Runescape: Return to Canifis

by T. S. Church

  He tried to move, to get up and walk, but the maid forced him back. When she heard that Sally had let him out the day before, she was angry.

  “You could still faint,” she fumed. “If that happened outside, then your head would most likely hit a stone and not a pillow! I’ll have none of that. You must remain here for the time being.”

  “I will not!” he protested. “I have work to do. I have—”

  “You have to rest,” she insisted. “You are not twenty-five, old man.” Lucretia glared at him, and he hid behind his porridge bowl. Silently, he wished that Sally would return, rather than deciding to spend the day at home.

  Her concern for Albertus is still very raw. But it didn’t improve his situation.

  Trapped by a ghastly harridan. What an end for the saviour of Falador!

  And so it continued all morning, to the extent that Lucretia even confiscated his walking stick, and made him promise not to move from his bed.

  “Unless I have the King’s permission,” he replied. At that she had screwed up her face and acquiesced with the barest of nods.

  By afternoon, the King’s permission still hadn’t materialised. Lucretia began to smile from the side of her mouth.

  “Too much light could hurt your eyes,” she said. “Best we close the curtains.”

  And now I lie in a dark cell, taunted by the sounds of life just beyond my reach.

  Accursed woman!

  The light began to wane, and Lucretia reopened the curtains to reveal a cloud-laden sky. As Ebenezer peered at the coming storm, the door fell open and in walked Lord William de Adlard.

  “I have just returned from Paterdomus,” the young man said solemnly. “I am glad to see you so well, master alchemist. Your friends were overjoyed when they heard that you had woken. It gave the embassy a good omen...”

  His voice trailed off.

  “They could well use it, if they have lost their steeds,” Ebenezer said. “But there is still cause for hope. The Wizards’ Tower believes that Castimir still lives, and that he is unharmed. Therefore, I would be remiss in my duty to them if I did not help where I could.”

  “And where can you help, sir?”

  He saw Lucretia purse her lips.

  Just another tiresome old man? Is that what you think of me?

  Well, not yet.

  “I need to investigate the Wyrd. She is after something specific, and we must find out what that is.”

  Lord William shrugged, and looked doubtful.

  “The Wyrd is just a mindless killer from Morytania,” he said. “A rampant beast, and a dangerous one—”

  “Who targets specific individuals,” Ebenezer interjected. “Who leaves us messages on rooftops. No, there is a purpose here. And we must discover what it is.”

  Lord William nodded as the door opened again. It was Reldo. The archivist was still attired in his riding clothes, his boots muddy from his journey. In his hand he held a parchment.

  “I have been asked to help you, master alchemist,” he said, and there was a look of satisfaction in his eye. “Papelford is up in arms about it, and he refuses to cooperate.” He smiled suddenly. “That might give us more freedom, in truth.”

  Ebenezer gave a devilish smile.

  So the young man is enthusiastic. And he has an aim now—to outdo his master.

  Lucretia screwed her face up again.

  “Pray tell me who asked this of you, Reldo?” she demanded.

  “The King himself asked me to spare what time I could. I should say now that I suspect they will be generous hours indeed, since Papelford seems to wish me to vanish entirely. It makes my apprenticeship... awkward.”

  Ellamaria, I owe you my thanks.

  “Very well, then,” Ebenezer said. “We shall start with what we know. Hard facts only. We need a list of the victims.”

  Reldo smiled.

  “I might be able to better that, sir,” he said. “The bodies have been interred in the palace crypts, on the advice of Papelford himself. That was the only place large enough to keep them. It was one of Lord Despaard’s little secrets, but it has become public— secrets are very difficult to keep in these times of fear and gossip. Shall I ask Lord Ruthven if we can see them?”

  The alchemist felt his stomach roil.

  That is a great deal more than I wanted. But I must be brave. I am not a useless old man just yet.

  “Very well,” he replied, “though most will be skeletons by now. Ask him, and we shall begin.”

  Somehow, that almost sounded decisive. Reldo must have thought the same thing.

  “But before I ask him, sir, I offer you this. It is my account of Gar’rth’s history of his life in Morytania. Doric asked me to write it down for you so that you might have his own words to hand.” He handed over a parchment. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must seek Lord Ruthven.”

  The young man left, followed by William and Lucretia. Ebenezer stared at the document he held in his hand, still rolled tightly.

  So many answers to questions I have pondered for months. And he might already be dead.

  Or worse.

  Slowly he unrolled the parchment and began to read.

  Two hours later, standing in the dimly lit tunnel stairwell that led to the crypt beneath the palace, Ebenezer wasn’t feeling quite so bold.

  A single glance at the faces of those gathered around him told him that he he wasn’t alone.

  Lord William stood away from the small group, a few steps above. On the step next to the alchemist stood Lord Ruthven, his eyes closed in despair as Papelford harangued him.

  “I do not need these interruptions, Ruthven,” he spat. “My work is vital at this hour, vital to us all, and here I am dragged from my studies by the whim of an interfering old man.” He gazed at Ebenezer balefully. “What do you think you can do that we haven’t already done?”

  “The key to this is in the victims, Papelford,” the alchemist said firmly. “Lord Despaard was so busy covering up the attacks that he barely catalogued the dead and missing.”

  “That was my job!” The archivist complained bitterly. “Yet it very soon became apparent that there is no pattern, if that’s what you hope to identify.”

  “It is,” Ebenezer persisted. “I will take up where you left off.” He stepped toward the great iron-clad double door, then turned suddenly back. “If, as you say, it is such a waste of time, then I will be the one who is wasting it, and not you. You will have ample time to do what really matters in your studies. Now the key, if you please.”

  He saw Reldo standing behind his master, grinning wickedly.

  “I sincerely hope you know what you are about Ruthven. Logic and reason are no guard against the magic that afflicts us,” Papelford uttered.

  “Ebenezer has the King’s confidence,” the nobleman replied.

  “And this young popinjay?” Papelford queried, nodding to Lord William.

  “He accompanied the embassy, and he knows about, Gar’rth,” Lord Ruthven said. “He can be trusted. Now, open the door.”

  “Very well. Prepare yourselves.”

  The two guards stood to one side. Ebenezer saw them ready their weapons uneasily.

  Papelford inserted the key in the lock and twisted it. The metal gave a shriek as the iron doors fell open. From the cavernous gloom, vague shapes appeared as the guards advanced with their torches held aloft, their swords half-drawn.

  “There is no smell,” Lord William muttered at his side. The young man had readied a handkerchief to ward off the odour. “Surely, if there are dead bodies, the smell would be awful.”

  Papelford smiled grimly.

  “Go in, and you will see why. But be careful not to touch the corpses.”

  They advanced carefully. The torches lit up the vast crypt and Ebenezer could see that dozens of extra tables had been pushed into whatever space was available among the stone sarcophagi of previous generations. Each had a white cloth thrown over it, hiding the bodies that lay beneath.

  “T
here,” Papelford said, pointing to one that had been placed slightly apart from the rest. “That one is the first. It is the body of the King’s beloved, slain several months ago.”

  Ebenezer followed Papelford slowly across the crypt.

  With one swift move he pulled the cloth back.

  By the gods!

  He was staring at Ellamaria, or so it seemed at a quick glance. The face was pale, dead, the skin still smooth. She was dressed in white, and around her neck was a scarf that he could see hid a wound. Aside from that, she looked as if she was sleeping.

  There was no sign of decomposition.

  “You see now why Lord Despaard could not release the bodies to their loved ones,” Papelford explained. “Had you been at the Parliament you would have seen the disquiet that caused.”

  “I don’t understand,” he muttered.

  “Try another,” Papelford said, victory in his voice. “This one.” He pulled aside the cloth, and Ebenezer saw a man’s body with its throat torn out and its stomach slashed. Beside the wounds, the man looked as if he, too, was asleep. “He’s been here a few months.”

  A few months? But that’s impossible.

  “I see by your expression, alchemist, that you are already as baffled as the rest of us. That’s right—many of these persons have been dead for months.” Papelford looked Ebezener in the eye. Lord William gagged in sudden revulsion. Reldo whispered under his breath, his face the very picture of fear. Ebenezer shook his head.

  “But they... they haven’t even begun to—”

  “That’s right,” Papelford cut him off. “They have been dead for months, and yet they are not rotting. Not a one of them. When they are first attacked by the Wyrd the skin around the wound erupts black and hideous but in all these cases, after a few hours, the rot recedes and they are left like this.

  “Explain that, if you can.”

  25

  Sulla watched the small group approach, and gave a satisfied sigh.

  He had spent four days hiding outside Varrock, just within sight of the gallows tree and its decaying corpse, waiting for Straven’s men. He strained to see. There were four of them in total, with several horses and a cart. On the back of the wagon was a red flag, confirming their identity.

  “That’s the signal I told Straven to use,” he said.

  “Are you sure we can trust them, Sulla?” Jerrod asked. “They are a day late. Won’t they as likely hand you in as help us?”

  That remains to be seen, my friend. But the reward for the Wyrd easily outweighs any reward for my capture. Of course, if the men were greedy, Sulla mused, they might attempt both, and he might find himself hanging from the tree after all.

  “We stick with the plan for now,” he said. “Once the Wyrd is in our power, then you will return to Varrock and contact Barbec. I will use your existence to stave off any execution, for if I will be the only person who knows where you are, so the King will be unlikely to dispose of me.”

  It is the only insurance I have.

  “And what if the mercenaries decide to hand you over?”

  “Then you will have to intervene, my friend. I have sent a message to Captain Rovin of the King’s Guard. He is expecting me to turn myself in within a week. I have only hinted that I will bring a gift for Varrock, yet he won’t dare dream that it is the corpse of the Wyrd.” He shifted his position and glanced at Jerrod. “You can still hear her can’t you? Her song?”

  Jerrod nodded.

  “She is close. In the lumberyard or nearby.”

  Sulla nodded, and turned again to look at the four newcomers.

  The group had neared now. He could see them clearly. A huge man rode up front, a warrior bigger than Sulla had been at his peak, before Kara-Meir had left him the wreck of a man he now was. Behind him rode a dwarf, an axe strapped across his wide back.

  But it was the other two who made Sulla curse.

  One was a clean-shaven young man in a black surcoat. He rode delicately, with a fine short sword about his waist. His black-gloved hands stemmed from thin wrists and weak-looking arms.

  He’s of no use to us. The boy looks like a dandy. What was Straven thinking sending him?

  And as for the last, Sulla could only gape.

  It was a woman, in her mid-thirties. He recognised her as a mage by her black tunic, and he was instantly distrustful.

  “Straven sends me a fop and a rogue wizard,” he mused to Jerrod. I wonder if she can magic me a new pair of hands. Is there any magic in the world that can do that?

  “That is not so stupid, Sulla,” the werewolf cautioned. “Creatures from Morytania are often more vulnerable to magic than steel.”

  “Huh. The Wyrd is vulnerable to a strong arm. We know that, if what your master said is true about her injuries. And I distrust wizards. I don’t understand them.”

  Jerrod grinned.

  “Nothing to understand Sulla. Take their runes and they are as powerless as children.” He turned to leave. “I will scout around, to make sure that they haven’t brought anyone else with them.”

  “A sensible plan. We have waited longer than we planned for them, so they can wait a little longer before I reveal my presence.”

  The werewolf vanished into the undergrowth. Sulla watched the party wait for more than an hour. He saw the black-clad dandy produce a pocket watch and look at it in frustration, then speak to his companions, but the words were lost over the distance.

  Once, he took a drink from his flask, carefully using his wrists to guide it to his mouth. Even so, it was a messy affair, with water escaping the seal of his lips and pouring down his neck and back into his pack. Quickly, he checked the select documents he had taken with him from his box, to make certain they were not soaked. They weren’t—they were still useful to him.

  Barbec can guard the box in Varrock. Even if he runs with it, he won’t be able to understand the code, and he fears Jerrod too much to betray us.

  Even so, the cream of the papers are here, with me.

  He gave a cautious grin at his own paranoia. So far, it had never let him down.

  Jerrod emerged behind him.

  “There is no one following,” he said. “So far it seems as if Straven has kept his word.”

  “Then you hide here while I call them over. Anything goes wrong, you come running.”

  As he broke from his cover the body of the hanged man turned in the wind.

  It is as if he is beckoning me to join him.

  * * *

  Close up, the mercenaries were more impressive. The big man at the front wore a leather jerkin that left his arms bare. He looked down at Sulla with distaste. He snarled once, showing gold-capped teeth. He rode toward Sulla, stopping when he was within ten yards of him and dismounting in one easy move.

  Even so, he stood as high as his horse.

  “My name is Greagor, but I’m known as Behemoth,” he spat, his hand on the coiled whip at his belt. The weapon was made of silver and had black bands along its length. “You are Sulla?”

  “I am,” Sulla said. “I am your employer, and might I remind you, you are a day late.” He shook his head angrily. “Who are the rest of you? I am happy with you and the dwarf, but the dandy and the mage less so.”

  “We are a company,” the dwarf replied as he rode up. “It’s all or none. We are famed in The Wilderness, employed by His Majesty on tasks that carry us far from civilised lands, and we use less than civilised means to survive and do the job. And that is why we are a day late, we were detained in that pitiless place. You will have no cause to doubt us.”

  That remains to be seen.

  “My name is Axanamander,” he continued. “They call me the Mad Axe.”

  “I have heard of the Mad Axe,” Sulla replied. “Your name and deeds have been known to the Kinshra for many years. You have served our lord well.” He bowed his head in deference, and as he looked up he saw the dwarf awkwardly do the same.

  “My name is Mergil,” the dandy said, riding forward. “And yo
u are right to assume that I do not possess the gift of strength or steel, nor of magic and fell sorcery. My humble skills are more earthly.” He reached into the saddlebag of the horse he led behind him, producing a yellow liquid in a vial. “I am an expert with potions and plants. I am a botanist, in truth, and originally I employed my three esteemed colleagues to travel with me through The Wilderness while I harvested the flora there. In time, my talents were proved beyond debate, and I joined their number.”

  “There are none better than him at what he does,” the giant growled. “He can brew potions to speed or slow your heart, to flush your muscles with energy, or to make you sleep. More than once he has saved each of our lives from rotting wounds. And when he’s not travelling with us, he’s marrying rich widows who all seem to die within a year, quite naturally.” The man gave a golden grin to Mergil, who bowed his head to one side and smiled slyly. “What is it now Mergil, number three?”

  “It is,” the dandy admitted. “A rich young widow who drank something that made her love me. In a few months she will drink something else, alas, poor sweet girl, and I will inherit everything.”

  So, a self-confessed poisoner.

  The raven-haired woman in the cart shot Sulla an angry glare.

  “You told Straven you wanted someone who could get the job done. That is us. Don’t complain.”

  “And who are you then, mage?”

  “My name is Turine. I practise my art with the full knowledge of King Roald’s government, and by extension the Wizards’ Tower itself.”

  “Then you aren’t a rogue mage?”

  Turine laughed scornfully. Sulla felt his anger grow.

  “I am,” she said haughtily. “Yet Misthalin needs those like me. The Wizards’ Tower does little or nothing these days. When something needs doing, Varrock calls on us renegades. Of them I am the most feared. I am surprised you haven’t heard of me?”

  Oh Turine, I have heard of you. They say you walk the abyss, and converse with devils, enjoying the favours of its foul denizens while godly men fear what you have offered them in return. You are reputed to converse with animals and conjure creatures to do your bidding. I have heard all your tales, and little do I believe them.