The Eye of Winter's Fury (69 page)

498

‘Never even knew they were here.’ Caul shrugs. ‘I was following yeti tracks, thought I’d get me some nice hides to add to my collection. Then I found the explorers, like I said. They seemed to think this place was important; something to do with Titans.’ He pauses, his gaze following a vein of rock that branches through the ice. ‘Seems plain to me this place ain’t anything natural. Could be riches here – treasure, if we can get deep enough.’

499

You swing your legs into the opening, pushing yourself forward as quickly as you can. To complete the manoeuvre, you will need to pass a
speed
challenge:

If you are successful, turn to
610
. If you fail, you manage to make it through, but not without suffering a serious injury. You must roll immediately on the death penalty chart (see entry
98
) and apply the penalty to your hero. Once you have updated your hero sheet, turn to
610
.

500

Quest: The Hall of Vindsvall

The storm has abated. In its wake a crystalline mist hugs the white landscape, throwing your surroundings into an indistinct haze. You stagger onwards, the effort excruciating. Next to you, the two Skards are impassive to your suffering, their thick polar boots crunching through the mantle of snow, setting a pace that you struggle to maintain.

They had come out of nowhere. Not even Nanuk had sensed their presence – or perhaps he chose not to alert you. Two warriors. Their furs stitched with plates of black iron, snaked with runes. You had raised your hands in surrender, asking to be taken to the Hall of Vindsvall.

Then they snapped the manacle around your wrist.

The pain still draws sobs from your lips. Pain the like of which you had long forgotten – an itching, burning sensation that boils beneath your skin. Dark spumes of smoke rise from the burnt flesh where the manacle rubs, its rune-worked chain coiled in one of the warrior’s fists. If you fall behind he yanks on the shackle, tugging you forward – drawing further cries from your frost-cracked lips.

They do not slow. When you beg for release, you are met by the
same blank stares through the visors of their winged helms. No concern or remorse. The warriors simply stride ahead with the same determined purpose, seemingly knowing their direction even though you have spotted no discernible landmark or even the sun.

When you finally sight the longhouse it is a blessed relief. You can make out white-timber walls, braced with beams of a darker wood. A carving of an eagle looms overhead, its wings spread wide as if taking off in flight. It guards the impressive doorway, two large double-doors of the same pale wood as the rest of the hall, carved with branching runes that sparkle with a silver light – like patterns of frost on a window pane.

One of the warriors unslings a horn from his shoulder, raises it to his lips and blows a single short note into the frigid air. There is the sound of a wooden brace being lifted, then the doors swing inwards. Without ceremony, the two warriors advance into the room – the chain-handler dragging you between them.

You were expecting an expansive chamber, stretching back beneath wooden beams. Instead you find yourself in a much smaller room, dominated by a long table. Braziers line the walls, filling the room with a thick heat. It only serves to heighten the stench of sweat and dampness.

Two warriors stand at the head of the table, flanking a high chair where a repulsive toad-like man sits hunched over a platter of meats. Other bowls and dishes surround him, all full of rich foods swimming in grease.

The man is laughing, evidently having just shared a joke or anecdote. The warriors behind him, both tall and muscular Skards, continue to stare straight ahead. Their helmets are removed, tucked under their arms, displaying faces that are weather-worn and scarred. The warrior on the left glances your way, his snow-white hair sparkling like silver in the firelight.

You almost detect a smile, as his gloved hand tightens around his sword-grip.

The seated man looks up with a grunt, the mirth fading from his eyes. ‘What in the name of . . .’ He pauses, swallowing. ‘You look like you were spat out the gates of Hel.’

‘Perhaps I was,’ you hiss, your teeth clenched from the pain. One of the warriors grabs you by the shoulder and pushes you forward.
You stagger against the table, grabbing hold of its edge to support yourself. The snickering laughter from the seated man only serves to stoke your fury. You lift your eyes, taking the measure of this stranger.

His frame is massive, a bulging mass of bloated flesh that struggles to even fit into the chair. Above his neck folds, the man’s paunchy face is surrounded by a wild mass of black hair, like a thunderous cloud. Grease and spit drip over his chin, where a short black beard sprouts unevenly from the pockmarked skin. Piggy eyes and a ruddy cauliflower nose complete the repulsive portrait.

‘You aren’t a Skard,’ you say sluggishly.

‘No, but I am a man,’ he grins, his hand finding its way into one of the bowls. ‘Which is more than I can say for you.’ He scoops a chunk of pickled fish out of the oil and pushes it into his greasy mouth.

‘I was sent here by Sura, a shaman of the bear tribe. She believed . . . I believe that I can help your leader.’ You look around at the faces of the men. The Skards are exchanging glances, but the man at the table merely belches, then a deep laughter rolls out from his enormous belly.

‘A hag’s errand!’ He snorts, then wipes a sleeve across his spit-flecked lips. ‘I am Gurt Bloodaxe and I lead the einherjar – the fated warriors who guard the Hall of Vindsvall. You are not fit to stand before me. You are not even fit to beg for the scraps from my table. Take him away!’

The Skard handler pulls on your chain, but you struggle to resist.

‘I was told to come here!’ you snap furiously. ‘I have a power . . . I can help the asynjur. I can help rescue Skoll!’

The man’s eyes bulge. ‘Is this some dare? Some joke?’ He glances darkly at the white-haired warrior next to him. ‘Aslev, do you seek to mock me?’

The Skard frowns, his body straightening. Clearly the accusation has stung him.

You decide to press on. ‘I am a shaman . . . I have the powers of your asynjur . . .’ You grimace as the iron manacle bites deep into your flesh, driving you almost to your knees. You can feel your magic ebbing away, being drained by the hungry runes worked into its metal. ‘Release . . . me, let me show you.’

Gurt leans forward, his rolls of fat bunching against the edge of the table. ‘You believe you can succeed where a hundred asynjur have
failed?’ His wobbling paunches make it difficult to tell if he is smiling or scowling. ‘Skoll sits the high chair, frozen in the ice. A relic. A reminder of glory days long past. There is no going back.’

You notice the Skards looking again at one another, sharing questioning glances. The white-haired warrior, who the man referred to as Aslev, shifts uneasily. His hand continues to clench and unclench around his sword.

Sensing their anger you try a different tack, addressing the warriors. ‘Listen to me . . . I am here to help your people. The Ska-inuin. Your tribes are broken . . . separated . . . they wait for a new leader to bring them together. Make them strong. They need a Drokke.’

The Skards merely glare at you, looking affronted by your words. The chain-handler’s eyes flick to the man at the table, awaiting a command.

‘They follow me,’ drawls Gurt, dipping a hunk of salt bread into a meaty bowl. ‘I didn’t always look this way, see. Back in the day I could fell a troll with one swing of my axe. I earned my name – I earned my title.’ He shovels the bread into his mouth, juices running over his pot-chin. ‘They gave their word,’ he continues, chewing on his food. ‘Skards are hot-headed, by Hel’s teeth everyone knows that, but when they swear allegiance – they cannot break their vow. Else, they believe the spirits will curse them – and their bloodline.’ His eyes shift nervously around the table, looking at the Skards as if daring them to challenge his words. Satisfied, his eyes roll back to you.

‘So, you see,’ he grunts, patting his enormous belly. ‘I am the gate-keeper. No one enters the Hall of Vindsvall without my say. No one has audience with Syn Hulda without my say. So, I’ll give you one last chance to impress me. Or else I’m having my loyal subjects,’ he gestures to the four warriors to emphasise his words, ‘drag you back out in the snow and kick those corpse teeth out of that ugly face of yours.’ He reaches for a leg of meat from his platter, glaring at you as he rips a greasy chunk from the bone.

501

With Nanuk you feel whole again. The two of you move in harmony, your thoughts flowing together, every action becoming natural and instinctive. The night terrors are powerful spirits, but against your combined might they are hopelessly outmatched. Within minutes they are left lying across the sand, their mouldered robes still flapping in the wind.

You may now help yourself to one of the following rewards:

The euphoria fades and quickly your attention turns to Nanuk. But your surroundings are fading, and the bear with them.

‘Nanuk?’ You reach out, but your knuckles bruise against stone. A dark laughter fills your ears, malicious and cold. Looking round, you see walls and pillars rising up out of the sand. Within seconds you find yourself in a wide corridor of white marble, lined with gilt-framed paintings. Regal faces stare back at you with dead eyes. All unnervingly familiar.

‘The palace,’ you gasp.

‘No place like home,’ whispers a voice in your ear.

You jerk aside, your weapons spinning round to catch your tormentor. But they meet only air, turning you to face the length of the corridor. To your left is an archway, leading through into the palace gardens. Further along and to the right, an open oak door beckons you to one of your favourite haunts – the library.

502

‘Some riders don’t bother with a good alpha,’ explains Leeta, peeling her bloodied mitts from her hands. ‘But then, they don’t make it very far. Dog-teams will buckle under the pressure, bicker amongst themselves. A leader will help you keep them in line. Here, take a look at these three.’

You follow her to a row of smaller pens, where three hounds are snapping and snarling at each other. If it wasn’t for the wire-netting dividing them, and the chains straining around their thickly-muscled necks, you could well imagine the dogs ripping each other to shreds.

If you wish, you may now purchase a lead dog for your dog-team:

(Note: You can only have one lead dog at a time. You may replace lead dogs whenever you want by purchasing a new one from Leeta. Remember to update your hero sheet with any changes.) You may now view the dog equipment (turn to
477
) or explore the rest of the compound (turn to
106
).

503

The next tremor comes without warning, building quickly into a ground-hammering quake. Everything becomes blurred as the world tilts and shudders, throwing you one way and then the other, the sound of moving stone rumbling in your ears.

Everard knocks into you, his eyes darting round frantically. Cracks have started to branch through the courtyard, some widening into dark fissures. Nearby, a wall slides away from view as if dropped suddenly from all existence.

‘Take this!’

You turn to see Everard removing a pin from his cloak. He presses it into your hand.

‘What token is this?’ You look at it, confused – a silver pin, fashioned in the shape of a hound.

‘Safe passage,’ he shouts. ‘Wear it!’

You slide the pin into the cloth of your jerkin, nodding back at him.

Then the ground pitches, rising up into a steep incline. Rocks, tiles and splintered wood bounce and slide past you, joining the grating explosion of noise that is getting louder and more deafening. Bodies, both dead and living, are dragged past as the ground rolls over on itself, presenting a dark abyss below.

You scrabble for purchase, hands scraping across the rough stone. Your eyes are set on the grey sky above, the lip of the rock moving against the backdrop of ragged, dawn-lit clouds. Screams and wails are audible above the din.
Don’t look down . . .

You hand settles around something hard and leathery. A wing. You grip it tight, your descent halted, legs kicking and flailing in the dusty air. Gritting your teeth, you manage to drag your other hand onto the dead creature: one of the flying reptiles that first assaulted the keep. Its body is pinned to the earth by a black spike, possibly from one of the tower steeples. You hang onto it for dear life.