The Eye of Winter's Fury (100 page)

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?

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:

	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 afforded 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.