Legion of Shadow (113 page)

When you have made your decision, turn to
808
.

870

There was a time when you remember experiencing pain, exhaustion, even remorse – but now there is just the fire, filling every pore of your being, burning beneath the
skin, blazing behind your berserk fury.

Lorcan is no match for you. With another swipe of your weapon, you knock his staff away, sending it skittering across the ground. The wounded mage sprawls backwards into the broken fragments of
his stone guardians. He tries to roll over, to crawl away, but you plant a boot in his side, driving him back to the ground.

‘He never told me . . . never told me it would end this way,’ pants the mage bitterly.

‘This wasn’t the ending I was expecting either,’ you growl, standing over him. ‘Any last requests?’

Lorcan smiles then, his scar twisting it back into a sneer. ‘If I die . . . I die on my terms, Nevarin.’

He throws himself forward, his body rushing out from the confines of his clothes in a torrent of dark energy. It slams into your shadow mark, pushing itself inside your skin, inside your body.
You cry out in horror, clawing at the mark, trying to make it stop – but Lorcan is inside you now, his magic running through your veins . . . whispering inside your head.

‘You are me. I am you.’

Your shadow mark flashes, and suddenly you feel your body changing – the bones shifting and realigning, the skin and muscle flowing like liquid to mould itself anew. ‘Stop
this!’ you cry, watching as your arms and hands transform before your very eyes, growing paler . . . older; branched with dark veins.

You stagger towards the golden shield that the mage had discarded earlier. Holding it up, you turn its polished surface to look upon your reflection. The mage’s face is staring back at
you, his scar cutting down the left cheek, the mouth curled in a constant sneer. ‘This is not me!’ You hurl the shield away, clawing at your scarred head, where the hair grows in
bristly grey tufts. ‘This is not me!’

Lorcan has fused his essence with your own. You have gained the following special ability:

Windwalker (co)
: If you win a round, you can use all your attack speed dice for your damage score (adding your
brawn
or
magic
as normal). You can only use
this ability once per combat. (Note: you cannot use modifier abilities to alter these dice results once they are used for your damage score.)

Behind you a door slams, followed by the rattle of metal as boots scrape across stone. You spin round, almost losing your footing as your new body shifts balance quicker than
the old. A figure strides towards you, their armoured features obscured by shadow. ‘Nevarin?’

If you have the word
rival
on your hero sheet, turn to
851
. Otherwise, turn to
933
.

871

Searching the general’s armour, you find a leather pouch containing 150 gold crowns. You may also help yourself to one of the following special rewards:

When you have made your decision, turn to
824
.

872

You lurch to your feet, feeling dizzy and nauseous. As your hazy surroundings swim into focus, you see that you have been brought to a stone chamber. Light from a narrow window
illuminates a jumbled assortment of boxes and crates, all dusted with a fine white sand.

You catch movement out of the corner of your eye. You spin round, expecting another attack. Instead you see Fetch limping away, towards the far side of the room. His breathing is ragged, the
harsh gasps echoing in the shadowy chamber.

‘Where are we?’ you call after him angrily.

The robed assassin stops and turns. ‘You are a long way from home, Nevarin,’ he hisses.

Reaching to his belt, Fetch pulls out a short silver wand. With a pained grimace, he raises his arm and points the wand towards a corner of the room. Your eyes flick to the shadows, where a
metal statue rests against the sandy wall.

‘
Kymeet Malci
’ snarls the assassin. There is a flash from the end of the wand. Bewildered, you glance back to the statue – and give a gasp of surprise. Lights are now
flickering around its head, moving in a rapid arc as they build up speed. A second later and the lights are joined by a whirring sound coming from inside the plated chest.

‘What is it?’ you growl, backing away.

Fetch answers with a cold cackle of delight. ‘Your doom, Nevarin!’

Suddenly, the armoured body jerks into life, its massive fists clenching and unclenching. You draw your weapons as the automaton staggers forward, knocking boxes and trunks aside with its steel
arms. As it enters the band of light cast from the window, you see that it is fashioned from sheets of iron, bolted and riveted to form a crude human shape. Its head, however, is a whirring mass of
cogs and wheels, spinning in a frenzied blur as magic crackles around the golem’s glass eyes.

‘Farewell, Nevarin.’

The strange assassin resumes his escape, leaving you to do battle with this outlandish guardian:

Special abilities

If you defeat the golem, turn to
891
.

873

‘Like the gate. Yes, yes. They made it. The elves.’ He gestures to the alabaster statues, carved to resemble men and women, dressed in ornate headdresses and robes.
‘We should not have ended such a great people.’ He looks back at you, then at the staff. ‘They were creators – made things. We could have learned so much from them. Instead,
we take, take, take – put back the pieces again.’

‘That still doesn’t explain what it does,’ you interject impatiently.

‘The shroud, fool!’ He snaps suddenly, veins cording in his neck. ‘What else would it do? It takes me back there. Takes me back to the shroud.’ He sucks in a deep breath.
‘I still hear it. I still . . . Yes, still hear the shroud. Still feel it calling. I hear him. He tells me what to do.’

‘The shroud is a place of demons – of magic,’ you insist. ‘How is it possible to exist there? I thought it was dangerous.’

Lorcan looks at you intently. ‘This is not real . . . no, not real. The shroud is real. Where everything is possible. I have seen things. . . such wondrous things.’ His words break
into a cackle of maniacal laughter.

You’re insane,’ you growl, your hands inching closer to your weapons. ‘You speak of fever dreams. Nothing more.’

Lorcan’s laughter dies. ‘You don’t think, Nevarin – don’t think of the possibilities. I wish I could show you. Open your eyes. But you must die so that I can go
home.’

Return to
928
to ask Lorcan another question, or turn to
939
to attack this deranged mage.

874

The icelock is defeated, her final scream accompanied by the ringing clink of ice on stone as Caeleb’s magical prison is shattered.

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

When you have made your decision, turn to
808
.

875

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 black coat, trimmed with silver and gold runes.

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

876

Searching the ogre’s filthy belongings, you find a leather pouch containing 50 gold crowns. You may also help yourself to one of the following special rewards:

When you have made your decision, turn to
824
.

877

After much effort, you finally manage to blast a hole in the membrane. . . but your success may be short-lived. The rupture is already closing back together again in an effort
to heal itself.

Without hesitation, Avian throws the carpet forward, sending it careering towards the narrow gap. Your shoulders brush the gooey sides of the membrane as you sweep past, making it through the
breach with scant seconds to spare.

‘That was close!’ you yell, ducking your head to avoid the ceiling of the tunnel. ‘Tell me that’s the last of those?’

‘Hold on!’ shouts Avian. ‘We’re almost there now. We have to destroy the brain!’ Under his expert guidance, the carpet twists and turns through a tight forest of
glowing stems, dodging the streaks of lightning that flicker between them.