The Heart of Fire

by Michael J. Ward

  ‘They found us . . .’ gasps Bea.

  Black figures pepper the rocky hills, standing stark against the grey-white sky. You count possibly thirty or forty warriors, clad in furs and rusted mail. A troop approaches, striding towards you with a surly confidence. Their leader is a woman – her grey hair decorated with crow feathers and silver beads. Black runes glimmer against her tanned-hide robes. To her left is a giant of a warrior with great wide shoulders. In each hand he carries a mighty axe, their runes spitting and hissing as the rainwater splashes against the steel. To the woman’s right is a short man, thin and wiry. The hood of his fur cloak is pushed back to reveal his war-painted face. As he bares his pointed teeth, you recognise him instantly – the Wiccan who freed you from the prison at Durnhollow.

  Bea draws her swords, their inscribed steel dancing with white light. The monk tosses his hat aside, ripping open his coat to reveal padded brown robes. He lets the coat drop from his arms, his body immediately snapping into a battle stance. Magic flares around his inscribed knuckles, surrounding his hands in balls of white light.

  The Wiccans come to a halt, showing neither fear nor surprise at this show of aggression. The woman smiles, her amber eyes sliding past the others to settle on your own. ‘Sanchen,’ she nods, her feathered hair flapping in the wind. ‘We meet at last.’ Turn to 296.

  142

  This is your opportunity to choose the path you wish to follow – the warrior or the rogue. The warrior is a master of weapons and armour. Although slow in combat, the warrior compensates for this with a hardy endurance and mighty strength. If you have a high brawn and armour score, then the path of the warrior could be for you.

  If, on the other hand, you have a high speed and brawn score, then the path of the rogue may be more to your liking. The rogue is a master of speed and deception. Whilst weak and vulnerable in longer fights, the rogue excels in exploiting weaknesses and avoiding damage.

  Will you:

  Choose the path of the warrior? — 110

  Choose the path of the rogue? — 85

  143

  Grateful that the glowing fungi is providing you with some light, you scramble up the steep passageway. Behind you, the walls ring with the clatter of weapons and the scraping of boots, as the rest of the group struggle to follow. ‘So much for the stealthy approach.’ You grimace.

  Eventually the passage levels out, ending in another junction. To your left the tunnel widens, opening out into a large cavern. To the right the tunnel narrows, becoming a cramped space filled with stones and rubble. Something glints back at you from between the rocks – a pair of eyes. Then it is gone. You hear the pad of feet, followed by a hooting cry. Goblins.

  Will you:

  Head left into the cavern? — 229

  Head right, following the goblin? — 363

  144

  Legendary monster: The black shuck

  The fenlands stretch as far as the eye can see, bright pools shining like molten gold in the afternoon sunlight. Some might consider it a picturesque scene, worthy of a painting, but not the poor traveller forced to wade through it, cold and soaked to the skin, assaulted by an endless array of buzzing black flies.

  You swipe them away, desperately scanning the distant hills for some sign of habitation. It seems the map you were given has led you astray. You drag it out of your pocket, picking the wet ends apart to peel it open. The inn is clearly marked, only a short walk from the track you were following. But that track had quickly turned into a forest, which in turn has led you to this foul-smelling, fetid marsh.

  You are about to turn back when you glimpse a bright light on the horizon. For a second you consider it might be another lost traveller, but that hope is swiftly quashed. The light is moving towards you at incredible speed, flickering and smoking as it leaps from bank to bank. There is a black shape at its centre – a four-legged animal, wreathed in flame.

  You fumble for your weapons as the beast closes in – a giant hound, covered in midnight-black fur. Around its shoulders and forelegs fire flickers from cracks in its skin, hissing and spitting as the beast’s powerful claws splash through the muddy pools. There is no chance of outrunning this fearsome predator. It is time to fight:

  Special abilities

  Backdraft: Each time your damage score/damage dice inflicts health damage on the hellhound, you must take 3 damage, ignoring armour, from the flames that surround its body.

  Enraged: If the hellhound is still alive at the start of the fifth combat round, it goes into a savage frenzy, raising its speed and brawn by 1 for the remainder of the combat.

  If you are able to defeat the monstrous demon hound, turn to 231.

  145

  You hand settles around something small and round. Excitedly, you withdraw your hand to find that you have discovered a ring, fashioned from three spiralling bands of wood. If you wish, you may take the following item:

  The fellowship ring

  (ring)

  +1 brawn +1 magic

  Ability: charm

  Suddenly, you hear a grumbling, creaking sound coming from the tree. Stepping away, you see that the other holes have now closed up, locking away their treasures.

  You may now try and climb the tree (turn to 96) or leave via the magic portal (turn to 46).

  146

  ‘Boom Mamba brings the boom!’ A raggedy figure appears on top of one of the nearby walls, a staff held in one hand and a flaming skull in the other. The undead pay him no mind, until he tosses the skull into their ranks – and a second later there is a bright explosion, bones and mud sent showering in all directions. ‘Skellies go boom!’

  Then the figure is leaping towards the remaining undead, swinging his staff in a fast-moving blur. ‘We move. Skellies don’t stay dead for long.’ He drives the end of his staff into the nearest warrior, shattering its ribcage. ‘Follow me if you wanna live.’

  The shaman springs onto the wall, unhooking another skull from his belt. After uttering some strange-sounding words, the skull ignites into flame. He tosses it at another advancing horde, blasting a sizeable chunk out of the earth and tossing blazing bones high into the air. Taking your chance you sprint for the wall, dodging the few stragglers that remain. There is another explosion to your left, accompanied by a screech of laughter.

  ‘Eat flame, skellies!’ The man shakes his staff above his head before turning and jumping down off the wall. You follow him as he weaves through the mist-shrouded ruins, changing direction constantly to avoid further crowds of undead. From the corner of your eye you see more of them shambling around inside the buildings – this entire region is a clearly a haven for their kind.

  ‘Down here, we safe from skellies.’ The man veers off to the right, heading into a narrow side-alley between two buildings. Runes have been painted on the walls and floor, pulsing with a faint purple light. ‘Runes protect us. Skellies can’t cross magic.’ The man ducks through a doorway at the end of the alley. You follow close on his heels, curious to find out more about this peculiar mage. Turn to 342.

  147

  You rip loose your cloak and throw it through the air, watching as it settles over the top of the poltergeist’s body. The creature gives an angry screech as it attempts to break free of the unwanted prison – but it is already too late for this ghostly nuisance. You are charging in, aiming for the kicking, punching limbs that are now revealed beneath your cloak:

  If you manage to defeat the poltergeist, you can reclaim your cloak. However you must lower one of your cloak’s attributes by 1, due to the damage inflicted to it during the course of the fight. Then turn to 236.

  148

  As you approach, Bea looks up, a cold breeze brushing the blond hair from her face. ‘Oh, lookee here – mended at last!’ She jumps to her feet, sending her sword clattering noisily to the ground. With a beaming smile, she starts forward to give you a hug, then checks herself. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t . . . I . . . excuse me.’ Blushing, the woman stoops to retrieve her blade. ‘So . . .
so clumsy of me, sorry. Not like me at all.’ Bea forces a nervous laugh as she straightens, catching your eye and turning a deeper shade of crimson. Behind her on the bench, you see some tattered journals resting on an oil-skin bag. They look to contain a series of arcane markings.

  Will you:

  Ask Bea why she is acting so strangely? — 330

  Ask Bea about the books? — 293

  Return to the courtyard? — 260

  149

  ‘Ah, prophets,’ Lazlo’s grin spreads a little wider. ‘If you’re Allam and also the king’s son then you get the backing of the Church – you are proclaimed a hero and sent on a holy crusade. But if you’re a commoner . . .’ The man’s grin fades. ‘Well, the inquisitors don’t take kindly to just anyone walking around, telling people they see the future.’

  ‘Why?’ You scowl angrily. Memories of your cruel treatment at Durnhollow are still raw in your mind. ‘Do many people have such . . . visions?’

  ‘If you’re gullible enough to believe them,’ he smiles. ‘There are many false prophets in this world, proclaiming they know the destiny of our lives. People flock to them – they grow powerful, wealthy. They can become a threat. The Church doesn’t like that. Understandable, I think you’ll agree.’

  You fall silent, reflecting on the strange dreams and visions you have had. Are they just the product of a childish imagination? No – you have already seen the things you have dreamed of come to pass. Aged eleven you foresaw the death of your older brother. You tried to stop it happening, but you were too late. He fell from the rocks . . . and because you had warned others, they thought you were the cause. You flinch, remembering the stones that were thrown at you, the angry faces, the accusations. Still just a child, you had fled the village . . .

  Lazlo is watching you intently and appears to read your thoughts. ‘I did know one man – a true prophet. His name was Jenlar Cornelius. He could see the future. And he could change it.’

  Your eyes widen with interest. ‘Where is he now?’

  Lazlo pulls a grimace. ‘Six feet under. I guess even a prophet can’t cheat death when it comes knocking.’

  Will you:

  Ask what he knows of Allam? — 21

  Enquire as to your whereabouts? — 9

  Accuse him of being the masked crusader? — 39

  State you wish to leave? — 167

  150

  The sky is bright and cloudless as you head briskly across the moors, aware that Jolando’s life is in the balance. As you get nearer to the mountains the ground becomes steeper, frost crunching underfoot as you find yourself entering a forest of pine and larch.

  You haven’t ventured far before you hear a cry and the hollow thump of wood hitting wood. Drawing your weapons you hurry through the trees, emerging on a rocky hillside. A young man in furtrimmed robes has his back against a tree, frantically fending off the attacks of some unusual creatures. They look like a haphazard clutter of twigs and branches, melded together into a vaguely humanoid form. Their arms end in splintered points, almost like sword blades, which are punching and slashing through the air. The man sees you and calls over desperately as his staff swings in a wide arc, smashing one of the creatures through its midriff. ‘Traveller, your aid!’

  Without hesitation, you move to join the attack:

  If you manage to help defeat these bewitched creatures, turn to 179.

  151

  Boss monster: The forest of thorns

  Above the town of Carvel, thunder claps and booms, filling the night sky with flickering ribbons of brightly-coloured light. It is All Saint’s Eve and the celebrations have started, the fireworks casting staccato flashes over the distant rooftops and spires.

  You stand alone on the hill, watching it all with the faintest hint of a smile. It is a comfort to know that there is still some semblance of joy and festivity in this cold, bleak land. You glance down at your hands, still throbbing with pain. Turning the palms over in the silver moonlight, you see the relic’s runes branded deep into your blistered skin. A thin veil of snow begins to fall, the cold flakes kissing the smarting flesh and offering a fleeting solace against the persistent ache.

  Someone calls your name from the foot of the hill. You glance around, to see your companions waiting at the edge of the forest. Misshapen branches stretch like a diseased growth across the marshy ground, intertwining their barbed limbs until it seems they have become a single living entity – some dark thing that exists for the single purpose of keeping others away. Indeed, you can understand why few would choose to come here. The Pilgrim’s Road sweeps past it – deviating cowardly from its intended course. The woodsmen could not fell the dark trees of the forest and so the road was never able to push through to the coast. The forest has always remained, dark and silent, and untouched.

  You head down the hill, fragments of your visions running through your head. You doubt this will end well – there is a nagging fear pinching at your stomach, but for some reason you feel compelled to see this through. That same desire is written on your companions’ faces, coupled with their unwavering belief that you are the one to finally lead them through the forest, to discover its hidden secrets.

  The relic rests on the back of a rickety cart, wrapped in fresh blankets. You can smell the acrid stench of burnt cloth. Since its retrieval from Duerdoun the strange relic has lost much of its unnatural heat, but it has still proved impossible for anyone else to touch. You feel expectant eyes watching you as you pull back the cloth and take the relic into your hands. The heat throbs against your raw palms. Shifting the grip, you feel the runes on its surface slide into the depressions burnt into your skin. Then its hammer-like head opens and bright light pours out across the marsh, glittering off the wickedly-sharp thorns that stretch before you.

  At your approach the twisted branches recoil, creaking and shifting as they seek to draw away from the light. Within moments the noise of cracking limbs is almost deafening as the roots themselves drag their black bodies from the sodden earth, slinking back to the darkness as quickly as they can. You watch in stunned awe as a pathway is slowly revealed through the forest, framed by high walls of shifting, tormented trees. Holding the relic out, you start along this newly-revealed trail, your companions following. Turn to 196.

  152

  (If you have the coat of many scales turn to 209.)

  The man looks up as you approach. His clothes are dirty, his appearance ragged. Clutched in one of his fists is a crumpled piece of paper. ‘Look around you,’ he hisses angrily. ‘If you can’t find charity here, then where can you find it?’

  You take a seat next to him, asking the man to explain.

  ‘I got nothing, not a coin to me name. But I got this.’ He shakes the tattered roll of paper. ‘It’s me grandma. She sent it to me . . . before . . . before . . .’ He breaks off, tears welling in his eyes. ‘Gah, look at me!’ Angrily, he rubs at his face with his dirt-blackened fingers.

  ‘The village . . . I left to go east. I thought I could make it big in one of the cities. Things didn’t go well; debts . . . you know. Had a few people leaning on me. Then a messenger found me – gave me this.’ He unravels the paper. ‘A letter from me grandma. Sounds like something happened in the village. Something bad. She wrote this to warn me, that if . . . if she weren’t around no more, then her house and its belongings would be mine.’ With a scowl, he crumples up the paper again. ‘They call that village Blight Haven now. You know why?’ He looks at you with bloodshot eyes. ‘Everybody died. But they didn’t stay dead . . . it’s cursed, a place of evil.’

  He shudders. ‘The inquisitors don’t do nothing; they say it’s forbidden to go there. And what I’m owed . . .’ He opens his fist, letting the ball of paper drop to the ground. ‘Not worth the parchment it’s written on.’

  His attention strays to your weapons. ‘Hey, you’re an adventurer, right? You wouldn’t be heading that way, you know, looking for a fight or whatever you people do?’

  You shrug your should
ers. ‘Perhaps.’

  The man scratches his unshaven chin. ‘There’s a coat. Belonged to my grandfather. A coat of basilisk scales. If you should come across it, then you’d be doing me a real favour. Charity and all that.’ He sneers at a passing group of priests. ‘The Church doesn’t care about us commoners no more. But you’ll help, right? I may not get me rightful home, but that coat could get me out of a lotta trouble. I’ll even give you a cut of the gold, too. What d’you say?’

  You agree to do what you can.

  ‘Thank you,’ he grins, shaking your hand. ‘My name is Joseph. I’ll be waiting right here, just in case you come back.’ He flashes you a mouth full of rotted black teeth.

  You may now inspect the tapestry (turn to 181) or leave the church (turn to 77).

  153

  Despite your best efforts, you cannot move the heavy stone slab. Frustratingly, you are unable to recover the gemstones. With little else of interest in this chamber, you decide to leave.

  Will you:

  Leave via the stairs? — 46

  Return to the passage and try the wooden door? — 4

  154

  You leave the tower, following Dean Margo across the courtyard and back into the building of cells. After turning down several corridors, you find yourself entering a library. A number of reading tables are visible in the soft glow of candlelight. Seated at one of the tables is a monk, with spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He is scratching words onto parchment, listening intently to the figure sat opposite him: a ragged old man with streaked grey hair and dirt-stained clothing. He is rocking back and forth, wringing his hands together nervously. You recognise him as the man at the roadside – the one that the others had been so keen to protect.