She moves gracefully, her thin body forming bony ridges beneath her tattered robes. The face is human, a woman of indeterminable age, with grey leathery skin and a bald scalp raked with bleeding abrasions.
‘Where am I?’ you ask, your voice echoing back to you from a great distance.
The woman stops, her elongated fingers spread across the single cord that balances her.
‘You’re the weaver,’ you gasp. ‘The one Skoll spoke of.’
The woman’s almond-shaped eyes regard you curiously. When she speaks the words are heard in your head, but her ashen lips remain tightly closed.
Mistaken, yes. But some truth. Gabriel was the weaver. I am the spinner. The spinner.
The woman scuttles closer, passing effortlessly from one thread to the next. She stops, eyes staring once again. A hand scratches at her baldness, the nails adding fresh cuts and opening up old wounds.
I don’t like the sound. Do you hear it? The discord. The discord. Her head twitches from side to side as she continues to scratch distractedly, like a cat trying to rid itself of a flea.
‘What is this place?’ You look down at the spinning wheels, clattering endlessly as they add fresh thread to the distaff spindles. ‘Is this part of a dream?’
Not a dream. A demon has you. Strong and old and wise. I protect you here. Only a short time. A short time.
The woman’s long toes bunch around the thread as she swings herself down, grabbing hold of a thread below her. She points to the spinning wheels. I am life. I give life. Three of us. The fates. We were spun and nine norns with us. Our tasks were known. To make. To protect. Nine worlds our charge. And only one now remains.
Will you:
Ask about the fates? 478
Ask about the norns? 743
Ask about the weave? 669
Ask about the nine worlds? 735
Ask about the shield, Fimbulwinter? 611
714
Your magic lifts the Skard off his feet, sending him spinning back onto the ice. As he crashes down the ice splinters beneath him, his body slipping through the widening hole into the chill waters beneath.
Dropping onto all fours, you scramble over to the hole. ‘Desnar!’ The water laps at the jagged edge of the opening, but there is no sign of the Skard. Then you hear a pounding against the ice. You see a shape flailing beneath the surface – a glimpse of a face pressed against its underside, bubbles streaming from an open mouth.
You draw back your hand, summoning Nanuk’s spirit into your body. As bright claws flicker into being you drive them into the ice, cutting through the thin mantle. A head bursts up through the newly-made hole, gasping for breath. You reach down and grab the Skard’s shoulders, helping to pull him back onto the ice. His staff is still gripped tightly in his right hand, its antlered headpiece dripping with frost.
You quickly find your feet, snatching up your discarded weapons. The Skard makes no move to attack, still coughing and spitting water onto the ice.
‘Yield!’ You hold a weapon to his throat, the tip breaking flesh and drawing blood.
The Skard nods quickly, offering up his staff. ‘Take, southlander. Ancestors deny me – I am beaten.’
Congratulations, you have bested Desnar in the challenge of the fighter. If you wish, you may now equip the following item:
Winter prime
(main hand: staff)
+1 speed +2 brawn +2 magic
Ability: slam, silver frost
Record the word triumph on your hero sheet, then turn to 578.
715
Flames and smoke start to obscure your vision. Frantically you struggle to maintain your speed, seeking to stay ahead of the dragon’s breath. The circle of daylight grows larger, its bright light competing with the flames and smoke – then you are finally free of the tunnel, hurtling away from the island as fast you can. Behind you an entire section of the hive explodes outwards in a fiery tumult, raining fragments of charred rock across the gulf. Thankfully the deadly shower falls short of reaching you, your speedy manoeuvre having carried you to safety. Turn to 729.
716
The spiralling pathway grows tighter and tighter as it twists around the mountain’s peak. None of the other racers have made it through the rock fall and for a moment you wonder if you might be the last man standing – but then you catch a shower of sparks spewing along the trail ahead. There is another sled, but one of its runners has been damaged and is now dragging along the ground. Your dog-team are tired, struggling to make it up the steep and slippery slopes, but you urge them to make a final effort, knowing that the finish line can’t be far away.
The path becomes even narrower, but you risk swerving alongside your opponent, trying to ignore the vertiginous drop to your left. To your surprise you discover your fellow racer is the girl with the blue-dyed hair. As you start to pass she makes a desperate leap for your sled, drawing a pair of daggers from her belt as she lands.
‘Only one winner,’ she cries over the roar of the wind. ‘It’s the first racer across the line, not their sled! And I’m taking this one!’
The girl goes to kick you, but you catch her boot, throwing her backwards. She makes a futile swipe with her daggers, but a lurch of the sled sends her reeling sideways. By some miracle, the racer manages to recover, coming at you again with only one thing on her mind – victory. It is time to fight:
Speed Brawn Armour Health
Blue Angel 7 4 3 70
Special abilities
Eyes on the prize: You cannot use special abilities in this combat.
Competitive spirit: At the end of each combat round you must take 2 damage, ignoring armour, from the girl’s slashing daggers.
If you manage to beat this deadly racer, turn to 700. If you are defeated, remember to record the defeat on your hero sheet, then turn to 378.
717
Boss monster: Jormungdar the World Eater
It starts with a distant echo. A thrumming persistent beat. Then it rises, becoming louder, rippling across the chamber. You look around wildly, wondering if the dread demon has somehow come alive, but its pulpy flesh remains blackened with frost, unmoving – its tentacles reduced to a fine white ash, snaking across the cracked rock.
You watch the dust vibrate, shifting in patterns as each beat causes the ground to shudder. Louder and louder. Until there is a deafening crack of thunder. Your instinct is to look up, fearing the sky has been ripped asunder – but it is the ground that is now moving, throwing you to your knees, the stone crumbling. Falling away.
For a horrifying moment, it is as if the world has become undone. The walls blur, swaying away from you at an impossible angle. The floor rises, the ceiling finally breaking open like a cracked egg to blind you with shards of painful light.
And the drumming crashes around you. So deafening it has now become a single assault of white noise, like a furious tide swallowing you up in its rapids.
You are sinking, the stone fragments fracturing to dust, leaving you spiralling into a void. The ground has gone – and you are freefalling. Darkness and light reel past, merging into a grey madness. Then twin suns blossom into being, blazing towards you.
Eyes. Set either side of a giant reptilian face.
It streaks past. You hit something, flipping over, dimly aware of a forest of deadly-sharp spines, then scales – luminous blue and flecked with silver – rushing beneath you at impossible speed. Disorientated, you find yourself sliding and tumbling over the fast-moving surface. You reach out, claws spreading from your hands – trying to find purchase.
Sparks fly across iron-hard scales, your claws leaving trails of flickering brightness. You are falling further and further back, until a curved spine passes within reach. Desperately, you stretch out towards it – your magic transforming your claws into ghostly tentacles. They coil around the spine, finally halting your haphazard descent.
You pull yourself up, clinging to the spine like a drowning sailor as you are dragged and jolted through the whirlin
g dust. The creature continues to hurtle forward at speed, taking you higher and higher, until the sky breaks above you: a vast dome of cobalt blue, peppered with purple cloud. Almost beautiful, serene. Twisting your head, you see the cracked wasteland far below, the ruined city little more than a few buildings and towers hugging the edge of a great abyss.
And then there is the beast itself, a vast serpentine creation streaming out of the darkness, its miles of scales and ragged spines sparkling in the dawn light. Its size is almost impossible to comprehend, each dizzying second revealing more of its gargantuan form.
If you have the title The Mourner, turn to 482. Otherwise, turn to 425.
718
The monk opens out his meaty fist, showing you his five stones. This forces you to reveal your own. ‘A Queen’s Wave, double crowned,’ he declares with a toadish smile. ‘The One God shines on me. I win!’
Remove the word scripture from your hero sheet, then turn to 697.
719
Raising your hands you trace the circular patterns with your fingers, connecting the lines and whorls with the magic that now flows through you. The runes start to flicker and then glow, illuminating a trail to the centre circle, where white-blue energies crackle above the podium. For a brief moment you glimpse some creature trapped within the bright maelstrom – a thin and spindly humanoid, its pale limbs coated in jagged icicles – then it is gone. The energy sparks out and the runes dim.
When you walk over to the podium you discover that the frost magic is now trapped inside the orb, filling it with a powerful magic. (Congratulations! You have now created a frost orb. If you wish to take this, simply make a note of it on your hero sheet, it does not take up backpack space.) Turn to 684.
720
Maune joins you at the edge of the fire pit. Despite a few burns across his arms and face, the prince’s magic does not appear to have done any lasting harm; his body still shines bright with holy scripture. You notice the fluttering green flames draw away from him, as if repelled by his light.
Skoll holds the three fragments of the shield. His mouth works nervously as he holds them over the flames. A shake of his head. He steps back, dropping his arms to his sides.
‘He was right. The fire is wrong. Corrupted.’
You look around at the runes encircling the dais. They remain dark.
Then you notice something else . . .
Sculptured lines stretch away from the pit’s edge, forming a bigger design that reaches as far as the circle of columns. You turn, trying to piece together the image – two crescents, linked by a crossed bar.
‘Balance,’ you nod, remembering the carving in the lower caves.
Skoll glances sideways, his brow furrowed. ‘Eh?’
You study the green flames, billowing out of the pit. ‘We have to restore balance to the forge. Cleanse the flames.’
Anise is sitting at the foot of one of the statues, tilting the last of the water from a canteen into her mouth. She lowers it, swallowing, then looks at you darkly. ‘We wasted our time, didn’t we? All this . . . for nothing.’
Skoll shifts round, his eyes coming to rest on the paladin. ‘What about you?’
Maune tightens his mouth. ‘This is evil magic. There is nothing I can do.’
Skoll continues to glare at the paladin. It takes a moment for you to understand the true intent of his question. Maune’s magic glows bright as a beacon. His whole body is blessed by the holy light, a living library’s worth of scripture carved into his flesh. His heat repels you, as it does the flames.
A sacrifice will have to be made, boy. Only you will be able to choose, life or death.
Maune glares at the Skard suspiciously, then meets your gaze. ‘I cannot cleanse the flames. Short of throwing myself in . . .’
A silent pause.
His hand goes to his sword. ‘No!’
‘We have to remake the shield.’ You take a step closer.
Maune regards you with contempt. ‘You’d put your faith in three hunks of ancient metal? Is that what a life is worth?’
You lower your eyes. ‘You are right, this is madness. We will have to find another way.’
Skoll rounds on you. ‘We cannot face the witch, not without the shield! She is a demon, her very gaze would freeze you where you stand – I have seen it. I have lost brothers, good men, to her evil!’ He shakes the broken shards at you. ‘Don’t be weak. We need the Titans’ magic!’
You bristle at his words.
Maune is backing away from the dais. ‘Fear is weakness. We can fight this witch together – isn’t that why I was sent here? My God sent me.’
Skoll’s head snaps round, the veins on his throat bulging. ‘Winter’s teeth! To die, you fool – to throw yourself into the flames!’
Maune draws his sword. ‘Who are you to decide my fate? You are not my king, savage.’
‘No,’ spits the Skard. ‘But he bloody is.’ He stabs a finger at you.
Will you:
Sacrifice the paladin to the fire? 416
Save the paladin and let him join you? 496
721
Sura takes you by the arm and leads you away from the crowd. ‘I have something to ask of you, southlander.’
You stand together at the edge of the camp, the snow spinning on the gusting eddies. The storm has engulfed everything, leaving no sense of sky or land. It is as if the world has been erased, and in its absence there is only a cold grey nothingness.
‘What troubles you – is this day not one for celebration?’
The woman looks even frailer than you remember – little more than a jumble of knotted bones, her weathered face made even smaller by the thick swaddling of furs around her shoulders.
‘My time is passing,’ she states. Her bright eyes stray to an unseen horizon. ‘My apprentice, Maya, has returned from Vindsvall. She will take over when I am gone. I had hoped there would be news from the asynjur. But Maya’s tale was the same as I’ve heard sung winter after winter. Skoll, our Drokke – the leader of all Skards – is still lost to us. The asynjur are not strong enough – they are no closer to freeing his spirit, no closer to bringing him back.’
There is silence.
‘You want me to go to Vindsvall?’
Sura looks back at you. ‘Taulu left the tribe to find help. He was even willing to meet with our enemies, the southlanders behind the walls of stone. We cannot hope to survive. The witch – her magic will destroy everything. We have to stand against her or all will be lost.’
You flinch beneath her hard stare. ‘What can I possibly do? I’m an outsider. Your people are strong – there’s no reason why the tribes can’t come together. Unite. You have warriors, hunters . . .’
Sura snorts. ‘Our chieftains bicker. They have not the sense to listen to counsel. They are equals and would lose face to let another of their number lead. Only a Drokke can bring the Ska-inuin together. Only Skoll.’
‘And you’re asking me to rescue your leader?’
‘He sought aid, like Taulu.’ The woman speaks softly, but her words carry above the wailing of the gale. ‘His journey was one of spirit, to the Norr. He sought the fates – the keepers of our destiny. Only they would know how to defeat the witch.’
Sura’s face tightens with an inner pain, the sunken hollows painting a ghoulish visage. ‘He never returned to us. The asynjur believe the witch holds him prisoner – torturing his spirit, keeping him from ever returning to his body. But you . . . you have the power of a shaman; a dream-walker. Nanuk chose you for a reason. Please, do right by our ancestors. The witch must be stopped, or your lands will suffer her wrath as surely as our own.’
‘You believe I can do this?’ You speak with a quiet pride, touched by the woman’s belief in your abilities.
‘If you can’t, then no one can.’ Sura puts a hand to your back, turning you to face the might of the storm. ‘Winter is your ally, boy; you are its vengeance and its fury. Now go – to Vindsvall, the golden halls of our Drokke, and bring
him back to us.’
‘But what of your tribe – will they be safe?’ You look round, but the woman has gone. You are alone, surrounded by the raging blizzard, its ice driving hard into your numbed skin. Tugging down your hood, you take a moment to calm yourself – to reach for Nanuk, finding comfort in his familiar presence, his strength.
I am winter. I am its vengeance and its fury.
With a bitter smile, you stride into the storm. (Return to the quest map to continue your adventure.)
722
You straddle the beast’s brow, feet splayed to either side as the serpent-like head bucks and twists beneath you. ‘Now!’ Skoll screams into the wind, his axe still chopping his way through the deadly spines.
You raise your weapons then, with a deft spin, you reverse them – plunging their blades between the ridges of bone. You push down hard, powering your strike with the last of your magic.
Deeper they go.
The beast swings back its head, hissing and screeching in pain. The thrashing body whips through the ranks of Skards. You hear screams and shouts, the cries of the dying. Somehow you manage to stay with the bucking beast, hands frozen tight to your weapons.
There is no blood. No fountaining of ichor. Instead there is a blackening, like some dark bruise, which quickly starts to spread, turning flesh to ice. The head rears back, almost throwing you into the air. Another piercing scream fills the heavens with thunder.
You twist your weapons. Grinding. Back and forth. Your own screams of exertion mingling with the serpent’s pain.
Then it is falling, fast.
Below you Skards are running, seeking to escape the widening shadow. Some make it – many don’t. The beast crashes down onto the wasteland. You are thrown into the air, spinning through the dust. Scales and broken spines hurtle past you, a sled spirals overhead, its tangled lines dragging the broken bodies of a wolf pack. Everything becomes a surreal, dream-like haze – flying, falling . . .
The Eye of Winter's Fury Page 62