The Heart of Fire (22 page)

You take an awkward bow, acutely aware of the sudden silence. ‘I can take my leave, if you prefer . . .’

Polk grabs you by the arm and ushers you over to the table. ‘Bah, nonsense,’ he grins, settling into a chair in front of a platter of steaming food. ‘Like I says, I’m the
chatty one.’

The woman gives a disparaging grunt. You pull out a chair to take a seat, studying her closely. She is elderly, her short-cropped hair peppered with grey. Her clothing suggests an outdoor type
– layers of boiled leather, with a generous cut allowing for comfort and movement. A bow and quiver of arrows rest against the wall behind her.

‘You are alone?’ she enquires, toying with her necklace – an expensive trinket seemingly at odds with the rest of her make-do appearance.

‘Yes,’ you reply assuredly. ‘Would you care to explain what’s going on?’

Polk noisily clears his throat, gaining your attention. ‘We’re heading out at first light, to go and find a tower. It hasn’t been seen . . .’ he pauses while he downs one
of the mugs, stopping only to wipe the froth from his beard, ‘ . . . in forty years.’

The man opposite, who Polk referred to as Anse, favours you with a tight smile.

‘I don’t understand,’ you reply. ‘How does a tower disappear and . . .’

‘The tower is Jacob’s,’ snaps the woman, some private torment evident in her eyes. ‘He was a toymaker – a master craftsman. As children, we used to crowd around his
cart whenever it came into the village. He would always have little gifts for us . . .’ Her gaze shifts to the crackling log fire. ‘My husband apprenticed with him. He spent most of his
time in that tower; spoke little of his work, only that Jacob was studying ancient texts – Elven. He wanted to make his toys . . . more special.’

You glance at Polk, seeing that the bearded warrior is supping on another mug of ale. He flicks his eyebrows at you. ‘I sense this does not end well,’ you sigh, turning back to the
woman.

‘There was talk of experiments,’ she says with obvious distaste. ‘And then, one day, the tower simply . . . vanished.’ Her hand returns to the necklace, fingers tracing a
ring that hangs from its silver links. A wedding band, perhaps. ‘I have waited forty long years.’

‘So there you have it,’ smiles Polk, slamming another empty mug onto the table-top. ‘We’re going to check out the tower and find out what’s left . . . ’ He
stops, aware that the woman is glaring at him across the room. ‘Find out what happened to Joss’ husband,’ he corrects carefully.

‘And why do you need me?’ you ask, confused. ‘Is this dangerous?’

Polk shifts nervously in his chair, hand reaching for his next mug of ale. ‘Two things. You’re number four because Anse here has a thing about numbers.’

You glance over at the man in the white blindfold. He has returned to picking meat out of his stew, placing the dripping morsels on a separate plate. It appears his sight is perfect, despite the
blindfold he is wearing. You also notice that every inch of his visible skin, bar his face, is tattooed with white glowing lines of script.

‘And point two?’ you prompt, your eyes remaining fixed on the man’s peculiar markings.

‘We’re dealing with the shroud,’ sighs Polk, taking a noisy gulp of ale. ‘And that means demons, or worse. You
can
fight, I take it?’

136

‘Oh, we’re not lost,’ the man replies, with a knowing smile. ‘We’re exactly where we need to be.’ You flinch as he leans closer to his pack,
his hand passing over the jewelled sword. But he doesn’t take it. Instead, he simply lifts a pouch from out of a side pocket. ‘Salt,’ he grins, bouncing it in his hand.

‘You said
we
,’ you enquire suspiciously. ‘You have a companion. Where did they—’

Suddenly, you hear a bellowing roar coming from somewhere deep inside the rock. It is followed by someone’s cry and a loud ground-trembling boom. The man flinches for a second, then
proceeds to add the salt to the bubbling pot as if nothing untoward has happened.

‘What was that?’ you ask worriedly. ‘Are they in danger?’

‘What was what?’ asks the gentleman, stirring the stew. ‘Would you like some tea? I brewed some earlier. Silver Grey, the finest.’

There is another monstrous roar, dislodging stone and dust from the rock walls. The man moves around the fire and settles down on a blanket. ‘You can join me if you like,’ he says,
raising a cup of steaming tea to his lips. ‘I plan on being here for a while.’

137

‘More news is going to cost you,’ grins Mendo, holding out his palm. ‘Show me some of those shiny ones and we’re in business.’

If you pay the 3 gold crowns, turn to
140
. Otherwise, you decide to continue your journey. Turn to
77
.

138

Eldias removes a gourd from his coat, plucking out the stopper with his teeth. He then moves swiftly to the window, pouring its contents along the floor. It looks like a fine
black powder.

‘What is that?’ you ask with interest.

The witchfinder doesn’t answer. Instead he snatches the lantern from the table, just as the window is smashed inwards by a pair of grasping hands. Through the shattered glass, you see
white flashes of rainwater and an endless bobbing sea of heads . . .

Eldias overturns the table, scattering books and papers across the floor. He then moves around the table, ducking down behind it. He urges you to do the same.

You huddle down beside the witchfinder, confused as to what is happening. Eldias is breathing hard, his eyes feverishly bright. ‘Listen to me,’ he gasps. ‘I am weak – I
may not make it through this. But understand that the reverend must be stopped – at all costs.’

The door of the room buckles inwards, the chair that was holding it scraping across the floor. A swarm of hands appear through the gap, struggling to get through.

When you glance over at Eldias, you see that he is regarding you with a thin smile. ‘You’re a prophet,’ he says, raising an eyebrow. ‘And you’re telling me you
don’t know how this will end?’

You shake your head. ‘I sometimes see my own death, if that helps?’

Eldias is silent for a moment, the lantern flame mirrored in each of his ghostly eyes. ‘Hmm, probably not.’ He twists around, peering over the top of the table. ‘Okay, my
friend. Well, I’m no prophet but I always knew one thing . . .’ He swings the lantern over his shoulder, sending it rattling through the air to smash against the far wall. ‘I knew
I’d go out in a blaze of glory.’ He ducks down, covering his ears. You follow suit as an enormous, bone-jarring explosion sends glass, wood and plaster flying in all directions. Then
Eldias is moving, vaulting over the table with a flint-lock pistol in each hand.

You follow behind him, coughing and choking on the thick smoke. Through the haze, you see flames licking at what is left of the wall. Most of it has been completely blasted away, creating a
jagged opening leading out onto the village square.

Leaping over charred bodies and debris, the witchfinder unloads one bullet after another into the crowd of zombies. For a moment, you are captivated by the sight – his fierce countenance,
the blazing guns, his cries of impassioned fury – he is like some avatar of vengeance, a living part of the very storm that surrounds him.

You hurry to the witchfinder’s side, cutting and blasting your way through the howling, snarling masses of undead. But there are so many of them now, surrounding you, clawing at you,
dragging at your clothes and armour. You must fight:

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