Legion of Shadow (124 page)

I told you to take the staff.

‘What are you doing?’ you scowl angrily. ‘Are you controlling the mark?’

We have to leave. Leave. Leave. Now!

Caeleb charges again, leading with his shield. You sidestep, bringing your weapons across your body, hoping to knock him away. But they graze off metal, his shield blocking the blow. His sword
quickly follows, swinging around in a cruel arc. You try and dodge the attack, taking a nick on the cheek. Another blow leaves a burning scratch across your leg.

‘Stop this madness,’ you cry, shaking with pain and anger. ‘I am not what you think I am.’

His shield connects with your chest, sending you tumbling back into the broken rubble. As you struggle to rise, you become aware of something wet running down your face. You put a shaking hand
to it, surprised when it comes away coated in blood.

‘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 Caeleb closing once more. You tangle together, smashing through wood and glass. His head butts into your own, sending it snapping back. Then his shield
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 rim of the shield smashes into your side, 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 cavalier 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. Caeleb stands over you, his inscribed sword raised. You look up, his blurred face swaying like a reflection in water. ‘Finally, demon, I will rid
this world of your taint . . .’

The sword hums as it slices down through the air.

‘No!’ 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 sword slices through the rubble, lodging itself deep into the ground. Caeleb tugs it free, stumbling back in 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 piece 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.

Caeleb 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 . . .’

934

‘They think us slaves. The Borellin-var.’ The man glances down at his right hand, gripping the staff. You catch the glimmer of a shadow mark snaking around the wrist
and palm. ‘But in branding us, they made us gods.’

‘Those creatures enslaved us,’ you growl angrily, remembering your encounter with Sharroth. ‘They destroyed our cities – our people. They tortured us. They made us no
better than animals. There is nothing god-like about servitude to monsters!’

Lorcan waves his finger with a knowing smile. ‘You’ve broken your bond with them. I feel it. Feel it like music under the skin. If you were to live . . .’ He shakes his head,
as if ridding it of some unwanted thought. ‘No. The man tells me what to do. You . . . you must die so I can go home.’

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

935

Your blows batter the warrior to his knees. From behind the mask, you hear a wheezing gasp as the magic that surrounds his body flickers and dies. ‘I always knew . . . it
would be you,’ he pants. ‘You were the . . . last . . ..the finest. You held out until . . . the end.’

You raise your weapons, ready to deliver the final blow.

‘The legion took everything . . . and that is what broke you . . . made you the vessel for their power.’ The warrior lifts a gloved hand to his mask. ‘You cannot win this war,
Nevarin. But I give to you . . . my strength.’ He pulls the mask away – and suddenly a stream of black magic floods out from beneath the hood, slamming into your shadow mark. You
stumble back, gasping for breath as the magic burns through your body, searing along each and every vein.

And then a scene, a memory, flashes before your eyes.

You stand before an empty shell of a building, blackened with soot. Flames still lick around its shattered walls, where bodies lie sprawled against the dark sand. You knew them. Family. And they
have been taken from you. You look down, at the mark that shimmers along your arm, and the bloodied blade in your hand. It is then that you are reminded of what you have done – that this is
your work. The laughter of your new master rings in your ears.

‘You want to feel something, don’t you?’ spits Sharroth. The creature’s immense shadow stretches across the sand. ‘We will remake you, Nevarin. Together we will
accomplish great things.’

Then the memory fades, joining the other indistinct fragments that torment you each and every day. If you are a mage turn to
865
. If you are a warrior, turn to
893
. If you are a rogue, turn to
843
.

936

You pass through another hall into an opulent chamber, its walls lined with an extensive array of paintings and sculptures. Nearly all of them feature grisly scenes of battle or
nightmarish monsters engaged in gruesome acts of cruelty and destruction.

‘Quite the collector,’ comments Nyms dryly. ‘Dinner parties must be a scream.’

‘This was Zul’s home,’ you reply, pointing to one of the larger paintings, which shows a portrait of the dark sorcerer, dressed in stately robes. ‘Don’t you sense
it? His taint is everywhere . . .’

A side door immediately draws your attention. Pushing it open, you find yourself at the top of a set of stairs, which wind down into a cold and fetid darkness.

‘This way,’ you nod, feeling the magic of your shadow mark quicken. ‘They’re below the mansion.’

‘Oh good,’ remarks Nyms, patting the head of one of the beastly sculptures. ‘Can I make a suggestion?’

You glance over your shoulder, an eyebrow raised. ‘Will I like it?’

A guilty grin twists his lips. ‘I’m just saying – we could go back, wait for Mathis and the others. I mean, it might be nice to have some extra healing around. We don’t
know what’s down there. If
these
things are anything to go by.’ He turns on the spot, taking in the grisly display of art. ‘Then some back up would be appreciated. What do
you . . . ’ His words falter as he looks back across the room, realising that he no longer has an audience. You have already started down the stairs, the glow of your mark lighting the way.
Turn to
807
.

937

‘For this,’ grins the mage, tapping the side of the staff. ‘Your power is strong – stronger than any I have seen.’ He leans forward, the hollows in
his face giving him a skull-like appearance. ‘I absorb your essence then I am strong again. Yes? Make the staff work.’ He nods his head quickly, his broken lips forming a mockery of a
smile. ‘There are no choices. No choices. He tells me to do it. He tells me . . .’

‘Who?’ you ask sardonically, not too surprised that this crazed man is hearing ‘voices’ in his head.

‘The man in the shroud,’ grins the mage, pacing up and down. ‘I don’t hear him now, but I know he is there. He told me that this was here,’ he shakes the staff.
‘Tells me the truth of things.’ The mage stops pacing, standing rigid, holding his breath. For a moment there is an uneasy silence.

You go to speak, but the man puts out a hand. ‘Shush, listen. Sometimes . . . I hear him, if I concentrate.’ He frowns, then opens his eyes. ‘I’ll hear him again soon. I
know I will. When I go home.’

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

938

You expose your mark, dragging the Nevarin’s shadowy remains towards the waiting jaws of your own branded serpents. You have gained the following special ability:

Snakes alive! (sp)
: You may entangle your opponent in coils of dark magic, lowering their
speed
by 2 for one combat round.

Across the hall, Nyms has dispatched the shadow spawn but is now fending off the magical attacks of the female mage. As you suspected, she is a Nevarin – and her mark has brought her back
to life. You jump the distance, your body fuelled by your absorbed shadow magic – but as you land on the other side of the balcony, you discover your effort has been wasted. The swordsman has
already landed a lucky blow, forcing the woman to stagger backwards. He follows up with a twin strike, driving both blades through her dark robes, exploding her body into flickering clouds of
shadow.

You stride past him, lifting your shadow mark to drink in her essence, denying her a second chance to heal. Nyms shivers and looks away.

‘I hate it when you do that.’

You close your eyes, feeling yourself drifting away on the euphoric currents of magic, losing yourself to a void of darkness . . .

‘Nevarin!’

You hear a voice but it is distant, distorted. It belonged to someone you once knew – but perhaps that was another life. You see others now, bodies shimmering like stars against the
backdrop of night. Other Nevarin. Other faces. They slide past you, blurring into streaks of light. You try and focus but they are moving too quick, eluding you. All except one . . . standing
alone, burning brighter than the rest. A man. His eyes widen with surprise as he turns to face you. You catch a scar running down his left cheek and a circlet of gold resting on his brow.

‘Nevarin!’

You feel something tugging at you. Pulling you back.

With a gasp, you lurch forward, your eyes snapping open – to find Nyms’ gaunt face inches from your own. ‘Woah, you’re back!’ The rogue rocks back on his heels,
surprised. ‘What happened?’ he asks, looking you over with concern. ‘You just passed out cold.’

You try and remember, but the gossamer images are already fading from memory. ‘The mark . . .’ You look down to see its swirling runes humming with energy, their bright glow
shimmering across your body. ‘It. . . it was nothing,’ you state hastily, clambering back to your feet. ‘We need to move.’

Nyms snorts, nodding towards the corpses of the shadow spawn. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if the whole mansion doesn’t know we’re here now.’ He flashes you a crooked
grin. ‘So much for the stealthy approach, eh?’

‘Agreed.’ You spring over the balcony, dropping into the hall below. You land in a crouch, your mark blazing with fire. ‘The time for skulking in shadows is over.’ Turn
to
936
.

939

You clamber to your feet, keeping a wary eye on the mage. He regards you with interest, fingers drumming against the rod of his staff.

‘There won’t be a peaceful outcome to this, will there?’ you sigh, drawing your weapons.

Lorcan shakes his head. ‘I need your magic. To power the staff.’

‘Then I can’t give you what you want.’

There is a tense silence as you both eye each other – knowing that the next minute, the next few seconds, may decide both your fates.

You spring forward. The mage raises a hand, sending a concussive blast of air in your direction. It hits you in the stomach, blowing you back into one of the glass cases. You smash through it,
tumbling over in an agile roll to land back on your feet.

‘Agh! My magic is weak,’ snarls Lorcan. ‘I should have foreseen this . . . so ill-prepared. An oversight . . .’ He continues muttering to himself as he aims the staff
towards the nearest row of statues. Swirls of white mist drift from its flower-like head, settling around several of the alabaster figures. ‘Defend your master!’ cries the mage. He
swings round to watch your next move, his shadow mark glowing with purple light.

You advance, crunching through the broken glass, aware that the stone figures are coming to life, staggering forward through a cloud of age-old dust. It is time to fight: