The Heart of Fire (56 page)

If you refuse Eldias’ gift, then he offers you 20 gold crowns instead. When you have made your decision, you bid the witchfinder farewell, heading back into the frosty wilderness. (Return
to the
map
to continue your adventure.)

373

‘I’ve seen and heard a lot of strange things,’ says Bill, scratching his cheek. ‘I’m just here for the game hunting, mind – but I’ve
crossed paths with plenty of treasure seekers. One was babbling he’d found a lost temple – where all the priests had turned to monkeys.’ Bill pauses, then chuckles to himself.
‘I’ll put that one down to the jungle fever.’

‘What about the Lamuri city?’ you ask. ‘You been there?’

The hunter’s eyes widen. ‘Lanka Curzo? Sweat and blood, what you take me for, a fool? That place is off limits – seriously.’ He cuts his hand through the air, as if that
is the end of the matter.

‘I have to go there,’ you insist. ‘Why do you fear it?’

Bill flinches, as if from a blow. ‘Me . . . fear?’ He stabs a finger at you. ‘Look, pal, I’ve stared down the face of carnosaurs and dracolichs and not batted an eyelid.
When they sing of me after I’m gone, they won’t ever say the Buckmaster,’ he pauses, as if struggling with the words, ‘that I fear.’

There is an uneasy silence as you eyeball each other. Clearly the hunter wants you to back down, but you are convinced he is hiding something. ‘But you said it’s off limits,’
you reply, exaggerating a look of confusion. ‘Is there something there I’m not meant to find?’

Bill glares at you, then shakes his head. ‘By Judah, you’re a persistent one. Well, I’ll give you this much. Okay, I have been there – and I know others that have too.
I’ve seen gardens of gold and caskets with jewels the size of your fist. I also seen other things – things I’d sooner forget.’ He fumbles in his jacket, pulling out a
stained sheet of parchment. ‘Lanka Curzo is thousands of years old. The jungle moved in now – not much left but scavengers and things best left to the dark. You understand?’ He
pushes the piece of parchment into your hand. ‘Explorer gave me that once. Made no sense to me, but he promised it led to riches. He died of the fever and I was happy to leave it at that.
Maybe you have better luck, eh?’

You open out the parchment to find a series of maps and sketches of the city, and a name written underneath a drawing of a bird-like creature:
Quetzal Volax
. You thank the hunter, hoping
that the information will prove useful in the future.

You may now continue exploring the camp (turn to
744
) or leave and return to the quest
map
.

374

After bowing your head and offering a prayer to the One God, you leave the shrine and head back into the jungle. Turn to
500
.

375

After an hour of trudging through the marsh, you find yourself at the edge of a stagnant lake. Sludge and grime coat its surface, belching bubbles of noxious gas into the air.
At the centre of the lake you can see a small island, on top of which rests a wooden chest. The hazy fog makes it difficult to make out details, but it looks as though the chest is perfectly
intact. You find it odd that someone would choose to leave their possessions here – and even odder that the chest shows no signs of decay, despite its soggy surroundings.

376

Quest: Revenge of the tigris

Night falls and with it comes the rain, slapping against the leaves and filling the forest with streaming beads of water. Within minutes the path you were following has become
a river, the mud swelling and pulling at your feet. You struggle up a bank, aiming to reach higher ground, the rainwater thumping against your face and into your eyes. Everything about this place
– this environment – is hostile and unforgiving. You slide back into the muddy river, too exhausted to continue.

Then your body tenses as you catch a sound – something crashing through the undergrowth.

There is a raised call and the boom of a gunshot. You ready your weapons, scanning the dark forest. You see it all clearly, despite the lack of moonlight; another of your demonic powers.

You turn again, your gaze shifting past splayed leaves and knotted tree roots to finally halt on a pair of brilliant amber eyes. It is a creature you have heard stories about –
children’s tales of the tiger people that live in far-flung lands. You always thought they were the result of a fervent imagination, a bard’s fanciful yarn. But one is staring back at
you right now – a female, with orange and black markings. A baby is cradled in her arms.

She looks towards the forest, then quickly back at you – as if deciding her next course of action. Her posture and behaviour are of someone running scared. The tigris flinches and prepares
to run again. Then you hear the wet splat of feet and two men emerge, slipping and sliding out of the undergrowth. One is dark-skinned and bare-chested, his thick arms banded with tattoos. A
cruel-looking hunting knife flashes in one hand, a sputtering torch in the other. His companion is a thin weasel of a man, with shifty eyes and a pockmarked face. He levels his pistol at the tigris
then sees you and his eyes narrow. Your presence draws both men up short.

‘Outta our way!’ snarls the weasel.

You hear a splash behind you. The tigris has taken flight again, her child held tight to her chest. The dark-skinned man gives a rumbling growl as he advances towards you. The weasel swings his
arm around, aiming his pistol for your chest.

377

The spear is broken – and with it your curse. (You must remove
the glaive of souls
from your hero sheet and update your attributes accordingly). However, part of
the dark weapon still remains, which you may now take:

The font’s magic has also cured you of your hex. You can now access all of your abilities once again. When you have updated your hero sheet, you leave the pagoda and continue your journey.
Turn to
668
.

378

The bronze doors stand open, leading through into a circular chamber with a domed ceiling. Rows of stone chairs rise in tiers along the walls, giving it the appearance of a
meeting room or assembly. The rest of the space is littered with grey statues. There seems no logic to their placement, as if someone had left them there in a hurry. Most are missing heads and
limbs, a few are severed completely in two. As you walk around the strange display you notice that they are all dwarves, wearing plate or chain armour. Of those that still have their heads, their
expressions seem tormented, caught in some instant between pain and death.

‘Strange choice of décor.’ You grimace, stepping over a dismembered head.

‘They’re not statues,’ says Virgil in a low tone. He passes his blade’s light across their twisted features. ‘They were titans.’

You look back at Virgil, confused. ‘You mean these were living dwarves?’

Virgil nods. ‘Dwarves had rune magic, power over the elements. Their titan warriors could turn to stone – gave them the strength and armour of rock.’ He gives a dismissive
snort. ‘Not that it appears to have done much good.’

Beyond the statues the floor of the chamber is scorched and shattered, as if some fiery weight had smashed against it. Where the stone is still intact, you notice a congealed pool of black grime
spread through the dust. Virgil is already squatting next to it, prodding the dark matter with his finger. He tastes it and grimaces. ‘Blood.’

You frown. ‘Is it fresh?’

Virgil shakes his head. ‘Mixed with something. A bone resin perhaps, or maybe mage oil.’

‘The remains of a demon?’

Virgil’s expression sours. ‘No. This is part of a ritual . . .’ You join him, scanning the strange array of marks. They originate from the same pool of blood, which has then
been smeared across the stone in a variety of brushstrokes, forming an intricate pattern of runes.

‘This is powerful magic,’ says Virgil, flinching away. ‘Dark magic. I didn’t think the dwarves would resort to such measures.’

‘Perhaps it wasn’t the dwarves . . .’ A shiver creeps along your spine as you eye the statues. They almost seem to be moving, their shadows stalking along the walls . . .

‘Come.’ The witchfinder’s voice makes you jump. ‘Let’s keep going.’

You follow him through into the next chamber. It is a columned hall, dominated by a long table of blue-white marble surrounded by high-backed chairs. The table has been sliced cleanly in two,
from one end to the other, its cleaved edges melted into glass hunks. Similar marks are evident along the walls and columns, where deep gouges have been taken from the stonework.

The rest of the room is strewn with rubble and cracked shards of pottery. Virgil reaches down and picks up a clay gourd. He shakes it, brightening when he hears a sloshing sound coming from
inside. ‘Dwarven spirits. Two thousand years old. Now there’s a vintage . . .’ He removes the stopper with his teeth and sniffs at the contents. He immediately jerks away with an
expression of disgust. ‘Humph, appears age has not been kind . . .’ He tosses the gourd away, the clay shattering against a tumble of rocks.

Meanwhile, your attention has been drawn to the left-hand wall. Brushing away the dirt and grime, you reveal a stone panel carved with angular patterns. There is another beside it. You step
away, realising that the whole wall is covered in neat rows of squares, forming a larger design.

‘Dwarven treasure vault,’ says Virgil, striding over. ‘And it looks to be . . .’

You cut him off with a raised hand. ‘Listen.’

The sound you detected is getting louder – boots crunching on stone, the clink of metal, muffled voices.

Drawing your weapons, you turn to face the doorway at the end of the hall. Three spindly creatures come marching out of it, jabbering to each other in a guttural language. They are clad in
tattered leathers, their round glassy eyes reflecting the bright light from Virgil’s sword.

‘Goblins!’ The witchfinder hurriedly reaches for a pistol.

The lead goblin stumbles to a halt, his two companions bumping into him with surprised yelps. You notice that the rear goblin, the larger of the three, is shouldering a patchwork sack. It
rattles and clinks with loot as he thumps into the back of his skinnier cohort.

‘Dorak Ka!’ The leader gives a shocked cry of alarm, then spins around, pushing and shoving to get back through the doorway. The other goblins follow suit, jostling each other to
escape, their shouts and yells and hasty footfalls echoing back from the passageway.

379

The hound is a powerful and brutal adversary, but its eagerness to please its master is its undoing. The floor of the chamber is covered in dust and stone, making it slippery
and treacherous. In its haste to attack the hound is frequently missing its mark or struggling to manoeuvre, making it easy prey for yourself and Virgil.

At last the hound’s snarls turn to whimpers, as it flounders on its back, paws still feebly raking the air. You step in and end its life – drawing a hoarse gasp from the dwarf king.
He rises from his throne, shaking with fury.

‘Upstarts! Vermin! You are not fit to even look upon me!’ He beats a hand against his chest, the runes on his plate flaring with a fiery-red light. ‘I am Erkil Giantsbane, King
of the Hammer and last blood of the titans.’ Magic flickers around his fists, forming them into a stone sword and axe. He marches forward, wisps of smoke billowing from beneath his visor.
‘These are my halls . . . this is my kingdom! Demons, be gone!’

The dwarf charges across the hall, moving with a swiftness that belies his heavy armour. The blows that follow rain down with equal speed, both sword and axe chopping and slashing in a deadly
frenzy. It is time to fight: