The Heart of Fire (119 page)

‘You and I are linked now,’ replies the demon, a cruel smile twisting his features. ‘So, let me show you.’

Before you can answer you feel yourself being thrown backwards, your head exploding with pain. You crash down onto your back, gurgling and crying in agony, hands scraping over broken stone. Then
you hear voices – raised in anger. In the distance, you can hear screams. A horrible discordant wailing.

Blinking through the pain you open your eyes, trying to focus – colours and shapes coalescing around you. An elderly man in stately robes is shouting at a girl, not much older than
sixteen. She is beautiful, with braided locks of dark hair. She is trying to get away, frightened by the man’s crazed fury.

‘Let me go!’ she begs, pulling to break free.

The man – who must be the king – backhands her across the face, flinging her to the ground. ‘I will not leave! None of us will leave! The dwarves will come! They will save
us!’

‘Listen to them, Father! People are dying! Everyone’s dying!’

The king raises his fist.

‘Nephele!’

A young man strides into the throne room, his tanned body clad in blood-soaked armour. He removes his helmet, tossing it away, revealing blond hair and a handsome face.

‘You!’ snarls the king, stabbing a finger at the young warrior. ‘Get out of my sight! You would dare touch my daughter – dare to think she would choose you over Ixion?
You! A commoner!’

‘No, Father, please!’ begs the girl, sobbing. ‘Cernos is a good man. He was your spear – your trusted general.’

‘He is exiled!’ snarls the king, his eyes wide with madness. He points back down the hall, towards the sound of screaming and bloodshed. ‘Leave the city – or prove your
loyalty and defend your king!’

The young man hurries to the girl’s side, kneeling and putting his arms protectively about her. ‘Nephele. Come with me. We have to go! The demon spares no one – the city is in
ruins!’

A dark shadow passes over the room, throwing everything into darkness. Hooved feet crunch through stone, ragged breaths thundering like the bellows of a forge. A demon stomps into view –
huge, a towering giant of darkness – rippling with fire, its skin scoured with spiteful runes. In one hand it carries a sword as long as the demon is tall; an immense black blade, its own
runes glowing with a sorcerous evil. And there, gripped tight within the sword’s hilt, is the heart of fire – the glowing stone, giving off heat like the surface of the sun.

‘Barahar!’ The name is whispered by the king as he falls back against his throne, face aghast.

Dark spirits roil around the blade, shrieking and hollering. Behind the demon you see a whole host of the ghostly creatures crawling in its wake, filling the corridor with an endless procession
of death.

‘More souls for the sword!’ booms the demon, his voice like that of a God, rattling every wall, every stone, every bone. ‘Ragnarok still thirsts.’ Turn to
782
.

772

Relying on your fast reactions you throw yourself into a charge, ducking and weaving past the giant’s clumsy swings. As you close with the hunter, his club comes smashing
down, throwing up a thick cloud of dust. The giant pulls back his arms ready for another swing . . . then gives a grunt of surprise when he sees that you have vanished.

‘Thanks for the lift!’

He looks up, to see you balanced precariously on the end of his club. Before he can react, you leap off your makeshift platform, weapons cutting down through the air. It is time to fight:

Special abilities

(
NOTE
: You cannot heal after this combat. You must continue this quest with the
health
that you have remaining. You may use potions and abilities
to heal lost
health
while you are in combat.)

If you manage to defeat this burly hunter, turn to
447
. Otherwise, turn to
664
.

773

After ten days aboard the
Angel’s Bounty
you are grateful to finally sight land. This has been your first experience of sea travel and – you hope – the
last. After falling sick on the first day from the constant lurching of the high seas, you have spent most of the journey below decks, lapsing in and out of feverish dreams filled with nightmarish
demons.

The air is thick and moist, almost suffocating, as you stagger onto the deck to join the captain. Below you, the glittering turquoise waters break in curls of white foam against the sculptured
prow, where a grinning cherub points eagerly towards a green smudge of land. The Emerald Isle. You had been imagining an island, as the name suggested, but you discover it is actually a narrow
finger of forest, linked by a hump of sandbanks to the mainland.

The helmsman turns the wheel, guiding the ship around a natural rock wall and into the harbour. Ahead, you see other ships bobbing at anchor – most are ragtag vessels, looking barely
sea-worthy, while a few are more imposing, bristling with cannons and mounted crossbows. Military or mercenaries, you cannot tell.

‘All hands! All hands!’ barks the captain, a weather-beaten ex-soldier forever patting his rotund belly. His crew scurry across the deck, while others clamber the rigging, seizing
cables and hauling the sails to the masts.

As you glide into the harbour you see a portly man in a red bandanna scuttling along the pier, shouting similar orders to his scruffy-looking team. Within moments mooring cables are hissing
through the air and boat hooks are being raised, to guide and secure the ship in dock.

‘Here yer go!’ The captain slaps you on the back, a little more forcibly than you would have liked. You squint through the heat haze at the ramshackle buildings that form a line
along the shore. They look like they were erected overnight, after a few too many drinks – and are now competing with each other to see which will stay standing the longest. ‘Ah, would
yer look at her,’ sighs the captain wistfully. ‘She’s paradise – the place dreams are made of. ’

You look back at the shabby hovels, competing for space against the encroaching jungle. ‘Yeah, paradise,’ you nod with a little less conviction.

The gangplank is lowered. After retrieving your paltry belongings you step down onto the wharf, grateful to be finally standing on a surface that isn’t rearing and bucking like a wild
steed. Of the other passengers on board, you note only one disembarking with you – Quito, a short man with black, straight hair and shifty eyes. He has thankfully kept to himself for most of
the journey, cleaning and sharpening his endless supply of daggers.

Quito shoulders his pack, offering you one of his rare and awkward-looking grins. ‘Welcome to the jungle, my friend. Just make sure it doesn’t eat you.’

Laughing, he starts away down the wooden pier, towards the sorry-looking muddle of buildings. As your eyes stray across the harbour, to the forested mainland, you start to wonder exactly what
you have let yourself in for. Turn to
571
.

774

Red light courses through hidden channels in the door, forming an intricate pattern of whirls and symbols. An instant later and the two panels grind inwards, opening out onto a
vast circular chamber – and a cacophony of screams.

You hurry inside, squelching through a spongy carpet of red slime. It appears to cover every surface of the chamber, dripping from the ceiling in thick bands of crimson rain. Through the
spattering curtain you see a circle of runes, burnt into the ground – and a stone obelisk, facing inwards towards the circle. Avian is pressed against it, his arms and legs spread to each
corner. There are no visible restraints, but clearly some magic has him pinned in place. He squirms and writhes to free himself, his screams intensifying.

A white light is spreading through grooves in the obelisk, emanating from the tortured mage. They flow like liquid along the channels, branching out to meet the runed circle scoured into the
ground. When the light meets the runes the circle flares with a blinding radiance, forcing you to avert your gaze.

‘My magic!’ screams Avian, his voice raw. ‘It’s taking my magic!’

When you look back at the circle, you see a creature rising up out of the murk. It appears human, but fashioned from stringy clods of muscle and bone. You stand transfixed as a skull-like head
thrusts out from its broadening shoulders, whilst its torso explodes into an array of arms, all ending in serrated scythes of yellow bone.

‘No!’ Avian jerks violently against the stone, his eyes rolling back into his head. ‘It’s taking . . . me . . .’

A thin layer of flesh grows across the skull, forming itself into a face – Avian’s face. Then the golem lets go a savage roar, blood and spittle flying from its teeth. Desperately
you look back at the mage, but he now lies slumped against the stone, the bright glow having faded from the grooved depressions. Somehow this monster has used Avian’s power to give itself
life – and now it is up to you to end it. It is time to fight:

Special abilities