The Eye of Winter's Fury (104 page)

‘My time is passing,’ she states. Her bright eyes stray to an unseen horizon. ‘My apprentice, Maya, has returned from Vindsvall. She will take over when I am gone. I had hoped there would be news from the asynjur. But Maya’s tale was the same as I’ve heard sung winter after winter. Skoll, our Drokke – the leader of all Skards – is still lost to us. The asynjur are not strong enough – they are no closer to freeing his spirit, no closer to bringing him back.’

There is silence.

‘You want me to go to Vindsvall?’

Sura looks back at you. ‘Taulu left the tribe to find help. He was even willing to meet with our enemies, the southlanders behind the walls of stone. We cannot hope to survive. The witch – her magic will destroy everything. We have to stand against her or all will be lost.’

You flinch beneath her hard stare. ‘What can I possibly do? I’m an outsider. Your people are strong – there’s no reason why the tribes can’t come together. Unite. You have warriors, hunters . . .’

Sura snorts. ‘Our chieftains bicker. They have not the sense to listen to counsel. They are equals and would lose face to let another of their number lead. Only a Drokke can bring the Ska-inuin together. Only Skoll.’

‘And you’re asking
me
to rescue your leader?’

‘He sought aid, like Taulu.’ The woman speaks softly, but her words carry above the wailing of the gale. ‘His journey was one of spirit, to the Norr. He sought the fates – the keepers of our destiny. Only they would know how to defeat the witch.’

Sura’s face tightens with an inner pain, the sunken hollows painting a ghoulish visage. ‘He never returned to us. The asynjur believe the witch holds him prisoner – torturing his spirit, keeping him from ever returning to his body. But you . . . you have the power of a shaman; a dream-walker. Nanuk chose you for a reason. Please, do right by our
ancestors. The witch must be stopped, or your lands will suffer her wrath as surely as our own.’

‘You believe I can do this?’ You speak with a quiet pride, touched by the woman’s belief in your abilities.

‘If you can’t, then no one can.’ Sura puts a hand to your back, turning you to face the might of the storm. ‘Winter is your ally, boy; you are its vengeance and its fury. Now go – to Vindsvall, the golden halls of our Drokke, and bring him back to us.’

‘But what of your tribe – will they be safe?’ You look round, but the woman has gone. You are alone, surrounded by the raging blizzard, its ice driving hard into your numbed skin. Tugging down your hood, you take a moment to calm yourself – to reach for Nanuk, finding comfort in his familiar presence, his strength.

I am winter. I am its vengeance and its fury.

With a bitter smile, you stride into the storm. (Return to the quest map to continue your adventure.)

722

You straddle the beast’s brow, feet splayed to either side as the serpent-like head bucks and twists beneath you. ‘Now!’ Skoll screams into the wind, his axe still chopping his way through the deadly spines.

You raise your weapons then, with a deft spin, you reverse them – plunging their blades between the ridges of bone. You push down hard, powering your strike with the last of your magic.

Deeper they go.

The beast swings back its head, hissing and screeching in pain. The thrashing body whips through the ranks of Skards. You hear screams and shouts, the cries of the dying. Somehow you manage to stay with the bucking beast, hands frozen tight to your weapons.

There is no blood. No fountaining of ichor. Instead there is a blackening, like some dark bruise, which quickly starts to spread, turning flesh to ice. The head rears back, almost throwing you into the air. Another piercing scream fills the heavens with thunder.

You twist your weapons. Grinding. Back and forth. Your own screams of exertion mingling with the serpent’s pain.

Then it is falling, fast.

Below you Skards are running, seeking to escape the widening shadow. Some make it – many don’t. The beast crashes down onto the wasteland. You are thrown into the air, spinning through the dust. Scales and broken spines hurtle past you, a sled spirals overhead, its tangled lines dragging the broken bodies of a wolf pack. Everything becomes a surreal, dream-like haze – flying, falling . . .

You hit the ground, the dust washing over you to break against an outcropping of rock. Another body tumbles next to you with a cry. You feel something splatter across your armour. Blood.

You rush to the Skard’s side, his body twisted – two immense broken spines speared through his chest. He coughs and chokes, fingers digging into the dusty earth as he writhes in pain.

‘Skoll . . .’ You crawl to his side, eyes drawn to the terrible wounds. The warrior’s eyes are already glazing over. He struggles to speak, bloody phlegm bubbling from his mouth.

Somehow he finds strength to lift his arm. He grabs your shoulder, pulling you close.

‘A song . . .’ he grunts, then manages a wheezy laughter. ‘Make sure they sing a bloody song of this.’

You nod your head, unable to speak.

‘Take it.’

You frown, uncertain what he means. Your eyes search the ground, looking for his axe – wondering if he seeks an end to his suffering.

‘The crown,’ he gasps, eyes starting to close.

You look upon the stone-grey helm that still rests atop his brow, its rim masterfully worked into a circle of runed spines. The Drokke’s crown.

‘I cannot.’ You draw back, aware now of the shapes emerging from the settling dust. Skards. They slowly start to surround you, heads bowed. You quickly scan their faces, realising that these warriors must represent the different tribes of the north. Some are clad in armour fashioned from bone, others simply wear fur and animal hide, their skin daubed in brightly-coloured paints. You search for those who may be familiar to you – and your eyes come to rest on Aslev, the einherjar. He has removed his helm, his snow-white locks braided and banded with gold. And next to him, Desnar of the bear tribe. His piercing blue-eyes meet your own, bright with a hunter’s cunning.

Skoll gives a groan. ‘I was wrong about you,’ he whispers weakly. ‘You will always be of the north. You are a Ska-inuin.’ He grunts, trying to lift his arms. With effort, he manages to put a hand to his crown. ‘Will you take this bloody thing off me!’

You reach forward, helping him to slide the helm free. ‘Good . . .’ His hand drops to his side, leaving you holding the crown.

‘You are Drokke,’ he gasps. ‘And you will lead my . . .’ A spasm of pain steals his words, forcing him to kick and squirm in the dirt. ‘Your people . . .’ he grins through bloody teeth.

Then his eyes lift, staring past your shoulder. They mirror the great winter sky as he breathes his last.

A crunch of dirt. Aslev moves to stand over you, Desnar at his side. The einherjar is holding Skoll’s warhammer, the huge rune-forged weapon known as Surtnost.

You realise you still are clutching the crown. Your eyes lift to Aslev, and for the briefest of moments you see surprise pull at his features. When you left Vindsvall you had been a man – at least something of flesh and bone. Now you are a ghost, a spectre – bound within a prison of frost-coated armour.

You offer him the crown, but he shakes his head.

‘I heard the Drokke speak. You have been chosen.’ He nods to the crown.

You rise to your feet, aware of the crowd watching you – and more joining them, a sea of heads, a gathering of people. Your people. You climb the side of the outcropping, stepping over the jumble of boulders until you are at its summit, looking out across the assembled Skards.

There are many tribes, standing shoulder to shoulder. Men and women from the four corners of the north, reunited because of a shared vow. A single purpose.

To serve the Drokke.

You place the crown upon your head.

Aslev is the first to kneel, followed by the others around him. The movement ripples outwards, as hundreds and hundreds of Skards bow their heads to their new leader. Only one remains standing. Desnar. The wind whips at his bear cloak, his hands gripped tightly around his spear. Ribbons dance in his hair, their bone charms rattling.

You meet his gaze, sensing the heat of his challenge.

He studies you, tongue working thoughtfully around his mouth. Then he breaks a smile.

‘Ancestors with you.’ He offers you a grudging nod before dropping to one knee, his dark hair falling across his narrow face. ‘My Drokke.’

If you have the title
The Mourner
, turn to
632
. Otherwise, turn to
701
.

723

You realise you will need to convince Jackson to leave his post. ‘Tell me, what hides have you got left – any mammoth? I’ll buy them off you for a good price.’ You fold your arms, awaiting an answer.

‘I don’t sell hides, I buy,’ mutters Jackson incredulously. ‘You lost your mind?’

‘Actually, no. Winter’s here and you won’t be seeing another trading ship for a while, so the fur isn’t earning you anything right now, is it? How about you check out back and see what you got. I’ll pay double.’

You hear a grumbling curse, then notice the gun muzzles go slack as footsteps go clanging away over an iron floor. When you are sure he is no longer at his post, you take the seal blubber from your pack (remember to remove this item from your hero sheet) and stuff the greasy mixture into the two barrels, packing it in tight. When you have finished, you step back across the line and draw your weapons.

The guns jump to attention as an eye reappears at the peep hole. ‘Got no mammoth, but how about a . . .’ He stops. ‘What you doing? Put those away at once.’ He rattles his guns at you. ‘No weapons, didn’t you read the sign outside?’

‘What sign?’

‘Darn Skards must have taken it – or wind blown it down. No matter, put your weapons away or I’ll blow you back out into the snow. You hear me?’

You take a step forward.

There is a noisy intake of breath followed by a blustery outpouring of anger. ‘Get back I tell you! Back, back! No one crosses the line!’

‘I just did . . .’

There is a click as triggers are pulled. Then there is an explosion, loud and powerful enough to send you flying backwards across the room. At first you fear you’ve been shot and your plan has backfired, but then you see the smoke and flames billowing from behind one of the service hatches. It has been blown open in the blast. You hear glass shattering and another explosion. Clearly there was something highly flammable and volatile in the storeroom.

724

‘Cellar’s outta bounds to everyone except staff,’ bellows the guard, his sneer revealing gold and silver teeth. ‘I knows you ain’t staff, so don’t even try it. Already had one fool sneak in and drink half the stock dry.’

‘I was sent here,’ you lie, glancing back across the room. ‘I’m a footman on an errand – and it wouldn’t do to disappoint my superiors.’

‘Yeah?’ The guard suddenly looks uncertain. ‘Well, can’t let you take stuff for free. I’d get it in the neck for that. Herta behind the bar will give me a right tongue lashing.’

725

With the spectral guardian defeated, you may now help yourself to one of the following rewards:

When you have updated your hero sheet, turn to
339
.

726

The tunnel you are following joins a much wider passageway cutting through the stark black rock. As you advance the walls fan outwards, the ceiling lifting higher until you find yourself walking along an immense vaulted hall. Thick beams of ice are now visible in the rock – trickling water into glittering mirror-like pools that pockmark the paved floor.

‘The glacier is melting.’ You glance at Caul, wondering if he will agree or refute your statement.

He merely shrugs his shoulders. ‘The Skards say that when the ice of the north vanishes, the great serpent will rise from the underworld. Its coils will rip the land in two, its poison will turn the oceans to blood. It will be the end of all things.’

‘Of course,’ you remark wryly. ‘And here was me, worried about wet boots.’

You pass along a row of finely-carved statues, each set on an angular pedestal jutting from the walls of the chamber. They look like Dwarves, resplendent in rune-carved armour – several have long braided beards, sparkling with gemstones. There are no marks or script on the pedestals to denote who they might have been – you wonder if they are merely decorative, or were put here to venerate ancient kings or heroes.

It isn’t until you have passed the first set of statues that you hear the flaking rustle of crumbling stone, followed by a series of sharp echoing cracks. When you look back, your eyes widen in horror as you see several of the dwarves coming to life, ripping free of their pedestals.

‘More blasted traps!’ Caul scuttles away from the nearest statue as it jumps down from its pedestal, the ground cracking and splintering beneath its immense feet.

Another three statues are also moving, a sudden fiery light blossoming from the jewels sunk into their eyes. You sense that these mighty stone guardians are far too powerful to defeat. You glance at Caul, who reads your expression – then you both turn and run.

The world seems to reel and shake as the statues pursue you down the hall, their heavy limbs pounding against the stone. Thankfully their movements are slow and ungainly. Within minutes they are lost to sight as the hall turns a corner and then another, forming a snaking pathway. More pedestals blur past you – but instead of statues they are supporting stone columns topped with circular rings. Some appear to have glass orbs resting inside. Others are empty.