Legion of Shadow (110 page)

‘Heal me,’ you choke, spitting out a broken tooth. ‘Do you want us both to die?’

I told you what to do.

You find your feet again, only to see Mathis closing once more. You tangle together, smashing through wood and glass. His head butts into your own, sending it snapping back. Then his hammer
cracks across your ribs, eliciting a strangled cry of pain. By luck rather than design, you stumble back, avoiding his follow-up swing.

The shroud. The place between worlds. We must go! Go!

Lorcan’s voice distracts you. The hammer smashes into your chest, hurling you back across the room. You crash down, spitting dust and blood, your hands grappling over broken rock and
pottery. Then you feel something, cold to the touch.

Yes. Yes. Take the staff.

You struggle to raise your head. One eye is closed and it won’t open – the other struggles to focus, the room reduced to shreds of colour, whirling and reeling in a sickening spin.
Boots crunch through the debris as the inquisitor advances. You can hear his laboured breathing.

Take the staff. Just think of the possibilities, Nevarin. The shroud. The gateway to other worlds. Other dreams. Don’t let it end like this.

‘Heal me . . .’ you croak, wincing as you try and move your shattered body. ‘Heal me.’

The boots crunch closer and then stop. Mathis stands over you, his warhammer raised. You look up, his blurred face swaying like a reflection in water. ‘Finally demon, I will rid this world
of your taint . . .’

The warhammer comes down. You reach out and snatch the staff, gripping it to your chest. It flares into a brilliant golden light, the magic from your shadow mark pumping into it, filling it with
new life. Your life. . .

Yes, yes! The shroud calls us . . . the staff is working . . .

The warhammer comes down. But it finds only rubble, crushing it to sand beneath its heavy weight. Mathis stumbles back, eyes wide with surprise. ‘It can’t be . . .’

All that remains of you is a faint outline of smoke, curling into the dusty air.

You have simply vanished.

‘Demons . . .’ he spins around, eyes scanning the shadows. ‘Where are you, demon? Where did you go?’ But the only answer he receives is the echo of his own voice.
‘Impossible . . .’ He shifts round, looking back to where you had been lying. A tattered roll of parchment lies crumpled amongst the dust. He reaches down and picks it up, unravelling
it to reveal a letter. A letter of recommendation for a young knight to apprentice with the great Avian Dale. His brow furrows as he spots your pack lying some metres away, its contents scattered
throughout the rubble.

Mathis crumples the parchment in his fist. ‘Wherever you go, Nevarin. . . I
will
find you. As the One God is my witness. This is not the end . . .’

852

Just like the tinker’s chest in the town of ‘No Hope’, the interior of this chest is larger on the inside, filled with a myriad of weapons, armour and
trinkets. It is a far cry from the battered pots and pans in the trader’s cart.

‘Now do you believe me,’ grins Waldo, leaning over your shoulder. ‘I got a knack for finding treasure. And rare stuff, too.’

‘I suspect these don’t come cheap,’ you say with a wry grin, as you lift out a gold-embroidered cloak.

‘That depends. I got my rare items . . . real beauties those, then I got my special deals.’

853

‘Look for yourself,’ sneers Fetch, waving a hand towards the nearest wooden crate.

You give the assassin a long stare, still distrustful of his motives. ‘No, you open the crate.’ With a ring of steel, you draw your weapon and hold it to his throat.

‘Very well,’ he scowls, waving you away with the back of his hand. ‘Does everything have to be so dramatic with you?’

‘Sorry, did you miss the part where you were trying to kill me?’

Fetch looks back at you, his eyes bright beneath his hood. ‘I call it self-preservation. Something that has kept me alive these many years. You’re not so bad at it
yourself.’

Grunting with discomfort, the assassin takes the lid off the crate and pushes it aside. ‘Travelling leaves me weak, tired. I am not interested in playing games. See for
yourself.’

You step closer and look into the crate. Resting amongst folds of linen are a number of jade figurines. You shrug your shoulders. ‘Some nice ornaments. What is the big deal?’

Fetch throws open his arms, turning on the spot to take in the whole of the room. ‘Here are treasures so rare and priceless that even the king of Valeron would crawl on his belly for a
chance to possess them. These are Avian’s. He is a collector.’

‘And what does he plan to do with all this?’ You scan the room, filled with hundreds and hundreds of similar boxes.

‘It’s not what he plans to do,’ grins Fetch folding his arms. ‘It is what he hopes to stop others from doing.’

You scowl. ‘I hate riddles.’

Fetch walks back over to the door, his eyes lingering on your own. ‘Riddles are all you deserve, shadow walker.’

Turn to
792
to ask another question.

854

You sprint to the end of the building, then kick off from its edge, soaring effortlessly over the glittering sea of bodies. You twist in mid-air, sending bolts of black fire
into the ranks of shadow spawn, your dark magic ripping through their bodies and leaving charred craters in the earth.

As you fall out of your dive, you grab hold of the statue, swinging yourself around to land on the plinth, right next to the surprised inquisitor. ‘You started without me,’ you grin,
drawing your weapons. Mathis glares at you as he blocks yet another blast from the knight’s bow.

‘They weren’t keen on waiting,’ he scowls.

You put your back to the statue, your mind now focused on the nightmarish creations that are clambering to reach you. They look like ghouls, save their bodies have been fashioned from pure
shadow, their red eyes burning with a ravenous evil.

‘Ghasts,’ snarls the inquisitor. He swings his warhammer in a deadly arc, sending four of the creatures spinning away in a sizzling explosion of holy light. ‘Watch their
claws.’

‘Just watch those arrows!’ you shout back, ducking as one goes zipping past, to smash into an advancing monster. ‘I’ll handle these!’ With a snarl of fury, you hurl
yourself against the devilish ghasts, hoping to buy time until aid can arrive. You must fight:

Special abilities

If you manage to survive to the start of the
seventh
combat round, then turn to
794
. (Special achievement: If you defeat the ghasts before the
end of the
sixth
round, then turn to
813
). If you are defeated, then you may return to an earlier point. Restore your
health
, then turn to
885
.

855

The general is a skilled fighter, matching you blow for blow – but a lucky opening allows you to step in past her guard, kicking her leg away and throwing her off balance.
Too late, she tries to recover but your weapons knock her blades aside, your follow-up blow sending her helmet rattling away into the dirt. At last, you finally look upon your enemy’s face.
It would have been beautiful once, but now it is a ruin of pulpy, scarred flesh. Her flat stare holds no emotion – no remorse. ‘Finish it,’ she hisses.

You back away, shaking your head. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this.’

The woman laughs bitterly. ‘It has always been like this. Do you even think we remember another way?’

You raise your shadow mark, its demonic glow surrounding your body. ‘I wish I did. . .’

Before you can stop her, Sanrah snatches a dagger from the dust and lunges. Your reaction is pure instinct, blasting her away with your magic. The general’s body snaps back, flipping over
to crash down onto the dusty ground. There is a groan of pain then silence.

Slowly, from between the black plates of armour, her essence seeps out – the purple tendrils of magic snaking into the air. You contemplate letting them reform, allowing her to live again.
But you have not the strength to deny your shadow mark. It greedily absorbs the general’s essence, filling you with its power. If you are a mage turn to
871
. If you
are a warrior, turn to
882
. If you are a rogue, turn to
887
.

856

Suddenly, a bright flash of light draws your attention skywards. From out of the smog, you see white shapes swooping down over the ruined city, their vapour trails blazing
bright like comets. Beneath them, a series of explosions swell out across the square, cutting a vicious swathe through the tightly-packed ranks of shadow spawn.

‘The airborne regulars!’ You punch the air as the mages hurtle past on their flying carpets.

Then, at the far side of the square, you hear the resonating blast of a horn. From your vantage point, it is difficult to see through the thronging masses, but it looks like a battalion of
Ravenwing’s militia have made it across the city. You catch the glimmer of polished armour and a fluttering standard, proudly displaying the black raven. Aid has finally arrived. Turn to
895
.

857

The passageway is lined with torches, their crackling flames casting a ghoulish dance of shadows across the flagstones. You stagger onwards, teeth clenched against the throbbing
pain that is coming from your shadow mark.

Lansbury walks at your side, watching you with a curious fascination. ‘The inscriptions don’t agree with you, do they?’