The Heart of Fire (70 page)

If you manage to defeat the succubus, turn to
585
.

464

You awake to find yourself lying on your back. Above you, white clouds drift by at a leisurely pace, while a chill wintry breeze rustles the stems of long grass.

Somehow, you are back on the Fenstone Moors.

As you rise groggily to your feet, you knock into a bottle lying in the grass. It is empty but looks to have contained a healing tonic. You turn around to see Anse standing on a nearby hill. His
gaze is levelled on something in the distance. Joining him, you see the tower in the valley below, surrounded by broiling black cloud.

‘The others!’ You gasp, looking to Anse. ‘Polk, Joss . . .?’

The paladin shakes his head, his eyes unreadable behind the band of white cloth. ‘It was too late for them,’ he whispers at last. He pats you on the shoulder, then turns and walks
away.

You stand alone, watching as the tower is finally engulfed by the maelstrom. There is a pulse of dark light, then everything seems to implode inwards, as if pulled back into some other space,
leaving behind an empty moorland. There is no evidence, no trace, that the tower was ever there.

(Return to the quest
map
to continue your adventure.)

465

With the spider queen defeated, you are free to search her lair. Amongst the webbed skeletons you find a pouch of gold (you have gained 100 gold crowns) and a book of strange
runes, bound in leopard skin. You may now take the following item:

If you are a rogue or a warrior, turn to
840
. If you are a mage, turn to
685
.

466

You step warily through the smoke, hunting for your next enemy – but all you find is charred debris and bodies sprawled in the dirt. Just as you begin to wonder if you
are the only one left, a crack of thunder shatters the silence.

A gunshot.

It is followed by a wet-sounding snarl, filled with fury – and pain. Then another blast of gunfire brings silence once again.

You hurry in the direction of its source, your feet knocking into the body of a tigris. A smouldering hole has been punched straight through the beast’s chest. It is the Sheva leader
– his scowl of defiance still fixed on his face.

Boots crunch through the wreckage. A black-bearded hunter comes to a halt on a pyre of broken wood, his body silhouetted by the bright flames licking at his back. He holds a double-barrelled
shotgun in each hand, their gaping nozzles still steaming with black smoke.

He spits out a half-chewed cigar, before eyeing you up with an amused frown. ‘Well, lookee here.’ There is the clink of metal as he levels his guns at you. ‘Now, I ain’t
one to stand in judgement over another soul,’ he says in a slow, gravelly drawl. ‘I guess yer had ya reasons for helping these savages, I see that. But yer can’t change the world,
hero. There ain’t nothing here but the law of the jungle. Survival of the fittest.’

You feel the sweat trickling down your cheek as you stare into the gun barrels, judging distances, angles, timings . . . your strange gift of prophecy flicking through the outcomes of this
battle. Most end in your defeat . . . most, but not all.

‘The law of the jungle,’ you smile thinly, edging closer. ‘Survival. The new replaces the old. You’ve had your time old man. Leave these lands – let the tigris live
in peace.’

The man gives a throaty chuckle. ‘Yer think
I’m
your problem? I’m just the delivery boy, pal. You want to point the finger then start with the king – and all them
other rich hogs with more gold than sense. They like those tigris hides back in the cities.’

You edge closer, hands tightening around your weapons.

‘And don’t you be forgetting the games,’ he continues. ‘Tigris know how to fight. Guess yer can see that for yerself . . .’

The hunter takes his eyes off you for an instant as he gestures to the ruined compound. That second is all you need – you dive forward, rolling across the ground as a shotgun flares,
spewing a storm of metal slugs at the spot where you were standing.

When you leap back to your feet, you find yourself standing eye-ball-to-eyeball with the leader. Up close you can see his scars, like a spider’s web of ice glistening against his weathered
skin. They remind you of your own scars – from the demon.

‘New replaces the old,’ you grin.

Then you are both spinning and twisting in a savage dance of knives, guns and magic. It is time to fight:

Special abilities

If you manage to defeat this veteran hunter, turn to
479
. Otherwise, turn to
664
.

467

The girl opens three baskets, lifting each of the snakes out in turn. The first is a medium-sized snake, with jagged bands of black and silver dancing along its body.
‘Meet the fer-de-lance,’ says the girl proudly. ‘One of my younger snakes, a little churlish at times, but his brashness has its uses – this one won’t shirk away from
a thing. You’d make a great team.’

The girl offers out the next snake, which is smaller, its dark-green skin flecked with yellow. Behind its eyes is a raised crown of bone. ‘The monarch viper is all about finesse –
don’t judge on size, her little poison cocktail can take down a troll . . . or bigger. Quick, clean and efficient.’

‘And that one?’ you ask, peering into the last basket.

The girl hesitates, her lips pursed. ‘Hmm, this one might be a challenge. Zusha is a bushmaster, one of the deadliest killers in the Terral Jungle.’ She carefully lifts out the
snake, its thick grey body instantly coiling around her waist. ‘Zusha likes to hug – and squeeze the life out of her victims. And you too, if you don’t show her the right respect.
Isn’t that right, Zushi-wushi?’ She tickles the snake under the chin, eliciting a long rattling hiss as the pale forked tongue flickers back and forth. ‘So, do you fancy working
your charm on any of these?’

The fer-de-lance is available for 150 gold, the monarch viper is 300 gold and the lesser bushmaster is 500 gold.

You thank the girl for sharing her exotic collection of snakes. Turn to
571
to resume your journey.