The Heart of Fire (10 page)

34

You fling open the chest and root through its contents, finding a number of war trophies and pieces of jewellery wrapped in linen. With your only exit closing rapidly behind
you, there is no time to waste.

You may grab any two of the following items:

When you have made your choices, turn to
95
.

35

Anna grabs the curtain and tugs it along the rail, covering up the crates. ‘They are much needed supplies,’ she explains hurriedly, looking slightly flustered for
the first time. ‘I’m lucky to have a benefactor who believes in what I do.’ Anna glances over at her patient, wringing her hands with worry. ‘There have been many casualties
in this war . . .’

‘War?’ you ask in surprise. ‘What war?’

The woman raises an eyebrow. ‘The Church and the Wiccans. Neither will back down – the Wiccans want their lands back; their ancient sites. The Church wants to convert their people;
make them change their heathen ways. Do you really see any solution other than war?’

36

A crowded mass of bodies files through the streets and cobbled squares, where the endless cries of hawkers compete for attention. You are drawn to a row of stalls, where
skewered lizards are being cooked over hot coals. Nearby, a woman is spooning stew into small wooden bowls. A cage of live rats hangs from a post beside her, making you wonder exactly what type of
meat has made its way into the sloppy-looking gruel.

‘Fancy some of me finest hot pot?’ asks the woman, offering you a bowl.

Grimacing, you move on, your attention settling on a group of traders. One has a table, strewn with an odd assortment of objects. They appear to be charms and bracelets, made from woven straw
and wood and what looks like . . . finger bones. Next to the charm-maker a tinker has set up shop, with a gleaming array of weapons and armour displayed on racks.

Behind them, a rickety-looking building leans over the street. A newly-painted sign sways in the chill wind, proclaiming it as ‘The Pilgrim’s Rest’. The image shows a
rosy-faced woman, supping from a pewter tankard. Sounds of music and merriment drift out from the smoky interior.

37

The robbers clearly have no combat experience, their ragged clothing and crude weapons suggesting that this was not their primary choice of career. Your first blow sends the
leader staggering back, your second severs his rake in two. Twisting around, you parry an incoming strike from behind, swinging your knee up to hit your attacker in the groin. He gives a gasp of
pain – time enough for you to slam your elbow into his back, sending him sprawling into the mud.

You turn to your remaining assailant – the youngest of the three, barely old enough to be sporting his fuzz of beard. He clutches the wooden club tightly, holding it out before him like
some magical talisman to ward you away. You take a quick step forward – and the boy’s resolve crumbles. He drops the club and backs away, arms held out wide.

‘We thoughts you were a Wiccan,’ he begs, his voice breaking on the words.

‘Should that make a difference?’ you growl angrily.

‘They took everything from us,’ says the leader, the eldest of the three. He throws the broken stumps of his weapon into the mud. ‘They burnt our farmstead to the ground. My
wife . . .’ He shakes his head, his words sticking in his throat.

You sheathe your weapons, then walk over to the robber who is still lying on the ground, groaning with pain. ‘I find it hard to sympathise with those who would prey on travellers,’
you reply harshly, offering a hand. The robber takes it and stumbles to his feet. He is a few years older than the boy, with broad shoulders and thick-set arms. This one, at least, might make a
decent fighter – with some training.

‘You’re the first, honest,’ says the youngest, looking around nervously. ‘We’ve not had a decent meal for days. We got desperate . . .’ He clutches his arms
to his chest, shivering with cold. You notice that his clothes are torn and threadbare, caked in mud. It is a sorry sight – one that makes you marvel that they have managed to survive at all,
out in this harsh wilderness.

38

The woman plants her hands on her hips. ‘Now, what you doing asking me about a place like that for, dearie? Look around you – this is a home of merriment and cheer;
me very own church of joy. But that place . . . I know what it is. It’s where the inquisition take those they don’t like; those that don’t play by their rules.’ She dabs at
her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘You got a friend there, me dear? Someone you missing?’

You shake your head. ‘No, I was just curious.’

The woman blows out her cheeks. ‘I don’t need to tell you this, dearie, I’m sure there’s a smart head on those shoulders, but don’t be prying into the affairs of
the inquisition. Their way of answering ain’t going to be as sweet as mine, if you get my meaning.’

Return to
52
to ask the bar woman another question.

39

‘Yes, I do profess to having had a hand in some of the more . . . unsavoury clean up operations that have been going on in Carvel.’

‘I heard rumours,’ you add. ‘Some masked vigilante . . . the stories sounded a bit . . .’

‘Fanciful?’ Lazlo raises an eyebrow. ‘I did hear one story that I was actually a vampire – a fanged assassin, preying on the weak and vulnerable. That is one rumour I
have now put paid to. Or should I say, you did.’

You frown. ‘I did?’

‘The margoyle,’ he prompts with a grin. ‘They normally don’t come this far north and they certainly don’t come near settlements. But this one was ranging further
afield, attacking pilgrims on the roads and even venturing into the town at the dead of night.’ He winces, rubbing at his bruised face. ‘I was able to guess at its lair. And that is
where you found me. And the margoyle.’

‘So the mask,’ you enquire. ‘That is a disguise?’

Lazlo nods. ‘Of course. It wouldn’t do for my dear father, the king, to know his son is running around the streets of Carvel, fighting criminals and hoodlums .’ He sniffs,
smoothing down his silken shirt. ‘I’m not his favourite. My taste for the high life doesn’t quite agree with him.’

40

As you clamber up the hill you are surprised to hear an old woman, muttering and cackling to herself. You can’t make out the words, but they sound like part of a chant or
a rhyme.

At the top of the mound you see that an intricate pattern of runes has been burnt into the grass. A woman, old and hunched over, is hobbling around its edge, pulling black candles from a sack
that she drags behind her. These are being placed in various chalk circles. Most of the candles are already lit.

At the centre of this bizarre display, a large hollowed-out pumpkin rests on a bed of stone. Two slanted eyes and a jagged mouth have been cut into one side, and a candle burns within it, giving
off a ghoulish glow.

The woman sniffs the air, then suddenly whirls around, pointing a gnarled finger at you. She spits out a curse, her eyes narrowing to dark slits. Your first reaction is to raise your hands, to
prove you mean her no harm, but the woman’s scowl is a clear sign that she sees you as her enemy.

‘Must finish the ritual,’ she hisses. ‘Sacred land must be protected!’ She lunges forward, her long bony fingers crackling with magic:

If you defeat the deranged witch, turn to
7
.

41

(If you have the word
bones
written on your hero sheet, then turn to
56
.)

The weasel-faced trader makes the sign of the cross as you approach. ‘Ah, the One God bless you, my friend. You walk in Saint Allam’s footsteps. They say he stood on this very spot,
to proclaim ’imself the reincarnation of Judah.’ His eyes dart from side to side, then he leans over the table, stroking the band of charms around his neck. ‘I tells you the
truth, my friend. These charms are made from the finest of materials, none of that charlatan nonsense. Here, tell no one this . . .’ He drops his voice to a whisper. ‘I got it on honest
word that these here bones are saint’s bones, from out on the moors. You want a piece of the saints, right, to bring you good luck, yes?’

You view the unsavoury collection of charms and relics, noting the different-sized bones used in their construction. It seems unlikely that any of these bones could possibly have belonged to a
saint. ‘Isn’t that
goblin
?’ you ask, pointing to a short, stubby finger bone. ‘And that one looks like a troll . . .’

The trader gives a heavy sigh. ‘Yeah, I sees yer a smart one. Look, I’ve had ta diversify; times are ’ard, right? But might be some work in it for yer, if you fancy a bit of
bone collectin’?’