Legion of Shadow

by Michael J. Ward

  ‘Your arm,’ you insist angrily. ‘You must have a mark!’

  The robber straightens, regarding you thoughtfully. Slowly, he places his crucifix back over his head, tugging it down to lie over his chest. Then he proceeds to remove his coat. Holding it out at arm’s length, he lets it drop into the mud. The military jerkin is short-sleeved, revealing a purple brand running up the entire length of his right arm. It is identical to your own.

  ‘Are you one of them?’ he asks, his voice trembling. ‘This is not my body. I am not . . . a shadow spawn!’

  ‘Then tell me everything,’ you insist, folding your arms. Turn to 920.

  807

  At the foot of the stairs, two spluttering torches frame a grotesque creature, its back hunched over to allow its hulking form to fit under the low ceiling. It is humanoid, with coarse black hair covering much of its body. Tendrils of gooey saliva drip from beneath its fanged muzzle, as it drags a whetstone back and forth across a black-bladed sword. The beast appears to be guarding an iron door, set into the earthen wall behind it.

  ‘Wha . . .?’ The beast looks up, its beady-yellow eyes squinting towards you.

  Without slowing, you raise your hands and release a blast of shadow magic. The beast is blown backwards, smashing the door off its hinges and taking part of the wall with it. The air fills with the stench of brimstone and burnt hair. Wrinkling your nose, you step past the charred body and enter the room beyond.

  Through the dust and smoke, you see that you have entered a large cave. Dark shapes are silhouetted by a bright golden light, pulsing from a circular object that rests on an ornate podium. There is something in its design that reminds you of the shadow gate; perhaps the steam that belches from holes around its edge or the glyphs that shimmer and crackle with magic.

  For now, the dark shapes are of more immediate concern – a horde of misshapen creatures, each one a different aberration of nature. They clutch a makeshift assortment of mean weapons, their snarls and hisses echoing in the chamber.

  But they hold their ground. Uncertain. A few eyes dart sideways, looking back towards the rear of the cave, where a black figure stands guard next to the strange machine. This one looks human, clad in black plates of armour, their face hidden in the shadows of their cowl.

  ‘You cannot stop us, betrayer!’ The voice is rasping, weak-sounding, its words carried on short, ragged breaths. ‘Did you really think the legion could be defeated – that the black guard would be denied its revenge?’ Armour and leather creak as the warrior raises an arm, pointing a finger towards you. ‘Forward my fiends. Bring me its head!’

  The monsters break ranks, rushing forward in an undisciplined mob. As their stinking bodies descend on your position, you feel the shadow mark blossom into life, relishing the battle to come.

  You weave in amongst the beasts’ clumsy strikes, moving with uncanny speed. Your weapons slice through armour and hide, leaving a deafening clamour of pained cries in your wake. A reptilian creature hefts a claymore above its head. You dodge aside as the weapon is brought down, with enough strength to have hewn a man in two. Stepping onto the blade, you leap into the air, kicking the beast backwards into a crowd of its brethren. You land in a spin, cutting down more of the infernal creatures, your laughter mingling with their howls and roars.

  You edge slowly towards the back of the cave, where the hooded warrior presides over the battle, his thick arms folded across his chest. ‘You cannot stop us,’ wheezes the voice in your ear.

  Suddenly, the flat of a blade catches you across the back. You stagger, knocked forwards by the strength of the blow. Turning, you see a mountain of muscle bearing down on you, a sword held in each of its four hands. You dodge the first strike, catching the next and turning it away with your weapon. But the other blows hit home, drawing blood and beating you back against the wall.

  Then you hear the crackle of magic and a hollering cry. Something is moving quickly through the ranks of shadow spawn, glowing swords exploding through weapons and armour. ‘Nyms!’ you call with relief. ‘A welcome sight.’

  The swordsman fights with a brutal efficiency, his quick arcs and jabs downing his stunned opponents. ‘Hate to see you have all the fun,’ he grunts, vaulting off the back of one of the creatures, to spin into your four-armed adversary. ‘Get the hooded one!’ he shouts. ‘I’ve got your back.’ He cuts down the giant, his magic swords blazing trails through the air.

  You advance on the leader, smashing through the remaining shadow spawn that get in your way. As you near, you realise the warrior is a veritable giant, standing over two metres tall. His entire body is encased in thick sheets of shadow-forged armour; even his face is masked by an iron plate, its surface carved with intricate runes.

  ‘So it comes to this,’ wheezes the voice. The warrior uncrosses his arms, revealing a metal disc embedded in his chest. ‘You know nothing of power, Nevarin.’ He puts a gloved hand to the disc and then turns it. Suddenly his whole body changes, shifting into a ghostly shadow of purple light. With dark laughter echoing all about you, the warrior summons crackling flames to his hands. ‘The black guard will have its victory,’ he hisses. ‘And all of Valeron will fall!’

  You must now fight this dark general:

  Special abilities

  Elemental master: Daarko can change his form, giving him different abilities and strengths. At the start of each combat round roll a die. If the result isorhe assumes his shadow form,orthe flame form, andorthe rock form. Daarko starts the first round of combat in his shadow form.

  Shadow form: Each time you take health damage from Daarko you must lower your brawn or magic (whichever is highest) by 2.

  Flame form: At the end of every combat round, you must take 4 damage from the flames that surround Daarko. This ability ignores armour.

  Rock form: If your hero takes health damage from Daarko, you are knocked to the ground. You must reduce your speed by 1 for the next combat round only.

  If you defeat Daarko, restore any lowered attributes and then turn to 935.

  808

  On seeing their leader defeated, the necromancers scramble for the exit, the remnants of their magic sparking uselessly in the air. With a cry of triumph, Arthurian drops to the ground, shaking off the last of his magical shackles.

  Caeleb kneels before the knight, his head bowed. ‘Arthurian, My lord. My protector.’

  Ignoring ceremony, you stride over to Arthurian and put out your hand. The warrior meets your gaze and smiles. He takes your hand and shakes it firmly. His touch is cold, like ice . . .

  ‘Soul and body are back together again,’ you smirk, looking over his ghostly features. The eyes are the same as you remember, but they now stare back at you from a handsome face, framed by bright locks of long curling hair.

  ‘This life is fading,’ states the knight, glancing back towards his tomb. ‘Take my horn. Do it quickly.’

  Without hesitation, you hurry to the open tomb. Inside the cavity, lined with plush white cloth, you find an ivory horn. Carefully, you lift it out of the tomb and carry it over to the waiting knight.

  ‘Good . . . I can bind my essence to this.’ He puts out a pale hand to touch the horn. ‘When you need me, I will come to your aid – just as the bards always said I would.’ His eyes meet your own, his lips forming a knowing smile. ‘I suppose one part of my legend should stay faithful to the truth.’

  Before you can answer, there is a sound – like a long drawn-out sigh – which echoes around the chamber. The ghostly form of Arthurian vanishes, his runed armour clattering to the ground. For the briefest second, the horn glows with a pale radiance . . . then the light is gone.

  You have now gained Arthurian’s horn – a sacred relic:

  Arthurian’s horn (1 use)

  (backpack)

  Use any time in combat to summon Arthurian. He will automatically inflict 20 damage to a single opponent, ignoring armour

  Caeleb slowly gets to his feet, tugging off his helm to reveal eyes wide with as
tonishment. ‘The horn . . .’ he gasps, reaching out and touching it with reverence.

  Nyms walks over and examines the runed armour with his foot, pushing the breastplate over to reveal an engraved insignia – a chalice, surrounded by a circle of seven stars.

  ‘Arthurian’s coat of arms . . .’ Caeleb’s expression hardens, his eyes coming to rest on the shattered remains of Arthurian’s tomb. ‘Zul will pay for this sacrilege.’

  Lansbury places a comforting hand on the warrior’s shoulder. ‘We did a good deed this day. Be content with that, Caeleb, at least.’

  You take the horn and place it in your backpack. It could prove to be a vital weapon in the upcoming battle against Zul. With little else of interest in the chamber, you leave Arthurian’s tomb and head back into the bone fields. Return to the Act 3 quest map.

  809

  The general jumps free of her mount, somersaulting through the air on currents of magic. As she touches down at the base of the crater, tendrils of smoke begin to curl around her fists, forming themselves into two deadly scimitars.

  ‘You chose the wrong side,’ she states coldly, striding purposefully towards you. ‘The black guard will win this day. We will reclaim the Nexus – and all will kneel before the legion!’

  Your weapons clash, sending dark waves of magic rippling out across the battlefield. ‘Your gate got destroyed,’ you hiss between blows. ‘The invasion is over!’

  ‘No, you fool,’ the general kicks you back, following up with another flurry of strikes. ‘There is another way.’ Before you can reply, the warrior’s blades come at you again. It is time to fight:

  Special abilities

  Retaliation: Each time your damage score/damage dice causes health damage to Sanrah, she immediately retaliates by inflicting 1 damage die back to your hero, ignoring armour. (Note: if your blow reduces Sanrah to zero health, you do not take damage from retaliation.)

  Inquisitor’s wrath: If you have the word rival on your hero sheet, then Mathis will wade into the combat at the start of round 3, adding 2 to your damage score for the remainder of the combat.

  Healer’s gift: If you have the word companion on your hero sheet, then Lansbury will heal you once, any time during this combat, restoring 12 health.

  If you manage to defeat this dark general, restore your health and turn to 855. If you are defeated, then you must return to an earlier point. Restore your health, then turn to 905.

  810

  Your shadow mark flares brighter as your grip on the assassin tightens.

  ‘Tell me about the book. The Grimoire of Naraghost. Why was it so important?’

  Fetch gives a wheezing cough. ‘It does not concern you. Now release . . .’

  ‘TELL ME!’ you growl, shaking him angrily. ‘I deserve to know. I risked my life for it.’

  ‘Yes,’ hisses the assassin, ‘and you chose to leave it behind with that rotting crusader.’

  ‘It was a thing of evil. It needed to remain there.’

  ‘No,’ sneers Fetch, staring hard into your eyes. ‘It needed to be taken from there.’

  ‘Why?’ Your brow furrows with suspicion. ‘What’s so special about a book?’

  ‘It belonged to a navigator,’ hisses the assassin. ‘One of the elves. My master had been searching for it for a very long time. Little did he know it had been right under his nose all along.’

  ‘And your master? Who do you serve, Fetch?’

  The man’s pale lips curve into a smile. ‘Avian Dale. I think you know him.’

  You shake your head, scowling with contempt. ‘Lies! That can’t be true. Avian is a good man.’

  ‘Know him so well do you? Let me tell you something about Avian. He has a special talent – a talent for finding people like us. Those who are broken and need fixing; those he can breathe new life into . . . give them fresh purpose.’

  You release the assassin and back away, no longer certain if what he says is the truth or just more poison. ‘And the book,’ you ask, your voice little more than a whisper. ‘Why did he need it? The crusader said it was evil.’

  Fetch’s glittering eyes fix on your own. ‘It is evil, Nevarin. And that is why it had to be taken, far away from Tithebury.’

  Your confused expression urges Fetch to say more.

  ‘The book is a set of charts, to navigate through the shroud. It is how the elves used to travel between worlds, before they built the gates.’

  ‘The shroud.’ The word is familiar. You sift through your memories, trying to remember . . . ‘Lansbury. It has something to do with old magic.’

  Fetch snorts. ‘It is the birthplace of magic. It is magic. Anything that touches or passes through that place is changed . . . and not always for the better.’

  ‘And that’s what happened to the book?’ you ask intently. ‘It was corrupted by this magic?’

  Fetch gives a rasping laugh. ‘You are learning fast, Nevarin. Yes, the book is dangerous – something that will always draw unwanted attention.’

  You smirk, shaking your head. ‘So you and Avian were doing the locals a favour. Never had you down as the altruistic sort.’

  Fetch leans in close, fixing his eyes on your own. ‘There is much you don’t know about me, Nevarin.’ Turn to 792.

  811

  You approach the strange podium, its whirring and clicking almost deafening in the sudden silence. Occasionally, whistling jets of steam belch out from the many cavities around its side, expelling a foul-smelling gas into the air. Warily, you lean over, to inspect the glowing orb that rests on top of the pedestal. Through the clouded glass, you glimpse a ball of fleshy tissue, beating rhythmically like a heart. Metal hooks dig into its fatty folds, anchoring it to a metal base where glyphs and runes glimmer with magic.

  ‘That looks pretty. What’s it do?’ asks Nyms, picking his way over to the machine.

  ‘It reminds me of the shadow gate,’ you reply, noting the strange tubes that extend from the base of the podium. They snake across the cavern floor, disappearing into the ground at various points, like the roots of a tree.

  ‘It looks. . . alive,’ says Nyms, tapping the side of the glass. ‘I suppose we should go find the others.’

  ‘No need,’ you reply with a grimace. There is the crunch of boots on the stairs, accompanied by clinking armour and muffled voices. A second later and Mathis marches in through the blasted hole, his white enamelled armour streaked with blood and dust. In his hands he grips a mighty warhammer, its stone head rippling with holy magic.

  Behind the inquisitor, you recognise Redguard’s medic, Lansbury, and Avian Dale, your master. Both are clad in similar armour to the inquisitor, the polished white plate spattered with mud. Finally, bringing up the rear, is a group of nervous-looking guards, their white tabards stitched with the black raven of Ravenwing’s militia.

  ‘You started without us,’ scowls Inquisitor Mathis, glaring at the piles of corpses that litter the room.

  ‘They weren’t that keen on waiting,’ you retort, meeting his cold glare with one of your own. ‘Glad you could finally make it.’

  ‘Indeed,’ sniffs the inquisitor. ‘And what have you found?’ He strides over to the glowing podium. ‘Avian?’

  The mage hurries forward, his eyes wide with interest. ‘It’s elven,’ he gasps, running his hands over the glyphs that adorn the side of the podium. ‘I’ve seen their like before, but this is new. Zul must have found it in the Dune Sea. I can’t believe. . .’ He moves around the glass sphere, inspecting the beating organ trapped inside. ‘This is a magic anomaly. Pressed into service. . . but for what I can’t fathom.’

  Lansbury appears at your side. She places a hand on your own and squeezes it tight. ‘Good to see you,’ she whispers. You glance her way, noting her tired expression. The past week has been trying on the elderly medic’s reserves of strength, healing those who have fallen foul of the shadow spawn. But she has never complained or faltered from her duty. She grins with mischief, as she flicks her eyes towards Mathis. ‘I’m
afraid the company has been a little trying of late.’

  ‘Lansbury!’ snaps the inquisitor. ‘Your thoughts please.’

  The medic quickly releases your hand and moves forward. ‘Yes, Inquisitor Mathis. Hmm, I’d say, these are not unusual.’ She taps one of the tube-like tentacles with the end of her staff. ‘A distortion of druidic practice. They’re anchoring this thing to ley lines, tapping into deep magic.’ She looks up at the ceiling of the cavern, bathed in the golden glow from the machine. ‘This whole place is acting as a fount of power – but for what?’

  Mathis raises his warhammer, its inscribed headpiece crackling with lightning. ‘I have heard enough. Any fool can see this is the work of demons. It is a thing of evil – and must be destroyed!’

  ‘No!’ Avian tries to intercede, but the inquisitor shrugs him aside, bringing his weapon down hard onto the machine. There is a deafening boom as the orb shatters, dispelling its magic out into the cave. The force of the blast blows you backwards, slamming you into the far wall. The golden light winks out and then there is darkness.

  The cavern begins to shake, dislodging rock and dust from its ceiling.

  ‘What’s happening?’ cries a voice – one of the guardsmen.

  Suddenly, a cold blue light flashes into being, glimmering around Avian’s outstretched palms. The mage is still standing, although blood from a cut streams down one side of his face.

  ‘A good question,’ snarls Mathis, pushing himself up from the rubble. He turns to the machine, which is now a twisted carcass of metal and flesh. ‘At least this abomination is dead.’

  From somewhere above, you hear a noise – loud and powerful enough to loosen more rocks from the ceiling. ‘We have to get out of here,’ you shout, helping Lansbury to her feet. ‘Or we’ll be buried alive!’ Lansbury stoops to pick up her staff, then follows you towards the stairs. Ravenwing’s guards are already scrambling to get out of the cave, jostling each other in their haste to escape.