‘Finish what?’ you ask, frowning.
‘Oh games – yes, your kind like games.’ The robber taps the side of his head with the hilt of his dagger. ‘Get inside my head, yes!’
‘I’m not here to play games.’ You raise your hands as a sign of submission. ‘I was brought here by some magic. Perhaps you were too.’
The robber shakes his head, sniggering. ‘Witch magic. Took my soul . . . stole my soul. If you cannot give it back, then you are no use to me!’
Before you can say anything, the robber comes running at you with his dagger. Turn to 816.
911
While Caeleb battles with the tutor, it is up to you to defeat the young mage and his ghoulish companion:
Special abilities
Giblets: The zombie causes 3 health damage at the end of every combat round. This ability ignores armour. Once the acolyte is defeated, the zombie will no longer attack.
Dark master: If you are a necromancer you can attempt to wrest control of the zombie. Roll a die at the start of each combat round. On a roll of ayou have won control. For the remainder of the combat, Giblets will inflict his damage on the apprentice instead.
If you defeat the apprentice, turn to 923. If you are defeated, turn to 862.
912
Your weapons clash together, scraping and sparking. It isn’t long before both of you are sapped of strength – exhausted, the fight becomes more of an uncoordinated brawl. Amidst the flailing punches and desperate strikes, you knock the shadowstalker’s mask away, revealing a porcelain white face framed by curls of dark hair. The woman’s eyes are a brilliant blue – both beautiful and cold.
At last, pinning your enemy to one of the sword-clipped pillars, you drive home a fatal blow. In those final moments you look deep into the woman’s crystal blue eyes, looking for some regret, some hint of humanity. But there is only a bitter hatred, festering like a poisoned wound . . .
Then the face and body begin to change.
You jerk away in shock, watching with a mix of revulsion and fascination as the shadowstalker’s physique broadens out, the skin reforming itself over shifting bones. Within seconds, you are looking upon your own face – staring back you with those same hard blue eyes.
The shadowstalker spits blood in your face.
‘You are one of us,’ your own voice growls with gusto. Then the eyes lose their fierce glimmer, the face becomes slack and the stalker’s body slumps to the floor at your feet.
With shaking hands, you feel at your cheeks, tracing the familiar contours of your face. When you remove your hand, there is blood coating your fingers.
The air crackles with magic, as the stalker’s body becomes a swirling mass of shadow. Feeling tired and numb, you can barely raise your arm – watching with a hollow detachment as the magic pours into your mark, healing your wounds and relieving you of the dull ache in your muscles.
All that remains of the stalker is their few paltry belongings. You find 30 gold crowns and can help yourself to one of the following rewards:
Scorn
Tainted wraps
Twisted treads
(main hand: sword)
(gloves)
(feet)
+2 speed +3 brawn
+1 speed +3 magic
+2 speed +2 brawn
Ability: immobilise
Ability: curse
Ability: trickster
When you have made your decision, turn to 919.
913
Your shadow mark flares bright 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 to find it.’
‘Very well,’ hisses the assassin. ‘It belonged to a navigator – 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? I thought it was evil.’
Fetch’s glittering eyes fix on your own. ‘It is evil, Nevarin. And that is why I lost it. To a demon.’
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, and before I could get the book to safety, something else – a demon changeling – took it from me.’
‘And there was me thinking you had a gift for speedy getaways,’ you add with a smirk. ‘So, what happened?’
Fetch sneers, as if the explanation is beneath him. ‘When I travel, I pass through the shroud, if only for an instant. The demon was waiting for me . . . and on this occasion, I was not able to battle such a foe.’
You glance down at your shadow mark, burning hot beneath your skin. ‘Is this . . . part of that same magic?’ you ask grimly, studying the glowing runes. ‘Am I a demon, like that . . . changeling?’
Fetch leans in close, his bright eyes narrowing. ‘Yes, Nevarin. We are both demons.’ Turn to 792.
914
‘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:
Slipstream silk
Wrath of ages
Chilblain’s tears
(cloak)
(ring)
(necklace)
+3 speed +2 magic
+2 magic
+1 magic +1 armour
Ability: surge
Ability: rust
Ability: piercing
After you have made your decision, you can ask to see Waldo’s rare items (turn to 881) or bid the trader farewell (turn to 789).
915
‘Ah, tired of my company already,’ chuckles Fetch, with a mock expression of hurt. ‘I forgot how impatient your kind can be.’
‘I need to return to the tomb,’ you state firmly. ‘Zul’s mages are raising the dead. We believe they’re going for Arthurian next – the leader of the Tor Knights.’
Fetch rubs his chin thoughtfully. ‘Yes, that would make sense.’
‘Well?’ you snap irritably. ‘Can you travel back there or not?’
Fetch is silent for some time, studying you intently with his bright, piercing eyes. With a shrug of his shoulders, he finally appears to have reached a decision. ‘My magic should now be strong enough to take us back. But I will not stay. I must return to Avian at Ravenwing’s camp.’
‘Fine.’ You place a hand on the assassin’s shoulder. ‘I am ready.’
You wince as the air ignites around you, crackling with bl
ack lightning. It is followed by a blinding white flash . . .
A heartbeat later and you are lurching forwards into a cold dark room. Shapes whirl in a dizzying blur around you. Desperately you reach out, seeking to slow your momentum. Hands slide across slippery stone.
Then your knees buckle and you drop to the dusty floor, gasping for air.
‘They’re back!’ shouts a voice.
You hear the scrape of metal and the rush of feet . . . somewhere amidst the spiralling haze you see figures moving. There is a loud crack and another flash of light.
‘He got away,’ snaps a female voice.
‘Lansbury?’ you croak hoarsely.
You feel yourself being lifted to your feet. Nyms’ face appears inches from your own. ‘You OK? Wake up.’ A gloved hand takes hold of your chin, lifting your head up and forcing you to focus.
‘Just a little . . . travel sick,’ you grimace.
The swordsman chuckles. ‘Good, glad to have you back. Now, care to tell us what just happened?’ Turn to 908.
916
Up close, it is apparent that this is no earthly knight. The man’s face is pale – almost transparent – the eyes burning with a dull red light. As you deliver the final blow, you watch as the knight falls to his knees, his sword rattling to the ground. He looks up at you, eyes widening as if with a sudden recognition . . .
Then the body diffuses into motes of light, which flicker and then are gone. The empty shroud and the knight’s armour drop to the stone tiles.
You may now take one of the following rewards:
Stalwart shoulders
Ever-sharp
Funeral gown
(cloak)
(main hand: sword)
(chest)
+2 speed +2 armour
+3 speed +4 brawn
+1 speed +3 magic
Ability: might of stone
Ability: deep wound
Ability: charm
(requirement: warrior)
‘This was Jorvic,’ states Caeleb grimly, brushing the dust from the tomb’s inscription. ‘He was Arthurian’s standard bearer.’
‘Nut job if you ask me,’ says Nyms, out of the corner of his mouth.
At the other end of the chamber is an arch, leading through into a dark passageway. Lansbury raises her glowing staff and leads the way. If you have the word vault written on your hero sheet, turn to 822. Otherwise, turn to 831.
917
‘Stop dancin’ around and let me hit ya!’ snarls the ogre, attempting to crush you beneath its wrecking ball. As the huge weapon smashes into the ground, you leap onto it, racing up the rusted chain and hopping onto the beast’s hairy shoulders. ‘Wha . . . what yer doing?’
The ogre tries to knock you away, but your weapons have already found a vital spot at the base of its neck. You flip away as the ogre drops to its knees, its eyes assuming a cross-eyed expression. Then it topples face down into the dust, its legs and arms splaying to either side. If you are a mage, turn to 876. If you are a warrior, turn to 801. If you are a rogue, turn to 847.
918
Ravenwing’s men pursue the routed shadow spawn, slashing and blasting at their fleeing enemy. The battle is won. But at what cost? You look around at the men that have remained behind – not only the wounded and the dead, but those who have simply hung back from exhaustion. Many have a haunted look about them, their bodies blackened by soot and grime. You can’t imagine what devastation awaits beyond the walls of the city – where the doom orb’s magic was turned against the camp. The men’s expressions tell you enough.
Across the rubble-strewn square, you see Mathis lying on his side. The inquisitor looks badly wounded. Possibly fatal. Caeleb kneels at his side, his ear pressed close to the warrior’s fevered ramblings. Nyms stumbles past, helping to support an exhausted Lansbury. As he passes by, he nods a silent word of thanks. You return the gesture, glad that your companions are safe.
‘Nevarin!’ You look up, to see Caeleb trudging through the rubble towards you. The cavalier’s armour is raked with black scars, his shield battered and dented. ‘It’s over for your kind,’ he sneers, hobbling closer. ‘I swore to Mathis . . . to the One God . . . that I’d destroy all shadow spawn this day. . .’
‘Caeleb?’ You shake your head in confusion. ‘What madness is this? I’m not your enemy.’
He raises his inscribed sword. ‘Mathis told me everything . . .’
Suddenly, you catch movement out of the corner of your eye. A man is standing on the edge of a rooftop, his scarlet coat billowing in the wind. He raises his hand and suddenly you feel an invisible force closing in around you, pinning your arms and legs tightly together.
Then the man is moving, running through the air as quickly and deftly as if it was solid ground. And like a dog on leash, you find yourself being dragged after him, floating in a magical prison.
‘More demons!’ screams Caeleb. ‘Don’t think you can escape!’
You are pulled across a broad plaza, its fountains and pathways now charred and cratered, towards an officious-looking building clinging to a rise of grey rock. You try and discern its purpose – but the invisible bonds shift, spinning you around. Then something hard strikes you across the head, plunging you into darkness. Turn to 928.
919
You step out from behind the pillars, your body glowing with your newly absorbed shadow magic. The hulking creature is pounding its massive fists against a shield of light that Lansbury has projected around herself and Caeleb. The warrior is lying on his back, injured. His shield rests several metres away, now a battered and twisted piece of metal.
Nyms is slashing at the monster’s back with his swords, but as soon as each wound is delivered, they are healing. The swordsman already looks exhausted and desperate.
‘What happened?’ he calls over his shoulder.
You stride past him, towards the brute. ‘Just grabbing a little pick-me-up.’ With a savage cry, you charge into the fray, your shadow mark burning with demonic energy:
Special abilities
Power of shadow: Your brawn and magic are raised by 5 for the duration of this combat.
Dark runes: The creature’s branded flesh helps it to heal. At the end of each combat round, the brute heals 3 health. This cannot take him above his starting health of 110.
If you defeat this mighty foe, turn to 880. Otherwise turn to 862.
920
‘I am Arthurian, the king’s son,’ he says brokenly, gazing down at the glowing shadow mark. ‘I was tricked by a Nevarin. He had some . . . some kind of talisman.’ He looks up, his eyes cold with anger. ‘It was witch magic. It took my soul . . . I became . . . this.’ He scowls, raising his branded arm. ‘I became a shadow spawn!’
You frown, considering the man’s words. ‘You mean, you swapped bodies somehow?’
‘These are matters for priests, not warriors. I am no scholar.’ The man retrieves his jewelled dagger from the mud. ‘I know what I saw. He became me . . . Arthurian.’ He gives a bitter laugh. ‘And he led my men to their deaths.’
You blink, startled. ‘You mean, when your men rode against the legion . . . that wasn’t you?’
‘Why would I risk my men’s lives?’ he flares angrily. ‘They were butchered! I tried to stop them but they only saw this . . .’ He hits the pommel of his dagger against the shadow mark. ‘I was chased out of the camp like a common beggar. They thought me the enemy. I could convince no one . . .’
You look around at the dark chamber, echoing with the storm.
‘What date is this?’ you ask nervously. You approach the entrance-way to the chamber, surprised to see that the mould-covered anomaly is still alive, its rotted body covering the exit.
‘It has been seven months since the shadow war,’ says Arthurian quietly. ‘People have their freedom. They are rebuilding. But I . . . I have nothing.’
You turn back, eyeing the chamber once again. As you suspected, in the corner of the room, you see the web-like anomaly that brou
ght you here. Its silken strands ripple gently back and forth, glistening with droplets of light. ‘I have travelled back in time,’ you gasp, glancing up at the dark storm raging high above. ‘Magic makes all things possible . . .’
Your attention shifts back to Arthurian. ‘And you were dead . . . in my time. We thought you were a tomb robber. This is your tomb.’
The warrior pulls his coat back on, tugging the collars up around his chin. ‘I am here to put right this wrong; to take what is mine.’ He stoops down to retrieve his lantern. ‘I have to believe that the One God sent you here.’ He looks up, a sudden weariness apparent on his face. ‘I will not have my faith tested again. Are you with me?’
Fascinated by the man’s story, you agree to help him with his task. Turn to 840.
921
You take Avian’s hand, joining him on the magic carpet. ‘I’ll pilot – you’re the cannon,’ he says, crouching down at the front of the vehicle.
‘Do you even know how to defeat that thing?’ you ask, gazing up at the immense floating orb.
Avian glances over his shoulder. ‘No. But that’s never stopped me before. Here, you might need these.’ He flips you a pair of goggles.
‘Are you serious?’
Avian grins. ‘Hold tight.’
The carpet gives a sudden lurch as it jolts forward, speeding across the battlefield. The wind roars in your ears as it begins to pick up speed, accelerating over the rooftops of the city. Then, everything is plunged into a thick, gritty blackness. You choke as you swallow a mouthful of the smog, the grime stinging your eyes. Taking the goggles, you quickly strap them over your face, rubbing the dirt from their visor as you try and focus.
‘I don’t see anything,’ you shout, struggling to get your bearings.
Legion of Shadow Page 60
