Legion of Shadow (107 page)

You move to the edge of the balcony and survey the rain-soaked courtyard below. The immense bone creature is now lying in a crumpled heap of tattered flesh and bone. Lansbury is
administering healing to a wounded Caeleb. Meanwhile, Nyms has defeated the last of the shades.

He looks up and waves to you, then starts towards the entrance of the building, spinning his bloodied blades in his hands. Turn to
859
.

835

You follow Nyms, whose practised eye quickly spots a route up to the balcony. From a running start, you rely on speed to carry you up the side of a buttress, to where a
gargoyle-like decoration provides a suitable hand-hold. From here, you leap across the face of the building, springing off the porch roof to propel yourself higher, grabbing the railings of the
balustrade. With a grunt, you pull yourself over the side, where Nyms waits by the window, weapons drawn.

‘Blasting through the wall would have been easier,’ you grimace, pushing yourself back to your feet.

Nyms rolls his eyes at you, before ducking through the window. You follow, drawing your weapons in readiness. The room beyond appears to be a library, with dozens of shelves filled with books
and scrolls. Nyms has already crossed the space, taking position next to a half-open door. You hear voices coming from the other side.

At your bidding, your shadow mark pulses into life, flooding you with its power. You reach out, sensing for signs of shadow magic. The place reeks of it, as if every stone of the building is
emanating a dark presence. But not as strong as the creatures outside this room. You see the outline of their bodies through the wall, marching along what you assume is a corridor. There are three
of them, one shimmering more radiantly than the others. The most powerful – a Nevarin, perhaps.

You realise you must act quickly, before they sense your presence. You look to Nyms, raising three fingers. The swordsman nods, indicating his readiness.

You move to the door, waiting for them to move past. But the brightest one has slowed.

‘Wait!’ You hear a woman’s voice – cold and commanding. ‘Something is wrong.’

She turns back to the door. Then kicks it open.

You see an arm and grab it, pulling the woman into the room. She is clad in dark robes, shimmering with purple glyphs. With a snarl, she raises a gloved hand, a spell starting to form at the
tips of her fingers. You slap it away, bringing your weapons down faster than she can react. From the other side of the door, you hear weapons clashing and sparking.

You leap over the woman’s body, ignoring the glimmering shadow magic that is starting to coalesce around it. Through the door, you find yourself on a balcony, stretching around the edges
of a large, rectangular hall. Nyms is battling a shadow spawn, an ugly beast with a face full of fanged teeth. It wields twin axes which hiss and flare with an angry red magic. Its companion
already lies dead, slumped against the wall.

‘Nevarin!’

There is the sound of wood splintering. You spin round, to see three black snakes springing towards you from the other side of the balcony. Their scaled bodies wrap around you, pinning your arms
to your side and dragging you off your feet. Then you are flying across the hall, to where a grinning warrior has his arm extended. The snakes are flowing out from his shadow mark, pulling you
within range of his venom-dripping dagger. You must fight:

Special abilities

In this combat you roll against Viprus’s
speed.
If you win the round, you may choose to strike against Viprus or his snakes. Once Viprus is reduced to zero
health
, the combat is won.

If you are able to defeat this mutated monster, turn to
938
.

836

The passageway is swathed in darkness. Lansbury utters a word of command, summoning a white light to the head of her staff. Holding it out before her, the medic takes the lead
down the narrow corridor, the magical light dancing along the smooth stone walls.

You stumble after her with your head bowed. Each step is a challenge – your limbs ache and your vision is blurred. The mark on your arm spits and hisses, as if enduring its own private
battle with the strange aura that surrounds this place.

The further you progress from the inscribed room, the better you start to feel. As the passageway angles downwards, deeper into the earth, you find yourself catching up with the medic.

‘What did you mean . . . old magic?’ you ask, rubbing your sleeve where the shadow mark still burns.

Lansbury gives you a sideways glance. ‘The Dwarves . . . they were the first to discover the shroud. They were the first to commune with the spirits of that other place.’

‘The shroud?’

Lansbury takes a sharp intake of breath. You follow her gaze, to where the passageway ends in a decorative archway. Sprawled on the ground in front of it is a dark-robed mage. They are lying on
their back, their gloved hands gripping a dagger that protrudes from their chest.

Blood is smeared across the stone floor.

Next to the body, set back within a cobwebbed recess, is the statue of a man – a broad-shouldered warrior, encased in elaborate plate armour. The detail is almost lifelike.

Nyms races over to the mage and kneels beside them. After several seconds, he looks back and shakes his head. As you near, you see that the mage is indeed dead – his eyes stare up at the
ceiling; his face frozen in an agonised contortion.

‘Valentine D’Azzuro.’

Caeleb whispers the name, etched into the base of the statue.

‘Who was he?’ you ask, studying the stone figure closely. He was clearly a great warrior of some description – the hard solemn face is crisscrossed with a myriad of ugly
scars.

‘He was an inquisitor, before he became a Tor Knight,’ says Caeleb. ‘This must be his final resting place.’ He turns to the archway, where a trail of blood snakes away
into the dark.

‘Several resting places,’ adds Nyms darkly, prodding the body of the mage with one of his boots. ‘Work of an assassin, by the looks of it. That blade was poisoned.’

From somewhere up ahead you hear a noise, like the smashing of pottery, followed by an angry muttering. Drawing your weapons, you follow Caeleb’s lead as the warrior ducks underneath the
archway and continues into the tomb. Turn to
900
.

837

With a grimace, Fetch pulls back his hood – to reveal a face that is burnt and scarred. Veins stand out like cords across his pulpy, ruined flesh, branching past dark
bruises and jagged scar tissue. You instinctively draw back, unable to speak.

‘Not a pretty sight is it?’ he hisses. ‘Avian found me in the dungeons of the inquisition. I was there for . . . questioning.’ He tugs his hood back over his head, hiding
it once again in shadow.

‘What happened?’ you ask hoarsely, still shaken by what you have seen.

‘I have a unique gift,’ states Fetch with a hint of bitterness. ‘You have seen it. The ability to move between places,’ he clicks his fingers, ‘. . .instantly. And
like all unique gifts, the inquisition want it – they want to study it, learn about it, punish it . . .’

‘And Avian rescued you?’

Fetch snivels with amusement. ‘I would hardly call him a knight in shining armour, but yes – he has connections. He is very powerful – and he always gets what he wants,
eventually.’

Return to
792
to ask another question.

838

You are thrown against a stone wall, hitting it with force. There is the taste of blood and something wet against your face, as you crumple to the ground, moaning with pain.

‘Look!’

You hear a cry from your left and the sound of booted feet.

Dizzily, you open your eyes, feeling nauseous as the stone chamber spins around you in a blur of colour.

‘They’re bleeding. It looks bad.’

The voice belongs to Nyms. You feel strong arms about your shoulders, helping to support you as you mumble groggily. ‘Where am I?’

You feel a cold palm against your forehead. Struggling to focus, you can make out a white shape. Then there is a flash of white light. You flinch away from it, fearful that you are being
transported once again. But instead, you feel a comforting warmth flow through your body, taking away the pain and restoring your vision.

Lansbury straightens, looking down at you with a petulant expression. ‘What happened?’ she asks briskly. ‘One minute you were there and then . . .’ The medic snaps her
fingers.

With Nyms’ help you struggle back to your feet. Caeleb is watching you from the other side of his room, his helm removed and held under his arm. His eyes are narrowed, his expression one
of distrust.

‘We deserve an explanation,’ he adds sternly. ‘We were about to leave you here.’

You glance over, to see that the anomaly has drifted away into another corner of the room, its sparkling sheen barely visible in the pale light from Lansbury’s staff. After taking a deep
breath, you recount your adventure, aware that it must sound as far-fetched as a children’s bedtime story.

‘You met Arthurian?’ Nyms gawps, his head jutting forward on his narrow shoulders. ‘Why does that never happen to me?’

‘Because you are not of the shroud, Nyms,’ states Lansbury, eyeing you up with a grimace. ‘I suspect that none of us could have interacted with the anomaly in such a way
– or at least, survived to tell the tale.’

‘What’s the shroud?’ you ask, confused.

Lansbury gives a sigh. ‘Yes, I guessed you would be ignorant of such matters. The shroud is the place between worlds, the place where the old magic is drawn from.’

‘It is a place of evil – of demons,’ states Caeleb darkly. ‘And demons tell lies.’

Your eyes widen. ‘Do you not believe my story?’

‘That Arthurian never led the final charge?’ he snaps angrily. ‘That the stories and songs are a lie?’ He laughs softly, shaking his head. ‘I believe that you . . .
you took a blow to the head.’ The warrior taps his forehead. ‘Now, I think we have wasted enough time here.’

You watch as the warrior tugs his polished helm over his face, before striding out of the room. As your eyes follow him, your attention shifts to the skeleton of the tomb robber, still lying
sprawled amongst the dust and cobwebs.

‘I don’t understand!’ you gasp, walking over and kneeling beside the skeleton. You push aside the tattered remnants of the leather coat, revealing a silver crucifix. ‘Why
hasn’t this changed?’ You look up at Lansbury, begging for an explanation.

The medic shrugs her shoulders. ‘Time is a complex weave – it is not a single thread but many. If your story is true, your meddling may have changed one aspect, altered a single
thread, maybe others, but the weave will still follow its course.’