The Heart of Fire (40 page)

266

A white light shoots out from the pages of the book, bursting into a cloud of sparkling dust as it breaks against your invisible opponent. As the glittering motes settle you
see that they have revealed the poltergeist, shimmering around its humanoid body. The creature gives an angry screech as it tries to brush the dust away – but it is already too late for this
ghostly nuisance. You are charging in, aiming your strikes with a deadly precision:

If you manage to defeat the poltergeist, turn to
236
.

267

You escort a dejected-looking Joseph to the lower town market where you are able to find an armourer who wants the scales to create a shield. After much haggling, you are able
to secure a good deal. (You have gained 100 gold crowns.) Joseph pockets his own gold sulkily before heading off towards the nearest tavern. You doubt the gold will last long in his hands, but
he’s no longer your problem.

As you go to leave, the armourer stops you. ‘Come back ’ere if you are interested in the shield I’m making. Going to be something really special.’ Make a note of the
entry number 230. Turn to that entry number at any time when you are in Carvel to view the armourer’s goods. Turn to
36
to continue your journey through lower town.

268

Murlic spins his daggers, their green magic trailing through the snow-whipped air. ‘Why are we fighting demons, witch?’ he snarls at Damaris. ‘You brought us
here! How does this help save our people?’

Conall growls, baring his teeth. ‘Hold your tongue, cur, or I cut it from your throat.’

‘Enough!’ Damaris raises her staff, its feathered head splintering into shards of dark light. ‘Do not fear this aberration. It is a servant only – bound to do its
master’s bidding. It doesn’t know why we’re here. It doesn’t care for motives. It is protecting the forest.’

Conall glares at the witch. ‘Then give me the magic.’

Damaris points her staff at the giant warrior. Spears of darkness streak out from its tip, slamming into the brigand’s bared chest. It ripples across his painted runes, flowing across his
whole body. Then he starts to change. His muscles bulge as coarse black hair pushes out of his skin, spreading quickly to cover his broad shoulders and swollen arms. He howls with pain, throwing
back his head, as an enormous muzzle pushes out of his face, settling into a grim scowl filled with glittering fangs.

The warrior has become a bear – a black shadow of fur and claw. With a bestial roar, the bear bounds forward towards the giant, swiping at the tangled roots with its leathery paws.

As if in answer, the thorn colossus brings its fists hurtling down through the air, ripping deep furrows in the earth. Conall is caught by one of the barbed limbs, blood splashing across his fur
as he is sent sprawling back onto his haunches.

‘How can we defeat it?’ cries Murlic, torn by fear and indecision. ‘It’s too powerful!’

Damaris swings to face you. ‘The relic,’ she shouts. ‘Use its magic!’

You raise the relic and charge forward, hoping to drive it into the creature’s twisted body. But mud spatters into your eyes as one of its fists slams into the sodden earth. You stumble
back, temporarily blinded – and fail to see the other fist whipping in behind you. Barbed tendrils strike your arm, sending the relic spiralling away into the marsh. By luck rather than the
quickness of your reflexes, you are able to avoid the full force of the blow, tumbling over onto your back. Murlic is less fortunate, however – the rogue is picked up in the beast’s
barbed fist and carried high into the air. His screams are deafening, chilling you to the bone, as his body is crushed within the prison of thorns.

‘No!’ Tears blur your vision as you lurch back to your feet. Frantically, you scan the marsh for signs of the relic, but the muddy banks offer up no clues – clearly the
relic’s headpiece must have closed, hiding its bright light and making it impossible to see. Angrily, you turn back to the battle. Damaris has now summoned a group of earth golems, their
bodies fashioned from mud and rock. They lumber forward, punching and battering at the giant – but their blows seem ineffectual, the bewitched roots moving quickly to reseal any wounds.
Grimly, you realise there is no escape – and worse, the thorn giant appears to have no obvious weakness.

‘Free me!’ insists the demon, shaking its chains. ‘Your pitiful magic will not prevail.’

‘Free a demon?’ you laugh bitterly.

‘You were a prisoner once, prophet,’ it snaps, crimson eyes staring you full in the face. ‘We have much in common, you and I. But if you are too blind to see it, then go . . .
see what your puny strength can achieve.’

Readying your weapons, you charge back into the fray – hoping that, together, you and your companions will find a way of besting the thorn giant:

Special abilities

If you are able to defeat Orgorath, turn to
308
.

269

‘I don’t see we have much choice in this matter,’ you reply grimly, your eyes ranging across their sizeable force. ‘As you say, a fight would not favour
us.’

‘What?’ Bea looks at you angrily. ‘We can’t surrender!’

‘You do not speak for us, stranger,’ snaps Ventus, his face twisting with derision. ‘
We
will lay down our lives if we must.’

The Wiccan woman nods. ‘That is regrettable, but changes nothing. And what do you say, Sanchen?’ She appraises your weapons with interest. ‘Will you lay down your life for a
Church that chose to imprison you?’

Bea shifts away from you warily. ‘You were a
prisoner
?’

Suddenly, the loud blare of a horn reverberates across the moorland. It is followed by a hooting call from one of the Wiccans. Some kind of warning. They all turn as one, weapons leaping from
scabbards and belts, as the first bright explosion rips into their ranks. Turn to
442
.

270

‘Holy inscriptions,’ says Polk, his eyes suddenly lighting up. ‘Paladins are anointed by the inscribers, as a means to ward away bad spirits . . . demons . .
.’ He gives a noisy belch as he settles back in his chair. ‘It also makes them ruddy amazing at killing stuff. Which is useful.’

The man called Anse hasn’t spoken. He simply lifts his stew bowl to his lips and takes a careful sip before setting it back down on the table. He gives a grunt of disgust and then pushes
it away with a flick of his fingers.

‘A paladin . . .’ you gasp. The title is familiar to you – given to veteran
warriors that have pledged their lives, and some say their souls, to fight for the One God. You
glance past his shoulder, to where a set of weapons have been carefully laid out on a side table. Resting on the white cloth are several knives, two swords and a mace. And propped up next to them
is a silver crucifix, almost a metre in length.

‘He doesn’t say much,’ says Polk, grinning through his beard. ‘But then I respect someone whose actions speak louder than words.’

271

‘You were lucky to have survived,’ states the witchfinder firmly. ‘Few, if any, recover from a demon attack – and I think we can both agree, it was not
Cernos’ intention to leave you alive.’