The Heart of Fire (83 page)

555

‘We try to talk, then we try to fight, but they keep coming, spreading like a disease across the forest.’ Grey-hair’s shoulders slump, looking as old as his
years. ‘They hunt us and take us away from den homes. We have lost many – pack brothers, sisters, young cubs.’

The white tigris clenches his paws. ‘And that is why we must fight, Khana! We are the hunters of the forest, not them! Flee to the marsh and death will follow. Sheva are not cowards. We
will show our claws!’ There are roars of approval from his pack members, whilst the other tigris have fallen into a rebellious silence.

556

All that remains of Umbra is a pile of rumpled clothing and a scatter of jewellery. You also spot the skeleton of an adventurer, propped up against one of the columns. The
mildewed white robes and cross-shaped pendant suggest they had once been a priest.

You find a pouch containing 15 gold crowns and one of the following rewards:

When you have made your decision, you return to the courtyard. Turn to
510
.

557

(You must have completed the orange quest
The Abussos
before you can access this location.)

Following a crude goblin map scrawled onto animal hide, you find yourself standing outside a ruined building at the corner of two streets. Something had once been written over the doorway
– possibly a sign. But it is so faded with age that you can’t make out any of the symbols. With a sigh you tug open the iron door, which comes away loose in your hands. Awkwardly, you
lift it up and put it against the wall, then step inside.

The interior is much as you expected. The ground is covered in rubble and bits of broken glass. What had once been rows of shelves now lie smashed across the floor. In one corner the ceiling has
collapsed, allowing thin rays of ashen light to illuminate the cobwebs and dust motes floating in the air.

‘So much for treasure maps,’ grunts Virgil, kicking at a stone. ‘We’re wasting time.’

‘You’re right, this is a dead end.’ You pick up what looks like a tattered, dirt-stained blanket. Somehow it has survived all these years, but is riddled with mould and smells
like a sewer. You toss it away with a grimace.

‘Er . . . do you mind,’ says a voice right next to your ear.

You spin around, so abruptly that you almost lose your balance and fall over.

Much to your surprise, there is no one there.

‘Virgil, did you hear something?’ You glance over your shoulder to see that the witchfinder has left the building and is now waiting for you outside.

Cautiously, you begin searching between the rubble and broken shelves, looking for someone who might be hiding.

‘Can I help you? Are you looking for something in particular?’

You twist around again. ‘Who’s there?’ you shout. ‘Show yourself!’

‘I would suggest you calm down.’

You feel something touch your arm. You look down to see a white gloved hand hovering in mid-air. . . With a cry you knock the limb away, back-stepping to the nearest wall. As you go to draw a
weapon you hesitate, wondering if your eyes are playing tricks on you.

Gliding across the room are a pair of white gloves and a black bowler hat. ‘Welcome to my humble establishment,’ says the disembodied voice. ‘I am the proprietor, Mr G H
Claypole. How can I help you?’ The gloved hands spread themselves wide in a welcoming gesture.

You realise that you are looking at the shopkeeper, or what is left of him. Mr Claypole is a ghost.

‘You’re a little tall for a dwarf,’ you remark, puzzled. ‘How did you get here?’

‘I came from the shroud, slipped through a space – a doorway, if you like. I’ve been here for. . .’ He pauses, while his gloved hand scratches at an invisible chin.
‘Substantially longer than I planned. But no mind, you’ve made my journey worth its while. And how did you find yourself here, pray tell?’

‘I followed a map; I thought it might lead to . . .’ You stop yourself, glancing around at the broken remnants of the building, suddenly feeling more than a little foolish ‘A
stash of weapons, armour . . . something useful.’

‘Of course!’ says the ghost, clasping his hands together. ‘I have everything you might need, for a price of course.’

‘But there is nothing here,’ you implore.

You are met by an angry tut. ‘Not in plain sight, mortal. I keep them in a vault of runes. Protects them from the living and the dead. Now, I sense your need is urgent, so what would you
like to see?’

558

You jolt awake, coughing and spluttering. From the dark sky, falling stone beats against the earth, bouncing and rattling off your soot-streaked armour. Shielding your eyes
against the barrage, you fix your gaze on the mountain. Through the ash you can dimly make out its summit, fountaining an endless column of rock and earth into the sky.

The crunch of feet alerts you to the approaching demon. It strides through the smoke, a shadow amidst the swirling red ash. Its charred body is crisscrossed with veins of fire, pulsing with a
hellish glow. And in its hand is a sword – a rune-blade, its serrated edge crackling with magic.

My vision.

Tears sting your eyes as the demon stalks towards you. ‘Virgil . . . What have you done?’

The demon snarls. ‘My journey is complete! Ragnarok is remade!’

You scramble for a weapon, clawing through the dust and rock, but they have landed out of reach. When you turn back, the demon is standing over you, the dark sword raised. ‘One of us will
change the future.’

‘Indeed I will.’

The voice comes from behind you. An arrow of purple light slams into the demon, sending it reeling backwards. As it tries to stand, another bolt blows it away into the mist. The sword rattles to
the ground.

You struggle to rise, bewildered by this sudden change of events. A black-cloaked stranger strides past, a bright staff of gold resting across his shoulder. The wind tugs at his cowl, exposing
his features for the briefest of moments. A bald head, gaunt face, weasel-like eyes. A scar curves along their cheek, turning their upper lip . . .

It is the librarian from Durnhollow. The man who drugged you and then questioned you. The man who brought you to the edge of ruin.

‘How . . . how did you get here?’ You struggle weakly to stand.

‘You told me everything, remember?’ He raises a hand, sending currents of magic coursing towards the sword. ‘I’m here for Ragnarok. Nothing more.’ The pale flesh of
his arm reveals three branded serpents. They writhe and twist as if alive, glowing with an alien magic.

‘You . . . you used me . . . used Cernos . . . to get the sword.’

The librarian glances at you, the air still rippling around his hand. ‘I must do what the voice tells me. Ragnarok is part of the plan. The plan to return . . .’ His magic curls
around the sword, enfolding it within an invisible prison.

‘No! I can’t let you take the sword. It must be destroyed . . .’ You tense, ready to spring. He reads your intention, his expression darkening.

‘I saved your life, fool – if life you can call it. Do not try to stop me – or I will end it just as swiftly.’

The sword drifts through the air to hover at his side. He then raises the golden staff, its end panels flipping open to form the petals of a flower. ‘Remember, I am Lorcan. I am the one
who saved you. The future is now yours, prophet.’

There is a bright flash of golden light – then he is gone. And the sword with him.

The ground shakes violently, throwing you sideways. Only metres away the rock is torn asunder, ripping out a jagged fissure. From its depths, a bright sludge of lava spews forth in a glutinous
mass.

You quickly find your feet, lurching from side to side as the world continues to shudder in its death throes. From behind you there is a thunderous crashing din, followed by a fierce wash of
heat. You dare not look back, to see the scale of devastation. Instead, you simply press on. The demon lies nearby, crumpled body steaming with purple smoke.

A sudden tremor knocks you to the ground.

Forced to crawl, you scramble over the rocks to reach the demon’s side. ‘Virgil . . .?’ The librarian’s magic has blown a hole in his chest, exposing an ugly mass of bone
and tissue. He lies twisted, arms outstretched as if reaching for something. Your eyes trace the line of his body, to the golden sphere lying in the dust.

A beacon stone. Identical to the one that Virgil placed inside you, to summon himself and Avian to the volcano. He had another . . .

Your hand closes around the sphere, thumb resting on the switch. ‘Freedom . . .’ The word has a bitter ring to it now, tainted with lies – tainted by what you have become. A
demon. As Cernos was before you. ‘All I ever wanted was freedom . . ..’

Your eyes stray to the witchfinder. The man who betrayed you. In the end, he lost himself to his anger and his rage. He took Ragnarok, believing it would rid the world of evil.

There are many steps on the path of darkness. I pray you find deliverance before its end.

You press the switch, just as a violent earthquake rips open the ground.

For a second you are falling, then a soft white light envelops you . . . Turn to
831
.

559

The tigris move swiftly through the jungle, weaving agilely between the gnarled roots and walls of liana. Often they resort to running on all fours, leaping and bounding over
obstructions or springing off fallen trees. The babe clings to the mother’s shoulders, looking neither alarmed nor concerned by their speedy flight. Perhaps this is what they are used to
– forever running, forever trying to outrun the hunters.

As the rain finally starts to slow you break out of the tangled undergrowth, your feet thudding into banks of wet sand. A river stretches to your right, already swollen with the rainfall. Its
sparkling waters churn and roil, pitching a constant stream of forest debris along its course.

Ahead, a group of tigris are standing underneath a shelf of rock. By their animated gestures, it looks as though an argument is taking place. Two sides seem to have formed – on the one
side, a pack of white-furred tigris, and on the other a larger group with black-and-orange markings, similar to your companions.

Scar-face slows, putting his arm around the young mother and her cub. A sudden silence falls as the two packs of tigris halt their exchange and turn to watch. Before anyone can speak, the air
rings with a ferocious roar. One of the white-furred tigris with black stripes and green eyes springs forward, muscles rippling in his powerful arms.

‘You bring a skin here?’ he snarls.

‘Hold, Sheva. This one not like others. Helped us; helped Shara Khana.’

‘We not take help from skins,’ growls the white tiger. The rest of his group edge forward in an aggressive stance. ‘Khana grow weak. Hunters take your spirit.’

Scar-face leaps forward to face off against the white, his long tail whipping back and forth in agitation. ‘I’ll show you spirit, Sheva!’

‘Hold your claws,’ booms a voice.

Both of the tigris stiffen, looking back to the rock shelf where a larger orange has stepped forward. A thick mane of grey hair grows around his throat and shoulders. You suspect that this is
their leader – or one of them at least – a leader accustomed to being followed. This Grey-hair glares at the white tigris. ‘If we hope to cross the marsh, then we need fresh
claws.’

‘Marsh is the coward’s way,’ growls the white, making a face and spitting on the ground. ‘I told you. We lost too many. Shara Sheva fight now.’