The Heart of Fire (41 page)

You scratch at the itchy scales on your shoulder, perturbed when one of them comes off in your fingers. ‘What is happening to me? Is this a disease?’

Virgil is silent for some time. It isn’t until you press him that he snaps out of his thoughtful reverie. ‘No, not a disease,’ he replies softly. ‘You have a taint. And
left unchecked, you will become . . .’ He glances sideways at his companion, who remains silent by the window.

‘Become what?’ you ask tensely, turning the dark scale over in your fingers.

The witchfinder takes a deep breath, straightening his back and brushing down his grey coat. You can tell this topic has made him uncomfortable. ‘We will do what we can,’ he says,
shifting his gaze to avoid your own. ‘But not all wounds can be cured by a medic’s tonics and balms.’

Return to
494
to ask another question, or turn to
433
to continue.

272

‘A riveting display!’ You twist around to see an elderly mage in a red silk robe, floating down from a high balcony. ‘Really, I haven’t seen such an
admirable show of magic by a novice for a long time.’

‘Ignatius Pyre!’ you rasp, still panting from your exertions. ‘What . . . what was
this
?’ You look down to see the creature’s body starting to decompose,
releasing a sickening green smoke into the air.

The mage’s grin remains fixed. ‘Your movements were so fast, so agile. It was almost as though you were anticipating each strike. Fascinating.’ He snaps his fingers and the
door in the far wall swings open. ‘Come. You have passed the test. Now your training will begin.’

You follow the mage up another set of stairs into a small room, which appears to be a study. A desk occupies most of the space, surrounded by boxes and shelves filled with books.

Wincing with discomfort, Ignatius lowers himself into a chair. ‘Ah, that’s better. Now stand before me. Good. Let’s begin.’

The old man proceeds to instruct you in the finer points of magic, demonstrating through a number of simple mental exercises how you can channel your powers more effectively. Each challenge you
are given, you complete quickly, drawing surprise and admiration from your tutor.

Congratulations! You have now learnt the path of the mage. You may raise your
health
by 10 (to 40). As you go to leave the tower, Ignatius leads you back to the room where you fought the
fungus. Nothing remains of the creature now, save for a rotting patch of mould.

‘Magic is a fickle ally,’ explains Ignatius sadly. ‘Even the best can succumb to the lure of a demon.’ His rheumy eyes scan your face thoughtfully. ‘There is
something different about you, mage. I feel you will do great things. I will not confine you to these walls, but use your power wisely. Or else . . .’ His eyes shift to the mould.

Heeding the mage’s warning, you leave the tower and return to upper town. Turn to
77
.

273

The bugs have been defeated, but you are the only one from your party left standing. Sheathing your weapons, you hurry to the captain’s side. His breathing is laboured,
teeth clenched tight against the pain from his wound. The bodies of Surl and Vas are sprawled nearby.

‘Go on,’ gasps the captain, gripping your arm. ‘To stop the flood . . . you must go straight to the source. Find out. . .what is causing this.’ He gives a shudder, his
eyelids flickering. ‘Avenge us . . .’ Then his eyes darken and his hand goes slack, dropping to his side. Gently, you lower him back to the ground, before rising to your feet. Turn to
355
.

274

The woman pipes up immediately. ‘We came a cropper; well and truly stuck in a rut.’ She taps the side of the wagon with her boot heel. ‘Water here makes it
impossible to spot the deep holes. Think our axle may have gone with the weight.’ The woman pats her belly, grinning. ‘Not mine, I hasten to add.’

Her companion continues to scrutinise you with predatory eyes. ‘That hole was there by design,’ he mutters. ‘Probably the work of Wiccans.’ He emphasises the last word,
watching carefully for your reaction. ‘This is their territory and, right here, we’re sitting fools for an ambush.’

You notice that there is no horse or pony tethered to the wagon. The woman appears to read your mind. ‘Oh, we sent one of our companions ahead to fetch aid. They won’t be long
now.’

275

You find Eldias sprawled on the floor, his back against one of the pews. The corpses of the ghouls lie all around him, in tangled piles of stinking, charred flesh. He appears
unharmed, but his breath is little more than a rasping wheeze. You kneel at his side.

‘The books, the journals . . .’ You glance back at the altar, where the fire has burnt itself out, leaving behind a heap of ashes. ‘I’m sorry.’

The witchfinder offers you a half-smile. ‘I said I’d go out in a blaze of glory . . . the irony is not lost on me.’ His voice trails off into a fit of coughing.

‘I might have a healing tonic. Wait . . .’ You remove your pack and start to rummage through your belongings. Eldias leans his head against the pew.

‘Your potions won’t work on me.’ He nods to the window opposite. You see that the storm has abated and a pale shaft of moonlight is now flooding in through the shattered glass.
‘I will await the dawn. I think it is a fitting end . . . of sorts.’

Moonlight catches on the witchfinder’s fangs. Without blood to sustain him, Eldias is too weak to go on. Come the dawn, his body will turn to ash.

You rise to your feet, determined not to give up on the witchfinder. If the herbalist, Rorus Satch, was close to creating a cure, then surely he must have left some clues behind. Or perhaps the
Reverend was hoarding more of the herbalist’s possessions elsewhere in the village.

276

You hear the clink of metal behind you. Spinning around, you see an armoured figure staggering through the mist. They are mumbling to themselves, stumbling from one boulder to
the next in an effort to stay upright. You hurry toward them, concerned it may be a wounded traveller. But as you near, you recognise their silver plate armour and tattered riding cloak – and
the reek of filth and beer. It is the vagrant inquisitor who you met in the alleyway.

He reels forward, losing his footing. You catch him as he knocks into you.

‘Gairn, is it you?’ he mumbles. His red-rimmed eyes struggle to focus.

‘Your friend has found peace,’ you state slowly and firmly, hoping that the drunken man will understand your words. ‘I suggest you do the same.’ You prise the hip flask
from his fingers and toss it away.

The inquisitor looks up at you, his face going slack. ‘You mean . . . the curse is lifted? He no longer . . .’ He sways as he attempts to survey his surroundings. His eyes catch on
the knight’s armour, scattered over the rocks. His expression of confusion slowly turns to one of wonderment. ‘Yes . . . he is at peace now.’

He shifts around to face you, grunting as he struggles to draw his sword. You back away, wary of his intentions. After several awkward minutes of fumbling, he finally yanks the blade free, its
inscribed runes glittering with white light. Then, to your surprise, the warrior drops to one knee, bowing his head and offering out the sword.

‘I am no longer worthy of this blade . . . take it. You have faith in your heart where I do not – its steel should sing in your hands now.’

If you wish, you may take the inquisitor’s blade:

If you refuse his kind offer, then the grateful warrior offers you a purse of money instead, containing 20 gold crowns. You thank the inquisitor and agree to accompany him back to Raven’s
Rest. Return to the
map
to continue your journey.

277

You return to the bar and ask after the bearded warrior named Polk. No sooner have you said the words then you feel a nudge at your back. Turning, you are surprised to see Polk
watching you with a grin on his face. ‘Good timing,’ he nods, showing you the full mugs of ale in his hands. ‘You still interested?’

You follow him over to the curtained alcove. ‘Any chance you could do the honours?’ he asks. ‘I think I spilled enough beer in this place already.’

You reach forward and pull back the curtain. Turn to
135
.

278

The robbers clearly have no combat experience, their ragged clothing and crude weapons suggesting that this was not their first choice of career. Quickly, you despatch your
first assailant, who is too slow to defend himself. The others, who seem little more than boys, halt their attack – their mouths going slack at the sight of their fallen companion.

‘We thoughts you were a Wiccan,’ says the youngest, 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 turns and runs back off into the trees, his companion hurrying after him.

Sheathing your weapons you search the robber’s corpse, wrinkling your nose at the reek of mud and sweat. He has no possessions or gold, other than a
broken silver locket
in a pocket
of his breeches. (If you wish to take this item, simply make a note of it on your hero sheet. It does not take up backpack space.)