The Heart of Fire (21 page)

Damaris stands alone at the edge, the wind whipping through her long grey hair and ruffling the black crow feathers sown into her braids. ‘I’m glad to see your strength has
returned,’ she says, her eyes remaining fixed on the view. ‘Tell me, Sanchen. What do you see?’

You move to her side, scanning the verdant wilderness, which glitters with rivers and lakes. ‘I see a beautiful land,’ you reply truthfully. ‘But a little cold for my
tastes.’ You shiver, pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders.

The woman glances sideways at you. ‘What you see is Gilglaiden. The land that was ours – the land that belongs to the Wiccans.’ Damaris places a hand on your arm, her bright
eyes sparkling in the fading light. ‘You come to us at the time of the crossing, when the fate of our people will be decided.’

127

‘You want to know how someone like me can end up here?’ The man draws his sword. You gasp as the white-steel bursts into light, its inscribed runes glimmering in
complex and dizzying patterns.

‘You’re an inquisitor?’ you ask, both surprised and wary.

The man nods, resting the blade across his knees. ‘This is a named blade. The inscriber who gave his life to imbue it called it “Faith”. It was an honour for me to receive it
– to wield it in battle.’

‘It is indeed a fine sword,’ you add encouragingly.

The blade’s pale light catches the stranger’s face. It is young and handsome – not the grizzled veteran that you had been expecting. ‘I have failed the One God,’ he
sighs, bowing his head. ‘I lost my brother . . . not of kin, but of battle. We had fought many times together, took our vows together, helped each other through the testing.’ His
fingers trace the edge of the glowing blade. ‘But nothing prepared me . . . us . . . for the Wiccans, what they can do. They have a dark power. Twisted. It is a mockery of everything that we
believe in.’

You shift uneasily, waiting for him to continue.

‘Myself and Gairn took justice into our own hands – tried to find their encampment so we could end this, make the roads safe again for the pilgrims. But
they
found us . .
.’ He flinches, removing his hand from his blade. You notice a line of blood trickling from one of his fingers. ‘They had magics that I had not seen before. Elemental and powerful . .
.’ He takes a ragged, shaking breath. ‘I fled like a coward. I knew we had no chance. I lost my . . . faith. And Gairn. He wanders that place still, a restless spirit. Abandoned.’
The warrior slides the blade back into its scabbard, extinguishing the light and returning the alleyway to its former gloom. ‘He cannot move on . . . neither of us can.’ He blows out a
sigh, tilting his head back to offer you a thin smile. ‘And for that, I think I deserve another drink.’

(Record the words
fallen knight
on your hero sheet.) You sense there is little you can do for this disheartened warrior. Taking your pack, you wish him well, before heading back into
town. Turn to
199
.

128

Your choice was a bad one. The paper monster cannot be harmed by your soldier, for the thin body simply folds or crumples around the attacks, taking no damage. (Remove your
soldier from your hero sheet. Then return to
444
to fight this monster yourself.)

129

Murlic glances towards the fire, where you see the hulking silhouette of Conall, the giant warrior, staring into the flames. ‘Our last Sanchen said he would be king one
day. Conall already bring clans together – Hannen, Blackmoor, Crow. We free him from Durnhollow after Church take him as prisoner. They think they defeat us by removing leader but we paid
them back. Now Conall leads again.’ Murlic spits into the dust with a sour expression.

‘I sense you are not at ease with this?’ you ask, watching closely for his reaction.

The Wiccan rogue sneers. ‘He is lapdog to Damaris. That witch uses demon magic with no care. Conall too. Bad things . . .’ He visibly shivers, running a hand through his
grease-spiked hair. ‘We have no choice but to follow. We have nothing left now – so we must fight.’

130

‘This man, Jolando, is the best in his field. He was contracted for a job – and it went wrong.’ Anna’s fingers brush against a set of daggers resting at
the foot of the bed, half-wrapped in black cloth.

‘An assassin,’ you mutter beneath your breath.

‘This wasn’t about murder. He was retrieving an object from the church; an ancient dwarven relic that was found out on the moors.’

‘So, what happened?’

Anna takes one of her mixing spoons and uses it to prod the charred wood on the table. ‘I don’t know for certain. He came to me much as you did, feverish and delirious. He was
clutching this . . . part of a charm. I believe it’s responsible for his condition.’

You grimace at the blackened wood. ‘So, where do I come in?’

Anna turns to a side table, covered in sheets of parchment. She takes a quill and begins making marks on one of the pages. ‘I’ll keep this simple. I need you to go to Crow Rock and
kill a manticore.’ Her hand makes another series of scrawls on the page. ‘I need its blood to break the curse.’

You snort, shaking your head in disbelief. ‘Kill a manticore? Why not throw in a dragon too – make it a little more challenging.’

Anna snatches up the paper and hands it over. ‘This is not a time for humour.’

You take the parchment and hold it closer to the lantern light. The scrawls form a map, showing a route from Carvel to a series of rocks to the south-east. You look up, realisation dawning on
you that she is being perfectly serious. Manticores are savage, bloodthirsty predators – known for preying on humans and other large animals.

‘You owe me,’ says Anna, as if reading your thoughts. ‘And I need its blood.’

‘Why a manticore?’ you ask, folding the paper and sliding it into your pack.

The man gives a sudden cry as he twists and turns on the bed, his fingers forming claws as they fend off some unseen, nightmarish foe.

‘Manticore’s blood was one of the reagents used to craft that charm,’ explains Anna. She takes a glass vial from the table and hands it to you. ‘Whoever made it was
serious about doing harm. And I doubt anyone in the church could have made such a thing . . .’

The vial is attached to a silver chain. You lift it over your head, letting it rest against your chest. ‘I’ll do what I can. I promise.’

Anna peers over her glasses. ‘I know you will.’

After bidding the healer farewell, you head out of Carvel, its cobbled streets glimmering in the first light of dawn. Turn to
150
.

131

The map-seller drops his voice, glancing over his shoulder. ‘You heard of the fanged crusader, right? He’s preying on criminals in Carvel. At least two gangs have
gone down in the last month and even the thieves’ guild has broken up. He’s a real vigilante.’

‘And where do the fangs come in?’ you ask, with a sceptical frown.

‘Some of the guards got a good look. They say he can turn into a bat – a giant vampire bat. And it was taking bodies off into the night. A few pilgrims gone missing in the town
lately, too.’ The man shakes his head. ‘Not sure if it’s good or bad, but it all sounds very ugly to me . . .’

132

You pass down a short candle-lit corridor into a wide chamber, filled with the fragrant scent of incense and rose petals. Clearly someone has tried to make this space as homely
as possible, covering the paved floor with sumptuous rugs and its high, grey walls with rich silk tapestries. Braziers burn in the far corners of the room, illuminating a bed of cushions. Slumped
amongst them is a shrivelled husk of a man, his skeletal body poking bumps and ridges through his thin white robes.

As you enter, you hear him take a sharp rattling breath, his pale rheumy eyes roving back and forth. ‘I thought I had only one today,’ he wheezes. ‘Come forward,
child.’

You step closer to the frail man, noticing that he is staring vacantly past you. ‘Good.’ He leans forward, scratching at his bald pate with spider-long fingers. ‘Now speak,
child. You have passed the training. Are you ready to take the One God’s light?’

You hesitate, not sure how to answer. The man is clearly blind and assumes you are another monk, come to receive the abbot’s blessing.

133

‘What were they?’ you ask, rummaging through the charred remains. If you wish, you may now help yourself to one of the following items:

Benin scowls as he prods at one of the tangled bodies with the end of his staff. ‘It looks like Wiccan work to me. Old magic. Perhaps those savages are defending this area for some reason;
wanting to frighten off inquisitive travellers like ourselves.’ He lifts an eyebrow, regarding you with a mischievous smile.

134

You slice off the bulb and remove the outer leaves. You then take the main stalk and chop it into thin slices, adding these to the potion base. They spit and hiss as they sink
into the milky liquid, releasing a pleasant lemony smell. What ingredient will you add next?

135

Quest: The toymaker’s tower

The private area is bigger than you thought, the alcove actually serving as a low arch through into a separate dining room. Logs spit and fizz on an open fire, flooding the
space with dancing shadow. At a round table a man is sat over a bowl of stew, picking at its contents with his spoon. A woman paces nervously around him, stopping and looking up as you enter.

‘Who are you?’ she asks with a flicker of irritation.

Before you can reply, Polk pushes past and plonks the mugs onto the table. ‘I found your number four, Anse.’ He appears to be addressing the man at the table, who raises his head. It
is only when he leans back that you see his eyes are covered by a band of white cloth.