by T. S. Church
“Be careful what you wish for old man,” Despaard cautioned. “I would be happy for Lord Drakan to remain still for many years to come, yet this Wyrd is proof he is already stirring.”
“But it isn’t proof that he is, for certain,” Albertus said. “We don’t know enough about the Wyrd to form an accurate hypothesis.” Kara didn’t hear how—or if—the argument progressed, for she caught sight of Arisha, leading her horse into the bailey.
“One of the blacksmiths has reshod our horses, Kara,” Arisha told her. “Yours is still in the stables but will be ready very soon.”
“I will get it, Arisha,” Kara told her friend. “I am ready to go now, anyhow, as soon as Captain Rovin brings us the wolfbane daggers. He has offered us splitbark sheaths so they won’t incapacitate Gar’rth.”
Arisha nodded and led her horse on as Kara walked to the stables. She approached the terrace they had stood upon the night before, at the dance, meaning to head south, directly past it to the inner courtyard. She was nearly there when a sudden movement above its short balustrade caught her eye.
It was Lady Caroline. As Kara watched, Lord William stepped out behind her and put his arms around her waist, drawing a squeak and a smile from her.
Lord William and Lady Caroline? She smiled inwardly. Lady Anne has met with success again. Kara waited until their two voices faded as they vanished back inside again. Then, at a fast walk, she made her way to the stables, found her horse, and led him quickly back to the bailey.
When she returned she found Reldo in a heated discussion with Papelford, the old man insisting that his apprentice should take certain books with him on the journey. Nearby stood Gideon Gleeman, his long face fraught with worry, the King’s Seal held tightly in his hands, while at the entrance to the bailey waited Despaard and Ruthven, both men impatient to get underway.
“I want to be at my manor before dark,” Lord Ruthven shouted to everybody. “It will mean a supper for us if we can do it, and a bed for the night.”
“I am ready,” a young monk in brown robes said. Kara saw the four-pointed star dangle from a necklace. His tonsured head was burned by the sun, yet he showed no discomfort. “My pilgrims have prepared their wagons and they will follow us tomorrow. It should be enough to ensure that Paterdomus is supplied till winter.”
“I am glad you are travelling with us, Drezel,” Despaard said. “The Pass of Silvarea can be treacherous on occasion.” The monk Drezel gave a slight bow in his saddle as another horse trotted through the entrance to the bailey. On it rode Lord William.
“May I accompany the embassy to Paterdomus, Lord Despaard?” he asked. “It is, after all, my duty to ensure that Kara-Meir’s companions have all they need while in Varrock.”
Lord Despaard glared at the younger man. When he didn’t answer, Kara saw Lord William turn his gaze toward her.
“Do you find my company so unpleasant, Kara-Meir?” he asked sweetly.
Kara smiled.
“Not at all,” she replied. “I would be glad to have you with us on the road, and I know my friends would be too.”
“Just don’t go getting lost or left behind,” Despaard said, impatiently. Kara found it amusing. “We cannot afford time to pander to the vagaries of a dilettante.”
But Lord William replied at once.
“I can assure you, Lord Despaard, this dilettante is more than capable of pandering to his own vagaries.”
Despaard nodded grimly and looked about the bailey carefully.
“Very well. Then let me do a head count. There are nine of us in the embassy itself, with Lord Ruthven and Drezel to act as our guides as far as Paterdomus. Reldo also, of course. And an escort of twelve trusted men.” He caught Kara looking at him. “My rangers,” he explained, “including Simon. Twenty-four of us in total.”
Lord William coughed, his expression slightly wounded.
“Don’t you mean twenty-five?”
Despaard turned away without a reply. A short time later he ordered the embassy to mount. With their escort, they rode forward, preceded by a contingent of the palace guard who were to accompany them through the city. As they drew near the gate, Kara happened to cast her eye back to the palace, and became aware of someone staring at her.
She saw Lady Anne, standing in a window on the second floor. Her hand was pressed to the window pane.
Quickly Kara turned away, to concentrate on the road ahead.
Theodore has not seen you, Lady Anne, and I will not tell him. I wonder if you will go to bed cursing my name?
But as the gate neared Kara glanced upward again. Anne was still there. This time, their eyes met. “Please” she mouthed. The gate was only seconds away, and once they were through, the window would no longer be visible.
Kara turned away with a wicked smile that instantly made her feel guilty.
No! No I will not ride off like this. I will not sink to her level.
“Theodore,” she said gently, pointing up with her hand.
He turned sharply in his saddle and followed her gesture. Kara saw Anne’s face brighten as Theodore waved.
And then they rode through the gate, and Lady Anne was gone.
“Thank you, Kara,” Theodore said. “You could have said nothing. She and I parted on... awkward terms.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Theodore. Truly.”
And it is true. I am.
16
The day had thus far been foul.
The Midsummer Festival had ended as they entered Varrock through the southern gate, on the cart which had brought Pia in her barrel to the barn. As soon as they arrived in the city, Jerrod had whispered to him that they were being followed. Cautiously, Sulla had spied their shadow—a young girl, probably no more than twelve years old.
That’s how the gangs operate. Children take the risk for their elders, and swing for them if they are caught.
The cart owner—a man named Bareak who posed as a fur trader, but who in reality worked for Straven, the leader of the Phoenix Gang—had separated from them in the south of the city, among the squalor and the poor. He left behind the briefest of messages.
“Come to the Blue Moon Inn tomorrow, after midday. Straven will be there.”
From that moment on, as they wandered Varrock, Jerrod carrying the heavy case of documents as if it was empty, the young girl kept her eye on them, likely unaware that Sulla knew of her presence.
Although I wouldn’t have if I didn’t have Jerrod here, with his hunter’s nose.
She was still there now, some hours after the sun had gone down.
They had taken meagre shelter in an alley, among the dregs of Varrock. Sulla was roused from an uneasy sleep when a dozen guardsmen ran by, and across the city the harsh sound of men shouting could be heard. It passed quickly, but from that moment on sleep was even more elusive.
Just as he managed to doze, Jerrod’s voice dragged him back.
“I have news,” the werewolf said. “Important news.”
Sulla was angry and he was cold. He shivered in his torn cloak and tried to pull it tighter across his shoulders, fumbling with his wrists as he did so. Next to him slept Barbec, snoring gently and blissfully unaware.
Jerrod crouched, perched on the case.
“What is it?” Sulla hissed.
“Something is wrong, Sulla,” came the growled response. “Wrong in Morytania.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have just had a message from... someone. Not my master, but someone more powerful and far, far older.”
“Older than Drakan?”
Jerrod shook his head. And Sulla knew he was afraid.
“I don’t understand it,” the creature continued. “It was a woman, Sulla. She told me about the Wyrd. She told me where it is.”
What?
“Tell me,” Sulla demanded. If I could deliver this creature to King Roald then I would become a hero, able to demand anything I wished.
“She’s in the lumberyard, Sulla, to the northeast of
here. That’s her hideout. The woman wants me to destroy her. But I don’t understand it. This is not my master speaking.”
“So who will you obey?”
“I will obey her, Sulla. She knows things, she is older than the one who sent me. She told me her name. It is one we fear to speak in Morytania. She is Vanescula, Lord Drakan’s own kin.”
“But I thought you were sent by Drakan himself.”
“I thought so, too. That’s what I was led to believe. But Vanescula is even more powerful than the being who sent me, so it can’t have been Lord Drakan. No, I must have been tricked. That’s how the vampires work their games, Sulla.” The werewolf growled in anger and clenched his fists.
So there are conflicting masters in Morytania, Sulla mused silently. And I know now where the Wyrd makes her lair.
“Very well,” he said after a moment’s deliberation. “Tell me Jerrod, is the girl still nearby?”
Jerrod sniffed the air and nodded.
“Good. She has something I want. Come!”
“The embassy left Varrock through the east gate an hour ago,” the man with the thin moustache told Sulla. He then pursed his lips in thought, ran his right hand through brown hair that was flecked with silver at the sides, and reached into the small bag that lay on the table between the two men.
“Kara-Meir and her friends went with them,” he added. “I saw them go.”
The man withdrew his hand to reveal a rounded pebble poised between two fingers. He turned it over and dropped it onto the table.
Sulla grinned when he saw the white markings on its surface.
“An air rune? That’s a point to you, Straven. So you have fifteen to my eighteen. And the death rune is among the three remaining.”
“Your turn,” the thief master replied. “Will you hold? Or will you risk it?”
Sulla shook his head and grinned behind his wild beard.
“I am ahead, and there is a one in three chance that you will pull out the chaos rune. Only then can you beat me. No, I’ll hold.”
Sulla saw Straven’s lip curl slightly in frustration, and he followed his opponent’s eyes as they settled on the item that sat at his side on the bench. Wrapped in a damp cloth, it dripped a brown liquid onto the wood and its smell reminded Sulla of a butcher’s shop. Straven gave a look of distaste. Very quickly, his eyes moved on, to pass over the Blue Moon’s customers.
From their position by the window, Sulla followed his gaze.
How many of them are your men, Straven? What are you waiting for?
It was early afternoon and the tavern was crowded, with at least two-dozen unfamiliar faces half-hidden in the fug of pipe smoke. The only man he recognised there was the gang-master’s own man, the fur trader Bareak, who had given him the message the day before.
Straven reached into the bag once more. Without pause, he withdrew his hand and dropped a single pebble on the tabletop. It was marked with salmon coloured lines stretching outward toward its edge.
Sulla laughed.
“A mind rune! Two points for you. I am still ahead by one. Now there is an even chance of victory or defeat, Straven. Only two runes remain, chaos and death. It’s a choice that reminds me of my own life up to this moment.”
“As I was saying,” Straven responded, “I watched Kara-Meir leave with the embassy. I am amazed that such a slight girl could have bested you in single combat. It makes no sense.”
Sulla shrugged.
“Much about her does not,” he admitted. “She even wounded my companion, and that’s no small feat in itself.”
“Ah, your companion. You’ve spoken highly of him, but he remains very elusive. From the moment you entered Varrock, Bareak had my footpads follow you, and yet you evaded them.” Straven looked Sulla in the eye, and continued cautiously. “I can’t recall anyone having done that before, not even that thief from Kandarin, the one who tried to run with my money. It unnerves me. And I don’t like being unnerved.”
His hand rested on the small bag which now only held two runes.
Is this the moment, Straven? Sulla wondered. Is this when you spring your trap and hand me over to the King? Or are you really unnerved by Jerrod and the ease with which he can vanish from sight?
He glanced subtly at a man who sat by himself. Jerrod was covered in a cloak he had stolen from a beggar the previous night. He had entered the inn an hour before Sulla, and had sat patiently by himself, watching and waiting.
“Come, Straven,” Sulla said amiably. “You have made a great deal of money from me in the past. When I was a senior member of the Kinshra, you worked for me a great deal, even though I could just as easily have used the Black Arm Gang.
“As I could now,” he added, leaning forward.
Straven’s eyes narrowed.
“Don’t threaten me, Sulla,” he hissed quietly. “I have a dozen men in here right now. Within a half hour you could be trussed up and given to King Roald. Or worse. I could send you back to the Kinshra to suffer a slow death.”
Sulla smirked.
“And I have only Barbec, who waits outside in the street.”
“What of your mysterious companion. Is he here now, with us?”
Sulla shook his head.
“I won’t give everything away to you, Straven. But I will give you this—for your time and for a promise of a second meeting. Take my purse from my belt.”
Straven leant over and did as he asked. Without waiting for permission the gang-master loosened the cord and peered in. Sulla saw an eyebrow lift in surprise.
“The gem is yours, Straven. But there are more to come if you do as I request. Many more—it will be well worth your time.”
Request! he raged inwardly. Six months ago I made demands. A dark side of him wanted to laugh at his own fall.
Instead, he waited, watching intently.
“It had better be,” Straven said, “for I could profit a great deal from turning you in.” He licked his lips and glanced around the room. “What do you want?” he asked finally.
“A hot bath would be nice,” Sulla responded. “A shave and a haircut, too. A place to hide for a while. And...” He held up his arms, his wrists still wrapped in bandages.
“...new hands.”
Straven nodded.
“The first requests can easily be accomplished. I can’t help with the hands, however. You might need a wizard or a cleric for that, or even an engineer to fit some artificial appendages.”
“That would suffice for now,” Sulla agreed. “Something with sharp edges, so I can indulge my interest in pain.” He grinned, and noticed how the man squirmed uncomfortably. “I have a lot of pain to give. Six months worth of agony.
“But I don’t need you to arrange any of those things,” he continued. “And I wouldn’t want you to know where I plan to make my lair. The lure of Kinshra gold—or your duty as a citizen to your monarch—might outweigh your word to me. I want something else. I want asylum.”
Straven’s eyes went wide.
“What?” he said loudly. He glanced around, then leaned in and continued in a low voice. “You? The King would never grant it! You’ve too many orphans to your name—”
“Such as Kara-Meir?” Sulla countered. “I orphaned her, you know.” He waved his stumped wrists in the air. “She and her fellow victims have had their revenge on me, haven’t they?”
But Straven remained unmoved.
“No, Sulla. I have no way of contacting the King or his advisors, and you have nothing to offer them, even if I could.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Straven. Perhaps I have little to offer, but what of my companion? The one who evades your footpads with such ease?”
“Go on.”
“Jerrod is his name. Few know anything about him, though that may already have changed, thanks to Kara-Meir’s intervention in the barn. Regardless, he is a... man of unique value.”
Sulla leaned over to whisper.
“Jerrod is from Morytania. He is a werewolf.”
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Straven gasped and pulled back.
“You keep ill company, Sulla,” he hissed.
“I am glad you realise that. Believe me when I tell you that he could find you wherever you hide in this city. Even if you were guarded by your best men, he would find you and eat your organs as you watched. I’ve seen him do it.
“But he knows things, too,” Sulla continued. “He knows about the Wyrd, Straven. His master can contact him from beyond the River Salve. It happened only last night, as we spent the night in an alleyway among the dregs, when Jerrod was asked to apprehend her.”
Straven’s face broke into confusion.
“Apprehend her? I don’t understand,” he said. “Why would he want her captured, if she is doing his bidding?”
Sulla smiled again.
“My question exactly. Interesting isn’t it? Something is afoot in Morytania, something that the King would give half his treasury to understand.” He paused for effect. “So here is what I want you to do. Find me fighters, Straven. I want you to recruit the most capable mercenaries Varrock has to offer. Men who are unafraid of The Wilderness and who will work under my command. Only a handful, but promise them they will be rewarded, for I intend to catch the Wyrd and give her to the King.”
“I know of four individuals, perhaps more, who will suit your needs, Sulla. Will that suffice? I think I can have them ready in three nights’ time.” Straven spoke carefully, eager to please, and Sulla knew he had the man in his grip. “Where shall we meet you?”
“Outside the city, to the east under the gallows tree. In three nights, just two hours before dark. Tell them to be ready for a ride. And I will need a horse for myself.”
Straven nodded and made ready to stand, but Sulla stopped him.
“Two more things before you leave, Straven. First, I have something for you. It’s the object on the bench next to me. Take it.”
Straven looked doubtful. He reached down, and grimaced as his fingers felt the damp cloth. He looked at Sulla warily, but the man with the ruined face only smiled a horrible smile.
“Perhaps you had best finish the game first,” he said. “Will it be chaos and victory—or death?”