The Eye of Winter's Fury (35 page)

Spectators line the wall, hooting and hollering for their favourite racers. From inside the compound, similar cries are also audible. Above your head, the yellow globes of the ‘canaries’ zip back and forth, feeding back images to the crowds in the prison.

Next to you, a female racer with blue-dyed hair is waving at the passing globes. She catches your eye and smiles. ‘You a newbie?’

You shrug your shoulders, confused.

‘Cute.’ She snaps a pair of goggles over her eyes, then takes up her dog whip. ‘Well, no going back now. This is it, honey. The dash for the cash.’

‘Racers ready!’

You twist round to see a fur-clad male standing on the wall, his face a mosaic of red and black markings. He raises his arm above his head, fingers pointed towards the pale sun. ‘Burn it up, people! Get set . . . GO!’ He looses a fireball into the sky, its vivid scarlet tail soaring up and over the ice.

Then the crisp air is shattered by the crack of whips and the scraping of sled runners as the dog-teams swarm out across the ice, hurtling forward like bullets shot from a flint-lock. The race is on!

For the first few minutes, you try and relax into the motion of the
sled, barking commands to your dog-team as Leeta had instructed. The speed is exhilarating, but the ice is slippery and rent with fissures. Ahead of you, a sled is flipped up and over by one such fracture, the rider and his dog-team sent spinning through the air in a tangle of harnesses and splintered wood. The other racers break around the wreckage, their eyes set solely on the course ahead: a circuit of the frozen ice plain that circumvents Ryker’s island.

You career across the brittle ice, trying to maintain a steady line and keep your distance from the nearest sleds. Already several of the racers have broken away to take an early lead, whilst you remain neck-and-neck with the rest of the pack.

Suddenly, you notice a couple of sleds veer off the main course, their riders choosing to take a short cut over a ridged area of snow banks. If their gamble pays off, they will close the distance on the leaders.

223

On reaching the battlements, you lean out over the nearest wall to view the landscape. For a moment you teeter on the edge of vertigo, your mind reeling from the scene before you.

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Everard steps beside you, placing his gloved hands on the snow-wet crenulations.

You have read many books about Skardland and the area now known as Skardfall. In ages past, a great cataclysm ripped through the land, tearing it into impassable stretches of crevices and chasms. You had never expected to see it – but now you have, you realise that no description or artist’s painting could ever capture the raw and overpowering majesty of the Great Rift.

‘Meet mother nature,’ grins Everard. ‘A cruel parent, to be sure.’

You are silent, still struggling to take in the immensity of the canyon, its walls dropping away into an ominous pitch black. Beyond the shattered ridges and deep-scoured trenches, there lies a bleak
country of hills and valleys. The snow has started to dress the higher terrain, but the rest of the land remains bare and brown, devoid of life.

‘This is the first snow we’ve had in nearly a year,’ Everard continues. ‘Trust me, this isn’t cold, boy. Not like what the north used to be like. But things are changing. Weather’s been getting warmer. Look, there – see those rocks?’

You follow his finger to the opposite side of the rift, where gnarly columns of rock arch over the dark abyss. ‘I’ve seen icicles hanging off those, long as these here walls.’ Everard snorts, shaking his head. ‘That was back in the day, when all we had to worry about were Skards and—’

Everard stops, frowning. ‘Agh, here we go again.’

You look sideways at him, confused. Then you feel it – the wall has started to vibrate. From an incessant humming beneath your palms it quickly becomes a violent tremor, shaking the foundations of the keep. You are thrown against the wall, gripping its side to maintain your balance. Across the rift you hear stones grating and moving. Plumes of thick, grey dust shower into the darkness.

Then the rumbling ceases and a heavy silence descends.

‘They’re getting worse,’ sighs Everard. He leans over the wall, eyes searching the rift. ‘Started a couple of months back – minor quakes. Segg’s convinced they’re the start of something bigger.’ He looks over, smiling at your bewildered expression. ‘Don’t worry, Bitter Keep has stood through a lot worse. Nothing’s going to be moving this one, I promise you that.’

224

Your goal in this quest is to successfully cross the rift and reach Mount Skringskal. To achieve this, you will need to overcome a number
of obstacles and challenges. Your transport (either the
Naglfar
or Nidhogg) will take damage during the crossing, reducing their
speed
,
stability
and
toughness
. These attributes can help your hero in combat, so it is in your interest to ensure that they stay as high as possible. The attributes provide the following bonuses in combat:

Tactical manoeuvres (co):
If your transport has a
speed
of 5 or greater, you may use
tactical manoeuvres
. This allows you to avoid taking damage from your opponent/s in a single combat round and increases your hero’s
speed
by 2 for the next combat round only. This ability can only be used once per combat.

Armour plating (pa):
For every 2 points of
toughness
that your transport has remaining (rounding down), you may increase your hero’s
armour
by 1 for the duration of the combat. (If your transport had a
toughness
of 9, you could increase your
armour
by 4.)

If your transport’s
stability
is reduced to zero, you can no longer use your transport’s combat ability (either the
nail gun
or
dragon fire
).

When you are ready to begin, turn to
60
.

225

‘So, spending the night in a haunted tower . . .’ You tap a finger against your chin, thoughtfully. ‘No one else thinks this might be a bad idea?’

Anise slaps you on the shoulder. ‘Stop it! You’re worse than Jitters Jackson.’

‘Who?’ you ask in bemusement.

‘He works the trading post north of here. Sometimes I go with Everard. I can still speak a little Skard.’

‘Jitters is a Skard?’

‘No, silly, Jitters works for the White Wolf Company – the Skards go there from time to time to sell pelts and meat. Jitters is so scared of everything, he’s barricaded himself inside his own fortress. You rarely even see him.’

‘A mad fool is what he is,’ sniffs Harris. ‘Come on, I’m getting cold. We’re doing this – so no more complaining.’ (Return to
86
to ask another question or turn to
297
to continue on to the tower.)

226

Tired and miserable, you decide to tell the truth. The woman listens to your story in silence, her expression unchanging. As you draw to its end, choosing to omit the part about the strange demon, a hint of irritation creeps into your voice. Why doesn’t this woman show any concern or alarm? She didn’t flinch when you described the bloody massacre on the road or the very fact that you are a crown prince of the realm.

Your words falter to silence, waiting expectantly for a response.

The woman regards you for a moment longer, then gives a dismissive snort. ‘I’ve heard some tall tales in my time, boy . . .’

‘It’s true,’ you implore, feeling your anger surge once again. ‘Would I have this if I was just some . . . some commoner?’ You lift the scabbard at your side, showing her its jewels and the holy inscriptions on the hilt. ‘This is Duran’s Heart. A named blade, given to me on my thirteenth birthday.’

The woman takes a step closer, but her eyes linger on your face rather than the blade. ‘You could have stolen it.’

Her accusation startles you. ‘I’m no thief! You can have the sword – I can’t even touch the cursed thing.’

For the first time, the woman exhibits surprise. ‘Is this true?’ she gasps.

Too late, you realise what you have done, blurting out your secret with no mind to the consequences. To confess such a thing is almost tantamount to treason.

‘I can only touch the scabbard,’ you reply honestly, seeing no reason to spin a lie now you’ve gone this far. ‘Since I was given it, the inscriptions have always . . .’ You struggle for the words.

‘Rejected you?’ the woman supplies thoughtfully.

You nod, trying to gauge her reaction. This secret is one you have only shared once before, with your nursemaid Molly. And you doubt she’ll be telling anyone now.
I have to get home. I have to tell them what happened . . .

‘You’re no witchfinder, then,’ the woman’s brow creases. ‘Perhaps there is some truth in what you say after all.’ Make a note of the word
prince
on your hero sheet, then turn to
256
.

227

The knight has you beaten, his sword raised for a killing blow. But before he can bring it down, you hear a cry. Anise charges into view, using her torch as a weapon to batter against the knight’s dark armour. With an angry hiss he turns to face her, thrown off balance as he tries to swat her away with his sword. The girl’s distraction gives you the perfect opening. Quickly, you drive your weapon between Mott’s armour, pushing deep into whatever spectral body resides within.

When the weapon is withdrawn, the knight goes staggering back, the pieces of black plate dropping one by one to the ground. Once the suit is lost, you are left with the ghost of a young man, dressed in the true armour of a Valeron knight. Angrily, he tosses the sword aside as if it suddenly disgusts him, then his glowing eyes fix on you.

‘My brother . . .’ He holds out a gauntleted hand. From its end dangles a bright medallion, hanging from a gold chain. ‘Take it and be at peace, brother.’

You realise that the knight is still trapped in the past, believing that you are his brother Rinehart – the one who was forced to kill him by the evil necromancer. Anise moves to your side, helping you to stand. ‘Have nothing to do with it,’ she says, scowling at the proffered medallion. ‘This place is full of tricksters and evil.’

The outline of the ghost starts to flicker and fade, returning to whatever half-world it came from. Of the other spectre, there is no sign, although you are certain you have not seen the last of him.

228

The air is thick and heavy with sand. You can feel the solid particles cutting and tearing at your dead skin. Ahead of you a surging wall of crimson wind rushes across the plain, forming an impenetrable barrier.

Skoll snatches a skull from amongst the rocks, bleached white by the fury of the storm. He swings back his arm, then throws the skull into the midst of the churning, fast-moving tempest. The skull barely reaches its outer edge before splintering into jagged fragments – snatched away by the wind in the blink of an eye.

Skoll continues to glare at the whirling sand, then tilts back his head and howls. A bestial, dirge-like outpouring of despair – a sound to rival that of the raging storm.

Anise is beside you, eyes narrowed over her scarf. ‘This wind is an act of sorcery. There must be some way to break its spell.’

You stagger against a boulder, barely able to support yourself on your exhausted legs. ‘Look at it – what hope do we have?’

Skoll bares his teeth – and starts forward.

He gets only a few metres before he is forced back, his exposed flesh cut and bleeding from the bite of the spinning debris. ‘Beriliv bak, hurt nasar!’ He spits his curse into the face of the storm.

‘We could wait,’ insists Anise. ‘For the others – the Ska-inuin will come. Perhaps our combined might . . .’

Skoll spins on her, his eyes bright with an angered madness. ‘They will not come!’ He gestures back to the wasteland. ‘They did not heed my call.’

‘There is still time,’ Anise implores. ‘The land is not what it once was – their passage will be difficult.’

Skoll snorts and spits again. ‘Ska-inuin have proven weak. We are done for. It is over!’

You push off from the boulder. Tentatively, you approach the storm.

Whipped-up chunks of debris clatter against your armour, tearing at cloth, raking across your cadaverous skin. You feel no pain, but you know if you took another step – and then another – you would simply be torn to pieces.

‘No flesh or bone can pass . . .’ You step back, your gaze drifting to Anise. The girl glares back at you with a mix of desperation and confusion.

‘Is this the end?’ she asks, almost challengingly. ‘If we stop now, we have failed.’

‘Bah. I will not be weak,’ snarls Skoll. ‘I will not lie down and die!’

‘You won’t have to.’ Your words are softly spoken, and yet somehow carry over the keening gale.

The Skard’s scowl grows deeper. ‘Magic will not avail us.’

A sacrifice will have to be made, boy. Only you will be able to choose, life or death
.

The spinner’s words. Their sudden meaning pierces you like a blade. ‘The sacrifice. It’s me.’

Your companions look at you, baffled.

It was never the paladin. I am the sacrifice.

Anise suddenly grabs you by the arm. ‘What are you saying? Please, Arran. Don’t!’

You close your eyes, casting your mind towards the Norr, reaching for its magic – for Nanuk. His spirit has grown weaker – you have taken much from the bear, burning through his reserves of magic like a flame melting at tallow. But the bear has more to give. You reach out again, moulding your will into a spear-head.
I need your magic, Nanuk. I need all of it, if I am to become what I must.
Turn to
668
.