The Heart of Fire (133 page)

Virgil clucks his tongue in annoyance. ‘Okay, we get the picture – I think we need to clear the library of its . . . resident wildlife.’ He gives you a wearisome look.
‘Then this ghostly servant can finish his task.’ He strides past the ghost, tipping his hat.

The ghost doesn’t acknowledge him, too busy rambling through another list of titles with far too many consonants. ‘ . . . Episkeletal Supracostal Dichotomies of a Curmudgeon.
Gone! It’s a fright!
’ (Make a note of the keyword
spooks
on your hero sheet.) Turn to
866
.

860

You manage to snatch one of the thief ’s pouches, ripping it free from its cord. (You have regained your stolen backpack item as well as 50 gold crowns.) As you tumble
into a dive, you make a grab for the thief ’s legs. There is another popping sound . . .

You crash down onto your stomach with a pained cry. Looking up, you see no sign of the imp. It has simply vanished.

Then you hear a peal of laughter, coming from behind you.

You twist around, to see the thief hurrying back down the passage. Cursing with frustration, you push off in pursuit once more. Turn to
675
.

861

You awaken to dust. It billows everywhere, throwing a hazy veil over your bleak surroundings. A grim silence hangs as heavily, with only the occasional skitter of rocks to
unsettle it.

Tentatively, you push yourself to your feet, surprised that you feel no pain, save for a dull ache from your ribs and shoulders. It appears the demon blood has healed you once again.

As you stagger through the fog you glimpse bright rivers of lava, lapping between the islands of debris. The strange tower must have crashed down into the lake or on one of the many rock shelves
jutting from the cavern wall.

The going is slow and treacherous, the precarious mounds of rock constantly shifting beneath your weight. With patience, you manage to reach the top of one of the higher peaks, affording you a
better view of the mist-shrouded wasteland. If you have the keyword
blood debt
on your hero sheet, turn to
837
. Otherwise, turn to
855
.

862

You scoop up a rock and charge the monk. For a split second Ventus’ eyes widen in surprise, then his familiar scowl returns. He swipes his fists through the air, cutting
white trails of light towards your chest. The blow would have hit you, and possibly ended your life there and then, but a blast of black magic slams into his side, blowing him back into the
opposite wall.

As his smoking body slides to the ground, he fixes you with a contemptuous glare. ‘Foolish cur . . . it’s the witch . . .’

Suddenly, your surroundings start to blur, sweeping into ribbons of ochre light. You hear a woman’s laughter – cold and shrill – reverberating all around you. Then you lurch
forwards, as if pushed by some invisible hand, to find yourself standing in a ruined building. A female tigris lies sprawled at your feet, blood pooling around her broken body. It is Scowler. Turn
to
435
.

863

After brushing ink over the bronze plates, you lower them onto the paper. When you lift up the cross-piece, you are pleased to see that the parchment is now marked with your
chosen sigils. Your book is almost complete; all that remains is to bind the loose pages. If you wish to choose
a binding of black iron
, turn to
826
. If you
would prefer to choose
a binding of drake scales
, turn to
816
.

864

A crackling bolt of magic streaks overhead, smashing into Cernos and blowing him backwards. A second barrage sends him sprawling over the side of the balcony, his tattered
wings flapping uselessly as his body drops from view. There is the briefest echo of a scream, then silence.

It takes a moment for you to gather your wits, so suddenly has your fortune changed. You roll onto your stomach – even this simple action eliciting a grunt of pain. Your wounds have
already healed, but Cernos’ magic has left knives of agony, stabbing through your chest and shoulders.

But the pain is quickly forgotten when you look upon your would-be rescuer.

A ragged, tattered shape stumbles towards you. It is drenched in blood and gore, looking more demon than man. The figure cradles an arm against its chest. It ends in a stump, bandaged with rags
of cloth.

‘Virgil . . .?’

Magic still courses over the fingers of his remaining hand. You have never seen him call on his witchfinder’s power before. Such an act, coupled with the dark menace of his hollowed
expression, suggest that he is no longer himself.

You rise cautiously. A quick glance over your shoulder confirms that Cernos has gone – consumed by the magma lake. The ground gives another shudder, the lava splashing noisily against the
rocks below.

‘All is lost . . .’ Virgil staggers towards the blade, its runes pulsing with demonic light. ‘So many . . . evils . . .’

Too late, you realise his intentions. ‘No, Virgil!’ You start forward to head him off, but a bolt of magic flares from his hand, punching into your stomach and lifting you off your
feet. You would have gone flying over the balcony, following Cernos into the fiery maelstrom, if not for your quick reflexes. You grab a finger of rock, claws squealing across the stone as they
find purchase, halting you at the very edge of the precipice. Before you can recover, Virgil has grabbed the blade, its barbed hilt sinking into his scarred hand. ‘No . . . Virgil!
Don’t do this!’

The witchfinder raises the blade, his bloodied face lit by its crimson runes. His gold teeth flash in a bitter smile. ‘I was weak . . . too weak . . . but now I know what I must
sacrifice!’

Magic ripples along the blade, coursing up his arm and across his chest. You hear the crackle of heat, accompanied by the sickening stench of burnt flesh. Then the ground lurches violently,
throwing you back against the finger of rock. As you right yourself, you look back to Virgil . . . and give a gasp of horror when you see a demon staring back at you. Night-black scales coat the
broad, muscular body, reflecting the flames that now lick along the edge of the blade. The walls ring with laughter. Deep. Resonating.

‘With Ragnarok, I will free this world . . . free it from the shackles of pain and torment.’ A single, crimson eye burns menacingly from the shadows. Golden fangs glitter a cruel
smile. ‘By fire, I will purge all sin and corruption. I will cleanse these lands. In the name of Ragnarok!’

‘No!’ You surge forward, your weapons spinning into your hands. ‘Not this day, demon!’

It is time to fight:

Special abilities

In this combat you roll against Virgil’s
speed
. If you win a combat round, you can choose to apply your damage to Virgil or a damned soul (if they are in play
– see
Damned souls
ability). Once Virgil is reduced to 10
health
or less, the combat is automatically won and any remaining souls are also defeated.

If you manage to survive this demonic onslaught, turn to
503
.

865

‘Its origins are unknown,’ says Avian, his brow furrowing. ‘Some say it is an imprisoned demon, others that it is a dark fragment from the very core of our
world. Whatever it is, when its powers are bolstered it is capable of destruction on a scale we have not seen this age.’

‘Ragnarok.’ Virgil flicks a pistol into his hand and proceeds to pour a vial of powder into its casing. ‘A Skard word. Means destroyer of worlds.’

Avian nods. ‘Barahar was able to level entire cities with its might – and worse, those slain by the blade become damned to follow the blade-wielder and fight for their cause.
Barahar’s dark crusade took him south, out of Skardland and across the western regions of Valeron. By the time he reached the jungles of Terral he had an army of thousands, bound to serve his
will.’

‘The Lamuri . . .’ You grimace, thinking back to the vision that you saw in the throne room of the ruined city. ‘He razed their cities, their temples . . . then he came here.
Why?’

Avian lifts his gaze to the dwarven city, suspended above the lakes of magma. ‘I doubt there was a method to such madness. Barahar wanted to destroy – unmake this world and bring it
to ruin. The dwarves just happened to be the next obstacle in his way.’ Avian scratches at his stub of beard. ‘Arrogance was his downfall, but I fear, when the dwarves broke the sword
and shattered its power, the souls imprisoned by the blade were finally released. . .’ You follow Avian’s gaze to the shapes writhing and squirming across the walls of the city.
‘Now they are tortured spirits, that will never know rest.’