Legion of Shadow (102 page)

If you defeat Daarko, restore any lowered attributes and then turn to
935
.

808

On seeing their leader defeated, the necromancers scramble for the exit, the remnants of their magic sparking uselessly in the air. With a cry of triumph, Arthurian drops to the
ground, shaking off the last of his magical shackles.

Caeleb kneels before the knight, his head bowed. ‘Arthurian, My lord. My protector.’

Ignoring ceremony, you stride over to Arthurian and put out your hand. The warrior meets your gaze and smiles. He takes your hand and shakes it firmly. His touch is cold, like ice . . .

‘Soul and body are back together again,’ you smirk, looking over his ghostly features. The eyes are the same as you remember, but they now stare back at you from a handsome face,
framed by bright locks of long curling hair.

‘This life is fading,’ states the knight, glancing back towards his tomb. ‘Take my horn. Do it quickly.’

Without hesitation, you hurry to the open tomb. Inside the cavity, lined with plush white cloth, you find an ivory horn. Carefully, you lift it out of the tomb and carry it over to the waiting
knight.

‘Good . . . I can bind my essence to this.’ He puts out a pale hand to touch the horn. ‘When you need me, I will come to your aid – just as the bards always said I
would.’ His eyes meet your own, his lips forming a knowing smile. ‘I suppose one part of my legend should stay faithful to the truth.’

Before you can answer, there is a sound – like a long drawn-out sigh – which echoes around the chamber. The ghostly form of Arthurian vanishes, his runed armour clattering to the
ground. For the briefest second, the horn glows with a pale radiance . . . then the light is gone.

You have now gained Arthurian’s horn – a sacred relic:

Caeleb slowly gets to his feet, tugging off his helm to reveal eyes wide with astonishment. ‘The horn . . .’ he gasps, reaching out and touching it with
reverence.

Nyms walks over and examines the runed armour with his foot, pushing the breastplate over to reveal an engraved insignia – a chalice, surrounded by a circle of seven stars.

‘Arthurian’s coat of arms . . .’ Caeleb’s expression hardens, his eyes coming to rest on the shattered remains of Arthurian’s tomb. ‘Zul will pay for this
sacrilege.’

Lansbury places a comforting hand on the warrior’s shoulder. ‘We did a good deed this day. Be content with that, Caeleb, at least.’

You take the horn and place it in your backpack. It could prove to be a vital weapon in the upcoming battle against Zul. 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
.

809

The general jumps free of her mount, somersaulting through the air on currents of magic. As she touches down at the base of the crater, tendrils of smoke begin to curl around
her fists, forming themselves into two deadly scimitars.

‘You chose the wrong side,’ she states coldly, striding purposefully towards you. ‘The black guard will win this day. We will reclaim the Nexus – and all will kneel
before the legion!’

Your weapons clash, sending dark waves of magic rippling out across the battlefield. ‘Your gate got destroyed,’ you hiss between blows. ‘The invasion is over!’

‘No, you fool,’ the general kicks you back, following up with another flurry of strikes. ‘There is another way.’ Before you can reply, the warrior’s blades come at
you again. It is time to fight:

Special abilities

If you manage to defeat this dark general, restore your
health
and turn to
855
. If you are defeated, then you must return to an earlier point.
Restore your
health
, then turn to
905
.

810

Your shadow mark flares brighter as your grip on the assassin tightens.

‘Tell me about the book. The Grimoire of Naraghost. Why was it so important?’

Fetch gives a wheezing cough. ‘It does not concern you. Now release . . .’

‘TELL ME!’ you growl, shaking him angrily. ‘I deserve to know. I risked my life for it.’

‘Yes,’ hisses the assassin, ‘and you chose to leave it behind with that rotting crusader.’

‘It was a thing of evil. It needed to remain there.’

‘No,’ sneers Fetch, staring hard into your eyes. ‘It needed to be taken from there.’

‘Why?’ Your brow furrows with suspicion. ‘What’s so special about a book?’

‘It belonged to a navigator,’ hisses the assassin. ‘One of the elves. My master had been searching for it for a very long time. Little did he know it had been right under his
nose all along.’

‘And your master? Who do you serve, Fetch?’

The man’s pale lips curve into a smile. ‘Avian Dale. I think you know him.’

You shake your head, scowling with contempt. ‘Lies! That can’t be true. Avian is a good man.’

‘Know him so well do you? Let me tell you something about Avian. He has a special talent – a talent for finding people like us. Those who are broken and need fixing; those he can
breathe new life into . . . give them fresh purpose.’

You release the assassin and back away, no longer certain if what he says is the truth or just more poison. ‘And the book,’ you ask, your voice little more than a whisper. ‘Why
did he need it? The crusader said it was evil.’

Fetch’s glittering eyes fix on your own. ‘It is evil, Nevarin. And that is why it had to be taken, far away from Tithebury.’

Your confused expression urges Fetch to say more.

‘The book is a set of charts, to navigate through the shroud. It is how the elves used to travel between worlds, before they built the gates.’

‘The shroud.’ The word is familiar. You sift through your memories, trying to remember . . . ‘Lansbury. It has something to do with old magic.’

Fetch snorts. ‘It is the birthplace of magic. It
is
magic. Anything that touches or passes through that place is changed . . . and not always for the better.’

‘And that’s what happened to the book?’ you ask intently. ‘It was corrupted by this magic?’

Fetch gives a rasping laugh. ‘You are learning fast, Nevarin. Yes, the book is dangerous – something that will always draw unwanted attention.’

You smirk, shaking your head. ‘So you and Avian were doing the locals a favour. Never had you down as the altruistic sort.’

Fetch leans in close, fixing his eyes on your own. ‘There is much you don’t know about me, Nevarin.’ Turn to
792
.

811

You approach the strange podium, its whirring and clicking almost deafening in the sudden silence. Occasionally, whistling jets of steam belch out from the many cavities around
its side, expelling a foul-smelling gas into the air. Warily, you lean over, to inspect the glowing orb that rests on top of the pedestal. Through the clouded glass, you glimpse a ball of fleshy
tissue, beating rhythmically like a heart. Metal hooks dig into its fatty folds, anchoring it to a metal base where glyphs and runes glimmer with magic.

‘That looks pretty. What’s it do?’ asks Nyms, picking his way over to the machine.

‘It reminds me of the shadow gate,’ you reply, noting the strange tubes that extend from the base of the podium. They snake across the cavern floor, disappearing into the ground at
various points, like the roots of a tree.

‘It looks. . . alive,’ says Nyms, tapping the side of the glass. ‘I suppose we should go find the others.’

‘No need,’ you reply with a grimace. There is the crunch of boots on the stairs, accompanied by clinking armour and muffled voices. A second later and Mathis marches in through the
blasted hole, his white enamelled armour streaked with blood and dust. In his hands he grips a mighty warhammer, its stone head rippling with holy magic.

Behind the inquisitor, you recognise Redguard’s medic, Lansbury, and Avian Dale, your master. Both are clad in similar armour to the inquisitor, the polished white plate spattered with
mud. Finally, bringing up the rear, is a group of nervous-looking guards, their white tabards stitched with the black raven of Ravenwing’s militia.

‘You started without us,’ scowls Inquisitor Mathis, glaring at the piles of corpses that litter the room.

‘They weren’t that keen on waiting,’ you retort, meeting his cold glare with one of your own. ‘Glad you could finally make it.’

‘Indeed,’ sniffs the inquisitor. ‘And what have you found?’ He strides over to the glowing podium. ‘Avian?’

The mage hurries forward, his eyes wide with interest. ‘It’s elven,’ he gasps, running his hands over the glyphs that adorn the side of the podium. ‘I’ve seen their
like before, but this is new. Zul must have found it in the Dune Sea. I can’t believe. . .’ He moves around the glass sphere, inspecting the beating organ trapped inside. ‘This is
a magic anomaly. Pressed into service. . . but for what I can’t fathom.’

Lansbury appears at your side. She places a hand on your own and squeezes it tight. ‘Good to see you,’ she whispers. You glance her way, noting her tired expression. The past week
has been trying on the elderly medic’s reserves of strength, healing those who have fallen foul of the shadow spawn. But she has never complained or faltered from her duty. She grins with
mischief, as she flicks her eyes towards Mathis. ‘I’m afraid the company has been a little trying of late.’