The Heart of Fire (24 page)

146

‘Boom Mamba brings the boom!’ A raggedy figure appears on top of one of the nearby walls, a staff held in one hand and a flaming skull in the other. The undead pay
him no mind, until he tosses the skull into their ranks – and a second later there is a bright explosion, bones and mud sent showering in all directions. ‘Skellies go boom!’

Then the figure is leaping towards the remaining undead, swinging his staff in a fast-moving blur. ‘We move. Skellies don’t stay dead for long.’ He drives the end of his staff
into the nearest warrior, shattering its ribcage. ‘Follow me if you wanna live.’

The shaman springs onto the wall, unhooking another skull from his belt. After uttering some strange-sounding words, the skull ignites into flame. He tosses it at another advancing horde,
blasting a sizeable chunk out of the earth and tossing blazing bones high into the air. Taking your chance you sprint for the wall, dodging the few stragglers that remain. There is another
explosion to your left, accompanied by a screech of laughter.

‘Eat flame, skellies!’ The man shakes his staff above his head before turning and jumping down off the wall. You follow him as he weaves through the mist-shrouded ruins, changing
direction constantly to avoid further crowds of undead. From the corner of your eye you see more of them shambling around inside the buildings – this entire region is a clearly a haven for
their kind.

‘Down here, we safe from skellies.’ The man veers off to the right, heading into a narrow side-alley between two buildings. Runes have been painted on the walls and floor, pulsing
with a faint purple light. ‘Runes protect us. Skellies can’t cross magic.’ The man ducks through a doorway at the end of the alley. You follow close on his heels, curious to find
out more about this peculiar mage. Turn to
342
.

147

You rip loose your cloak and throw it through the air, watching as it settles over the top of the poltergeist’s body. The creature gives an angry screech as it attempts
to break free of the unwanted prison – but it is already too late for this ghostly nuisance. You are charging in, aiming for the kicking, punching limbs that are now revealed beneath your
cloak:

If you manage to defeat the poltergeist, you can reclaim your cloak. However you must lower one of your cloak’s attributes by 1, due to the damage inflicted to it during the course of the
fight. Then turn to
236
.

148

As you approach, Bea looks up, a cold breeze brushing the blond hair from her face. ‘Oh, lookee here – mended at last!’ She jumps to her feet, sending her
sword clattering noisily to the ground. With a beaming smile, she starts forward to give you a hug, then checks herself. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t . . . I . . . excuse me.’ Blushing, the
woman stoops to retrieve her blade. ‘So . . . so clumsy of me, sorry. Not like me at all.’ Bea forces a nervous laugh as she straightens, catching your eye and turning a deeper shade of
crimson. Behind her on the bench, you see some tattered journals resting on an oil-skin bag. They look to contain a series of arcane markings.

149

‘Ah, prophets,’ Lazlo’s grin spreads a little wider. ‘If you’re Allam and also the king’s son then you get the backing of the Church –
you are proclaimed a hero and sent on a holy crusade. But if you’re a commoner . . .’ The man’s grin fades. ‘Well, the inquisitors don’t take kindly to just anyone
walking around, telling people they see the future.’

‘Why?’ You scowl angrily. Memories of your cruel treatment at Durnhollow are still raw in your mind. ‘Do many people have such . . . visions?’

‘If you’re gullible enough to believe them,’ he smiles. ‘There are many false prophets in this world, proclaiming they know the destiny of our lives. People flock to them
– they grow powerful, wealthy. They can become a threat. The Church doesn’t like that. Understandable, I think you’ll agree.’

You fall silent, reflecting on the strange dreams and visions you have had. Are they just the product of a childish imagination? No – you have already seen the things you have dreamed of
come to pass. Aged eleven you foresaw the death of your older brother. You tried to stop it happening, but you were too late. He fell from the rocks . . . and because you had warned others, they
thought you were the cause. You flinch, remembering the stones that were thrown at you, the angry faces, the accusations. Still just a child, you had fled the village . . .

Lazlo is watching you intently and appears to read your thoughts. ‘I did know one man – a true prophet. His name was Jenlar Cornelius. He could see the future. And he could change
it.’

Your eyes widen with interest. ‘Where is he now?’

Lazlo pulls a grimace. ‘Six feet under. I guess even a prophet can’t cheat death when it comes knocking.’

150

The sky is bright and cloudless as you head briskly across the moors, aware that Jolando’s life is in the balance. As you get nearer to the mountains the ground becomes
steeper, frost crunching underfoot as you find yourself entering a forest of pine and larch.

You haven’t ventured far before you hear a cry and the hollow thump of wood hitting wood. Drawing your weapons you hurry through the trees, emerging on a rocky hillside. A young man in
furtrimmed robes has his back against a tree, frantically fending off the attacks of some unusual creatures. They look like a haphazard clutter of twigs and branches, melded together into a vaguely
humanoid form. Their arms end in splintered points, almost like sword blades, which are punching and slashing through the air. The man sees you and calls over desperately as his staff swings in a
wide arc, smashing one of the creatures through its midriff. ‘Traveller, your aid!’

Without hesitation, you move to join the attack:

If you manage to help defeat these bewitched creatures, turn to
179
.

151

Boss monster: The forest of thorns

Above the town of Carvel, thunder claps and booms, filling the night sky with flickering ribbons of brightly-coloured light. It is All Saint’s Eve and the celebrations
have started, the fireworks casting staccato flashes over the distant rooftops and spires.

You stand alone on the hill, watching it all with the faintest hint of a smile. It is a comfort to know that there is still some semblance of joy and festivity in this cold, bleak land. You
glance down at your hands, still throbbing with pain. Turning the palms over in the silver moonlight, you see the relic’s runes branded deep into your blistered skin. A thin veil of snow
begins to fall, the cold flakes kissing the smarting flesh and offering a fleeting solace against the persistent ache.

Someone calls your name from the foot of the hill. You glance around, to see your companions waiting at the edge of the forest. Misshapen branches stretch like a diseased growth across the
marshy ground, intertwining their barbed limbs until it seems they have become a single living entity – some dark thing that exists for the single purpose of keeping others away. Indeed, you
can understand why few would choose to come here. The Pilgrim’s Road sweeps past it – deviating cowardly from its intended course. The woodsmen could not fell the dark trees of the
forest and so the road was never able to push through to the coast. The forest has always remained, dark and silent, and untouched.

You head down the hill, fragments of your visions running through your head. You doubt this will end well – there is a nagging fear pinching at your stomach, but for some reason you feel
compelled to see this through. That same desire is written on your companions’ faces, coupled with their unwavering belief that you are the one to finally lead them through the forest, to
discover its hidden secrets.

The relic rests on the back of a rickety cart, wrapped in fresh blankets. You can smell the acrid stench of burnt cloth. Since its retrieval from Duerdoun the strange relic has lost much of its
unnatural heat, but it has still proved impossible for anyone else to touch. You feel expectant eyes watching you as you pull back the cloth and take the relic into your hands. The heat throbs
against your raw palms. Shifting the grip, you feel the runes on its surface slide into the depressions burnt into your skin. Then its hammer-like head opens and bright light pours out across the
marsh, glittering off the wickedly-sharp thorns that stretch before you.

At your approach the twisted branches recoil, creaking and shifting as they seek to draw away from the light. Within moments the noise of cracking limbs is almost deafening as the roots
themselves drag their black bodies from the sodden earth, slinking back to the darkness as quickly as they can. You watch in stunned awe as a pathway is slowly revealed through the forest, framed
by high walls of shifting, tormented trees. Holding the relic out, you start along this newly-revealed trail, your companions following. Turn to
196
.

152

(If you have the
coat of many scales
turn to
209
.
)

The man looks up as you approach. His clothes are dirty, his appearance ragged. Clutched in one of his fists is a crumpled piece of paper. ‘Look around you,’ he hisses angrily.
‘If you can’t find charity here, then where can you find it?’

You take a seat next to him, asking the man to explain.

‘I got nothing, not a coin to me name. But I got this.’ He shakes the tattered roll of paper. ‘It’s me grandma. She sent it to me . . . before . . . before . . .’
He breaks off, tears welling in his eyes. ‘Gah, look at me!’ Angrily, he rubs at his face with his dirt-blackened fingers.

‘The village . . . I left to go east. I thought I could make it big in one of the cities. Things didn’t go well; debts . . . you know. Had a few people leaning on me. Then a
messenger found me – gave me this.’ He unravels the paper. ‘A letter from me grandma. Sounds like something happened in the village. Something bad. She wrote this to warn me, that
if . . . if she weren’t around no more, then her house and its belongings would be mine.’ With a scowl, he crumples up the paper again. ‘They call that village Blight Haven now.
You know why?’ He looks at you with bloodshot eyes. ‘Everybody died. But they didn’t stay dead . . . it’s cursed, a place of evil.’

He shudders. ‘The inquisitors don’t do nothing; they say it’s forbidden to go there. And what I’m owed . . .’ He opens his fist, letting the ball of paper drop to
the ground. ‘Not worth the parchment it’s written on.’

His attention strays to your weapons. ‘Hey, you’re an adventurer, right? You wouldn’t be heading that way, you know, looking for a fight or whatever you people do?’

You shrug your shoulders. ‘Perhaps.’

The man scratches his unshaven chin. ‘There’s a coat. Belonged to my grandfather. A coat of basilisk scales. If you should come across it, then you’d be doing me a real favour.
Charity and all that.’ He sneers at a passing group of priests. ‘The Church doesn’t care about us commoners no more. But you’ll help, right? I may not get me rightful home,
but that coat could get me out of a lotta trouble. I’ll even give you a cut of the gold, too. What d’you say?’

You agree to do what you can.