Grey-hair shakes his head. ‘Sheva, it is the only way. Skins will not follow us across the marsh. They speak of the grey and know her power.’
‘The grey?’ you ask, glancing sideways at Scar-face.
The younger tigris shifts uneasily. ‘A Lamuri witch. She can stalk you both in flesh and in dreams. The marsh is her hunting ground and no one passes.’
‘Beyond the marsh is the stone claws,’ continues Grey-hair. ‘What the skins call the cloud mountains. We cross stone claws and we find escape – from the hunters.’
The white tigris glares back at the leader defiantly. ‘A coward’s choice. But not ours. Shara Sheva are fighters. We do not run from skins!’
Will you:
Ask about the ‘skins’? — 555
Agree to help the Khana flee? — 452
Agree to help the Sheva fight? — 704
338
You awake to find yourself staring at a stone wall. A cold wind is gusting through a narrow window, sending light flickering across the grey slabs. With a groan, you roll onto your back, aware that something is constricting your chest. Looking down, you see bandages wrapped tight around your ribs. From beneath the dressing you can feel a hot, smarting pain.
Your attention shifts to your surroundings – and for a second your breath catches in your throat, convinced that you have been brought back to Durnhollow. The room is small – little more than a cramped cell – and austerely furnished, with only the straw pallet bed and a dripping candle for company. An arched wooden door stands half-open, beyond which you can hear the resonant echo of voices, chanting in unison. You try and rise but a sudden flash of pain drives you back against the bed. Then dark dreams take you once again, filled with black thorns and cackling demons.
When you next awake, you find yourself propped up by a pillow. Someone is leaning over you, tipping a clay cup to your lips. The mixture tastes sweet, like honey, as you gulp it down.
‘Good, I see your strength returns.’
It is Ventus, the monk you met on the road. He is dressed in his familiar brown robes, padded with bands of leather. As he takes the cup away, you catch the sparkling white inscriptions etched into the back of his hands.
‘Where am I?’ you croak, wincing as you try and rise.
Ventus bows his head, his fingers making the sign of the cross in the air. ‘The Monastery of the Risen Light. You are safe here.’
Memories suddenly come flooding back – the fight on the moors, the Wiccan woman with feathers in her hair. You glance down at your bandages, remembering the blast of magic from her wand. ‘What happened to the Wiccans?’ you ask, rubbing your aching side.
Ventus offers you a thin smile. ‘Fireworks, of all things. A stray blast hit the wagon and one of the crates blew sky high. Must have been given to us by mistake – something meant for the Carvel celebrations. It was enough of a distraction to get you and,’ he pauses for a moment, pressing his lips together, ‘our charge to safety. Come,’ Ventus offers out a hand, to help you stand. ‘If you feel up to it, the dean would like to meet with you.’ Turn to 260.
339
The robbers clearly have no combat experience, their ragged clothing and crude weapons suggesting that this was not their first choice of career. However, whether it is plain greed or hunger that drives them, the men manage to press their attack with a frenzied recklessness. You try your best to fend off all three of them, but you are already exhausted from your trek through the marshlands. One of the robbers manages to get in a lucky blow, striking you across the forehead with his club. There is little strength behind it, but it is enough to send you stumbling forwards onto your knees. Another blow lands across your shoulders, driving you into the mud.
‘This ain’t no Wiccan,’ says one of the robbers. ‘I thoughts it was one of them wild men.’
‘I don’t care,’ growls another. ‘Get their purse . . . come on.’
You struggle to rise, desperate to defend yourself, but then something hard slams into your head, hammering you back into the mud – and into darkness. Turn to 360.
340
There are further bangs from the hallway. You hear splintering wood and the snarling cries of the undead. Grimly, you realise that the only way out of this room is through the small lattice window.
‘Did you have a plan to escape?’ you ask, moving quickly to the door and peering through the crack. You see clawed hands trying to tear their way through the front door.
When you look back, you see Eldias watching you with an intent expression. ‘I need your help,’ he says. ‘The reverend of the village, Septimus Palatine, is one of the undead. But a very powerful one. The villagers turned on him when the first of their number fell to the poison. They were angry that the One God was not curing them of the strange curse – they blamed the reverend. I suppose it was no surprise he’d lock himself in that church.’
‘But that’s on top of the hill,’ you gasp. ‘We’ll never reach it!’
There is the sound of snapping wood followed by a loud bang. You turn to see zombies spilling into the hall, clawing and grappling at each other to get through the doorway. Their waxy, yellow skin is slick with rainwater.
Eldias grabs the overturned chair and hurries to the door. Kicking it closed, he pushes the chair underneath the handle. Then he turns to you, his eerie pale eyes inches from your own. ‘The reverend fell to the curse – but his magic has made him strong, different to the others. He is no mindless zombie. He is a powerful lich and he must be defeated.’
You shake your head frantically, as the door buckles and shakes. On the other side, you can hear the howling, shrieking mob. ‘We’ll never make it!’
Eldias grabs your shoulders, holding you tight. ‘Listen to me! I think Rorus Satch, the herbalist, was close to discovering a cure for vampirism. I need that cure! But the reverend has all his books, all his learning. He is using them to grow more powerful. I must get to the church, but I can’t do it alone.’
‘But how will we defeat the undead?’ you ask desperately.
Eldias opens out his coat, revealing an array of weapons and other strange items tucked into the lining. ‘The witchfinder’s motto,’ he grins. ‘Always be prepared! Come, take what you need, I cannot use these – they are as dangerous to me as they are to the zombies.’
If you wish, you may help yourself to two of the following items:
Sanctified ashes (2 uses)
Holy water (2 uses)
Angelica wreath
(backpack)
(backpack)
(backpack)
Scatter these to protect you from harm
Ability: ashes
Use instead of rolling for a damage score to inflict 2 damage dice to
an undead opponent ignoring armour
A woven ring of white flowered herbs
Ability: holy protector
When you have made your decision, turn to 138.
341
‘Demons, always the demons.’ The scholar looks at you suspiciously. ‘Did Andos put you up to this? That boy’s always pestering me for fanciful stories. Not good for young heads.’ He gives a wistful sigh. ‘I might devote a paragraph or two to it in my book. You’ll just have to wait until then.’
He drums his fingers on the desk, humming to himself.
‘A sneak peek?’ you venture, hopefully.
The man gives a theatrical-sounding sigh. ‘Okay, if you absolutely insist. I suppose one mustn’t deny a thirst for knowledge, eh? Let’s have a think . . . when it comes to demons, there is one name that keeps cropping up. Barahar. He was the last of his kind – a race of demons that once dwelled in the underworld.’
‘An archdemon?’ you suggest, remembering back to your conversation with Virgil.
‘Yes, an archdemon – and he sounds quite the character,’ the scholar chirps, as if discussing nothing more serious than the weather. ‘Caused a bit of trouble in his day, laying waste to towns, villages, even whole cities. The Lamuri legends talk
of a sword – Ragnarok. Anyone killed by that blade was bound to serve its master, even in death. As you can imagine, Barahar was good at the killing part; had a veritable army at his disposal.’
‘Ragnarok?’ You look away, suddenly struggling for air in the stuffy room. You can picture the sword from your vision at Durnhollow – the black rune blade, wielded by a demon. ‘How was he defeated?’ you ask hoarsely.
‘The dwarves, apparently. They destroyed his sword and with it his power. A happy ending by all accounts – so, worry not – I don’t think it’ll be demons you’ll be crossing paths with in the jungle.’
Turn to 386 to ask the scholar another question or turn to 548 if you wish to leave and continue your journey.
342
You find yourself in a long stone hall, its columned length awash with flickering candlelight. Several sections of the ceiling have collapsed inwards, allowing tangled curtains of liana to break through into the smoky interior.
The man scampers over the jumbled rock, towards a small scattering of belongings arranged within a circle of runes. It is an odd collection – a pile of skulls, some fruit partially wrapped in palm leaves, an assortment of clay pots and leather gourds, and a row of wooden staffs similar to the one he is holding.
‘Be at home,’ grins the man, gesturing to a moss-covered stone. ‘You coming here was no simple chance. I waited for this long time.’ He places his staff with the others, then proceeds to pick another from the line up. You notice various symbols have been carved into the wood.
‘What were those undead?’ you ask, eyeing the protective runes painted onto the stone. ‘There were hundreds of them.’
‘Dead Lamuri. My ancestors, bless their spirits.’ He pats the carved wood against the palm of his hand. ‘They don’t mind being boomed I think – not themselves no more. Dead inside and out. Magic of this place keeps them here.’
You settle onto the stone seat, taking a moment to study your rescuer. The man is tall and lean, his scrawny body toned to rods of hard muscle. The smooth brown skin and sparkling eyes make him appear youthful, and yet his banded braids are peppered with grey and white. Of his clothing, there is not much to speak of – just a simple loin cloth and a necklace of charms.
‘I sense you have questions,’ he says, crouching down on the balls of his feet. ‘You ask Boom Mamba and he answer. Then we go boom some more. We finish spirit walk – then I go home to elders. Boom Mamba hero – and I help you too.’
Will you:
Ask how he got his name? — 204
Ask what he means by a ‘spirit walk’? — 462
Ask how he can help? — 257
343
You remove Anna’s vial from around your neck and offer it to the priest. ‘Take it,’ you insist. ‘I cannot judge whose life is more worthy to save. But I trust that you speak the truth – and I will not come to blows over this.’
Benin is struck speechless.
‘Hurry or I might change my mind,’ you grin, shaking the vial.
The priest swiftly steps forward and takes the vessel from you, before turning to the manticore.
‘Come closer, then,’ it growls, stretching out one of its enormous paws. ‘Take your blood and be gone.’
Benin stoops down and picks up one of the jagged bones from the ground. Then, taking the beast’s paw in his hand, he pricks the skin with the tip of the bone. Black blood blossoms from the tiny wound, which the priest carefully collects in the glass vial.
With the deed finally done, Benin joins you in the tunnel.
‘Thank you, my friend,’ he smiles, placing a hand on your shoulder. ‘The bishop will reward you, I promise. Now, come – we must make haste.’
Together, you leave Crow Rock and return to Carvel. (Record the word hallowed on your hero sheet, then turn to 359.)
344
‘Ma height I owe to me father, but these lovelies . . .’ He gnashes his teeth, the metal sparking as they grate together, ‘I owe to a Skardland runt who ’ad me well and good in the pit. Knocked me out with a club the size of me head.’
‘You were a gladiator?’ you ask in awe.
The half-giant jerks a finger over his shoulder, to a magnificent broadsword hanging on the bar wall. Its blade is tempered black steel, inlaid with gold runes. ‘I done the whole circuit and won the capital games. Got that off of the king ’imself.’ He sniffs dismissively. ‘Not much of a man if yer asking me.’
‘And you gave it all up for . . .’ You stammer over your words, worried you may cause offence.
The half-giant flashes a metal grin. ‘I get yer. This ain’t much, I know, but I do it for the missus. The ol’ ball and chain.’ He glances over his shoulder towards the kitchen, where you can hear a woman squawking orders over the rattle of pots and hissing steam. ‘She’s a good ’un – stands taller than anyone in my eyes.’
As you gaze at his sparkling teeth, you are reminded of the gold-toothed witchfinder who visited you in your cell at Durnhollow. Virgil Elland.
‘Have you seen anyone else in these parts, with . . .’ You nod towards his gleaming dentures.
‘Wife said we ’ad one of them witchfinders in tuther day,’ he replies, folding his arms. ‘Was looking for someone but never gave much of a description. Think he was after one of them escaped loons from that dungeon up north.’ His eyes suddenly narrow, suspiciously. ‘Why yer ask?’
You quickly offer a non-committal shrug. ‘Ah, old friend of mine – it’s nothing.’
The half-giant nods slowly, not looking entirely convinced. ‘Good. I don’t want any trouble on ma doorstep, yer understand?’
To ask the barman about local rumours turn to 202, to explore the rest of the tap room turn to 172, or to leave turn to 199.
345
It appears that the goblins and the ogre had holed themselves up in a small defensible area. Opposite the slope, the entire wall has collapsed inwards, leaving behind an impenetrable mass of jagged rock. Apart from some cooking pots and a few gnawed bones, there is little else in the cave.
‘Wait, I got something!’ Surl is kneeling beside a wooden crate – or what is left of one. The lid has been smashed open, revealing a number of metal discs inside.
‘Borehole charges,’ grins Surl, lifting one up.
You notice the others backing away. The captain gives a snort. ‘Put that down, Surl, or you’ll blow the top off this mountain, and take us with it!’
‘What are they?’ you ask, watching as Surl lays it carefully onto the ground.
‘Explosives,’ grins Vas. ‘Only the army have them. And maybe smugglers who got lucky.’
‘Yeah, but how’d they end up here?’ asks Surl, turning a broken piece of the crate over in his hands. ‘You think the gobboes used them to cause that cave-in?’
‘I don’t think so, I know so,’ growls the captain, starting back towards the slope. ‘Come on. This is a dead-end – and you’re giving me heart burn with all your rattling.’ He spits a stream of tobacco juice at the wall. ‘This place stinks.’
If you wish, you may help yourself to one of the charges:
Borehole charge
(backpack)
The writing on the side states:
‘Handle with care!’
You follow the captain through the narrow tunnel and back to the junction. Ahead, lies the entranceway to the next cavern. Turn to 229.
346
Amongst the piles of wind-scoured rock, you find a silver casket containing 50 gold crowns and one of the following items:
Lost scriptures
Wind baton
Twister
(left hand: spell book)
(main hand: wand)
(cloak)
+1 speed +2 magic
+1 speed +2 magic
+1 speed +1 magic
Ability: Cistene’s chattels set
Ability: windblast
Ability: confound
(requirement: acolyte)
When you have updated your hero sheet, tur
n to 239.
347
You step into the room. A quick scan reveals a lantern resting on a table top, surrounded by books and piles of crumpled papers. Against the far wall, a writing desk has been overturned and a chair lies on its side.
Then you feel the cold kiss of a flint-lock pistol against your cheek. Someone is standing right beside you, just out of your eye-line. You can smell sweat and leather, and the faint hint of wood smoke.
Instinctively, you slam your elbow into their side, falling forwards as a bullet hums overhead, hitting a mirror in the far wall and sending fragments of glass showering in all directions. The room fills with the smell of brimstone and sulphur. You spin around, taking a kick in the chest. Still unable to focus on your attacker, you roll over – dragging yourself under the table as another bullet slams into the ground, creating a charred crater in the wood.
‘Damn it . . .’ hisses a voice.
You slide out from underneath the table, springing onto your feet and falling into a battle stance. At last, you are able to look upon your attacker. It is a man, dressed in an open black coat. The hilts of various swords and daggers are visible from his waist band. A battered capotain rests on his head, the brim shadowing his eyes. He is muttering to himself as he struggles to wrestle another pistol from a holster inside his coat. Catching your eye, he stops, his pale mouth twitching into a half-smile.
‘I used to be faster than this,’ he says hoarsely. ‘You’re no zombie.’
‘So I’m lucky on both counts.’ Your weapons remained raised. There is something familiar to you about this man.
‘And you make enough noise to wake the dead.’ He cocks his head in the direction of the front door – where the zombies are still banging to get in. You catch a glimmer of sharp canines, protruding from the man’s gums. His skin is pallid, his hollow cheeks giving him a similar appearance to the undead outside.
The Heart of Fire Page 27