The Heart of Fire

by Michael J. Ward

  He is short and wiry, dressed in half-tanned furs and rusted chainmail. As he steps closer, you see that his face has been painted: a black band cuts across the ridge of his nose, highlighting the whites of his eyes.

  He mutters something in a guttural language, raising twin daggers that glow with an angry red light.

  ‘Free me . . .’ you manage to choke, fixing him with a hard gaze. ‘Free me.’

  The man pushes his face close to yours. He sniffs you, then jerks back, his eyes widening with surprise.

  ‘Old one.’ His tongue struggles with the words, lisping through sharpened teeth. ‘Old one.’ In the distance, you hear another explosion. There is a rumbling crash as something heavy topples and smashes to the ground. The dust in the passageway grows thicker.

  With a growl, the man swings his arms in a cutting motion. The weight that was pulling at your arms suddenly disappears, throwing you forwards onto your stomach. The severed chains rattle around you.

  Weakly you try and rise, but there is no strength in your arms. You slump forward, your exhalation sending dust whirling before your face.

  There is the scrape of boots as the man moves behind you. Strong hands take your shoulders and lift you up onto your knees. A gourd is pressed to your lips. You sup it greedily, the warm liquid washing away the dirt and dryness, and bringing fresh strength to your limbs.

  When the gourd is taken away you are able to raise your hand to your lips, catching the last of the syrup as it drools down your chin.

  ‘You owe me,’ growls the man, thumping a fist against his chest. ‘You owe the Wicca.’

  Then he is gone – moving swiftly back into the cloudy maelstrom. You are left alone in the cell, as another explosion – more distant this time – echoes back through the subterranean rock.

  Bodies choke the tight passageway. It is difficult to pick out anyone’s allegiance, as each corpse is caked in a thick white dust. You stagger through the murky twilight, avoiding the side passages where the sounds of battle still rage. You flinch, drawing back against the wall, as one of the painted warriors races past you, heading back the way you have come. He pays you no mind, the hatchet he is carrying caked with blood.

  You stumble onwards, your feet dragging through the loose rock and dirt. Then a sudden movement forces you to turn. An inquisitor looms out of the darkness. A jagged cut has bled down his face, mixing with the dust and coating his eyes in a bloody sludge. His first swing goes wide, but the second blow hits home – his sword punching into your chest. For a second, you both glare at each other down the length of the blade. Then white hot pain lances through your body, forcing out a gurgling scream . . .

  Time blurs.

  You stumble onwards, your feet dragging through the loose rock and dirt. A sudden movement forces you to turn. The inquisitor. Somehow, you already know how this encounter will end. His first swing goes wide, but the second blow you dodge, letting it slam into the wall, jarring the blade from the warrior’s grasp. With a strength born from fear you kick back at your opponent, sending him tumbling back into the cell. His head thumps against a rock, drawing a muffled grunt. Then silence . . .

  Quickly, you reach down and grab the inquisitor’s sword:

  Knight’s folly

  (main hand: sword)

  +1 brawn +1 magic

  As you continue down the passage, you find yourself pondering this sudden twist of fate. The inquisitor’s blow had been fatal. You had seen it; felt it crush your ribs and pierce your lungs. But it had all been a vision – a glimpse of a possible future. As you gaze upon the sword, its magnificent blade glowing with holy scripture, you feel a newfound energy surging through you. Perhaps some of the Elysium is still in your bloodstream, heightening the strange powers that you have had from birth – the ability to see the future.

  You have gained the following combat ability:

  Prophecy (co): Use this ability when you have lost a combat round, to avoid taking damage from your opponent. You can only use this ability once per combat.

  A set of stairs take you up into a torch-lined corridor. Your surroundings have become more opulent, with lines of fine tapestries covering the stone walls. The only sign that something is awry are the dusty footprints that track back and forth along the plush red carpet.

  You find a side chamber, with several chests and bags resting at the foot of a bed. Aware that you are dressed in little more than a ragged gown, you quickly duck into the room and begin rummaging through its contents.

  You find a backpack, 30 gold crowns and the following items, which you may take:

  Plumed helm

  Saddle blanket

  Rider’s jerkin

  (head)

  (cloak)

  (chest)

  +1 armour

  +1 armour

  +1 speed

  Another corridor brings you out into a wide, vaulted hall. Its central pillars are carved into figures of warriors – both male and female – resplendent in decorative plate armour. They provide useful cover as a tight knot of inquisitors rush past, their armaments clattering noisily in the echoing chamber.

  You break from cover, moving quickly towards the bright band of daylight seeping between a pair of arched doors. Several bodies lie amongst the shadows to either side, green-fletched arrows protruding from their chests. Without stopping, you slip through the doors and out to freedom.

  The glare is almost blinding; the light of the pale sun reflected off the glistening snow. As you crest a hill, you look back at the place that once held you prisoner – a vast cathedral carved out of a spire of black rock. Durnhollow: the dungeon of the inquisition. You spit into the snow, before turning and heading down the wooded mountainside, into the valley below.

  A narrow trail brings you to a well-worn track, carving its way through rolling hills. As you join the track, you see a procession approaching from the east; a group of dusty travellers, with carts and wagons piled high with belongings.

  You wonder if they are fleeing some disaster, but as they near you see that several of the travellers are bedecked with garlands and crucifixes. Pilgrims, you suspect. You nod to one of the men, who is carrying a young girl on his shoulders. He smiles, then points ahead along the track.

  ‘Look Aimee, we made it. That’s Carvel, up there on the hill. We’re following the path of the saints, just like I said we would.’ He looks your way, offering you a grin. ‘Are you headed our way, pilgrim? Come to pay your respects?’

  You follow the child’s gaze, towards a walled town perched on a plateau of rock. It promises you a new start; a safe haven from the prying eyes of the inquisition.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’ You clasp the man’s hand in welcome, before joining the procession.

  ‘I’m Bernard. This is Aimee.’ The girl giggles and waves. ‘I’d say we made good timing; looks like this weather’s gonna hold after all.’ He frowns up at the heavy white sky. ‘At least ’til we see the warmth of a tavern, eh?’

  You peer sideways at him, offering a grin. ‘I very much doubt that.’ A moment later rain begins to fall, spattering off your helm and cloak. You raise your eyebrows. ‘Told you so.’

  Bernard gives a snort of laughter. ‘What’s this, we got our very own prophet?’ He pats the legs of his little girl. ‘See, Aimee. We come to the holy lands and find ourselves a prophet, just like the great Saint Allam. It’s got to be a sign – a sign that our luck’s changing.’ He gives you a sly wink. ‘What do you say, prophet?’

  You keep your eyes set ahead, your hand gripping the pommel of your sword. For as long as you can remember, you have been hunted – running from town and village, with nowhere to call home. Will Carvel be any different?

  ‘Tell me, Bernard. Do you believe that the future can really be foretold?’ You glance up at the darkening skies. They promise a storm.

  The traveller lowers his little girl to the track, helping her to fix her hood. ‘I say it’s up to the One God to decide our fate. None of our business is it, the fu
ture? Not unless you’re a saint, like Allam.’

  You nod, eyeing your reflection in the fast-forming puddles. A gaunt, pale figure; a stranger you barely recognise. ‘Yeah, none of our business.’ Your boot splashes down into the muddy water, obliterating the face staring back.

  Your attention shifts to the welcoming lights of Carvel, blinking on the horizon. For now, you are happy to put thoughts of demons and dark mountains from your mind. The only future you want to see is a hot meal and a warm bed. ‘Come,’ you look to Bernard, gesturing towards the town. ‘That tavern of yours is sounding like a very good idea.’

  Turn to the first map to begin ACT 1 of your adventure. Choose where you want to visit by turning to the entry number displayed next to the shield. As a novice adventurer you may want to explore the town of Carvel (turn to 8) before embarking on one of the green quests. Good luck!

  Act One: Fenstone Moors

  Green Quest – 14

  Green Quest – 19

  Orange Quest – 33

  Orange Quest – 60

  Blue Quest – 73

  Red Quest – 42

  Team Battle – 163

  Village, town or camp – 8

  Village, town or camp – 216

  Legendary Monster – 144

  Legendary Monster – 158

  Legendary Monster – 256

  Boss Monster – 151

  Act Two: Terral Jungle

  Green Quest – 217

  Orange Quest – 365

  Blue Quest – 376

  Red Quest – 443

  Team Battle – 529

  Village, town or camp – 571

  Legendary Monster – 371

  Legendary Monster – 408

  Legendary Monster – 633

  Legendary Monster – 643

  Boss Monster – 579

  Act Three: Tartarus

  Green Quest – 590

  Orange Quest – 607

  Orange Quest – 631

  Blue Quest – 821

  Red Quest – 874

  Team Battle – 836

  Village, town or camp – 557

  Legendary Monster – 605

  Legendary Monster – 727

  Legendary Monster – 823

  Boss Monster – 871

  1

  You hand settles around something soft and velvety, clinking with coin. Excitedly, you withdraw your hand to find that you have discovered a purse of gold! (You have gained 10 gold crowns.) Suddenly you hear a grumbling, creaking sound coming from the tree. Stepping away, you see that the other holes have now closed up, locking away their treasures.

  You may now try and climb the tree (turn to 96) or leave via the magic portal (turn to 46).

  2

  With your foe defeated you are free to examine the floating junk at your leisure. Amongst the trash you find an expensive-looking silver casket. Fishing it out of the muck, you open it up to find 30 gold crowns and a black iron key inside. (If you take the key, simply make a note of it on your hero sheet, it doesn’t take up backpack space.) After pocketing your items, you wade through the stinking water towards the iron door. Turn to 409.

  3

  ‘I see you favour the magic arts,’ nods Lazlo, glancing down at his charred clothing. ‘My tailor will be less than impressed . . . but I do know someone who would find your talents more to their liking.’

  ‘Someone who can train me?’ you ask hopefully.

  ‘Ignatius Pyre. He is the tutor over in the mage tower. Take this and show it to his assistant.’ He reaches into a pocket and produces a small iron badge. A symbol of a bat stands out in high relief on the surface. ‘That is my personal seal. It will grant you an audience with the high mage – and he’ll give you all the training that you need.’

  You take the seal, thanking Lazlo for his kind assistance. (Make a note of the prince’s seal on your hero sheet – it does not take up backpack space. Then turn to 182.)

  4

  You find yourself in a small rectangular chamber lined with shelves. Most are buckling under the weight of the many books and scroll cases that have been haphazardly piled on top of them. At the centre of the room stands a circular table, covered by a large sheet of parchment. A magical quill is moving diligently back and forth across the paper, scratching lines of script in a glistening black ink. The only other exit you can see is another door in the far wall, this time made of rusted iron.

  Will you:

  Search the book shelves? — 323

  Examine the parchment on the table? — 362

  Leave through the iron door? — 46

  5

  The woman throws back her head and laughs. ‘What local rumours would you like? That there’s a caped vigilante, a vampire they say, preying on criminals and drinking their blood?’ She sucks at the air, then puckers up her lips and blows you a kiss. ‘Or that the prince in his merry ol’ castle is hoping to woo every woman in Carvel?’

  Her last comment draws a roar of laughter from the nearby patrons. The man next to you gives a snort. ‘It’s the Wiccans you need to watch. They’re the ones what’re causing all the trouble.’

  The laughter trails off into angry mutterings.

  You turn your head, raising an eyebrow. ‘You know of the Wiccans?’

  The man wipes the ale from his mouth. ‘I know what everyone knows. This was their land, once. Then Allam and his army came and took it from them. They worship the old gods, the old magic, see. Allam didn’t like that. They’re still fighting for their lands now – but the church is having none of it.’

  ‘Humph, what happens outside Carvel can stay outside Carvel,’ sniffs the bar woman, tugging a cloth from her apron. ‘Men and their quarrels. I’d like to knock some sense into all of ’em.’ She rubs the cloth vigorously over the bar. ‘Saints, Wiccans, they all as bad as each other.’

  Return to 52 to ask the bar woman another question.

  6

  Your metal soldier charges into the paper monster, slashing it to shreds with diamond-sharp fists. Congratulations, you have chosen well and defeated papyrus. (Remove the metal soldier from your hero sheet.) Then turn to 208.

  7

  You duck beneath a crackling bolt of magic, bringing the butt of your weapon up across the woman’s forehead. The blow should have stunned her, but instead she merely staggers away, hissing the words of yet another spell. As you ready yourself for a fresh barrage of magic, you are surprised when the woman throws up her arms, her gaze shifting skyward. There is a flicker of magic about her body and then she is gone.

  You hear a flutter of wings and a deafening caw. Suddenly black feathers and yellow eyes rush at your face. With a cry you throw yourself backwards, slashing at the air. However, your desperate blows fail to connect with anything solid. For several moments you are fending off sharp talons and beating wings . . . then the attack ceases.

  Twisting around, you see a ragged-looking crow soaring away across the foggy moorland. A single black feather flutters down to land on the grass at your feet. You may now take the following item:

  Crow feather

  (talisman)

  +1 magic

  With the witch defeated, you are able to study the candles and runes more closely. Turn to 191.

  8

  The bustling gates of the town are clogged with carts and wagons. Two sombre-looking guards are doing their best to perform rudimentary inspections, poking through the newcomers’ belongings and questioning their purpose in town. However, the tight-packed throng of animals and people make it easy for you to slip past the guards and into the town of Carvel.

  Beyond the walls you are greeted by a ramshackle jumble of slate roofs and grey stone buildings, spread out around an immense outcropping of rock. A crooked lane winds back and forth along its face, leading up to a further huddle of buildings at its summit, their black outlines cutting a jagged silhouette against the storm-heavy sky.

  All around you the cobbled lanes ring with noise, echoing back from the narrow
streets and alleyways. Most of the people are pilgrims, but you also notice military-types – mercenaries and adventurers – bristling with weapons and armour. An occasional inquisitor pushes through the crowds, moving quickly on some urgent errand. You keep your head bowed, looking to blend in as best you can.

  Will you:

  Explore the lower town? — 36

  Follow the crooked street to upper town? — 17

  9

  ‘Why not take a look?’ Lazlo gestures to the shuttered window. Following his instruction, you slide off the bed and make your way across the room. ‘I hope the view is to your liking.’

  A cold wind ruffles your hair as you push open the shutters and lean out over the sill. For a moment your breath catches, a sickening wave of vertigo almost forcing you to lose balance. Gripping the sill, you steady yourself to take in the sight.

  Carvel stretches below you like a tiny crescent of doll’s houses, slate roofs sparkling with freshly-fallen snow. Across from you, the spires and domes of the church rise up from the stone plaza – an impressive building at ground level, but from this towering vantage point its beauty is easily surpassed by the sweeping vista of plains and mountains that stretch to the horizon.

  ‘The castle,’ you gasp.

  You lean further over the windowsill to see the sheer black stone of the building dropping away to meet a distant courtyard below. You draw back, feeling giddy from the height. ‘How did I get here?’

  Lazlo joins you by the window, his eyes following a circling eagle. ‘I have a secret entrance to this place, at the foot of the rock. Most of it, you’ll find, is old dwarf tunnels and caves. Easy once you know your way . . .’ He gives an involuntary shudder. ‘And you can handle the bats. I hate bats.’