Legion of Shadow

by Michael J. Ward

(left hand: fist weapon)

  (head)

  (necklace)

  +2 speed +3 brawn

  +2 speed +2 brawn

  +1 brawn +1 magic

  Ability: rake

  Ability: webbed

  Ability: deceive

  With little else of interest in the chamber, you leave Arthurian’s tomb and head back into the bone fields. Return to the Act 3 quest map.

  930

  With a burst of magic, you propel yourself through the air, landing in a roll ahead of the charging ogre. The slow-witted beast shows no signs of slowing, its ball and chain spinning in a grey blur above its ugly head.

  Your weapons fly into your hands as you prepare to take on this formidable opponent:

  Special abilities

  Clobbering time: At the end of every combat round, the Wrecker spins his ball and chain. To avoid being hit, roll 4 dice. If the result is equal to or less than your speed score, then you have avoided the wrecking ball. If the result is higher, you have been hit and must take 15 damage. You can use half your armour score (rounding up) to absorb this damage.

  Inquisitor’s wrath: If you have the word rival on your hero sheet, then Mathis will wade into the combat at the start of round 3, adding 2 to your damage score for the remainder of the combat.

  Healer’s gift: If you have the word companion on your hero sheet, then Lansbury will heal you once, any time during this combat, restoring 12 health.

  If you manage to defeat the ogre, turn to 917. If you are defeated, then you may return to an earlier point. Restore your health, then turn to 905.

  931

  You draw your weapons and start towards to the tomb, intrigued as to the source of the voices. As you near, there is the crunch of booted feet – and suddenly two black-robed figures appear around the side of the tomb. One is shorter than the other, his rain-sodden hood pulled low over a youthful face. You note that his hands are raised and magic is flickering around the ends of his fingers. His companion appears to be a tutor of some sort, offering encouragement.

  ‘Yes, that’s it,’ he states in an eager tone. ‘You don’t have to force the magic. Once the connection is made . . .’

  You freeze, aware that you are in full view of the mages, your sudden halt forcing Nyms to knock into you with a grunt.

  The necromancers notice you, their eyes widening.

  Like lightning, the tutor tugs a wand from his belt and aims it at you. There is a blinding flash of magic and then the sound of crackling flames. You are able to dodge aside, but Nyms takes the full force of the blast, reeling backwards into the sodden ash.

  Caeleb races to your side, raising his shield as another bolt tears across the space, slamming harmlessly against the shield’s runed steel.

  Lansbury has hurried over to Nyms, who is groaning in pain. You see her hands flare with healing magic, as she passes a palm across his charred armour.

  Then you hear a guttural snarl. Behind the young mage lurches a hunched, misshapen figure. It has the appearance of a ghoul: its body haphazardly formed from bones and rotted flesh. The creature shuffles forward, its scraggly arms ending in knife-like claws slick with rainwater. It is then that you realise that the young mage is controlling the beast. With a cruel grin, the youth raises his hand and extends a finger out in your direction. The ghoul’s glowing eyes narrow to angry slits, then with a gibbering cackle of delight, it scampers towards you, its claws raised to strike. Turn to 911.

  932

  The doors are unlocked. Warily, you push them open, finding yourself in a vast, empty hall of white stone. You pause on the threshold, eyes scanning the high walls and vaulted ceiling.

  At your bidding, your shadow mark pulses into life, flooding you with its power. You reach out, sensing for signs of shadow magic. The place reeks of it. But the tang of fear is more palpable. You look to Nyms, who is eyeing his surroundings nervously, his fingers drumming against the pommels of his blades.

  ‘I have a bad feeling about this,’ he mutters.

  ‘Are you . . . afraid?’ you ask curiously. It is a sensation almost alien to you now.

  Nyms bristles with affront. ‘We don’t all have your talent for coming back from the dead,’ he replies sharply. ‘Just watch my back.’ His swords hiss out of their scabbards as he steps forward onto the marbled floor.

  ‘No!’ You put out a hand, but it is too late. The room swiftly darkens as shadows swirl from the corners of the room. They move with purpose, winding towards the centre of the chamber, where they coil together to form a spinning column of dark light.

  ‘Allam’s teeth, was it something I said?’ growls Nyms.

  ‘A trap,’ you reply, edging cautiously forwards. ‘Someone warded the door.’

  As you approach, the column starts to shift and change, its centre moulding itself into the figure of a woman. She crosses her arms to her chest, allowing the shadows to wrap about her body, coating it in tattered folds of smoke and shadow.

  Realising that you must destroy this dark spirit before it is at full strength, you raise your weapons and charge forward. As if in response, the woman throws back her head, her open mouth slowly distending into a yawning chasm of darkness.

  ‘It’s a banshee,’ gasps Nyms. ‘Don’t let it scream, or we’re done for!’

  ‘Then let us silence it forever,’ you reply, hurling your magic and steel against this sinister foe. You must fight:

  Special abilities

  Gathering darkness:* The shadows are slowly merging together to form the banshee. At the end of each combat round, the banshee’s health increases by 8. (Once the banshee is reduced to zero health, it can no longer heal.)

  Wail of the banshee: Once the banshee’s health reaches 100 or more, it will have gained sufficient strength to issue its call – alerting the mansion to your presence. This will immediately summon guards, who will quickly overwhelm you – losing you the combat.

  If you are able to defeat the banshee before it can sound its alarm, turn to 899.

  933

  You raise your weapons defensively. ‘Who is it?’ you call, flinching when you hear the sound of Lorcan’s voice coming from your own lips.

  Take the staff, fool.

  And ringing inside your head.

  ‘Shut up,’ you growl between clenched teeth.

  The figure steps forward out of the shadows. You had already guessed who it was – from the bulky armour and the dented shield. ‘Caeleb . . .’

  The cavalier has a mad look about his eyes, his movements sluggish from exhaustion. ‘More Nevarin scum.’ He gives his surroundings a wary once over, his gaze falling on the crumpled clothes that once belonged to Lorcan.

  ‘Wait!’ You lower your weapons, realising that he is no longer seeing your own body, but that of the gaunt mage. ‘It’s me, Caeleb. Remember? We fought with Captain Redguard . . . Nyms . . . Lansbury. This is not my body!’

  Caeleb takes another step forward, raising his scarred shield. In the other hand, a mighty broadsword hums with magic, its holy inscriptions glittering with a pale light. ‘You are a demon. Mathis told me what you did.’ He shakes his head, almost with regret. ‘And you must be stopped.’

  ‘Did what?’ you insist.

  ‘The machine. You brought the legion here. Just like you did before . . . when you stole the Nexus.’

  You shake your head in dismay. ‘I did nothing to the machine. It was Mathis. He destroyed it – that’s what brought the black guard to the city. He lied to you!’

  ‘And what is this?’ he scowls, waving the point of his sword across your new body. ‘You are a trickster. Your magic is a dark thing . . . evil.’

  ‘Really?’ You bristle with anger, hands clenching around your weapons. ‘I don’t remember you complaining when I was saving your life – saving everybody’s life, all those times.’

  Caeleb bares his teeth. ‘While you live, there is still a shadow spawn in this city.’

  ‘And what are planning to do about that?’ you snipe. ‘
I do not wish to fight you, Caeleb. You are a friend. A companion. Do not make me . . .’

  The cavalier charges, moving with a startling speed. You barely have time to block the warrior’s first blow, his sword scraping against your own. Then his shield cuts in, its metal rim catching you in the midriff and lifting you off your feet. You flail through the air, smashing through a clay urn and showering the ground with broken pottery.

  ‘This has to end,’ grunts the warrior, metal rattling as he advances. ‘It ends today.’

  You stumble to your feet woozily, aware that your wounds are not healing. A quick glance at your shadow mark confirms that its magic is not responding – its usual radiance reduced to a dull glow.

  I told you to take the staff.

  ‘What are you doing?’ you scowl angrily. ‘Are you controlling the mark?’

  We have to leave. Leave. Leave. Now!

  Caeleb charges again, leading with his shield. You sidestep, bringing your weapons across your body, hoping to knock him away. But they graze off metal, his shield blocking the blow. His sword quickly follows, swinging around in a cruel arc. You try and dodge the attack, taking a nick on the cheek. Another blow leaves a burning scratch across your leg.

  ‘Stop this madness,’ you cry, shaking with pain and anger. ‘I am not what you think I am.’

  His shield connects with your chest, sending you tumbling back into the broken rubble. As you struggle to rise, you become aware of something wet running down your face. You put a shaking hand to it, surprised when it comes away coated in blood.

  ‘Heal me,’ you choke, spitting out a broken tooth. ‘Do you want us both to die?’

  I told you what to do.

  You find your feet again, only to see Caeleb closing once more. You tangle together, smashing through wood and glass. His head butts into your own, sending it snapping back. Then his shield cracks across your ribs, eliciting a strangled cry of pain. By luck rather than design, you stumble back, avoiding his follow-up swing.

  The shroud. The place between worlds. We must go! Go!

  Lorcan’s voice distracts you. The rim of the shield smashes into your side, hurling you back across the room. You crash down, spitting dust and blood, your hands grappling over broken rock and pottery. Then you feel something, cold to the touch.

  Yes. Yes. Take the staff.

  You struggle to raise your head. One eye is closed and it won’t open – the other struggles to focus, the room reduced to shreds of colour, whirling and reeling in a sickening spin. Boots crunch through the debris as the cavalier advances. You can hear his laboured breathing.

  Take the staff. Just think of the possibilities, Nevarin. The shroud. The gateway to other worlds. Other dreams. Don’t let it end like this.

  ‘Heal me . . .’ you croak, wincing as you try and move your shattered body. ‘Heal me.’

  The boots crunch closer and then stop. Caeleb stands over you, his inscribed sword raised. You look up, his blurred face swaying like a reflection in water. ‘Finally, demon, I will rid this world of your taint . . .’

  The sword hums as it slices down through the air.

  ‘No!’ You reach out and snatch the staff, gripping it to your chest. It flares into a brilliant golden light, the magic from your shadow mark pumping into it, filling it with new life. Your life . . .

  Yes, yes! The shroud calls us . . . The staff is working . . .

  The sword slices through the rubble, lodging itself deep into the ground. Caeleb tugs it free, stumbling back in surprise. ‘It can’t be . . .’

  All that remains of you is a faint outline of smoke, curling into the dusty air.

  You have simply vanished.

  ‘Demons . . .’ he spins around, eyes scanning the shadows. ‘Where are you, demon? Where did you go?’ But the only answer he receives is the echo of his own voice. ‘Impossible . . .’ He shifts round, looking back to where you had been lying. A tattered piece of parchment lies crumpled amongst the dust. He reaches down and picks it up, unravelling it to reveal a letter. A letter of recommendation for a young knight to apprentice with the great Avian Dale. His brow furrows as he spots your pack lying some metres away, its contents scattered throughout the rubble.

  Caeleb crumples the parchment in his fist. ‘Wherever you go, Nevarin . . . I will find you. As the One God is my witness. This is not the end . . .’

  934

  ‘They think us slaves. The Borellin-var.’ The man glances down at his right hand, gripping the staff. You catch the glimmer of a shadow mark snaking around the wrist and palm. ‘But in branding us, they made us gods.’

  ‘Those creatures enslaved us,’ you growl angrily, remembering your encounter with Sharroth. ‘They destroyed our cities – our people. They tortured us. They made us no better than animals. There is nothing god-like about servitude to monsters!’

  Lorcan waves his finger with a knowing smile. ‘You’ve broken your bond with them. I feel it. Feel it like music under the skin. If you were to live . . .’ He shakes his head, as if ridding it of some unwanted thought. ‘No. The man tells me what to do. You . . . you must die so I can go home.’

  Return to 928 to ask Lorcan another question, or turn to 939 to attack this deranged mage.

  935

  Your blows batter the warrior to his knees. From behind the mask, you hear a wheezing gasp as the magic that surrounds his body flickers and dies. ‘I always knew . . . it would be you,’ he pants. ‘You were the . . . last . . ..the finest. You held out until . . . the end.’

  You raise your weapons, ready to deliver the final blow.

  ‘The legion took everything . . . and that is what broke you . . . made you the vessel for their power.’ The warrior lifts a gloved hand to his mask. ‘You cannot win this war, Nevarin. But I give to you . . . my strength.’ He pulls the mask away – and suddenly a stream of black magic floods out from beneath the hood, slamming into your shadow mark. You stumble back, gasping for breath as the magic burns through your body, searing along each and every vein.

  And then a scene, a memory, flashes before your eyes.

  You stand before an empty shell of a building, blackened with soot. Flames still lick around its shattered walls, where bodies lie sprawled against the dark sand. You knew them. Family. And they have been taken from you. You look down, at the mark that shimmers along your arm, and the bloodied blade in your hand. It is then that you are reminded of what you have done – that this is your work. The laughter of your new master rings in your ears.

  ‘You want to feel something, don’t you?’ spits Sharroth. The creature’s immense shadow stretches across the sand. ‘We will remake you, Nevarin. Together we will accomplish great things.’

  Then the memory fades, joining the other indistinct fragments that torment you each and every day. If you are a mage turn to 865. If you are a warrior, turn to 893. If you are a rogue, turn to 843.

  936

  You pass through another hall into an opulent chamber, its walls lined with an extensive array of paintings and sculptures. Nearly all of them feature grisly scenes of battle or nightmarish monsters engaged in gruesome acts of cruelty and destruction.

  ‘Quite the collector,’ comments Nyms dryly. ‘Dinner parties must be a scream.’

  ‘This was Zul’s home,’ you reply, pointing to one of the larger paintings, which shows a portrait of the dark sorcerer, dressed in stately robes. ‘Don’t you sense it? His taint is everywhere . . .’

  A side door immediately draws your attention. Pushing it open, you find yourself at the top of a set of stairs, which wind down into a cold and fetid darkness.

  ‘This way,’ you nod, feeling the magic of your shadow mark quicken. ‘They’re below the mansion.’

  ‘Oh good,’ remarks Nyms, patting the head of one of the beastly sculptures. ‘Can I make a suggestion?’

  You glance over your shoulder, an eyebrow raised. ‘Will I like it?’

  A guilty grin twists his lips. ‘I’m just saying – we could go back, wait for
Mathis and the others. I mean, it might be nice to have some extra healing around. We don’t know what’s down there. If these things are anything to go by.’ He turns on the spot, taking in the grisly display of art. ‘Then some back up would be appreciated. What do you . . . ’ His words falter as he looks back across the room, realising that he no longer has an audience. You have already started down the stairs, the glow of your mark lighting the way. Turn to 807.

  937

  ‘For this,’ grins the mage, tapping the side of the staff. ‘Your power is strong – stronger than any I have seen.’ He leans forward, the hollows in his face giving him a skull-like appearance. ‘I absorb your essence then I am strong again. Yes? Make the staff work.’ He nods his head quickly, his broken lips forming a mockery of a smile. ‘There are no choices. No choices. He tells me to do it. He tells me . . .’

  ‘Who?’ you ask sardonically, not too surprised that this crazed man is hearing ‘voices’ in his head.

  ‘The man in the shroud,’ grins the mage, pacing up and down. ‘I don’t hear him now, but I know he is there. He told me that this was here,’ he shakes the staff. ‘Tells me the truth of things.’ The mage stops pacing, standing rigid, holding his breath. For a moment there is an uneasy silence.

  You go to speak, but the man puts out a hand. ‘Shush, listen. Sometimes . . . I hear him, if I concentrate.’ He frowns, then opens his eyes. ‘I’ll hear him again soon. I know I will. When I go home.’

  Return to 928 to ask Lorcan another question, or turn to 939 to attack this deranged mage.

  938

  You expose your mark, dragging the Nevarin’s shadowy remains towards the waiting jaws of your own branded serpents. You have gained the following special ability:

  Snakes alive! (sp): You may entangle your opponent in coils of dark magic, lowering their speed by 2 for one combat round.

  Across the hall, Nyms has dispatched the shadow spawn but is now fending off the magical attacks of the female mage. As you suspected, she is a Nevarin – and her mark has brought her back to life. You jump the distance, your body fuelled by your absorbed shadow magic – but as you land on the other side of the balcony, you discover your effort has been wasted. The swordsman has already landed a lucky blow, forcing the woman to stagger backwards. He follows up with a twin strike, driving both blades through her dark robes, exploding her body into flickering clouds of shadow.