The Heart of Fire (18 page)

Anna proudly places the statue back above the door. ‘He does look lonely up there, all on his own. Perhaps one day, I’ll find the other.’

99

The map-seller greets you with an exaggerated flourish. ‘Mendo and his magnificent maps, at your service.’ He rummages through his pack. ‘Adventurer –
yes, let’s see. How about a map of Carvel, made by my own fair hand.’ He takes out a roll of parchment and unravels it, revealing a detailed map of the town.

‘Ten gold crowns for the map – you won’t find a better bargain.’ He glances around at the nearby guards, then leans a little closer. ‘Cross my palm with a little
extra gold and maybe I’ll share some gossip with you.’

100

The grey-stone buildings of the village huddle close to the muddy track, each one as dark and silent as the next. You go up to the nearest house and bang on the front door. You
wait and knock again, aware of the silence settling around you, broken only by the persistent drumming of the rain. Putting your face to one of the dirt-streaked windows, you try and see inside,
but your eyes cannot penetrate the gloom.

You continue onwards, turning a corner to find yourself in the village square. At the centre stands a solitary well, its cracked stonework overrun with weeds and moss. Across the square a set of
stairs wind up a dark finger of rock, leading to a church dimly visible at its summit. For a moment, you are almost sure you can hear organ music coming from within – then a gargling cry rips
your attention away, to one of the side streets.

Something is shuffling towards you. A woman, in a mud-stained dress. Her blond hair hangs limp across her pale face, its tangled length matted with leaves and filth. Behind her you can see other
figures, perhaps half a dozen or more, all sharing the same dishevelled appearance and shambling gait.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me . . .’

You draw your weapons as the woman staggers closer. Her dull eyes are devoid of life, her skin almost translucent. A grey tongue lolls from her mouth as her jaw slowly cracks open, revealing
rotted black teeth.

Then she gives a piercing scream – a hellish sound that turns your blood to ice. It is a call that is immediately taken up all over the village, ringing from every direction. It is joined
by the patter of feet . . . running, scrambling, clattering over the stones. You start to back away, looking around frantically. Then you see them, spilling out of the side streets – more and
more people, ragged and thin, snarling and howling like wild animals. They are closing in from all sides.

101

‘Prince Lazlo?’ The map-seller jerks a thumb in the direction of the wedge-shaped castle. ‘The black sheep of the family – not too different to Allam,
back in his day. Brought enough scandal already on the king’s household with his womanising and gambling. Yeah, a real wild card. Why else do you think the king would send him out to this
backwater? To keep him out of the way, that’s what. At least here, Lazlo can do whatever he wants without making a fool of his betters.’

102

The prince leads you briskly down a series of corridors, the dark stone walls crowded with tapestries. You glimpse a few rooms off to either side, each one an empty cobwebbed
space devoid of furniture – devoid of life.

‘I try not to spend too much time here, if I can help it,’ states the prince, throwing open a set of double doors. ‘I like to travel – see new places.’

You pass through a long draughty hall, filled with racks of weapons and polished armour. Your steps falter as you find your attention wandering across the sumptuous array of weaponry.
‘This is quite the collection,’ you gasp. ‘Are these from your travels?’

When you receive no answer, you look back to see the prince waiting for you at the end of the chamber. You hurry to catch up.

‘After you.’ The prince bows, gesturing for you to step through the archway.

The next room is circular, lit by rainbow light shimmering through the stained-glass windows. Like many of the previous rooms you have seen, there is no furniture or decoration – only a
set of stairs leading up to a raised dais. At the foot of the stairs is a wooden rack with swords, greatswords, daggers and poleaxes resting between its posts.

‘What is this?’ you ask, looking around warily.

‘My games room,’ smiles Lazlo, striding towards the stairs. He grabs a sword from the rack, testing its weight and balance. He grins, spinning the grip in his hand. ‘Want to
play?’

You follow him up the stairs, onto the stone platform. Drawing your weapons, you watch him carefully, suspecting a trick. The prince circles you, following the edge of the dais. ‘One of my
good friends made this for me,’ he grins. ‘A mage – Avian Dale.’

He utters a word of magic and suddenly the dais lifts up into the air with a grating rumble. You almost lose your footing as it ascends above the floor of the chamber, rotating slowly. Stepping
to the edge, you look over the side to see that the platform is floating on a cushion of magic.

‘Neat trick, eh?’ The prince clicks his fingers. Suddenly, the air around you starts to crackle and hiss, charged with powerful magics.

‘What’s happening?’ you ask, confused, struggling to keep your balance as the circle gives a sudden lurch.

‘A lesson,’ says Lazlo. His eyes glint mischievously. ‘Be aware of your opponent – but be doubly aware of your environment.’

At that moment, veins of lightning crackle over the surface of the stone. Lazlo sidesteps them easily, moving to a clear space. You, however, are caught by one of the bolts. You give a startled
cry as a sudden shock of pain lances through your body.

‘I thought you were fast?’ grins the prince, advancing across the circle. ‘Now, let’s see what you’re really made of.’ Your weapons clash, as the disc starts
to spin faster, sending more crackling bolts across the stone. It is time to fight:

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