The Heart of Fire (90 page)

(
NOTE
: You cannot heal after this combat. You must continue this quest with the
health
that you have remaining. You may use potions and abilities
to heal lost
health
while you are in combat.)

If you manage to defeat this dangerous hunter, turn to
780
. Otherwise, turn to
664
.

589

Weakened by your onslaught the immense giant comes crashing down, its chorus of skulls taking on a pitiful wail. You raise the staff and bring it down hard onto the bulbous,
saggy flesh, pouring all of the trapped spirits’ power into the blow.

Then something unexpected happens. Mortzilla begins to fade, its body dissipating into whirling tendrils of purple light. You stumble back, still gripping the staff, as the magic rushes into the
pulsing runes. The staff shakes and bucks in your hand, then the purple light is gone . . . and you find yourself lying on your back, staring up at the green clouds of slow-moving mist.

You glance over to see that the staff has been transformed, its length now twisted into a spear of wickedly-sharp barbs, ending in a crescent blade. The thing is ugly and evil-looking –
glowing with black light. You scramble away from it, sensing that it is somehow alive, throbbing with the dark spirit of Mortzilla.

A cry forces you to spin, your eyes coming to rest on Boom Mamba. The shaman lies on his side, both hands pressed to his stomach. Blood trickles into the cracks of stone.

You hurry over, kneeling by his side. The shaman struggles to focus with pale, feverish eyes.

‘You did it. You did . . . the spirit . . . walk.’ Even in pain, he still manages a weak smile.

‘Do you have any healing tonics?’ you ask, glancing at the vials sewn into his bandolier.

The shaman shakes his head. ‘I’m done for. This is my time.’

You look back to the twisted black spear. ‘You said Mortzilla would have answers. What happened, the staff . . .?’ When you meet his gaze, you see shame written there – and
then realisation dawns. ‘You lied. Cernos never spoke to the spirit, did he? You just wanted me to help you – to complete the spirit walk.’

The shaman gives a wheezing gasp, blood coating his lips. ‘You only one who could use the boom stick. Only a demon.’

You shake your head. ‘I’m no demon. You’re mistaken.’

Boom Mamba’s smile takes on a sad quality. ‘It was me. I spoke to your demon friend. I told him what he want to hear. In return, he help me finish the staff. So I could do spirit
walk at last.’

‘Cernos helped you? Why?’ A cold bitterness creeps into your voice.

‘He knew you be coming.’ Boom’s eyes flutter closed, his breath rattling in his lungs. ‘He knew I make you help . . . perhaps he not think you have strength. Perhaps he
think you not live to defeat the spirits.’

You blink and stare, unable to respond, your thoughts mired in a million unanswered questions. After swallowing a deep breath, you take hold of the shaman’s arms, gripping him tight,
willing him to stay alive just a moment longer. ‘Tell me what you told Cernos. What was he looking for?’

‘The key . . . key to Tartarus,’ he rasps. ‘Dwarf city . . . sealed after the fall . . .’

‘Where is it?’ you insist, aware of the harsh, cutting tone to your words. It shames you, but you know you must find this demon – at all costs. ‘Tell me where the key
is.’

‘Taken south . . . Lamuri city . . .’ Boom’s eyes open, a grin still playing on his lips. ‘You do good . . . you give best boom ever . . . ancestors favour . . .
you’. Then the shaman’s smile fades and his chest heaves its last breath.

You stand as if in a dream, still bewildered by what has happened. If what Boom says is true, then Cernos has played you like a puppet, knowing you would agree to aid the shaman. But did the
demon think you would get this far? Is Mortzilla’s black spear his final trick? You step towards the evil-looking weapon, aware that it is now humming to itself, the air around its purple
runes popping with dark energies.

590

Quest: The bridge of screams

The colossal walls of the volcano sweep away from its bubbling basin, forming a hollow cone of midnight black. Its many cracks and crevices bleed an endless river of molten
rock, spilling over ledges and along weathered channels, to feed the shimmering lakes of fire. Like some tormented monster, the magma spits and hisses with fury, venting great torrents of fizzing
steam into the air.

But this natural spectacle pales into insignificance next to the dwarven city. Where you had been expecting twisted streets and tumble-down houses, its appearance is something far more alien. It
puts you in mind of a gigantic candle, melted and hardened to the side of the volcano. Waxen walls gleam in the firelight, dripping with hundreds of spiralling columns, towers and arcane
structures, connected to each other by narrow bridges and vertiginous ledges. You twist around, mouth agape, as you follow the chaotic expanse extending almost the full circumference of the
volcano.

It would be a sight worthy of the epic sagas . . . but like Duerdoun, this place has a profound sense of wrongness. You not only feel it – you can see it. Across the sculptured walls,
twisted black shapes scramble over each other like flies. At this distance it is impossible to tell if they are human, animal or something else entirely. Occasionally, vague sounds echo back from
those smoky heights. Screams, wails, sobbing . . .

And then there is the bridge.

Its vastness stretches out before you, spanning an immense lake of steaming magma. The rock is featureless and black, smooth as glass. Low walls run either side, lined with hundreds of grinning
skeletons, staked on dark spears of rock.

You look to Avian, struggling for words, your gut twisted with fear and revulsion. The mage is kneeling next to something carved haphazardly into the stone at his feet. He traces it with a
finger, his own expression paling.

‘What does it say?’ you rasp.

‘It’s dwarven,’ states Avian plainly. His finger tracks back across the angular writing as he steadily translates it. ‘Abandon all hope, those who enter . . .’

Your eyes flick to the staked skeletons, contorted into agonised shapes.

‘Wise words.’ Virgil moves past you, his brow raised as he studies the city. ‘This place is clearly riven. Perhaps we should reconsider . . .’ He looks back at Avian.
‘Barahar met his end here. Ragnarok was broken. What makes you think Cernos can make it through?’

‘I’m afraid we can’t go back.’ Avian raises his staff, its tip blossoming into a sphere of white light. Somehow its radiance seems to push away the heat and the pervading
sense of dread. ‘Much rests on the success of this mission. Yes, Virgil, Tartarus is indeed riven – and as such, will likely be infested with anomalies. There will also be the spirits
of Ragnarok to contend with. We must stay together and remain strong. Fear will make us weak.’

591

The succubus is a powerful adversary, blasting you with her dark magics while her mind-numbing powers sap at your strength, making your movements sluggish and weak.

Scar-face falls quickly, his blow missing its mark and leaving him open to the creature’s magic. The ensuing bolt of fire spears the tigris as surely as any steel, dropping him to the
ground with a mournful cry.

‘You cannot defeat me!’ snarls the voice in your ears. ‘This marsh is mine!’

Alone, you are forced to defend yourself against the witch’s onslaught, giving ground to her powerful magics. Then, when all seems lost, you find some hidden reserve of strength – a
bitter fury that floods through your body, helping you to shrug off her debilitating spells. The witch senses this change, pausing in her attack.

‘Demon blood!’ the voice whispers.

Then you fly forward, driving your weapons into her tattered robes. There is a deafening shriek as a black wind pours out of the wound, blowing you backwards. You tumble over onto your stomach,
looking up in time to see the creature’s mildewed robes flutter to the ground. There is no sign of a body, only a thin maggot-like worm, dragging itself across the stones. You clamber to your
feet, marching forward to drive your weapons into its weakened form. There is a piercing, eldritch screech. Then there is silence . . .

At last the succubus’ power has been broken – and the marsh is now safe for the Shara Khana to cross. However, it feels a hollow victory, knowing that your tigris companions gave
their lives to achieve this end. Turn to
748
.

592

For defeating Ixion, you may now help yourself to one of the following special items:

If you are
hexed
then you have gained an extra reward, turn to
808
. Otherwise, return to the quest
map
to continue your journey.

593

‘You’re a bold one – a fighter,’ remarks Yootha, her eyes roving over your possessions. ‘But fancy weapons and armour don’t impress around
here.’ She reaches for the nearest shelf, taking down two bottles and a small leather pack. ‘This is the jungle, honey; you’ve got the heat and the snakes . . . not to mention the
blood-sucking leeches, the killer ants, the cannibal monkeys, the jaguars, the spiders, the . . .’ She stops herself, putting a hand to her mouth and stifling a horsey-sounding laugh.
‘Oh, listen to me. Don’t want to get you worried now.’ She pushes the bottles and pack in your direction with a sly wink.

You may purchase any of the following items for 25 gold crowns each:

When you have made your decision, you may ask to see the Lamuri artefacts (turn to
612
), ask about the jungle (turn to
520
) or continue
your journey (turn to
571
).

594

As you approach the hostel-owner, you notice a board attached to one of the veranda posts. A dozen sheets of parchment are pinned to it, showing individual portraits of
different people.

‘I’m Bertie,’ says the elderly man, grinning up at you with red gums and a single, yellow tooth. ‘They once called me Black Beard, the scourge of the seven seas.’
He pats his pirate hat smugly.

‘And what happened to the beard?’ you ask, frowning at his remarkably hairless chin.

‘Made a promise to a young lassie,’ he sighs. ‘I shaved it off for a kiss. And it never grew back. I suspect foul play.’ He feels along his chin, making an ugly grimace.
‘Mermaids, pah! Never trust anyone that’s got more flippers than legs. That’s my motto – you’d do good to listen.’

595

You emerge on a narrow bridge, spanning a dried-up river bed. On the other side the bridge ends in a raised rectangular courtyard, its stepped walls covered in impressive
carvings. As you make your way along the bridge, you hear a distressed cry coming from up ahead. It sounds like someone in pain.

Quickening your pace, you hurry into the courtyard to discover the aftermath of a battle. Over a dozen bodies lie sprawled across the dusty stones, most lying in twisted contortions of agony.
All are undead – dressed in gold helms and breastplates. The groaning is coming from the far side of the court, where one of the undead appears to be still moving. It squirms on its stomach,
clawed fingers grasping for the dagger protruding from its back. As you pass the other bodies you see that they all have various puncture wounds, oozing a thick green poison. This does not look
like the work of a demon.

You silence the distressed undead, then study your options. To your left, another bridge leads to a pagoda-style shelter, where a series of statues are arranged around a circular font. To your
right, a similar bridge leads through into another ziggurat, this one taller than the last.