Thousands of bones.
In some places they form steep mounds, pitched against the walls in waves of tangled death. You cannot guess at how many bodies – how many lives. What were they defending? What was so important that they would sacrifice themselves in this way? You pass through the hall, arriving at a set of stairs. Again, great chunks have been taken out of the walls, and the ceiling has been blown open, exposing a jagged window of daylight. You ascend the stairs, finding yourself in another rubble-filled passage. You pick your way carefully over the loose rock, noticing more skeletons trapped amongst the debris.
Finally you come to a grand hall, its architecture different to that you have seen before. The stone is obsidian, melted and then moulded like clay to form sweeping lines and curves. There are no edges, no carvings, simply smooth rock rising up into a forest of curling branches. It has the feeling of something alive . . . and very old.
At the far end of this immense chamber is a throne. Its winged back has been smashed in two, leaving a jagged row of prongs, like some macabre crown. And seated on it, glaring at you with both amusement and contempt, is Cernos. Turn to 771.
732
Congratulations, for defeating Ixion while hexed you have won the following rare item:
Prowler’s tunic
(chest)
+1 speed +4 brawn
Ability: critical strike, prowler set
(requirement: hexed)
Once you have updated your hero sheet, return to the quest map to continue your journey.
733
You follow the sentient magic into a small, domed building. It looks to have once been a storeroom; it is now filled with broken pottery and half-rotted baskets.
A grey-haired monkey squats on the ground, trying to pull something loose from a mound of rubble. The monkey is so intent on its discovery, it doesn’t notice the dark tendrils of magic winding closer and closer . . .
Before you can act, the magic snaps forward, driving itself inside the monkey’s brain. The creature gives a surprised cry, then bolts out of the building, sending stones skittering in its wake.
You contemplate giving chase, but then you notice the object that the monkey had been trying to free. It is a thin disc of pure gold, its surface polished like a mirror. You may now take the following item:
Golden mirror
(backpack)
A circular reflector made of pure gold
Finding little else of interest in the building, you decide to leave. Turn to 764.
734
You get the sudden feeling that you are being watched. Looking around you see a young woman standing at the lip of the crater, her skin mottled with patches of green and brown. In one hand she holds a gnarled staff, in the other a lantern glowing with a bluish light. There is an uneasy silence as her almond-shaped eyes regard you thoughtfully. Then she gestures for you to approach.
‘You have done what I could not,’ she states, bowing her head in reverence. ‘Long has this place suffered. This was my charge and . . .’ She looks past you, to the slime-coated remains of the cursed tree. ‘I was too weak in my desire to end a life.’
‘Who are you?’ you ask, frowning. ‘Do you live here?’
The woman gives a sad smile. ‘I am a dryad. A protector of the land. You have done me a great service. And for that, I must give my thanks. Follow me.’
The dryad does not wait for your reply. Turning, she starts off across the mire, her glowing lantern lighting the way. You follow her lead, noticing that the woman’s bare feet leave no mark or depression in the thick mud. Sadly, the same cannot be said for yourself as you squelch and stagger through the grasping murk.
Eventually you come to the hollow bole of a great tree. Its bark is as black and blighted as the rest of the forest that surrounds it. Inside the bole is a pedestal of stone, and resting on it is a wooden bowl.
‘This is a powerful elixir,’ states the dryad, walking around the pedestal. ‘Sap from the elder tree, before it was tainted. It would be the elder’s wish that you receive this gift, so a similar fate does not befall you also.’
As you lean closer you see that the bowl contains an amber liquid, sparkling with magic. Reaching into your pack, you take out your empty water bottle and sink it into the tree sap, filling it with the strange potion. You have now gained:
Elder sap (1 use)
(backpack)
Use any time in combat to heal yourself to full health
If you are hexed, turn to 746. Otherwise, turn to 804.
735
As the marsh fog thickens, you feel an increasing sense that you are travelling through some peculiar dreamscape. Everything becomes slow and sluggish, from your own movements as you drag your feet through the mud to those of your companions slinking ahead, their ears pricked as they glance from side to side. You can sense their nervousness. Neither wanted to come here.
You struggle to stay focused, your limbs feeling weak and lethargic. Several times you stumble and fall into the cold, brackish waters – each time, taking a little longer to drag yourself back to your feet. Eventually, you find yourself crawling – head bowed – shivering from the wet and the cold. You cannot tell how long you have travelled or how far, but when your hands scrabble over stone, you finally look up.
Before you is a ruined building. It might have been a temple once, a grand structure surrounded by columns and decorative arches. Now it is part of the marsh, crumbling and old – most of its walls dragged down by reed-like vines. A vulture peers at you from one of the broken statues, its collar of white fur standing stark against its black feathers. An ill omen, perhaps.
You manage to stand, swaying with nausea, the grey-stone of the ruin swimming in and out of focus. There is no sign of the others. You sag against a wall, gasping for breath . . . then your strength gives out and you fall . . .
‘Get up!’ a voice hisses in your ear.
In the distance you hear a thunderous boom and the clatter of falling rock. You open your eyes to see Virgil standing over you. The cell door is twisted off its hinges, black roots breaking up out of the cracked stone floor.
‘Where . . . am I?’ you croak, feeling yourself being lifted up.
The witchfinder’s face swings into view. ‘I told you I was coming back. We’re getting out of here.’
You notice three deep gashes cutting across the man’s cheek, coating his neck and the collars of his coat in blood. ‘This is not what happened . . .’ you gasp, looking around at the Durnhollow cell.
‘Because this is real,’ growls the witchfinder, slapping your face with a gloved hand. ‘You are drugged on Elysium. What you have experienced – what you have seen – it isn’t real.’
You push him away, backing up against the wall. ‘No, you’re lying.’ From the passageway you can hear sounds of battle – steel clamouring against steel, and fizzling cracks of magic. ‘This is not what happened!’ You grip your head, struggling to remember, to reorder your thoughts. ‘I was in the marsh. Lost in the marsh . . .’
Virgil draws a curved blade from his belt. It flickers with a yellow, sickly light. ‘I can’t leave you here, prophet. Come with me or you die in this cell.’
Will you:
Agree to follow Virgil? — 694
Attack Virgil? — 707
736
Despite your best efforts, you are unable to keep up with the nimble-footed rogue. The distance continues to widen, the imp’s ceaseless laughter only adding to your frustration. Eventually you slow to a halt, forced to admit defeat. After spitting several angry curses at the thief ’s departing back, you rejoin Virgil in the reading room. Turn to 788.
737
A lucky blow sends the staff-spinning away across the stone tiles. As the monkey starts to shrink back to his normal size you deliver a firm kick to his chest, sending him flying over the edge of the platform. His shriek of rage only lasts for a short time before a loud crunch puts paid to the king’s rule.
Congratulations! You
have battled your way to the top of the temple and emerged victorious. You may now choose one of the following special rewards:
Wishing staff
Hanuman’s hair
Crown of Gandhara
(main hand: staff)
(necklace)
+1 speed +2 brawn
+2 speed +3 magic
(head)
Ability: command
Ability: wish master
+1 speed +2 health
Ability: monkey mob
You also discover a small chest behind the throne, containing 200 gold crowns. As you prepare to leave you spot an unusual device to the south of the platform: a circular pedestal, with two golden hands set into its top stone. They are slightly cupped, facing inwards, as if they should be holding something. If you have the golden mirror, turn to 848. Otherwise, turn to 587.
738
The dwarf is sent tumbling over the platform’s edge, his ghostly form exploding into sparks of light. Quickly you follow Virgil onto the adjoining pathway, only seconds before the wind demon rushes up and smashes through the green stone. You are both forced into a full-on sprint as the path shatters behind you – the cold fingers of darkness grasping at your heels.
At the top of the Abussos is an archway, leading through into another cavern. You believe you can make it . . . but then your hope sinks when you see the path ahead breaking up, the green stone tumbling away into the abyss. You are fast approaching its jagged edge, with an empty space of over seven metres stretching before you.
Virgil starts to slow. ‘It’s too far!’ he cries desperately.
You realise that you are trapped – between an impossible jump and the pursuing demon. ‘Keep going!’ you cry, shoving Virgil forward. ‘We’re going to make it!’
The pain in your back suddenly flares with intensity, driving hot knives of agony into your spine. All around you the walls shake with the force of the wind, eldritch screams pounding in your ears. As the wailing noise grows ever louder, the pain in your back reaches its own crescendo, white spots bursting before your eyes. You feel yourself lurching forward, flailing, falling . . . There is a savage ripping sound as your back explodes in a bloody miasma of bone and sinew.
Virgil reaches the edge of the ledge and hurls himself into the void. He makes half the distance before he starts to plummet, legs kicking furiously. You spring into the air, hearing the crack of your wings as they unfurl for the first time.
For several seconds you are buffeted against the wall, scales scraping on the glowing rock. Then you push off from the stone, stretching out to grab the collar of Virgil’s coat. The witchfinder gives a strangled gasp as he is snatched from his fall.
You are flying.
The movement is instinctive, like breathing. You fear to hesitate, to wonder how you are doing it, in case you break your concentration and fall. Instead, you focus on the archway and your bid for freedom. The wind demon howls and snaps at your heels, so close that its graven touch is frosting the stonework around you.
Then you are through the arch, gliding over a sprawling cavern filled with dark buildings. A cold, leaden light falls in columns from the cracked ceiling, illuminating paved roads and bridges, and columned towers, their ridged walls flowing into each other like melted candlewax.
‘Hold on!’ You feel the wind behind you batter against your wings, throwing you forward at greater speed. Unable to keep your balance, you go hurtling head-over-heels across the grey rooftops. Your shoulder catches on a rocky crenellation, flipping you again. In the spinning chaos, you lose your grip on Virgil, who slips away . . .
Smooth stone flies up at you. Then you are rolling and skidding across a dusty floor. A window reels into view. You go sprawling through it, across an alleyway and straight into an opposite building. Ashen walls streak past, then you slam into something hard, a bench or chair, breaking your momentum with an agonising smack to the ribs.
A silence. Motes of dust dance through the air.
Your eyes scan back to the open window. There, above the rooftops, you can see the wind demon streaking across the city, shadowy body rippling like some hellish battle standard. The creature is searching for you – but for now, it seems that you have eluded its gaze.
Your first thought is Virgil and his possible whereabouts – then a more immediate concern takes hold. You glance over your shoulder, flinching at the sight of your newly-formed wings. Whereas Cernos had sported cruel-looking limbs of midnight black, your own are white-boned, with pale-coloured membranes shot with silver.
You flex your shoulder blades. The wings snap rigid, sending a wave of dust sweeping across the room.
‘So, the angel gets its wings . . .’ Virgil is standing at the window of the opposite building, his surprised expression illuminated by his glowing swords. He shakes his head in wonderment, then glances down at the intervening alleyway. ‘Don’t suppose I could get a lift, could I?’
(Congratulations, you have completed the Abussos challenge. You may now restore your health and abilities.) Turn to 810.
739
You fling open the cage, quickly leaping aside as the beast lowers its horns and charges. It thunders past in a cloud of dust, smashing and trampling through anything that gets in its way. Luckily this also includes the giant, who is far too slow to avoid the rampaging animal. The rhinosaur rams straight into him, its sharp horns puncturing through the giant’s leather armour and throwing him high over its head as if he was little more than a child’s doll.
There is a roar of celebration from the nearby tigris – which ends abruptly as the rhinosaur skids around and charges again, heading straight for them. Quickly the tigris break for cover, bounding and leaping across the ruined compound while the enraged rhinosaur rumbles after them. Turn to 466.
740
Benin is slumped on the ground, his face coated with blood and dust. Standing over him is Murlic, the Wiccan rogue with the half-painted face. He holds two daggers, snarling with rage as he raises them to strike.
Your foot knocks into a broken sword hilt, sending it clattering over the loose rock. Both combatants freeze, looking in your direction.
‘My friend!’ wheezes Benin, clutching at his wounds. ‘Thank the One God – save me!’
The Wiccan rogue scowls, glaring at you with contempt. ‘Do not try to stop me, bright claw.’
Will you:
Attack Murlic and save Benin? — 726
Stand by and let Benin die? — 680
741
The dark rune-blade slices down in a crimson arc. It would surely have cut the witchfinder in two, if not for the ground lurching suddenly. Both of you are thrown off balance, loose rock raining down from the walls.
Virgil is clinging to one of the balcony’s stony fingers. A jet of lava spirals up past his shoulder, hanging in space for a single heartbeat, then dropping back to the lake in a shower of droplets. ‘See, demon!’ He leers. ‘Even the volcano balks at your very existence.’
He would have you back in Durnhollow. In a cell. A prisoner.
The words whisper in your ear, fuelling your anger and resentment. The demon fire is already leaping from the blade, sizzling across the space and smashing into Virgil. Such is the power of the blast that it hurls him straight across the magma lake and through the wall of the crater.
Finish him.
Your wings snap open as you take to the air, rising up on the searing- hot currents.
Finish him. Finish all who stand in our way!
A dry wind whips at your face as you glide through the opening, out across the ash-strewn slope of the volcano. Below you lie the grey lava flats, pockmarked with craters. You are sweeping down towards them, following the broken body that twists through the air. My vision. This is my vision . . . But you realise something is wrong. You were that body, falling down the mountainside. Not Virgil.
Distracted by your thoughts, you don’t see the wave of ash until it is too late. It washes over you, plunging everything into darkness. You
meet the ground suddenly, the impact rattling your teeth as your hooves stumble for purchase amidst the dirt and ash. The heat from your blade sears through the cloud, turning it to fiery embers.
Finish him.
Virgil lies ahead of you, dragging himself across the ground on his elbows.
‘No!’ he spits with rage, blood seeping from the corners of his mouth. ‘You will not take me, demon. I will not be a slave to that cursed sword!’ He reaches into the tattered shreds of his coat, fumbling for something.
You stride forward, aware of the roaring thunder at your back. Above you, molten fire arcs through the smoky skies, pounding mercilessly against the earth.
Yes, the world knows of my coming. It knows fear.
You shake your head, trying to rid it of the dark thoughts, but the sword has control. It pulls you forward, until you are standing over the witchfinder.
‘My journey is complete!’ The words bellow from your lips, yet they are not your own. ‘Ragnarok is remade!’
The blade comes down. You hear a scream. Then your voice booms once again. ‘One of us will change the future.’
‘Indeed I will.’
The blast comes from the side, lancing into you with the force of a battering ram. You lose your grip on the sword as you are sent sprawling through the dust. Rolling back to your feet, you scan the roiling clouds, looking for your attacker. The voice had not been Virgil’s, yet it was familiar . . .
The Heart of Fire Page 57
