The Eye of Winter's Fury (64 page)

458

Chunks of rock whip past you as you guide your transport into the thick of the rock belt. Your mind link allows you to use your magic to make the necessary adjustments to speed and bearing. Within moments you are wheeling and diving past the deadly particles, trying to maintain your speed whilst avoiding the worst of the debris.

To successfully navigate the rock belt, you must take a challenge test using your transport’s speed:

If you are successful, turn to
746
. If you fail the challenge, turn to
53
.

459

When you reach the training yard you find Orrec alone, resting against the pedestal of a statue. As you approach, your eyes wander to the stone-carved figure. You have never really studied it before, your attention usually focused on your sparring partner or the target dummies arranged along the opposite wall. The carving depicts a middle-aged man, resplendent in plated armour, a hunting hawk on one hand and a sword in the other. The royal crest is emblazoned on the man’s chest and mirrored in the lattice-work of his crown.

‘Glad you could make it.’ Orrec straightens. ‘In truth, I had my doubts you would come.’

Your eyes remain fixed on the statue – returning your father’s stare. You can’t help but admire the workmanship. Whoever made it knew your father. The look of conceited disdain in his eyes, the scowl around the puckered lips. Perfect and chilling.

‘Well, I didn’t drag you here for the conversation.’ The warrior snorts a laugh, folding his thick arms as he looks you up and down.

‘I’m sorry,’ you apologise, tearing your eyes away from your father’s disapproving stare. ‘I’m here to train. Although I feel your efforts are wasted.’

‘You do?’ The warrior frowns. He takes a step closer, the light refracting off his highly polished armour. It is the first time you have seen him dressed in anything but pelts and leathers. The armour is ornate and of an unfamiliar design. The shoulder guards are long and ridged, the mail skirt flared and hanging below the knee. The tips of his boots curve upwards, reminding you of a court jester’s motley. ‘I’ve watched you improve. There is no doubting you have strength. Endurance, too. Few can go a whole day against the maids without drawing a sweat.’ He motions with his eyes to the practice dummies. ‘But straw and wood are one thing, flesh and blood is something else.’

You follow him as he circles you, aware that you are the only man in the keep to match him in height and size. ‘There’s something missing with you,’ he says, eyes narrowing. ‘Combat has a rhythm. With you, I sense your mind and body are not as one. They are divided – working in opposition.’

You flinch, aware that his insight is probably closer to the mark than he intended.

‘Shall we?’ He steps away, drawing a sword from the scabbard at his waist. The blade is short and thin, looking comically small in the hands of such an imposing figure. You draw your own weapons. After bowing heads, you begin to spar.

You find yourself lying in the mud several seconds later, the flat of his blade having knocked you near unconscious. You put a hand to your cheek, feeling the cold stickiness of your black blood. Orrec seems unconcerned, waiting for you to get back up.

‘You’re too stiff.’ He moves quickly around you, forcing you to turn, keeping you off balance. ‘You need to learn to bend, shift your shoulders and your hips. Connect your thoughts with what your body is doing. Watch me – see what I do.’ He darts in with his sword, his blade cutting a blurred line. You duck your head back just in time to avoid the blow. When you offer out a return swing, he dodges to the side, leaving you to cut through empty air. ‘Good. That’s better. Now, step it up – show me what you’ve got!’ He backs away, nodding for you to come at him again. You glance up at your father’s face, feeling his bitter disappointment spearing into your soul, telling you
you’re no good
. Spitting into the dirt, you shift your focus to Orrec, determined to prove them both wrong. It is time to fight:

	Special abilities
	Swift steps : If Orrec wins a combat round and causes health damage to your hero, your opponent’s speed is raised by 1 for the next combat round only.
	Sixth sense : If you play a speed or a combat ability, roll a die. If the result is or less, Orrec has evaded your move and its effects are ignored (the ability is still counted as having been used). If the result is or more, you may play the ability as normal.

If you are able to defeat Orrec, then turn to
32
. Otherwise, you may repeat the combat or choose a different trainer (return to
369
to make your choice.)

460

Your sled has taken a serious battering from the rough crossing. You must permanently reduce your sled’s
stability
rating by 2. When you have updated your sheet, turn to
471
.

461

‘Skoll has been our Drokke for a hundred winters. He led our people – the Ska-inuin – against your walls of stone, to take the lands to the south, to leave the north behind us.’

‘No Skard has ever taken the walls of Bitter Keep,’ you add, with a hint of pride.

‘Oh, he would have,’ says the woman with a fierce certainty, ‘but we had a greater enemy at our back. The witch.’ Sura makes a quick gesture in the air – a ward or ritual, perhaps, to see away bad spirits. ‘She steals our winter, puts the fires of Hel into our world. Below us the serpent sleeps, and she seeks to awaken it.’

‘A serpent?’ You pull an incredulous frown.

Sura’s expression becomes hard. ‘Do not mock me, boy. Have you not felt it, seen it with your own eyes? The shifting of the land, the shaking of the mountains?’

You fall silent, your mind flashing back to that fateful day at Bitter Keep – the terrible scenes of death and destruction as it fell into the rift. ‘Yes,’ you croak at last. ‘I saw it.’

‘Skoll tried to stop her, many winters ago. But she is strong, helped by powerful spirits from the other side. In defeat, he sought the Norr, the spirit world – to find a way to defeat her.’

‘He failed . . .’ You read the sadness in her tone.

‘Yes . . .’ Sura takes a deep breath. Her eyes roll back into her head, until only the whites are showing. ‘He is lost to us,’ she rasps. ‘His spirit calls to us, oh it calls . . . in the sigh of the winds, the cry of the tern. But he does not know the way home. He cannot return, his body is without spirit, it is empty . . . cold.’ The woman gives a sudden, heaving gasp. She blinks, trying to refocus. ‘Where . . . where was I?’

‘You were telling me about Skoll.’ You lean back, wafting the potent smoke away.

‘Ah, yes.’ The woman’s eyes brighten suddenly. ‘He is a mighty warrior, the greatest. Skoll will always be Drokke. He sits at Vindsvall, his body frozen in the ice. The Frost Father. And with him, the Kronas. The crown only a Drokke can wear.’

‘
Frozen
?’ you gasp.

‘A Drokke must die in battle,’ she replies sharply. ‘Or a curse will befall the people.’

It takes a moment for her words to sink in. ‘Wait, so no one else can unite your tribes?’

‘A sad truth.’ Sura turns her neck, letting the bones crack. ‘The Asynjur – the shamans – search for his spirit, but no one has found him. We fear the witch has trapped his soul. And she will not give him back to us.’

462

For defeating the abomination, you may now help yourself to one of the following rewards:

When you have updated your hero sheet, turn to
733
.

463

‘What’s there to know? Point yourself in any direction and you’re gonna find snow and ice and mountains. If you’re crazy enough to go North, well, eventually you’re gonna hit the North Face. That’s a mountain range, tall and impressive enough to warn you that yer at the end of the darn world. That’s when sensible people turn back. No one passes the North Face and lives to tell the tale. Particularly if the wicked witch gets you.’

‘The witch?’ you ask with sudden interest. ‘What do you know about the witch?’

There is a grunting snort from behind the wall. ‘I was kidding. Just a stupid Skard tale – the white witch who lives in a palace of ice. They think she’s a bad ’un – the one to blame for every little problem they ever had in their lives. Pitiful. You know, I think the cold does something to their brains.’

464

You spot the monk that Talia told you about seated at the end of the table. He is a large man, likely an impressive sight in his youth but now muscle has turned to fat, his flabby face blotched with broken veins from too much drink. He is surrounded by empty kegs and bottles, his heavy-lidded eyes struggling to focus on the stones he is holding. Nevertheless, as he scatters them across the table, revealing their many carved symbols, it appears he has won the game. His opponent mutters a curse, watching sullenly as the pile of gold is scraped towards the monk’s half of the table.