The Heart of Fire (74 page)

If you are able to defeat this enraged elemental, turn to
431
. If you are defeated, turn to
464
.

491

The dean’s face hardens. ‘They are a disease, a plague on this land, corrupted by demons and foul magics. We have chosen to end this – to stand alone against
their evil and purge it from existence.’

Ventus flexes his inscribed fists, sending white sparks dancing across his knuckles. ‘Indeed, the Wiccans are stronger now,’ he adds with derision. ‘The tribes used to be
disorganised, unruly. But lately they have become united under a single figurehead. They call him Conall – the giant we met on the moors. A puppet, some believe, for that dark witch and her
own schemes.’ He shakes his head. ‘Who leads them doesn’t matter – they will strike and it will be soon.’

492

The scholar inspects the map with his bespectacled eyes. ‘This is . . . perfect,’ he gasps. ‘A most splendid job. A first!’

‘And the reward?’ you query, as the scholar starts to turn away.

‘Oh yes, how bothersome. Let’s see.’ He unfastens a purse of money from his belt and carefully counts out twenty gold crowns.

‘It was a hundred,’ you remind him, with a polite smile.

Tutting to himself, he proceeds to hand over the rest of the gold. (You have gained 100 gold crowns.) You pocket the gold, shaking your head with disappointment. ‘Not much, is it? I did
risk my life out there. Those cannibal monkeys . . .’

The scholar rolls his eyes. ‘Bloomin’ mercenaries. Okay, accompany me back to my office and I’ll give you something more . . . scholarly for your efforts.’

You follow him down to the beach, where a ragged-looking tent has been set up beneath a clump of trees. ‘Take your pick,’ he says, gesturing to the crates and books scattered across
the sand. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me – I’ve got a book to write!’

You may choose one of the following as a reward:

After thanking the scholar for his generosity, you return to the harbour. Turn to
571
to continue your journey.

493

The runes dim and then fade as the wounded creature attempts to crawl back to the stone coffin. You watch the futile scrabbling with contempt. Planting a boot on its side, you
push it over onto its back. The face beneath the hood is not human – it is covered in blue-black scales, marred by deep scars. The thing hisses from its lipless mouth.

‘It must stay . . . in the forest . . . you don’t . . . understand . . .’

You kneel beside the dying creature, leaning closer to catch its last wheezing gasps.

‘The forest . . . the forest is . . .a . . .’

Its breath rattles in its lungs as the deformed body shakes and convulses. Then the creature lies still, its yellow eyes staring sightlessly past your shoulder. As you rise to stand, you hear
footfalls echoing in the passageway behind you. A second later and your companions file into the chamber, looking shaken but unharmed. Searching the creature’s body, you find 30 gold crowns
and one of the following rewards:

You also find a small stone figure in one of the creature’s pockets. It is carved to resemble a laughing dwarf, its enormous belly bulging over its squat legs. If you wish to take the
household spirit
then simply make a note of it on your hero sheet, it doesn’t take up backpack space.

If you have the word
Wiccan
on your hero sheet, turn to
428
. Otherwise, turn to
404
.

494

You race through a fog-shrouded jungle, following something dark and elusive. Whatever it is, it stays just out of sight, winding between the dense tangle of trees. As you
run faster, so does your quarry – leading you ever deeper into the steamy forest. And then, in a heartbeat, the dream shifts, becoming grey-stone corridors, swathed in cobwebs and vine-like
creepers. They are never-ending, forming an endless, disorientating maze. And still the creature eludes you. Breathing heavily, you start to slow . . .

Then you see it, lurking in the shadows. A flicker of purple light picks out its misshapen body. You go to draw your weapons, but they have gone; your clawed hands scrapes against empty
sheaths. Instead you back away as the creature steps out into the light. Its twisted frame is swaddled in grey cloth, embroidered with strange runes. As it lifts back its cowl, you give a gasp of
horror as you look upon your own face staring back at you. Slowly, it opens its mouth – your mouth – revealing a dazzling array of glittering fangs.

‘There is no escaping your fate,’ the beast-like you snarls. ‘No escaping what you are!’

‘No!’ you shake your head, looking for a route of escape. ‘This is not real . . .’

‘Demon!’

With a snarl the creature leaps across the passageway, its fangs closing around your throat. You scream as you are flung backwards, your head bursting with hot searing pain . . .

You are jolted forward, sucking at the air. It is hot and dusty, forcing you to choke. Something cold is suddenly held to your lips – you greedily gulp down the
refreshing water, feeling it ease your sore throat and swollen tongue.

Words are spoken, but you don’t recognise the dialect. You feel a hand, firm but reassuring, pushing against your chest, forcing you back down onto the bed of soft pillows. Then a sudden
panic drives you forward again, as you realise you can’t see – everything has remained dark. Your hands go to your eyes, where you feel a cloth or bandage restricting your vision.

Angrily, you tug it away.

For a moment you are blinded by light, forcing you to squint against the pain beating in your head. A shape moves at your side, edging away. You follow it, trying to focus on the details,
struggling to make sense of what is happening.

‘Where am I?’ you croak, barely recognising the sound of your own voice.

‘Safe.’ A dark figure leans over you. Gold teeth sparkle in the brightness.

You jerk away instinctively, your hands grappling over fur blankets. To your left, sunlight streams in bands through a shuttered window. A man leans next to it, watching you with dark eyes. The
slatted light picks out the bones and feathers sewn into his tanned leathers. Groggily, your attention blurs back to the other figure – the one with gold teeth. The witchfinder is watching
you with a thin smile.

‘Welcome to the land of the living,’ he says, his gold smile broadening.

You try and slide up the bed, desperate to put distance between yourself and that malign-looking face, but you are brought up short in a fit of coughing, the pain from your chest and shoulders
almost overwhelming.

‘What happened to me?’ You pull away the blankets to gaze down at your naked torso. Ugly red scars cut deep furrows through the skin, moving up from your stomach in jagged parallel
lines. The scars end at your left shoulder, where you notice the skin blackening as if bruised, forming patches of reptilian-looking scales. You screw up your eyes as you prod the scaly-looking
flesh.

‘You were lucky,’ states the witchfinder, his one steely eye flitting to the man by the window. ‘And for that, you have Modoc to thank. The finest healer in all of
Valeron.’

The stranger bows his head in greeting. A band of sunlight dances across the runes and sigils tattooed into his blood-red skin.

You look back at the witchfinder, begging for answers. He appears to read your mind, folding his arms and flashing you another gold-toothed smile. ‘I am Virgil Elland. I imagine you have
some questions for me, prophet?’

495

You pull back the curtain of lianas and enter the interior of the pagoda. The smell that hits you is almost overpowering – a sour reek of mould and decay. A quick glance
at your surroundings confirms that every inch of stone, from the floor to the arched dome ceiling, is covered in scabs of thick, yellow fungus.

‘Lycanth’s lair,’ whispers Boom Mamba, pointing to the far side of the musty-smelling space. ‘Spirit of rot.’ At first, you assume the shaman is mistaken – it
looks to be nothing more than a heap of mould, crawling with maggots. But then it moves, lifting up off the ground on bowed, hairy legs. A single bloodshot eye blinks in the darkness of its crusted
hood, below which a wolf-like muzzle sniffs at the air. Then the beast gives a gargling howl of rage, its mouth distending into a row of jagged fangs. You quickly step forward to protect the
shaman, as the creature advances. It is time to fight:

Special abilities

If you manage to defeat Lycanth, turn to
207
. If you are defeated, you may return to
510
to choose a different foe to
battle.