Minutes later, huddled cold and shivering beside the crumbling statue of some long-forgotten hero, you find yourselves looking out on a cracked stone square. At its far side stands the domed building, looking more like a temple than a tomb. A staircase leads up to its main entrance: an open doorway, flanked by two pillars of rune-covered stone.
‘We’re too late,’ growls Caeleb.
You follow his gaze to a tall tablet of rock, rising several hundred metres into the chill grey sky. Perched on the rock’s summit is a huge demonic creature.
Nyms sucks air through his teeth. ‘Judah’s light . . .’
The creature’s skeletal body and tattered wings share a passing resemblance to a bone wyvern, but this monster is at least four times their size, its serrated-beak and talons covered in spiked iron plates.
‘What is that?’ you gasp.
‘Some mockery of life,’ hisses Lansbury, her grip tightening around her staff. ‘Zul’s forces are already here. We should go back.’
Caeleb turns in surprise. ‘But their presence here only lends our task a greater urgency. We have to stop them raising Arthurian and more of his knights!’
Your eyes haven’t left the undead creature, marvelling at the dark magics that have given it life. ‘Are you suggesting that we try and slip past that?’ A red fire burns in the creature’s hollow eye sockets, forming a gleaming trail as its head roves back and forth. ‘It’s a sentry. It will alert others.’
‘Bah, it’s nothing worse than we’ve faced before,’ says Nyms, drawing his twin blades. ‘I have no fear of it. Besides,’ he cocks his head to one side, his eyes flicking to Lansbury, ‘we have a healer.’
The medic purses her lips. ‘Don’t be foolish. There is always another way. Look.’ Lansbury points to a row of smaller outbuildings that form a ring around the temple. ‘We can use those for cover and go around the other side. I’m sure this place will have another entrance of some sort.’
‘What do you think?’ asks Caeleb, his narrowed eyes peering at you through the visor of his helmet. ‘If we don’t make a decision soon I’ll be standing here in fifty pounds of rusted steel.’
Will you:
Risk a frontal assault on the temple? — 797
Look for a back entrance? — 894
834
The ranger’s belongings are now yours for the taking. You may choose one of the following:
Raven eye
Sinister shadows
Dark queen
(left hand: bow)
(ring)
(necklace)
+2 speed +3 brawn
+1 brawn +1 magic
+2 magic
Ability: bolt
Ability: vanish
Ability: heal
You move to the edge of the balcony and survey the rain-soaked courtyard below. The immense bone creature is now lying in a crumpled heap of tattered flesh and bone. Lansbury is administering healing to a wounded Caeleb. Meanwhile, Nyms has defeated the last of the shades.
He looks up and waves to you, then starts towards the entrance of the building, spinning his bloodied blades in his hands. Turn to 859.
835
You follow Nyms, whose practised eye quickly spots a route up to the balcony. From a running start, you rely on speed to carry you up the side of a buttress, to where a gargoyle-like decoration provides a suitable hand-hold. From here, you leap across the face of the building, springing off the porch roof to propel yourself higher, grabbing the railings of the balustrade. With a grunt, you pull yourself over the side, where Nyms waits by the window, weapons drawn.
‘Blasting through the wall would have been easier,’ you grimace, pushing yourself back to your feet.
Nyms rolls his eyes at you, before ducking through the window. You follow, drawing your weapons in readiness. The room beyond appears to be a library, with dozens of shelves filled with books and scrolls. Nyms has already crossed the space, taking position next to a half-open door. You hear voices coming from the other side.
At your bidding, your shadow mark pulses into life, flooding you with its power. You reach out, sensing for signs of shadow magic. The place reeks of it, as if every stone of the building is emanating a dark presence. But not as strong as the creatures outside this room. You see the outline of their bodies through the wall, marching along what you assume is a corridor. There are three of them, one shimmering more radiantly than the others. The most powerful – a Nevarin, perhaps.
You realise you must act quickly, before they sense your presence. You look to Nyms, raising three fingers. The swordsman nods, indicating his readiness.
You move to the door, waiting for them to move past. But the brightest one has slowed.
‘Wait!’ You hear a woman’s voice – cold and commanding. ‘Something is wrong.’
She turns back to the door. Then kicks it open.
You see an arm and grab it, pulling the woman into the room. She is clad in dark robes, shimmering with purple glyphs. With a snarl, she raises a gloved hand, a spell starting to form at the tips of her fingers. You slap it away, bringing your weapons down faster than she can react. From the other side of the door, you hear weapons clashing and sparking.
You leap over the woman’s body, ignoring the glimmering shadow magic that is starting to coalesce around it. Through the door, you find yourself on a balcony, stretching around the edges of a large, rectangular hall. Nyms is battling a shadow spawn, an ugly beast with a face full of fanged teeth. It wields twin axes which hiss and flare with an angry red magic. Its companion already lies dead, slumped against the wall.
‘Nevarin!’
There is the sound of wood splintering. You spin round, to see three black snakes springing towards you from the other side of the balcony. Their scaled bodies wrap around you, pinning your arms to your side and dragging you off your feet. Then you are flying across the hall, to where a grinning warrior has his arm extended. The snakes are flowing out from his shadow mark, pulling you within range of his venom-dripping dagger. You must fight:
Special abilities
Tight spot: You are entangled in the snake’s shadowy coils, restricting your movement and sapping at your strength. Until the snakes are defeated, you must lower your speed by 1 and take 5 damage, ignoring armour, at the end of every combat round.
Deadly venom: Once you have taken health damage from Viprus, you must automatically lose 3 health at the end of each combat round.
In this combat you roll against Viprus’s speed. If you win the round, you may choose to strike against Viprus or his snakes. Once Viprus is reduced to zero health, the combat is won.
If you are able to defeat this mutated monster, turn to 938.
836
The passageway is swathed in darkness. Lansbury utters a word of command, summoning a white light to the head of her staff. Holding it out before her, the medic takes the lead down the narrow corridor, the magical light dancing along the smooth stone walls.
You stumble after her with your head bowed. Each step is a challenge – your limbs ache and your vision is blurred. The mark on your arm spits and hisses, as if enduring its own private battle with the strange aura that surrounds this place.
The further you progress from the inscribed room, the better you start to feel. As the passageway angles downwards, deeper into the earth, you find yourself catching up with the medic.
‘What did you mean . . . old magic?’ you ask, rubbing your sleeve where the shadow mark still burns.
Lansbury gives you a sideways glance. ‘The Dwarves . . . they were the first to discover the shroud. They were the first to commune with the spirits of that other place.’
‘The shroud?’
Lansbury takes a sharp intake of breath. You follow her gaze, to where the passageway ends in a decorative archway. Sprawled on the ground in front of it is a dark-robed mage. They are lying on their back, their gloved hands gripping a dagger that protrudes from their chest.
Blood is smeared across the sto
ne floor.
Next to the body, set back within a cobwebbed recess, is the statue of a man – a broad-shouldered warrior, encased in elaborate plate armour. The detail is almost lifelike.
Nyms races over to the mage and kneels beside them. After several seconds, he looks back and shakes his head. As you near, you see that the mage is indeed dead – his eyes stare up at the ceiling; his face frozen in an agonised contortion.
‘Valentine D’Azzuro.’
Caeleb whispers the name, etched into the base of the statue.
‘Who was he?’ you ask, studying the stone figure closely. He was clearly a great warrior of some description – the hard solemn face is crisscrossed with a myriad of ugly scars.
‘He was an inquisitor, before he became a Tor Knight,’ says Caeleb. ‘This must be his final resting place.’ He turns to the archway, where a trail of blood snakes away into the dark.
‘Several resting places,’ adds Nyms darkly, prodding the body of the mage with one of his boots. ‘Work of an assassin, by the looks of it. That blade was poisoned.’
From somewhere up ahead you hear a noise, like the smashing of pottery, followed by an angry muttering. Drawing your weapons, you follow Caeleb’s lead as the warrior ducks underneath the archway and continues into the tomb. Turn to 900.
837
With a grimace, Fetch pulls back his hood – to reveal a face that is burnt and scarred. Veins stand out like cords across his pulpy, ruined flesh, branching past dark bruises and jagged scar tissue. You instinctively draw back, unable to speak.
‘Not a pretty sight is it?’ he hisses. ‘Avian found me in the dungeons of the inquisition. I was there for . . . questioning.’ He tugs his hood back over his head, hiding it once again in shadow.
‘What happened?’ you ask hoarsely, still shaken by what you have seen.
‘I have a unique gift,’ states Fetch with a hint of bitterness. ‘You have seen it. The ability to move between places,’ he clicks his fingers, ‘. . .instantly. And like all unique gifts, the inquisition want it – they want to study it, learn about it, punish it . . .’
‘And Avian rescued you?’
Fetch snivels with amusement. ‘I would hardly call him a knight in shining armour, but yes – he has connections. He is very powerful – and he always gets what he wants, eventually.’
Return to 792 to ask another question.
838
You are thrown against a stone wall, hitting it with force. There is the taste of blood and something wet against your face, as you crumple to the ground, moaning with pain.
‘Look!’
You hear a cry from your left and the sound of booted feet.
Dizzily, you open your eyes, feeling nauseous as the stone chamber spins around you in a blur of colour.
‘They’re bleeding. It looks bad.’
The voice belongs to Nyms. You feel strong arms about your shoulders, helping to support you as you mumble groggily. ‘Where am I?’
You feel a cold palm against your forehead. Struggling to focus, you can make out a white shape. Then there is a flash of white light. You flinch away from it, fearful that you are being transported once again. But instead, you feel a comforting warmth flow through your body, taking away the pain and restoring your vision.
Lansbury straightens, looking down at you with a petulant expression. ‘What happened?’ she asks briskly. ‘One minute you were there and then . . .’ The medic snaps her fingers.
With Nyms’ help you struggle back to your feet. Caeleb is watching you from the other side of his room, his helm removed and held under his arm. His eyes are narrowed, his expression one of distrust.
‘We deserve an explanation,’ he adds sternly. ‘We were about to leave you here.’
You glance over, to see that the anomaly has drifted away into another corner of the room, its sparkling sheen barely visible in the pale light from Lansbury’s staff. After taking a deep breath, you recount your adventure, aware that it must sound as far-fetched as a children’s bedtime story.
‘You met Arthurian?’ Nyms gawps, his head jutting forward on his narrow shoulders. ‘Why does that never happen to me?’
‘Because you are not of the shroud, Nyms,’ states Lansbury, eyeing you up with a grimace. ‘I suspect that none of us could have interacted with the anomaly in such a way – or at least, survived to tell the tale.’
‘What’s the shroud?’ you ask, confused.
Lansbury gives a sigh. ‘Yes, I guessed you would be ignorant of such matters. The shroud is the place between worlds, the place where the old magic is drawn from.’
‘It is a place of evil – of demons,’ states Caeleb darkly. ‘And demons tell lies.’
Your eyes widen. ‘Do you not believe my story?’
‘That Arthurian never led the final charge?’ he snaps angrily. ‘That the stories and songs are a lie?’ He laughs softly, shaking his head. ‘I believe that you . . . you took a blow to the head.’ The warrior taps his forehead. ‘Now, I think we have wasted enough time here.’
You watch as the warrior tugs his polished helm over his face, before striding out of the room. As your eyes follow him, your attention shifts to the skeleton of the tomb robber, still lying sprawled amongst the dust and cobwebs.
‘I don’t understand!’ you gasp, walking over and kneeling beside the skeleton. You push aside the tattered remnants of the leather coat, revealing a silver crucifix. ‘Why hasn’t this changed?’ You look up at Lansbury, begging for an explanation.
The medic shrugs her shoulders. ‘Time is a complex weave – it is not a single thread but many. If your story is true, your meddling may have changed one aspect, altered a single thread, maybe others, but the weave will still follow its course.’
Nyms blows out his cheeks. ‘I think I preferred it when I was just hitting things. Can we do that again, please?’ Spinning his blades, he follows Caeleb out of the chamber.
You take the crucifix, turning it over in your palm. You notice that the key-piece is missing. ‘Do you believe me?’ you ask Lansbury, lifting your eyes to meet her stare.
‘Time will tell,’ she says, gesturing towards the exit. ‘Now, after you . . .’
Nodding, you place the crucifix in your pocket before leaving the room. Turn to 902.
839
‘Yes, my special deals. Well let’s take a look . . .’ He reaches inside the chest and produces three items, which he lays out on the ash-covered ground. ‘For you, 450 gold crowns. I can’t say fairer than that.’
You may purchase any of the following items for 450 gold crowns each:
Sliver of shadow
Ghoul’s teeth
Total eclipse
(main hand: sword)
(necklace)
(head)
+2 speed +4 brawn
+1 speed
+2 speed +3 brawn
Ability: chill touch
Ability: piercing
Ability: vanish
After you have made your decision, you can ask to see Waldo’s rare items (turn to 903) or bid the trader farewell (turn to 789).
840
Arthurian nods, his gaze falling on the magic anomaly that blocks the exit. ‘A wizard gave me the plans for this tomb. He was one of those responsible for building it.’ He steps warily towards the mould-encrusted growth. ‘The rope I used was severed. I’ve been trapped in this room for days, weeks . . .’ He stops a short distance from the creature. ‘I cannot defeat this thing. It keeps me prisoner. I have died many times . . .’ His body shudders, as if reliving painful memories. ‘I cannot die. Not by my own hand, not by this creature . . . not by starvation . . .’
You pull back your sleeve, aware that your shadow mark is pulsing with a purple glow, filling you with its familiar craving.
Confidently, you stride up to the anomaly. With a snarl, you lunge forward, driving your arm into its saggy flesh. The anomaly gives a shriek of pain, its body blistering as it begins to unravel, forming thin shreds of green magi
c. You throw back your head, breathing in the power of the magic as it pours into your mark.
You stumble back, gasping – aware that your whole body is now glowing with a soft purple radiance.
‘What are you?’ scowls Arthurian, shrinking away. ‘You are not the work of the One God.’
A flicker of amusement turns the corners of your mouth. ‘My companions and I are here to save you. Trust me, the world is not safe from the Legion of Shadow. They are not defeated!’
You step through the entranceway, the glow from your body illuminating the chamber beyond. There is the scuff of boots as Arthurian moves to join you. ‘What are we here for?’ you demand, warily scanning the chamber. In the wall opposite, a set of stairs lead back to the surface.
To your right is an archway – the one that Caeleb had originally suggested you take.
‘There is a talisman here,’ states Arthurian, his fingers tracing the silver crucifix that rests against his chest. ‘If I destroy it then the curse will be lifted.’
‘And you will die,’ you add, looking intently into his eyes. ‘Why would you trade your life for that?’
Arthurian glowers with anger. ‘I am a warrior, the first knight of the realm. I have led thousands in battle. I found the golden chalice, I fought in the crusades against the heathen lords of Mordland. I am the king’s son, heir to the throne of Valeron! I have proven myself – I was not born to this!’ He beats a fist against his chest. ‘This is a lie!’
You take a step back, startled by the vehemence of his words. Despite the man’s ragged appearance, you see a fierce strength in his steel-grey eyes . . . Arthurian’s spirit, trapped in the body of a Nevarin.
‘I know something of what it is like,’ you state grimly, ‘to find yourself in a body that does not feel your own.’
Legion of Shadow Page 53
