The Heart of Fire (130 page)

837

A streak of crimson flashes through the air, blowing a fist-sized crater in the ground ahead of you. A woman’s angry curse follows. You spin around, to discover a slender
figure watching you from amongst the rubble, her scarlet cloak and armour dazzling against the soot-grey backdrop. Beneath the woman’s raised hood you glimpse a narrow face, framed by short
copper-red hair.

The woman draws back her bow, a crackling arrow of fire forming in its arch.

‘Wait!’

The shaft leaps from her bow with a sizzling roar. Its aim is true and would have taken you straight in the chest – were it not for your preternatural foresight. You twist aside, letting
the bolt punch another hole in the charred debris.

‘Well, if that’s how it’s going to be!’ You start forward, hands reaching for your weapons . . . but then you hesitate. There is something familiar about the
woman’s face, the way she holds herself, the ring gleaming on the chain at her neck.

‘Joss . . .?’

The woman answers with a bitter scowl. ‘I know you, betrayer. You’re the one who murdered my Adam!’

Another bolt streaks through the air. You leap out of its path, feeling the heat of its passing against your face.

‘He was not your husband,’ you implore angrily, remembering back to your fight with the metal golem. ‘The toymaker had taken him – turned him into a monster!’

For a moment there is silence. You realise that the woman is sobbing, her shoulders quivering. ‘You left me. Left me . . . if only you knew what you did, what I had to endure . . .’
She stops abruptly, her face hardening once again. As she raises her bow, her eyes blossom into orbs of crimson fire. ‘You made me into this. YOU!’

‘Joss! You have demon blood, I see it. We both do. But don’t give into the rage. You can fight it.’

She throws back her head with a wild, hysterical laughter. ‘Rage is all I have, fool. It’s all you left me with!’

The ranger looses another arrow, then another – her hand moving blindingly fast. Left with no other choice, you throw yourself into a charge, dragging your weapons free with a sharp hiss
of magic. Whatever happened to Joss in the shroud, it is clear she has now become a vessel for something darker and more powerful. It is time to fight:

Special abilities

If you manage to defeat this demonic archer, turn to
598
.

838

Congratulations, for defeating Nephele while
hexed
you have won the following rare item:

Once you have updated your hero sheet, return to the quest
map
to continue your journey.

839

The passage soon branches into multiple aisle ways, each crammed with shelving. As well as the customary books and carved tablets, you also spot bottles and jars, and casks
filled with different-coloured crystals. Whenever you stop to take a closer look Virgil ushers you on, casting worried glances at his surroundings.

‘Do not tarry,’ he says. ‘This place reeks with demon taint. Bad things happened here . . .’

All you can smell is musty dirt and old leather, but you decide to keep that to yourself. Eventually you come to a junction, where another aisle crosses your own. If you have the key word
barrier
on your hero sheet, turn to
619
. Otherwise, turn to
868
.

840

Searching the cave, you also discover one of the following rare treasures:

Before you leave you help yourself to a trophy, to celebrate your victory over the spider. (Make a note of
Anansi’s eye
on your hero sheet, it does not take up backpack space). If
you have the
glaive of souls
equipped, turn to
450
. Otherwise, return to the quest
map
to continue your adventure.

841

The ledge overlooks the main chamber of the volcano. Below you, through the sulphurous haze, you see bright tracks of lava cascading down into the lake.

The air here feels thin, as if the heat has seared it of all oxygen. You struggle for breath, putting a hand to the wall to steady yourself.

‘Riven,’ says Virgil, hoarsely. ‘The curtain here is thin . . .’

You note the witchfinder’s haggard demeanour, his scarred face glistening with sweat. Other than a shortness of breath, you don’t seem to be suffering as badly as your companion.

‘Is it your wound?’ You look to his arm, where the ugly welts coil like red serpents.

He shakes his head, waiting out a dry, hacking cough. He wipes the spittle from his mouth with a shaking hand. ‘The space between . . our world and the shroud . . .’ he rasps.
‘Dangerous. Possible anomaly . . .’

You turn your attention back to the ledge. It climbs steeply around the face of the rock, leading up to the building on its summit. Black smoke plumes from the four chimneys, jutting from its
domed roof.

‘What is that place?’ you ask. ‘We saw it from the bridge.’

‘The crematorium,’ Virgil wheezes. ‘A sacred place to the dwarves.’

‘Would they have put the sword there?’

Virgil looks doubtful. ‘Ragnarok . . . is cursed. They’d give it greater protect—’

Suddenly the air bends and distorts above you, sending rippling waves washing against the rock. At the centre of the disturbance, a black hole rips open – rapidly getting wider and wider.
A howling, freezing gale blasts you to your knees, deafening you with its dirge-like scream.

But that is nothing to the staggering roar that follows, an air-shredding landslide of elemental fury. You manage to raise your head, eyes watering from the chill wind, to see a ruined tower of
black stone spinning out of the hole. Its walls and crenellations are frosted with ice, trailing white smoke as it careers straight into the side of the outcropping . . .

The explosion hurls you high into the air, sending you tumbling and spinning through a hailstorm of ice and rock. You try and open your wings, to slow your descent, but something slams into your
stomach, Ripping you over through the dust. A rock perhaps, or a body. You have lost all sense of direction, of whether you are facing up or down. There is only the wind, tearing at your body with
its icy fingers, and the thunderous din of rocks breaking and smashing against each other.

The cold rapidly turns to heat, engulfing you in a stinging cloud of steam. In alarm, you realise you must be dropping towards the lake. All around you, there is a dull thud of debris hitting
into something soft, viscous . . . like lava.

Then the mist clears and for the briefest of seconds you see an expanse of charred rubble racing up to meet you. Somehow, you manage to spread your wings, feeling the air push hard into the
stretched membranes. But it is too little, too late. You slam into the ground, the sudden shock of pain dragging you straight into unconsciousness. Turn to
861
.

842

You emerge in a rectangular room, piled high with rubble. A space has been cleared at its centre, where a series of runes have been marked out in congealed blood. They spiral
like a coiled serpent, ending in a heap of gore and blackened bones at the centre.

‘I don’t need to be an expert to know this is bad,’ you muse grimly.

Virgil has stopped, his one eye lifted to the ceiling. You follow his gaze, shrinking back in horror when you see the fleshy growth spread across the stonework.

‘A magic anomaly,’ says Virgil, dropping his voice to almost a whisper. ‘Keep moving . . .’

He motions to the steps opposite, leading down into a vaulted hall. Nodding, you quickly cross the room, with one eye on the creature and the other on the strange runes. Evidently this chamber
was used for some dark ritual, perhaps the one that summoned the blood demons you fought earlier.

At the foot of the stairs, a two-tiered hall stretches for several hundred metres, both levels lined with shelves of books and scrolls. Ghostly spirits are moving back and forth along the
stacks, their bodies glowing with a sickly yellow light. At the far end of the hall, past heaps of rubble and several broken statues, is a large square table – and seated at it is a
dwarf.

He is clad in mouldy white robes, embroidered with purple-glowing runes. The collar is flared, jutting out either side of his thin beardless face. You notice the dwarf ’s skin is green
with rot, exposing dark hollows and bare bone.

‘Yes . . . yes.’ The dwarf is turning pages in a tome, his rheumy eyes roving back and forth behind a pair of iron-rimmed spectacles.

The rest of the table is a jumbled array of open books, stone tablets, bubbling potions and alchemical equipment. One of the ghosts flits over to the table, placing another book on an already
teetering pile.

‘Good, good! Out of my sight!’ snaps the dwarf, ushering the ghost away with a rotted hand.

You notice that the only exit stands directly behind the undead librarian – a pair of obsidian doors, barred from the inside. With no other choice you make your way along the hall, wincing
as your footfalls echo noisily in the chamber.

The dwarf looks up, his emaciated face cracking into a sneer. ‘Silence in my library!’ He slams his fists on the table, knocking over several bottles in the process. Their contents
fizzle and hiss, the sound mirroring the seething snarl coming from his lips. ‘They were too weak. Too stupid! But my loyal demons will succeed where they failed. You’ll see!’

Virgil is at your side, his swords glowing bright with holy magic. ‘A trapped spirit – undead. He probably thinks this is Tartarus, two thousand years ago.’

‘I said SILENCE!’ shrieks the dwarf. ‘Back from whence you came, or be punished!’

Virgil takes a step forward, spinning his blades in his hands. ‘We wish to leave, dwarf – but we’re taking the door behind you. I suggest you comply with our wishes. Or else
this will end . . . messily.’

The librarian jumps out of his seat, black magic sparking around him. ‘What insolence! Spirits! To me! It seems we must rid ourselves of another nuisance from our library!’