The Heart of Fire (138 page)

Special abilities

Once Virgil is reduced to 10
health
or less, the combat is automatically won. If you manage to defeat the witchfinder, turn to
741
.

893

The crystals are the key to Tourmalus’ power. Once the last cluster is destroyed the giant freezes in mid-step, the sole of one enormous foot raised to stomp on Virgil.
The witchfinder dashes to safety as the giant topples forward, smashing through the obsidian throne in a dusty explosion of boulders and crystal.

You may now help yourself to one of the following rewards:

Virgil removes his hat, shaking the dust from its brim. ‘For once, just once, it’d be nice if something didn’t want to kill us.’ He plants his hat back onto his head.
‘It could give a guy a complex.’

‘Actually, it might have done us a favour.’ You point through the swirling dust to the remains of the black throne. Part of its seat has broken away, revealing a torch-lined corridor
snaking away into the rock.

‘I’d rather avoid any more caves,’ says Virgil. He lifts his blade, gesturing to a narrow opening in the south wall. It appears to lead out onto an exterior ledge, its edges
gleaming with firelight.

894

The moment your hand touches the rune, yellow lightning arcs across the face of the door, sending you reeling backwards in pain. Clearly you have chosen the incorrect rune, and
have triggered some hidden trap woven into the magic of the door.

You have been inflicted with the following curse:

Curse of vulnerability (pa)
: You must lower your
armour
by 3 until you next roll a double in combat.

Return to
871
to choose another rune.

895

‘Wait a second.’ You discover that you can understand the strange whirls and angular markings on the bronze plate. ‘These are powerful
incantations.’

You turn back to the marble slab and the table covered with paper. The machine looks in perfect working order and could be used to fashion your own book of spells. If you wish to create your own
spell book, turn to
850
. Otherwise, you decide to leave and continue your journey. Turn to
866
.

T
he guardsmen go tumbling through the door, along with its splintered remains. You step through, your bearskin cloak whipping back from your
powerful shoulders. More men move to head you off, but a barking order draws them to a halt. You glare at the warriors as they move aside, making way for you.

Conall watches you from beneath his heavy brow, chin rested on his fist. A band of bronze is visible amongst the tangle of black hair, denoting his new status. King of Carvel. King of the West.
He is everything you remember. A giant. A warrior. A worthy ally.

But she isn’t here. The witch was always at his side
. . .

A raucous screeching comes from the rafters above, where a mob of crows flap in agitation. One comes wheeling down to settle on the back of the throne, glaring at you disapprovingly.

You stand before the self-made king, peering out from beneath your cowl. A shadow of a smile crosses your lips when you sense the fear from the hall. Your clawed limbs and curved horns protrude
from beneath your cloak. There is no hiding what you are.

And yet, Conall does not share his men’s fear. ‘You will kneel,’ he scowls, his face darkening.

You obey his command, dropping to one knee and bowing your head. ‘Your majesty.’ The words fall in a sibilant hiss.

A sharp-faced bodyguard steps forward, glaring through the teeth of his wolf-skull helm. ‘Give the word, my king – and I’ll make a coat of this one’s scales.’ An
impressive show of courage, you note, but his words do not impress.

Conall waves him to silence. ‘Speak, demon.’

A chill wind gusts snow through the narrow windows. It also brings the stench of death. The castle walls are lined with bodies, tarred and staked for all to see. Prince Lazlo had been one of
them.

‘Our paths have crossed before,’ you state, pulling back your hood. There are gasps from the onlookers. ‘You will not recognise me now, but I have seen your destiny. Our paths
are fated to cross once more.’

Conall’s eyes burn dark and fierce. ‘Spit it out or you’ll be hanging in a crow cage.’

‘Ah, yes,’ you nod. ‘I saw your handiwork in the streets.’ You remember the iron cages, with starving prisoners begging for water and bread. Crows wheeled over the ruins.
Homes and shops burnt and plundered. ‘Food for crows.’

Your eyes shift to the rafters, where the black-bodied host screech and caw.

‘If that is your wish, demon.’ The king beckons to his wolf-helmed guard, who starts forward, baring his teeth. You halt him with a raised hand, magic rippling around his body. He
struggles to move, his limbs now heavy as lead.

You continue to regard the king, as if nothing untoward had happened. ‘In truth, I come seeking your witch. Damaris. Where is she?’

‘The dungeons,’ replies Conall sharply, eyes flicking between you and his guard. ‘Till she learns to bend the knee, as you have done.’

‘She will teach me what I need to know. To master my power.’ You reach into your tunic, removing a tight roll of parchment. You step past the immobilised guard and hand it to the
king.

Conall spreads it open, pulling a grimace as he looks upon the image scrawled in blood.

‘This means nothing,’ he growls, crumpling it in his fist.

You step back, your malign shadow stretching wide across the hall. ‘I am looking for a man,’ you declare coldly. ‘His name is Lorcan. Your witch will help me find
him.’

‘And what do I get in return?’ Conall leans forward, his dark brows knitting together. ‘What do you offer a king?’

You glance up at the wooden beams, where the crows continue to scream and caw. ‘A king of crows, hmm. I can offer you more than this.’ You look around at his men, each one shuffling
uneasily beneath your crimson stare. ‘Carvel is nothing. A faded cross on the map. You have won
nothing
.’

There are gasps and rumbles of anger. The men look to Conall, waiting for the command. The king merely watches you, his face unreadable. His silence urges you to go on.

‘Damaris will give me what I need. And in return, I will give you what the fates have decreed.’ You open out your arms to the screeching, cawing gallery. ‘I will win you a land
to call your own. I will win you a kingdom! Valeron will fall!’

Your eyes sweep around to meet Conall’s.

‘Words,’ he grimaces scathingly. ‘Tell me of these
fates
. What have you seen?’

‘That victory will gift you what you desire most. The crown of kings . . . and a son.’

Conall’s eyes widen for a moment. ‘A son?’

Your lips part in a fanged smile. ‘A boy and an heir. To the throne of Valeron.’

Conall regards you in silence. Then releases a snorting breath.

‘Then war it is.’ He rises to his feet to address the court. ‘Our destiny is decided. The Wiccan march east – and no shield or stone, or holy words, will stop us. Valeron
will fall!’