Read Online The Eye of Winter's Fury by Michael J. Ward - Free Book Online Page B

haze descending before your vision, your father’s voice echoing in your ears.
    You’ve let me down again, Arran. Such a waste. Sometimes I wonder if I fathered you at all.
    Ignoring Orrec’s instruction, you fall back on brute strength, letting Nanuk’s spirit flow into you, dragging a guttural roar from your lips.
    It isn’t until you are standing over the downed warrior, your weapons at his throat, that you come to your senses. Orrec is looking up at you – no trace of mockery or disappointment in his expression. Only respect. And a little fear.
    ‘Where did you learn that?’ He struggles up onto his elbows, wincing with discomfort.
    ‘A book, I think.’ You brush the dust from your shoulders, stepping away to let the warrior stand. ‘Did I pass?’
    Orrec finds his feet, his armour clinking as it settles around his massive frame. ‘No one has ever put me in the dirt before. I’d call that a pass, soldier. Welcome to the honoured ranks.’
    Congratulations – you have learned the path of the warrior. You may now permanently increase your health by 15 (to 45). You have also gained the following special ability:

    Upper hand (dm): You automatically win the next combat round (without needing to roll for attack speed). Upper hand can only be used once per combat.

    When you have updated your hero sheet, turn to 290 .
    33
    You pick your way past the two rusted doors, torn from their hinges. Beyond is a small chamber, once used as a guard room. Three skeletons sit propped in chairs behind a counter, wearing the rotted remains of prison officer uniforms. Their grinning skulls are made eerie by the flickering flames of a naked fire burning its way through refuse dumped in a brazier.
    You enter a narrow corridor, bordered on both sides by cells. As your eyes grow accustomed to the gloom, you realise some things are best left to the shadows: crude messages scrawled in filth over the walls; swarms of rats nibbling at decayed remains; prisoners shuffling back and forth, like sleepwalkers lost in a waking dream.
    In the distance, a chill scream.
    Faces start to appear, leering at you from cells, skin black with dirt, hair greasy and tangled. But you pay them no mind, trying to project a confident air as you advance along the corridor.
    ‘I smells treasure,’ croaks a voice to your right.
    You risk a glance into the large open cell, its stone floor littered with ragged animal hides and skulls. An elderly man is sat cross-legged on a soiled straw mattress, his lank grey hair hanging like cobwebs over his ghoulish-white face. ‘I’m Sam Scurvy,’ he slurps, licking at his toothless gums. ‘Best thief in Valeron.’
Will you:
 
Speak with Sam Scurvy?
386
Continue down the corridor?
563
Retrace your steps and leave the prison?
426
    34
    At the top of the hill you discover a round platform of grey stone, bordered by an outer circle of pillars carved with angular runes. At the centre of the platform stands a single slab of rock, its polished surface decorated with similar markings. A small creature is crouched next to them, studying the glyphs with a keen interest. On hearing yourapproach it gives a yelp of fright, spinning to face you. Your response is one of equal surprise.
    The creature is less than a metre tall, its body thin and gangly like a child’s. The head is abnormally large, its bald pate tapering forward into a snout-like nose. From its appearance and size, you suspect it is a fengle – a sub-species of goblin. At least your nights spent poring over bestiaries haven’t proved a total waste of time. From what you recall, they are normally cowardly creatures, scavengers for the most part. Perhaps this one might let you go . . .
    You raise your hands in a show of submission and start to back away. The fengle’s eyes dart to your sword, its yellow eyes widening at the sight of the fist-sized diamond set into the pommel. It licks its lips greedily, long fingers groping towards the rock dagger tucked into its