the higher slopes that the first of the tremors hit. Skoll drops to the ground, urging you both to do the same as the earth roils and shakes, ripping fresh crevasses out of the rock. Above you, great slivers of ice break away from the ridge, spearing down into the snow at its base. The rumbling continues, but as it grows in volume you realise it is no longer the quake that is causing it – a great weight of snow has started to roll forward, gathering speed as it ripples and smokes down the slope.
‘Avalanche!’ cries Skoll, scrambling to his feet.
‘To higher ground!’ You grab Anise, pushing her towards a tumble of boulders.
Desperately, the three of you clamber over the rocks, gaining height as quickly as you can. The rumbling gets louder and louder . . .
Suddenly the white flood breaks around you, smashing flecks of snow high into the air. You cling to the rocks, body pressed tightly against them, while the raging current surges past, threatening to rip you free.
The Eye of Winter's Fury Page 60