130
‘This man, Jolando, is the best in his field. He was contracted for a job – and it went wrong.’ Anna’s fingers brush against a set of daggers resting at the foot of the bed, half-wrapped in black cloth.
‘An assassin,’ you mutter beneath your breath.
‘This wasn’t about murder. He was retrieving an object from the church; an ancient dwarven relic that was found out on the moors.’
‘So, what happened?’
Anna takes one of her mixing spoons and uses it to prod the charred wood on the table. ‘I don’t know for certain. He came to me much as you did, feverish and delirious. He was clutching this . . . part of a charm. I believe it’s responsible for his condition.’
You grimace at the blackened wood. ‘So, where do I come in?’
Anna turns to a side table, covered in sheets of parchment. She takes a quill and begins making marks on one of the pages. ‘I’ll keep this simple. I need you to go to Crow Rock and kill a manticore.’ Her hand makes another series of scrawls on the page. ‘I need its blood to break the curse.’
You snort, shaking your head in disbelief. ‘Kill a manticore? Why not throw in a dragon too – make it a little more challenging.’
Anna snatches up the paper and hands it over. ‘This is not a time for humour.’
You take the parchment and hold it closer to the lantern light. The scrawls form a map, showing a route from Carvel to a series of rocks to the south-east. You look up, realisation dawning on you that she is being perfectly serious. Manticores are savage, bloodthirsty predators – known for preying on humans and other large animals.
‘You owe me,’ says Anna, as if reading your thoughts. ‘And I need its blood.’
‘Why a manticore?’ you ask, folding the paper and sliding it into your pack.
The man gives a sudden cry as he twists and turns on the bed, his fingers forming claws as they fend off some unseen, nightmarish foe.
‘Manticore’s blood was one of the reagents used to craft that charm,’ explains Anna. She takes a glass vial from the table and hands it to you. ‘Whoever made it was serious about doing harm. And I doubt anyone in the church could have made such a thing . . .’
The vial is attached to a silver chain. You lift it over your head, letting it rest against your chest. ‘I’ll do what I can. I promise.’
Anna peers over her glasses. ‘I know you will.’
After bidding the healer farewell, you head out of Carvel, its cobbled streets glimmering in the first light of dawn. Turn to 150.
131
The map-seller drops his voice, glancing over his shoulder. ‘You heard of the fanged crusader, right? He’s preying on criminals in Carvel. At least two gangs have gone down in the last month and even the thieves’ guild has broken up. He’s a real vigilante.’
‘And where do the fangs come in?’ you ask, with a sceptical frown.
‘Some of the guards got a good look. They say he can turn into a bat – a giant vampire bat. And it was taking bodies off into the night. A few pilgrims gone missing in the town lately, too.’ The man shakes his head. ‘Not sure if it’s good or bad, but it all sounds very ugly to me . . .’
Will you:
Ask for more news? — 137
Turn your attention back to upper town? — 77
132
You pass down a short candle-lit corridor into a wide chamber, filled with the fragrant scent of incense and rose petals. Clearly someone has tried to make this space as homely as possible, covering the paved floor with sumptuous rugs and its high, grey walls with rich silk tapestries. Braziers burn in the far corners of the room, illuminating a bed of cushions. Slumped amongst them is a shrivelled husk of a man, his skeletal body poking bumps and ridges through his thin white robes.
As you enter, you hear him take a sharp rattling breath, his pale rheumy eyes roving back and forth. ‘I thought I had only one today,’ he wheezes. ‘Come forward, child.’
You step closer to the frail man, noticing that he is staring vacantly past you. ‘Good.’ He leans forward, scratching at his bald pate with spider-long fingers. ‘Now speak, child. You have passed the training. Are you ready to take the One God’s light?’
You hesitate, not sure how to answer. The man is clearly blind and assumes you are another monk, come to receive the abbot’s blessing.
Will you:
Answer yes (requirement: warrior)? — 415
Answer no and return to the courtyard? — 260
133
‘What were they?’ you ask, rummaging through the charred remains. If you wish, you may now help yourself to one of the following items:
Splintered claw
Warded wood
(main hand: fist weapon)
(ring)
+1 brawn +1 armour
+1 brawn +1 magic
Benin scowls as he prods at one of the tangled bodies with the end of his staff. ‘It looks like Wiccan work to me. Old magic. Perhaps those savages are defending this area for some reason; wanting to frighten off inquisitive travellers like ourselves.’ He lifts an eyebrow, regarding you with a mischievous smile.
Will you:
Ask Benin about his magic? — 80
Ask Benin what he is doing here? — 57
Continue on your journey? — 157
134
You slice off the bulb and remove the outer leaves. You then take the main stalk and chop it into thin slices, adding these to the potion base. They spit and hiss as they sink into the milky liquid, releasing a pleasant lemony smell. What ingredient will you add next?
Will you:
Add meadowsweet? — 104
Add white willow? — 83
Add sagewort? — 114
135
Quest: The toymaker’s tower
The private area is bigger than you thought, the alcove actually serving as a low arch through into a separate dining room. Logs spit and fizz on an open fire, flooding the space with dancing shadow. At a round table a man is sat over a bowl of stew, picking at its contents with his spoon. A woman paces nervously around him, stopping and looking up as you enter.
‘Who are you?’ she asks with a flicker of irritation.
Before you can reply, Polk pushes past and plonks the mugs onto the table. ‘I found your number four, Anse.’ He appears to be addressing the man at the table, who raises his head. It is only when he leans back that you see his eyes are covered by a band of white cloth.
You take an awkward bow, acutely aware of the sudden silence. ‘I can take my leave, if you prefer . . .’
Polk grabs you by the arm and ushers you over to the table. ‘Bah, nonsense,’ he grins, settling into a chair in front of a platter of steaming food. ‘Like I says, I’m the chatty one.’
The woman gives a disparaging grunt. You pull out a chair to take a seat, studying her closely. She is elderly, her short-cropped hair peppered with grey. Her clothing suggests an outdoor type – layers of boiled leather, with a generous cut allowing for comfort and movement. A bow and quiver of arrows rest against the wall behind her.
‘You are alone?’ she enquires, toying with her necklace – an expensive trinket seemingly at odds with the rest of her make-do appearance.
‘Yes,’ you reply assuredly. ‘Would you care to explain what’s going on?’
Polk noisily clears his throat, gaining your attention. ‘We’re heading out at first light, to go and find a tower. It hasn’t been seen . . .’ he pauses while he downs one of the mugs, stopping only to wipe the froth from his beard, ‘ . . . in forty years.’
The man opposite, who Polk referred to as Anse, favours you with a tight smile.
‘I don’t understand,’ you reply. ‘How does a tower disappear and . . .’
‘The tower is Jacob’s,’ snaps the woman, some private torment evident in her eyes. ‘He was a toymaker – a master craftsman. As children, we used to crowd around his cart whenever it came into the village. He would always have little gifts for us . . .’
Her gaze shifts to the crackling log fire. ‘My husband apprenticed with him. He spent most of his time in that tower; spoke little of his work, only that Jacob was studying ancient texts – Elven. He wanted to make his toys . . . more special.’
You glance at Polk, seeing that the bearded warrior is supping on another mug of ale. He flicks his eyebrows at you. ‘I sense this does not end well,’ you sigh, turning back to the woman.
‘There was talk of experiments,’ she says with obvious distaste. ‘And then, one day, the tower simply . . . vanished.’ Her hand returns to the necklace, fingers tracing a ring that hangs from its silver links. A wedding band, perhaps. ‘I have waited forty long years.’
‘So there you have it,’ smiles Polk, slamming another empty mug onto the table-top. ‘We’re going to check out the tower and find out what’s left . . . ’ He stops, aware that the woman is glaring at him across the room. ‘Find out what happened to Joss’ husband,’ he corrects carefully.
‘And why do you need me?’ you ask, confused. ‘Is this dangerous?’
Polk shifts nervously in his chair, hand reaching for his next mug of ale. ‘Two things. You’re number four because Anse here has a thing about numbers.’
You glance over at the man in the white blindfold. He has returned to picking meat out of his stew, placing the dripping morsels on a separate plate. It appears his sight is perfect, despite the blindfold he is wearing. You also notice that every inch of his visible skin, bar his face, is tattooed with white glowing lines of script.
‘And point two?’ you prompt, your eyes remaining fixed on the man’s peculiar markings.
‘We’re dealing with the shroud,’ sighs Polk, taking a noisy gulp of ale. ‘And that means demons, or worse. You can fight, I take it?’
Will you:
Ask about Anse’s strange markings? — 270
Ask about the shroud? — 238
Ask why you should risk your life? — 89
Agree to the mission? — 24
136
‘Oh, we’re not lost,’ the man replies, with a knowing smile. ‘We’re exactly where we need to be.’ You flinch as he leans closer to his pack, his hand passing over the jewelled sword. But he doesn’t take it. Instead, he simply lifts a pouch from out of a side pocket. ‘Salt,’ he grins, bouncing it in his hand.
‘You said we,’ you enquire suspiciously. ‘You have a companion. Where did they—’
Suddenly, you hear a bellowing roar coming from somewhere deep inside the rock. It is followed by someone’s cry and a loud ground-trembling boom. The man flinches for a second, then proceeds to add the salt to the bubbling pot as if nothing untoward has happened.
‘What was that?’ you ask worriedly. ‘Are they in danger?’
‘What was what?’ asks the gentleman, stirring the stew. ‘Would you like some tea? I brewed some earlier. Silver Grey, the finest.’
There is another monstrous roar, dislodging stone and dust from the rock walls. The man moves around the fire and settles down on a blanket. ‘You can join me if you like,’ he says, raising a cup of steaming tea to his lips. ‘I plan on being here for a while.’
Will you:
Join him by the fire? — 187
Ask about the disturbance? — 156
137
‘More news is going to cost you,’ grins Mendo, holding out his palm. ‘Show me some of those shiny ones and we’re in business.’
If you pay the 3 gold crowns, turn to 140. Otherwise, you decide to continue your journey. Turn to 77.
138
Eldias removes a gourd from his coat, plucking out the stopper with his teeth. He then moves swiftly to the window, pouring its contents along the floor. It looks like a fine black powder.
‘What is that?’ you ask with interest.
The witchfinder doesn’t answer. Instead he snatches the lantern from the table, just as the window is smashed inwards by a pair of grasping hands. Through the shattered glass, you see white flashes of rainwater and an endless bobbing sea of heads . . .
Eldias overturns the table, scattering books and papers across the floor. He then moves around the table, ducking down behind it. He urges you to do the same.
You huddle down beside the witchfinder, confused as to what is happening. Eldias is breathing hard, his eyes feverishly bright. ‘Listen to me,’ he gasps. ‘I am weak – I may not make it through this. But understand that the reverend must be stopped – at all costs.’
The door of the room buckles inwards, the chair that was holding it scraping across the floor. A swarm of hands appear through the gap, struggling to get through.
When you glance over at Eldias, you see that he is regarding you with a thin smile. ‘You’re a prophet,’ he says, raising an eyebrow. ‘And you’re telling me you don’t know how this will end?’
You shake your head. ‘I sometimes see my own death, if that helps?’
Eldias is silent for a moment, the lantern flame mirrored in each of his ghostly eyes. ‘Hmm, probably not.’ He twists around, peering over the top of the table. ‘Okay, my friend. Well, I’m no prophet but I always knew one thing . . .’ He swings the lantern over his shoulder, sending it rattling through the air to smash against the far wall. ‘I knew I’d go out in a blaze of glory.’ He ducks down, covering his ears. You follow suit as an enormous, bone-jarring explosion sends glass, wood and plaster flying in all directions. Then Eldias is moving, vaulting over the table with a flint-lock pistol in each hand.
You follow behind him, coughing and choking on the thick smoke. Through the haze, you see flames licking at what is left of the wall. Most of it has been completely blasted away, creating a jagged opening leading out onto the village square.
Leaping over charred bodies and debris, the witchfinder unloads one bullet after another into the crowd of zombies. For a moment, you are captivated by the sight – his fierce countenance, the blazing guns, his cries of impassioned fury – he is like some avatar of vengeance, a living part of the very storm that surrounds him.
You hurry to the witchfinder’s side, cutting and blasting your way through the howling, snarling masses of undead. But there are so many of them now, surrounding you, clawing at you, dragging at your clothes and armour. You must fight:
Special abilities
Back from the dead: When the zombies have been reduced to zero health, roll a die. If you roll or they rise from the dead once more, and regain 6 health. If the zombies are reduced to zero health a second time, then they will no longer rise from the dead.
Undead: You may use your ashes, holy water and holy protector abilities against the zombies.
If you manage to battle your way through the first wave of undead, turn to 58.
139
You stagger across the bridge, head bowed to the fierce wind that seems intent on driving you back. Finally, trembling from the bitter cold, you reach the lonely tower, ascending the stairs to an open doorway.
Inside, you find yourself in a small stone chamber. A man sits behind a desk, slouched in a leather seat. As you walk over, the man looks up and sighs.
‘This is the tower of mages,’ he drawls, inspecting his fingernails. ‘Are you wanting instruction in the magic arts?’
Before you can answer, the man slides off his chair and walks around the desk. His white hair is pulled back tight from his face, bound into a ponytail by a black ribbon. ‘I am Malak Drake, secretary and understudy to the wise and great Ignatius Pyre.’ He looks you up and down, his nose wrinkling. ‘I should warn you, the testing is not easy – you wouldn’t be the first to suffer,’ he pauses while he stifles a yawn, ‘irreparable mental and physical damage.’ His heavy-lidded eyes settle on your own. ‘Speak, then, or take your putrid presence elsewhere.’
Will you:
Ask about the mage tower? — 90
Ask about the testing? — 213
Return to upper town? — 77
140
The map-seller greedily pockets the gold. ‘So, do you want the good news,
the bad news or the downright ugly news?’
Will you:
Ask for the good news? — 125
Ask for the bad news? — 184
Ask for the downright ugly news? — 131
Continue exploring upper town? — 77
141
‘Well, that’s mighty kind of you,’ grins the woman, stepping forward and offering out her hand. ‘I’m Bea – and this here is Brother Ventus.’
The man rolls his eyes. ‘Judah’s light, let’s have no secrets.’ He gives the woman an incredulous look. ‘With a tongue as loose as yours, you should have been a bard.’
‘Oh Vent, I know a good heart when I see one.’ Bea gives you another of her open smiles. ‘I believe the One God sent this one to us.’
Your eyes haven’t left her male companion. ‘You said “brother”. Are you an inquisitor?’ you ask nervously.
He raises an eyebrow, grinning for the first time. ‘No, I’m a brother of the monastery.’ He doffs his hat, revealing his shaven scalp. You also notice glittering inscriptions on the back of his hand.
‘And him?’ you gesture to the elderly man by the roadside. He is still muttering to himself, rocking back and forth in agitation.
Bea and Ventus exchange glances. The woman is silent, carefully guarding her words. The monk is about to speak when something catches his eye. His head snaps around quickly, surveying the surrounding moorland.
The Heart of Fire Page 12
