The Heart of Fire (50 page)

The demon tuts, lifting his eyes to stare past the warrior. ‘Such matters are irrelevant.’

A familiar sound tears through the silence – of snapping, rustling, creaking wood. You turn slowly, a cold dread prickling your skin.

‘No, it can’t be!’ gasps the witch. ‘It still lives . . .’

Indeed, the vines and branches are weaving themselves back together again, knitting the gaping wounds in the monster’s body. With a deep, rumbling roar, the forest guardian levers itself
back to its feet, towering above you in all its menacing glory.

‘Your weapons cannot defeat Orgorath,’ hisses Cernos. ‘You either free me – or die.’

332

A grimy-looking band of ruffians are huddled in a corner, tucking into plates of meat and gravy. Their leader, a grey-clothed woman in her forties, sits with her boots resting
on the table top, supping noisily on a mug of ale. She has a sullen, pale complexion – her narrow face dominated by two bulging eyes and a wide greasy mouth. When one of her companions calls
her ‘the fish’ you can see why it was an apt choice of nickname.

But there is something else, other than the woman’s unsavoury appearance, that has drawn your attention – a spectacular black coat hangs from the back of her chair, its length
fashioned from hundreds of scales, sparkling and flashing in the lantern light. Basilisk scales. You have only seen one such coat before and that was the one you gave to Joseph.

‘What yer glowering at?’ scowls ‘the fish’, thumping her mug down hard on the table. Her companions jump to attention, some with food still hanging from their mouths. As
one, they reach quickly for their weapons, their mean-spirited eyes watching you intently.

333

Benin stumbles back, pressing a hand to his blood-soaked robes. ‘I yield, enough!’ Bright light flashes from his fingertips, knitting together his many wounds. The
effort leaves him pained and exhausted.

‘It . . . it is yours. Now take it,’ he gasps.

You turn to the manticore, wondering if this strange creature will honour its deal.

‘Come closer then,’ it growls, offering out a paw. ‘Take your blood and leave.’

You remove Anna’s vial from around your neck and walk over to the beast. Warily, you meet its stare, expecting an attack – but the manticore merely watches you with a cold
detachment, as if what is transpiring is of no consequence. Taking its paw, you prick the skin and catch a droplet of the beast’s blood in the vial.

When you turn back, you see that Benin has already departed. There is a part of you that feels guilt for having deprived him of the cure he so desperately needed, but in the end you were left
with no choice – Anna had saved your life, and she was counting on you.

With your mission now complete, you leave Crow Rock and return to Carvel. It is midday when you finally reach Anna’s apothecary. You fear that it may already be too late to save the Wiccan
thief. Turn to
329
.

334

‘Shonac was the first,’ explains Scar-face proudly. ‘A skin, like you. He was a Lamuri prince. Exiled from his kin. A brave warrior. One day he lassoed the
last of the great tigers, Quan Mait. He beat it with his club until Mait shared its secrets. Then Shonac kill tiger to take its pelt – make Shonac as strong as the mighty Quan
Mait.’

‘So, Shonac was the first of your people,’ you nod. ‘If he was a warrior, then wouldn’t he have chosen to fight the hunters – make them pay for what they are
doing?’

Scar-face wrinkles his nose. ‘Shonac taught us to choose our battles. We show claws to save our pack. Not lose it.’

335

You are pushed to the edge of exhaustion, your own cries of pain mingling with those of the zombies. For each adversary you beat back with your weapons and magic, there is
another to take its place. At last your legs buckle beneath you, your weapons falling from numb hands, while all around you the zombies continue to close in, promising you a slow and painful
death.

All of a sudden, the nearest zombie blows apart in a shower of body parts. You hear a cry and the sound of ringing steel. Something flies past your head – it might have been an arm. A
zombie staggers and then falls on top of you, expelling black gunge from its mouth. The blade of a dagger protrudes from the back of its head.

With revulsion, you push the body away, to find Eldias standing over you. He sheathes his swords and then doffs his hat to you. ‘Welcome to the party, my friend.’

Taking his hand, you stumble back to your feet, aware that you are now standing at the centre of a vast circle of zombie corpses. Eldias has saved your life. Still shaking from your ordeal, you
retrieve your weapons from the rotted remains. Turn to
284
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336

As the ogre topples to the ground you leap over the body, weapons cutting through the gang of goblins that have rushed in to attack. Despite your exhaustion you are able to
fend off their knives and spears, forcing them to lose ground.

Then you hear a booming war cry from behind you, followed by the crunch of booted feet. The captain is now charging up the slope, his axe held high above his head. The rest of the party are
close behind. A bowstring twangs and the goblin in front of you flies back, an arrow shaft in its chest.

There is a fleeting moment where the remaining goblins are frozen in situ, undecided whether to run or defend their position – then the captain and his men crash into them, hacking with
weapons and blasting with magic.

The battle is over in seconds.

‘Damn greenheads,’ scowls Surl, kicking the nearest corpse. ‘Got blood on me best breeches.’

Vas gives him a shove. ‘They smell better than you, Surl.’

He feigns a hurt expression, then starts sniffing at his clothes with a worried frown.

‘Nice work,’ grins the captain, slapping you on the back. ‘Okay, let’s see what we got here.’

You search the bodies and find 10 gold crowns. You may also choose up to two of the following items:

When you have made your decision, turn to
345
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337

‘Don’t speak of it,’ snarls the white tigris, his mean scowl chastising you. ‘The marsh is cursed. Land of ghosts and bad spirits.’

Grey-hair shakes his head. ‘Sheva, it is the only way. Skins will not follow us across the marsh. They speak of the grey and know her power.’

‘The grey?’ you ask, glancing sideways at Scar-face.

The younger tigris shifts uneasily. ‘A Lamuri witch. She can stalk you both in flesh and in dreams. The marsh is her hunting ground and no one passes.’

‘Beyond the marsh is the stone claws,’ continues Grey-hair. ‘What the skins call the cloud mountains. We cross stone claws and we find escape – from the
hunters.’

The white tigris glares back at the leader defiantly. ‘A coward’s choice. But not ours. Shara Sheva are fighters. We do not run from skins!’

338

You awake to find yourself staring at a stone wall. A cold wind is gusting through a narrow window, sending light flickering across the grey slabs. With a groan, you roll onto
your back, aware that something is constricting your chest. Looking down, you see bandages wrapped tight around your ribs. From beneath the dressing you can feel a hot, smarting pain.

Your attention shifts to your surroundings – and for a second your breath catches in your throat, convinced that you have been brought back to Durnhollow. The room is small – little
more than a cramped cell – and austerely furnished, with only the straw pallet bed and a dripping candle for company. An arched wooden door stands half-open, beyond which you can hear the
resonant echo of voices, chanting in unison. You try and rise but a sudden flash of pain drives you back against the bed. Then dark dreams take you once again, filled with black thorns and cackling
demons.

When you next awake, you find yourself propped up by a pillow. Someone is leaning over you, tipping a clay cup to your lips. The mixture tastes sweet, like honey, as you gulp it down.

‘Good, I see your strength returns.’

It is Ventus, the monk you met on the road. He is dressed in his familiar brown robes, padded with bands of leather. As he takes the cup away, you catch the sparkling white inscriptions etched
into the back of his hands.

‘Where am I?’ you croak, wincing as you try and rise.

Ventus bows his head, his fingers making the sign of the cross in the air. ‘The Monastery of the Risen Light. You are safe here.’

Memories suddenly come flooding back – the fight on the moors, the Wiccan woman with feathers in her hair. You glance down at your bandages, remembering the blast of magic from her wand.
‘What happened to the Wiccans?’ you ask, rubbing your aching side.

Ventus offers you a thin smile. ‘Fireworks, of all things. A stray blast hit the wagon and one of the crates blew sky high. Must have been given to us by mistake – something meant
for the Carvel celebrations. It was enough of a distraction to get you and,’ he pauses for a moment, pressing his lips together, ‘our charge to safety. Come,’ Ventus offers out a
hand, to help you stand. ‘If you feel up to it, the dean would like to meet with you.’ Turn to
260
.

339

The robbers clearly have no combat experience, their ragged clothing and crude weapons suggesting that this was not their first choice of career. However, whether it is plain
greed or hunger that drives them, the men manage to press their attack with a frenzied recklessness. You try your best to fend off all three of them, but you are already exhausted from your trek
through the marshlands. One of the robbers manages to get in a lucky blow, striking you across the forehead with his club. There is little strength behind it, but it is enough to send you stumbling
forwards onto your knees. Another blow lands across your shoulders, driving you into the mud.

‘This ain’t no Wiccan,’ says one of the robbers. ‘I thoughts it was one of them wild men.’

‘I don’t care,’ growls another. ‘Get their purse . . . come on.’

You struggle to rise, desperate to defend yourself, but then something hard slams into your head, hammering you back into the mud – and into darkness. Turn to
360
.

340

There are further bangs from the hallway. You hear splintering wood and the snarling cries of the undead. Grimly, you realise that the only way out of this room is through the
small lattice window.

‘Did you have a plan to escape?’ you ask, moving quickly to the door and peering through the crack. You see clawed hands trying to tear their way through the front door.

When you look back, you see Eldias watching you with an intent expression. ‘I need your help,’ he says. ‘The reverend of the village, Septimus Palatine, is one of the undead.
But a very powerful one. The villagers turned on him when the first of their number fell to the poison. They were angry that the One God was not curing them of the strange curse – they blamed
the reverend. I suppose it was no surprise he’d lock himself in that church.’

‘But that’s on top of the hill,’ you gasp. ‘We’ll never reach it!’

There is the sound of snapping wood followed by a loud bang. You turn to see zombies spilling into the hall, clawing and grappling at each other to get through the doorway. Their waxy, yellow skin is slick with rainwater.

Eldias grabs the overturned chair and hurries to the door. Kicking it closed, he pushes the chair underneath the handle. Then he turns to you, his eerie pale eyes inches from your own.
‘The reverend fell to the curse – but his magic has made him strong, different to the others. He is no mindless zombie. He is a powerful lich and he must be defeated.’

You shake your head frantically, as the door buckles and shakes. On the other side, you can hear the howling, shrieking mob. ‘We’ll never make it!’

Eldias grabs your shoulders, holding you tight. ‘Listen to me! I think Rorus Satch, the herbalist, was close to discovering a cure for vampirism. I need that cure! But the reverend has all
his books, all his learning. He is using them to grow more powerful. I must get to the church, but I can’t do it alone.’

‘But how will we defeat the undead?’ you ask desperately.

Eldias opens out his coat, revealing an array of weapons and other strange items tucked into the lining. ‘The witchfinder’s motto,’ he grins. ‘Always be prepared! Come,
take what you need, I cannot use these – they are as dangerous to me as they are to the zombies.’