The Heart of Fire (59 page)

If you win a combat round against the stone giants, you can choose to apply your damage to the giants or a runed pillar (unless you have an ability that lets you strike more
than one opponent). Once the stone giants are defeated, you have automatically won the combat.

If you able to overcome these mighty guardians, turn to
44
. (Special achievement: If you are able to defeat the giants without destroying a single pillar, turn to
188
.)

393

As the last chain is broken, the demon blurs forward with lightning speed. Unable to dodge aside in time, you are hit in the stomach by a fist of claws. The blow draws an
agonised scream from your lips as your body is wrenched upwards, your legs kicking feebly in the air. Your nose fills with the sharp odour of blood and brimstone. Then you are being flung backwards
as a blue-black shape hurtles past you, wings flapping through the air.

‘Now, Orgorath. You are mine!’ bellows the demon.

You hear a scream; one of your companions. Then you crash down onto the snow-crusted mud, your own wheezing breaths thundering in your ears. You lie for some seconds, choking on each agonised
gasp. A cacophony of noise breaks over you – ripping, snarling, tearing. A shower of severed roots and branches go sailing through the night air.

You struggle to lift your head, to see what is happening, but the movement only brings a fresh spasm of pain. As you kick and squirm in the mud, your fingers brush against something cold and
metallic. You manage a glance sideways, to see the relic lying next to you.

The ground trembles. A dark shadow moves into view, blocking out the blood-red moon with a frightening silhouette of horns and spikes.

‘Cernos,’ you gasp.

Your hand goes for the relic – but the demon is faster. A cloven hoof smashes down on the headpiece, staving in the metal panels. Then it descends again, accompanied by a hissing
growl.

From the point of impact, a white light explodes outwards. Blinding. Impenetrable.

You blink, trying to focus – to see beyond the spots of pain and the bright brilliance that surrounds you.

‘Dwarven fools,’ booms the voice of the demon. ‘They hand me the very thing I desire most – the heart of fire.’

As colours swim and merge together, you see Cernos standing over you, a bright gemstone gripped in one of his fists. Smoke billows between the clenched fingers, where the skin boils and
blisters. But the demon shows no sign of pain.

‘My time here is at an end,’ he bellows, raising his other hand and summoning black flames to his palm. ‘As is yours.’ Turn to
418
.

394

‘Allam had a chronicler – one of his knights,’ explains the dean. ‘Not a scholar, but someone who saw the value in recording the prophet’s
visions. It was not an ordered record, more a random collection of scrawls on whatever was to hand – parchment, animal hide, cloth, bandages . . . it became a vast store of knowledge about
Allam. There were thousands of records in the end as the prophet became more . . . susceptible . . . to the visions.’

The dean’s words only serve to confound you more. ‘What does this have to do with him,’ you gesture to the dishevelled traveller, ‘or the Wiccans?’

The dean grins. ‘Allam was fixated on the forest of thorns. He couldn’t penetrate it – no blade or magic was capable of cutting a path through those sorcerous trees. And yet,
he firmly believed something lay there, at its centre.’

You are suddenly reminded of your own strange visions – and the ghostly voice beckoning you to the centre of that malign place. ‘Go on.’

‘For some reason, Allam headed south instead. His men were beset by stone creatures – some say trolls, but I believe they were of a darker magic. Allam and his followers never made
it back from that expedition.’

‘And you want to know why?’

The dean nods. ‘Allam was looking for something on that expedition – something that would get him inside the forest.’ He looks over to the monk, seated at the table. His quill
is struggling to keep up with the vagabond’s ramblings. ‘The only way of knowing why Allam went south was to read the chronicles – to discover the vision that led him there. The
chronicles are a sacred document; they cannot be copied or borrowed. They reside in the cathedral in the capital, under constant guard. Ventus’ mission was to get our friend to the
chronicles. His ability – his gift – would help us find out what Allam was after.’

395

The portal deposits you in a long narrow chamber of rusted metal. An ochre-tinged light filters through grilles in the ceiling, illuminating knee-deep sludge and the assorted
junk bobbing on its surface. You cover your nose from the stench, guessing that this is some kind of waste area. Floating in the slimy water are scraps of metal, tattered cloth, wood shavings,
broken tools, and some things you prefer not to identify. Looking over your shoulder, you see that the portal has closed behind you – trapping you in this foul-smelling chamber. Thankfully,
there is a door at the opposite end. As you make your way towards it, you suddenly hear a splash followed by an angry hiss. Then something hits you in the back, sending you sprawling into the
water. You twist around, just as another object comes flying towards you, missing your head by scant inches.

You stagger to your feet, frantically scanning your surroundings for the source of your tormentor. But you can’t see anything – only bobbing piles of trash. Then a squelching
movement behind you forces you to spin, as a sheet of battered metal lifts itself out of the water. There is an angry snarl as the metal is flung through the air. You duck beneath it, barely having
time to recover before another length of metal is hurled in your direction. Quickly you draw your weapons, sidestepping the missile as it clangs against the far wall.

There is no sign of any visible enemy. You can only assume it must be a poltergeist – an angry spirit intent on using you for target practice!

396

The feathered woman snarls, tugging a black wand from her belt. ‘You dishonour the blood of the Sanchen!’

‘No!’ The cry comes from Ventus, as the Wiccan witch aims the tip of her wand at you. There is a blast of cold, black fire – then you are falling backwards, screaming in agony.
The last thing you remember is the rain, spearing down from the black skies, beating against your pain-wracked body. Then the light fades and a feverish darkness takes you. Turn to
338
.

397

‘I am a shadow, a nothing,’ replies the witchfinder, tugging the brim of his hat lower over his eyes. ‘I was once a king’s hound, the embodiment of his
justice, his divine retribution. I have killed demons in their scores, vampires, witches, pagans . . . the dark things of the underworld that would seek to make these lands their own. I have given
my soul and body to that life – to that duty. But now. . . .’ He raises a gloved hand, turning it over in the slanting beams of light. ‘I cling to what I have left. My
humanity.’ He catches your eye, his fingers curling into a fist. ‘When the darkness comes, that’s all we have left.’

Return to
494
to ask another question, or turn to
433
to continue.

398

The workshop is a huge, rectangular hall, the furthest reaches obscured by smoke. It is hard to fathom how such a vast space could exist inside the tower; clearly some magic or
enchantment must be at play here. Despite its size, the hall is full to bursting point with workbenches and machines, the latter a chaotic mishmash of saws, blades and other mean-looking cutting
tools. Many of these are in operation, chopping or shaving logs of wood which are being fed into the machine by iron grappling claws attached to chains.

As you step warily between the deafening, screeching equipment, you spot store rooms off to either side of the chamber. Packed inside each of these is rank upon rank of wooden soldiers, all
standing still and silent, their features almost lifelike.

Just as you are about to take a closer look, a shower of sparks draws your attention to a nearby worktable. It has started to rise up off the floor, lurching from side to side as if suddenly
possessed of some demonic life force. Behind you, another table is scraping across the ground. You duck just in time as it lifts up above your head, fast-spinning blades missing you by scant
inches. Panic starts to grip you, as you realise the whole workshop is now shifting and spinning, surrounding you in a dizzying maelstrom of snake-like chains and buzzing saws.

It is difficult to make sense of what is happening. It isn’t until you back up to the foot of the stairs, hugging the ground while blades spin overhead, that you realise the workshop is
actually a single, huge creature. The tables are its arms and legs, jointed by chains – and the whirring blades are its deadly armaments, bristling from its many limbs. Finally, as you watch
with mouth agape, an iron claw swings onto its shoulders, giving the monster a grinning visage of gnashing metal teeth.

And then, as one, the wooden soldiers start to advance, shuffling towards you from out of the storerooms. Your immediate instinct is to run, but the saw monster has other ideas. A set of blades
slice down from above, cutting through the metal walkway in a shower of bright sparks. Your only escape route has been closed off. You have no other option but to fight:

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