The Eye of Winter's Fury (42 page)

‘We . . . we didn’t see the trap until it was too late. A charm spell . . . an enchantment. They fell asleep, I couldn’t wake them. Then the others came . . . the ones with the hoods. And . . . and . . .’ The man bites his bottom lip, a sudden defiance flaring in his eyes.

‘You’re safe now,’ says Anise, edging forward. ‘Come, you must be famished. We have food.’

The man gives an angry hiss, stabbing at you with a quivering finger. ‘Don’t you come any closer,’ he demands. ‘They sent you, I know they did. You want me to sleep, just like the others. Then you’ll kill me. But . . . but I’m not sleeping – no, not ever!’

Skoll merely grunts at his threat. ‘This one has gone mad. Best we leave. There is nothing we can do.’

286

(Remove the word
trader
from your hero sheet.)

You tell Everard the full story of what happened by the tar pits, including the part about the soldiers trading weapons and armour to the Skards. Everard listens in silence, fingers tapping against the wall. When you have finished, the knight shakes his head sadly.

‘No one likes a tell-tale, Arran. Least of all me.’

You startle in surprise. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Yeah, I had my eye on those boys. I knew what they were up to.’

‘They’re dead,’ you reply bluntly. ‘And you don’t seem to care.’

Everard swings to face you, the colour rising in his cheeks. ‘You may be a prince, Arran – our future king – but don’t tell me what I should or should not be thinking. I care about a lot of things, my prince. I care about this keep and I do care about my soldiers. But if some choose to play with fire, then they’re gonna get burnt.’ He pauses, eyes narrowing. ‘And they got burnt, didn’t they? End of
story.’ He turns back to the wall, armour clinking as he rests his arms against the stone.

You sense that pursuing the topic would be unwise – and yet you can’t help but feel disappointment at the man’s reaction. ‘I’m sorry. Clearly I misjudged you.’ The statement hangs poignantly in the air as you march away, feeling his gaze needling like daggers into your back.

287

You stand your ground, holding yourself still as you watch the inquisitor hobble nearer. Out of his armour he looks more like a common thug than a holy warrior. And all the more menacing for it.

‘What . . . happened?’ Your words are little more than a hoarse croak. You swallow, then repeat the question with more authority. ‘Why did you stop us on the road? I demand an answer!’ You can still picture the dark look that had taken him as he reached for his war-hammer. His eyes spoke of murder. As they do now.

‘You were sent here to die,’ snarls the inquisitor. He summons a ball of white fire into his open hand, letting the smoke curl around his fingers. ‘That was my order, my test of faith.’

You stumble backwards, stung by his admission. Tears rise, unbidden to your eyes. ‘No, there’s a mistake . . .’

‘Indeed, one I intend to set right.’ His voice grows harder still. ‘You’ve had every chance – every chance.’ With a snarl, he hurls the ball of flame through the air. It slams into you with the force of a punch, winding you and sending you flying onto your back. For several seconds, you are coughing and gasping, your nostrils filled with a sulphurous smoke. When you can focus again, the inquisitor is standing over you; a giant obliterating the sky.

‘Why wouldn’t you make something of yourself?’ He turns the dagger, its blade catching the muted morning light. ‘Even Malden, cripple Malden, is more a man than you’ll ever be.’

‘You sound like my father,’ you snort disdainfully. ‘Did he order this?’

The inquisitor’s brow creases, puckering his red scar. ‘The king? Ordering me from his sick bed? No, lad. The Church is the only authority now. To purge this realm of all evil and waste. The throne is weak. It is time for a new—’

Your foot slams into his knee, drawing out a snarl of pain. You kick again, driving hard into his wounded leg. Then you are scrabbling in the dirt, twisting yourself back onto your feet and running.

‘Fool!’ snarls the warrior. ‘You can’t run from me! There’s nowhere for you to hide!’

288

You are met by a garish blaze of tents and temporary structures, and the cloying stench that accompanies people and animals. Gagging, you quickly push Nanuk’s magic away, leaving your senses dulled to the stench of dirt, sweat and degradation.

A hand settles around your shoulder. ‘We sees a new arrival, yes?’

You jerk away from the man’s grasp, but hesitate when you see the thin emaciated figure smiling back at you. His wasted body is swaddled in soiled blankets and a tattered cloak, the hood of which has frayed to almost nothing. A bag hangs off one scrawny shoulder, patched with various coloured cloths. ‘Welcome to the top of the world,’ he sniggers, his fingers pinching your arm as he guides you along the aisle of tents. ‘We shows you round, yes?’

‘Who are all these people?’ you ask, confused. ‘Why’re they here?’

Most of them appear to be in poorer shape than the man at your side, hunkered down in layers of fur and clothing, looking like corpses awaiting the undertaker. You receive mean, suspicious stares – and covetous glances at your weapons and clothing. Between the tents,
ragged children scamper and play, throwing snow balls at one another. Elsewhere you hear snatches of music and laughter coming from an array of luxurious pavilion tents, their banners and flags billowing in the wind.

‘The sled races,’ says the man, pulling you to a halt and pointing back towards the wall. You see a series of white canvas sheets hanging down from the spiked crenellations. ‘Big sheet entertainment – Ryker’s got the canaries involved. It’s gonna be spectacular!’ He opens out the palms of his hands, waving them in the air while he makes a series of whooshing noises.

‘Sled races..?’ You turn your head, suddenly drawn by the barking din of pack dogs. Across the jumbled wave of tents, you spy a line of kennels and pens. ‘Can anyone enter?’

You feel the man’s hand on your arm again. ‘Forget that for now, good sir. We might have something for you, if you’d be interested. Yes? Few things we accidentally . . . acquired. So, we’d settle for a very good price, just to move them on, if you gets what we’re saying, hmm?’

289

You make a snap decision and veer to the right, building momentum as you sprint along the banks of the lake. Then you leap, hitting the edge of the first stone awkwardly, your heavier and more muscular body confusing your balance. The surface of the stone is slick with tar but luckily you manage to right yourself, just as the dogs bound madly towards the shoreline in hot pursuit.

To cross the remainder of the stones you will need to complete a
speed
challenge:

If you are successful, turn to
122
. If you fail the challenge, turn to
100
.

290

The ground gives a violent shudder. Strong enough to almost throw you off balance. Unlike previous tremors, this one does not abate, continuing to rattle and judder as you feel some powerful force start to build.

‘What’s happening?’ You look to Orrec, whose eyes are now on the main courtyard.

‘This is bad . . .’

A splintering crack tears through the air. You look back to see the statue of your father riven in two, a deep fissure cutting across his scowling face. The ground continues to shake.

Orrec grabs you and starts running for the main courtyard. A tower door opens and guards spill out, most of them still buckling on armour, their dishevelled appearances and bleary eyes suggesting they have just awoken.

The tremors intensify, sending cracks racing through the ground and along the walls. From somewhere in the distance you hear a thunderous crashing of stone.

‘Get to your positions!’ Orrec grabs a bewildered soldier, pushing him towards the main yard. ‘Move it!’ He turns, gesturing to the others. ‘Out! Positions, now!’

All of a sudden, the shaking stops. Everyone stands frozen – waiting, listening . . .

Then you hear the distant screams. And a relentless drumming, like fists pounding against a barrier. The soldiers look at one another, confused.

‘The wall . . .’ Orrec frowns, listening. ‘That’s the holy inscriptions . . . the abbots’ magic.’

The drumming continues, now accompanied by roars and screams of a different nature. They sound inhuman. ‘Allam’s teeth!’ Orrec
starts running for the main yard. ‘Something’s trying to break the wards. We’re under attack! To the walls, men! To the walls!’ Turn to
152
.

291

Your body goes from lightness to heaviness. You try and move, but something is holding you down. There are voices. A confusion of noise.

I tell you, I saw it. Look, his hand . . .

Impossible
.
He can’t still be alive.

Let me see. Stay back!

You hear a scuffle of boots.

Arran? Arran? Do you hear me?
You try your best to surface, to reach out towards the sound of that voice.

Another speaker.
He’s dead. Leave it be. It’s just a spasm. A reflex action.

Silence. You slide back into the dream, your fingers sinking deep into matted fur. The bear grunts, his bright eyes shining back at you from the chill darkness. You try and read his expression, understand what he seeks to tell you – but the whispering at the back of your mind is foreign, incomprehensible.

Look, there’s movement.

One God protect us. He’s alive.

The bear’s eyes have merged into a blinding tunnel of light. You blink, trying to look away. Your body feels heavy again, as if it has become stone: impossible to move. Voices.

We should end this. It is an abomination.

I won’t have it. Such an act would be treason.

No, it would be a mercy.

The light grows brighter still. You squirm away, buffeted by its heat, desperate to find the comfort of darkness once again – but the Norr has gone, and your eyes are wide open . . . refusing to close.

‘Will you get that thing out of my face!’

The light swings away as a man leans in close, his pale skin wrinkled with age. A golden earring flashes with jewels. ‘Tell me your name. Tell me your name, boy.’

You go to draw breath, but there is no air. Gasping, you lurch
forward, startling the man who quickly jerks out of your way. You sit up in bed, hands grappling at sheets. Then your muscles cramp, an excruciating pain like nothing you have ever known before. Unable to breathe, you kick and squirm.

‘Hold him!’ booms a commanding voice.

You roll off the bed, slamming down onto a hard stone floor. For a second, you catch sight of your hands. Large and brightly veined, the skin almost translucent. Then another convulsion throws you onto your back, leaving you bucking and writhing like a fish out of water. Dimly, you sense shapes moving around you – a glint of armour, a swish of crimson robes. Hands reach out and lift you up.

‘Tell me your name!’ A voice hisses in your ear. ‘Else we will end your life, demon.’

You can hear wind and rain battering against a nearby window. The shutters rattle angrily, as if desperate to fly open and let the storm sweep inside.

‘Arran!’ you croak hoarsely. ‘I’m Prince Arran!’

Somehow, you manage to break free of your captor. You stumble away, hitting a wall, lurching from one surface to the next. As you move, your body feels different. Muscles pull against the thinness of a nightshirt. Along your arms, corded veins throb with a vibrant energy.

Full of life, and yet – your chest remains heavy and still. Unmoving. Again you suck hungrily for air, trying to push something into your lungs. Instead a wheezing rattle tumbles from your cracked lips.

You put out a hand to steady yourself, struggling to focus on the shapes coalescing in the flickering lantern light. ‘What . . . what has happened to me?’ you rasp.

‘Arran, calm down. You’re in shock.’ The deep voice belongs to a thick-set man, dressed in brightly-polished armour. His hair is cropped close to his head, peppered with grey.

‘Who was your father? Answer me?’ The persistent questions come from a thinner man, the elderly one with the earring. Crimson robes spill from the golden circlet around his neck, sparkling with rubies.

‘The king . . . my father . . . Leonidas . . .’ Your throat is dry and sore. The words cut you like daggers.

‘Enough!’ The armoured knight raises a hand. ‘We can safely assume this is no demon.’

The red-robed gentleman scowls, his distrust still evident.

Your eyes flick to the third. A wiry man, his face hidden by the shadows of his cowl. He stands with his back against the door, arms folded across his chest. Daggers and knives protrude visibly from his belt. His manner exudes a deadly confidence.

‘This does not sit well with me,’ the rogue drawls from the shadows. ‘This is necromancy.’

‘I won’t hear it,’ snaps the armoured knight, waving the hooded one to silence. ‘Prince Arran. We are honoured by your presence.’ He pushes back his cloak, then drops to one knee, head bowed low. ‘And we are at your service.’ With reluctance, the crimson-robed man and the hooded one both dip their heads in reverence, but their refusal to kneel is made plainly evident.