Legion of Shadow (100 page)

‘Nor will it.’ Your eyes remain rooted to the mansion. Every shred of evidence, every clue that you have scavenged over the last few days, has led you to this place – the last
bastion of the enemy. ‘But why here?’ you mutter to yourself, frowning. The building is nothing special, save that it is perfectly intact. Around it, the other estates have fared less
well, their broken remains stabbing like claws into the ashen sky.

‘I’ve seen worse neighbourhoods,’ grins Nyms. ‘Real shame the king didn’t stick around to enjoy the sightseeing. ’

You favour him with a bitter laugh. ‘Ah yes, the king . . .’

A week has passed since the king’s army broke camp and rode home, leaving yourself and Ravenwing’s militia to pick up the pieces. ‘Cleansing the city,’ Mathis had called
it, making it sound a noble and grandiose task. But the reality quickly proved otherwise – long days scrabbling across rubble, wading through miles of stinking sewers and dark catacombs,
hunting for every last shadow spawn that survived the battle. Some of them talked, before their life was ended. Those that still had some humanity, at least.

Cleansing the city. Not the great heroic ending that you had imagined – but then, your disappointments have been many. After closing the gate, you assumed you would be heralded a champion,
given a seat at the king’s side, showered with gold and glory – and respect. But at the feast, the king never deigned to acknowledge you; his men treated you with the same suspicion and
contempt as the others.

A Nevarin. Stained by the past. By what you were. . .

What you still are.

‘I’m tired of waiting.’ You rise to your feet, finding balance on the shattered rooftop. Across the avenue, the spiked wall of the mansion looms arrogantly before you, an
imposing height of sheer stone and barbed iron. It might deter some thieves, perhaps. But not you.

Magic sparks at your fingertips as you contemplate blasting your way through, ripping each and every spike from their very foundations. But you clench your fist, letting the magic dissipate.
‘Let’s do it your way, Nyms.’

‘Ah, appreciated at last.’ He levels a crossbow, aiming for the gnarled yellowwood tree that dominates the courtyard. A click of the trigger sends the bolt streaking through the air,
its course marked by the glittering rope that trails behind it. There is a thud as the bolt embeds itself deep into the body of the tree, stretching the rope taut. You follow its length to where
the rope has been securely knotted around an exposed gable post. ‘Is that thing seriously going to hold our weight?’ you ask, scratching your chin.

‘Providing you laid off the king’s pies,’ smiles Nyms, slapping your stomach with the back of his hand. ‘Watch and learn.’

Nyms grabs the rope, swinging beneath it to hook his boots over the top. Then he proceeds to scurry across, moving hand over hand with practised ease. You watch tensely as the rope and wood
creak in protest. But the make-shift bridge appears to be holding.

The nimble swordsman passes over the spiked wall and then drops into the courtyard below with barely a whisper of noise. You follow suit, hooking both legs over the rope and shimmying along its
length. A minute later and you have joined your companion in the courtyard, weapons drawn and ready.

A set of stairs lead up to a pillared porch, where a pair of cedarwood doors offer an obvious route inside the mansion. You are about to start towards them, when you feel a touch on your arm.
Nyms nods towards the second storey, where a wrought iron balustrade juts out from the wall. Between its bars, you see what the sharp-eyed rogue has spotted: a half-open window leading though into
the interior of the house.

799

You enter a vast pillared hall, bathed in a pale white light. Squinting up, you see that the light is coming from a cluster of crystals suspended from the ceiling. Below them,
the paved floor is smashed and broken, as if something heavy has repeatedly pounded against the stonework. Amongst the jagged rubble, a few tiles remain unbroken, their surface covered in a spidery
script. Had the stones been left undamaged, these decorative runes would have formed a perfect circle.

‘Holy inscriptions,’ says Lansbury. ‘Much of their magic is broken, but you still feel it, don’t you?’ Her eyes remain forward, but it is obvious who she is
speaking to.

‘Yes,’ you grimace. The pain from your shadow mark has intensified, forcing you to stagger. Caeleb puts out an arm to stop you.

‘What is it?’ he asks worriedly.

You shake your head, confused.

‘I mean that.’ Caeleb nods towards the curtain of light, where a dark shape is moving at the far side of the shattered flagstones. A guttural growl echoes in the hall.

‘Why is nothing ever easy,’ sighs Nyms, casting a wary glance towards the pillars either side of the room. ‘Watch for an ambush, Nevarin.’

‘I don’t think we need worry about subtlety,’ says Lansbury grimly.

The dark shape shuffles forward into the light. The radiance picks out its huge hunched shoulders and thick arms. Even from a distance you can see that the creature is a giant, at least seven
metres tall. Its pale, almost translucent skin, is covered in purple runes – sharing a stark similarity to those that now burn bright along your arm.

‘Well, that’s a new one,’ mutters Nyms, spinning his blades. ‘Something from your world, Nevarin?’

You take an uncertain step back as the creature lurches forward on bowed legs, its wide gash of a mouth drooling spit onto the shattered floor.

Suddenly, with a speed that belies its ungainly form, the creature snatches up a broken tile and sends it hurtling towards the group. Caeleb raises his shield just in time – the stone
breaking against its surface sending fragments showering in all directions.

Then the ground trembles as the giant beast charges forward.

Quickly, your party breaks for cover, moving aside as the beast thunders past. Skidding to a halt, the giant spins round with startling quickness, its enormous fists swinging through the
air.

Caeleb rushes to meet it, blocking its powerful blows against his shield. Nyms and Lansbury circle the creature’s flanks, preparing to deliver their own offensive. As you move to aid them,
something leaps out from the darkness and slams into your side. Startled, you are flung against one of the pillars, as an agile shadowstalker, clad in night-black leathers, swings twin swords in
your direction. You duck beneath the attack, the swords slashing through the stone as if it was paper.

Rolling to the side, you spring to your feet, as the shadowstalker advances.

‘You are the one who has turned away from shadow,’ hisses a woman’s voice from behind the black, polished mask. ‘You are not worthy to bear the shadow mark.’

‘Then try and take it from me,’ you growl. Turn to
904
.

800

Fetch clenches his fists angrily. ‘I was too late! Avian sent me there to find an artefact – a talisman. He was fearful it might fall into Zul’s hands. The
necromancers must already have it!’

Fetch lowers his shaking hands with a heavy sigh. ‘It is no matter. Zul will be crushed. Avian will see to that.’

‘He sent me on a mission also,’ you state, remembering back to that fateful moment in Talanost, amidst the chaos and destruction. ‘I have to stop him from closing the gate. If
he tries, he will fail.’

Fetch’s eyes widen. ‘Really? How interesting. I’ll deliver your message myself, if I am not already too late. Although, Avian is rarely turned from a course of action, once he
sets his mind to it.’

Turn to
792
to ask another question.

801

Searching the ogre’s filthy belongings, you find a leather pouch containing 50 gold crowns. You may also help yourself to one of the following special rewards:

When you have made your decision, turn to
824
.

802

Lansbury’s warning forces you to hesitate. A second later and the dark-robed assassin has vanished, leaving behind a scorched circle on the ground where he was once
standing.

‘Who was that?’ asks Nyms suspiciously. ‘You knew him?’

You shake your head. ‘Our paths have crossed, but, as for his motives . . . I wonder what he was searching for?’

‘We should have stopped him!’ snaps Caeleb angrily, stepping over the debris. He bends down and picks up a sword, turning it over in the flickering light. ‘They have no respect
for the dead or the living.’

You turn to Lansbury with an accusatory stare. ‘Why did you stop me?’

The medic looks startled by your tone. ‘Why else – he reeked of the old magic. Whatever that creature is, it is no concern of ours.’

‘Well, he clearly wanted something badly enough to fight for it.’ You pick your way over to the black-robed bodies, lying amongst the knight’s ransacked belongings. Searching
the mages you find 50 gold crowns and may help yourself to one of the following:

When you have made your decision, turn to
793
.

803

‘Really?’ The trader gives a low whistle. ‘Want to be a great warrior of legend, eh? Well, I reckon these are exactly what you need.’ He reaches inside
the chest and produces three items, which he lays carefully before you. ‘Now, in the right hands,’ he catches your eye, his mouth twisting into a smile, ‘they could win you a war.
Tell me, how can anyone put a price on that?’ He rubs his jaw thoughtfully. ‘It pains me but, 900 gold crowns? Yes, that’s a fair price. Risked my life for those little
beauties.’

You may purchase any of the following items for 900 gold crowns each:

After you have made your decision, you can ask to see Waldo’s special deals (turn to
815
) or bid the trader farewell (turn to
789
).

804

You race along the tunnel, passing the broken remains of Arthurian’s lantern. As the passageway widens into a circular chamber, you suddenly experience a wave of nausea.
You stagger, falling to your knees, your vision blurred.

‘What’s happening?’ you croak hoarsely.

From somewhere up ahead you hear the crack of magic and someone crying out in pain. Gritting your teeth, you push yourself back to your feet. A white light lurches into view as you stumble
onwards, its radiance is almost blinding.

You stagger and fall, your strength rapidly ebbing away. From your mark, you feel a terrible burning. Again, you struggle to rise, another flash of magic illuminating the space around you.

As you regain your feet, you see that you are standing in a large runed circle. At its centre is a glowing white figure – an angel, with immense wings arching out from its flowing robes.
The face is that of a wizened old man, his features drawn into a scowl of rage. ‘Be gone, infidels!’

Arthurian is on his knees, gasping for air. ‘These are holy inscriptions,’ he rasps. ‘They are weakening us. Try and break . . . the seals.’

‘You cannot trespass here!’ booms the angel, its pale form flickering like a ghostly flame.

‘What is this?’ you wheeze, struggling to focus.

‘It’s the master architect,’ pants Arthurian. ‘Part of him, part of his soul remains here to guard the tomb . . .’

The angel throws backs its arms, summoning white flames into the palms of its hands. ‘By holy light, I smite thee!’