by T. S. Church
He breathed deeply, and the swelling behind his eyes relieved itself as tears on his face. Then he continued.
“I hadn’t expected him to challenge me, but he did so, and now I admit my lie. I offer myself for the harshest penalty appropriate to my actions. I admit now what I think I have always known-I admit that Theodore is a better man than I.” His words were broken by muffled sobs, and his hands shook at his sides.
Sir Amik’s face softened slightly.
“A lie is a very serious offence, Marius. Deception is not a part of our order and is against what we stand for. You realise I could expel you for this?”
Marius nodded in miserable understanding.
“I have no wish to do that, however,” the knight continued. “You are a good squire, perhaps as good as Theodore, but you shall have to do penance for your transgression.”
“I will do it gladly, Sir Amik!” he declared.
“You will be confined to the castle; the city is off limits to you until I say otherwise. And you are to take over the management of Theodore’s peons. You will train them alongside your own. I would advise you to adopt more of Theodore’s methods, as well.”
The squire bowed his head, and left without another word.
THIRTY-SEVEN
When he was young, Castimir had read with wide-eyed interest of the barbarian tribes that lived east of Falador.
Now he had spent the day with Ebenezer and Gar’rth, exploring the village’s wooden huts and marvelling at the fine beauty of the pottery and metalwork. The barbarians offered the travellers food and ale in their great hall, an immense building with a thatched roof that stood so high that the beams were in perpetual shadow. Their belongings, left on Ebenezer’s wagon, were protected by the barbarian code of hospitality to the extent that they did not even need a guard. Truly their word was their bond.
“You are quiet tonight, Castimir,” Ebenezer remarked, readying his pipe.
The young wizard sighed and raised his eyes to look discreetly at the two barbarian women who stood several yards away. They dressed themselves in short fur skirts and leather brassieres that allowed the eager Castimir a good view of their midriffs. They adorned themselves with finely crafted jewellery, so subtly and intricately fashioned that Castimir could not recall seeing any finer. He examined the necklace of one of the women, the blue stone shining at its centre, and wondered how many years of practice it would take to craft something of such beauty.
He laughed quietly to himself when he recalled his first attempt to make even a simple ring while under the tutelage of his uncle. He had dropped the mould and the boiling metal had scalded him, ending his career as a craftsman that same day. Truly, he thought, the reputation of the barbarian women’s skill in the art of crafting, from fine pottery to cunningly-fashioned bracelets and necklaces, was well deserved.
One of the women returned his gaze, direct and unembarrassed. Castimir choked on his drink and looked away.
“You might have insulted her, averting your gaze like that,” Ebenezer chuckled.
“How did you know I was looking at her?” Castimir asked, for the alchemist was facing him across the table, his back to the two women.
“I may be old now, Castimir, but I was young once. Though I cannot remember when.”
Castimir didn’t respond. The journey from Taverley to the barbarian settlement had taken nearly three days. The entire way their minds were fraught with fear of the monster.
The young wizard glanced to his side and observed Gar’rth. The youth was trying hard at his lessons in the common tongue. He had mastered several dozen words that gave him a limited ability to communicate.
But his illness was getting worse. Castimir did not know what it was. It seemed as if Gar’rth sometimes became a different person. He would sweat profusely, his eyes staring at a fixed point whenever his ailment threatened to overwhelm him. Sometimes he would cry out for a minute or so, his hands clenched before him as he fought the dreadful influence of whatever it was that held him in its grip.
Years ago, when Castimir was a boy, a madman had wandered through their village. He’d had a wild look and would break into stretches of nonsensical dialogue with imaginary onlookers that only he could see, muttering about a fantastical realm called Zanaris which was ruled by a fairy queen. Castimir wondered if Gar’rth’s illness was something similar-a disease of the mind.
Gar’rth was in full control of himself now, however. He also sat opposite Ebenezer, drinking water. The alchemist never allowed him to drink any ale or wine, and he had instructed Castimir that Gar’rth should never be given such, for fear that it would contribute to his ailment.
Castimir risked another discreet look at the girl whose blonde hair fell loosely down her back. His spirits fired by the ale he had been drinking, he stood up resolutely, left his empty mug on the table, and marched toward the women.
“Oh dear,” Ebenezer whispered, smiling mischievously at Gar’rth.
The wizard was back in less than a minute, his face downcast and burning bright red.
“They don’t like mages, these barbarians” he muttered. “They don’t trust magic. I only introduced myself and asked them if they wished me to melt an iron dagger.” He looked furtively at the table, avoiding the stares of his friends. “But they weren’t interested.”
The two women glanced over at Castimir several times in the next few moments, their faces reflecting their distrust of the blue-robed sorcerer. Castimir found himself another drink and sat down with a resigned sigh. He had taken his first sip when he saw one of the women gesture to him.
“What now?” he mused as he stood up.
“Him!” She pointed at Gar’rth who sat quietly, unaware that he was the subject of their conversation. “Is he a mage?”
Castimir shook his head.
“No,” he said firmly.
“Good!” the woman said, before turning away and muttering in a hushed tone to her younger friend.
He watched as her friend smiled, and a pang of jealousy shot through him. What did Gar’rth have that he didn’t? he wondered, looking critically at the lanky youth.
Castimir returned to his seat, giving Gar’rth a long look as he sat down next to him. He took a draught of his ale.
It was going to be one of those nights.
Theodore was certain he knew where Kara was heading. He remembered his conversations with her, about Sulla and the Kinshra she had vowed to fight. And he knew the powerful anger which drove her on.
He and Doric had left Falador several hours before, stopping briefly to question those people they met on the road.
And Kara had been seen, travelling east, toward the barbarian tribes. It made sense to Theodore. She would need to find hospitality somewhere. Indeed, one of the city guards helping in the hunt told Theodore that he had recommended to her that she stop at the barbarian village to replenish her supplies.
“The Kinshra will surely kill her if we cannot intercept her Theodore” Doric shouted as they rode swiftly on.
“Then we will ride through the night” Theodore replied. “She can be no more than three hours ahead of us.”
As strong and skilled as Kara was, fighting enemies as vicious as the Kinshra warriors was a battle that could only end in her defeat. Hadn’t she already tried to do it? Hadn’t the Ring of Life spent its power in saving her from them?
She is too stubborn, Theodore thought, before wondering exactly how they were going to bring her back if she refused to come willingly.
THIRTY-EIGHT
It was growing dark. It was the second night he had spent outside the city since the girl had wounded him.
A girl!
A girl had done this to him. If it hadn’t hurt so much, he would have laughed at the idea.
Throughout the day, he remained in the remote hollows north of Falador, protected by thick brambles and fallen trees in the most overgrown part of the wood.
Once he was woken by the sound of baying dogs, and he had h
ad to master his instinct to run. For a few seconds the sounds had come closer, but then they turned away westward, toward the road to Taverley.
He knew he was the hunted now. His overconfidence in dealing with the humans had led to his defeat, and he had left two fingers and half an ear behind. He had not returned to his human form just yet, for his wolf form was far stronger and he could feel his stomach wound repairing itself gradually. It would be several days before he would be able to move without pain, however. But at least the bleeding had stopped.
He knew also that it wasn’t safe to stay in this country. The population had risen against him now, and scores of heavily armed men searched the woodlands. He would have to leave.
It was on the western road, south of Taverley, that he had first encountered Theodore, who carried the scent of his quarry. Despite his failure to question him, he knew the best chance of picking up the trail that he had lost would be to head north, moving only at night, backtracking along Theodore’s route.
He stood warily, his stomach protesting from the wound. He would remember the girl with the blonde hair. Before he returned east to Morytania and his dark lord, he would find her somewhere, alone in the wild, and have his revenge.
His hatred gave him the strength he needed to ignore the pain and slowly he made his way out of the overgrown hollow.
The wind was cold on Sulla’s face, yet he could sense a change in the seasons. The daylight hours were lasting longer. It would soon be time.
Behind him stood several of his commanders, waiting.
“The monastery,” he said. “Ever since I have walked this land it has always stood there, taunting us.” Sulla pointed to the east, his arm stretched out across the cliff edge to a vista covered in dense woodland and bathed in the last embers of sunlight. A white tower was just visible, rising above the trees many miles away.
“You want us to sack the monastery?” Lord Daquarius asked uncertainly.
“They are our enemies!” Sulla spat back. “They are worshippers of Saradomin.”
“Truly they are, but they are not worthy of our attention. They are old men in robes. If we attack them we will unite our enemies. If Misthalin becomes involved, if Varrock sends an army against us…”
“They will not” Sulla insisted. “We shall test our weapons on the monastery and then turn south toward Falador. Thorbarkin, are you ready?”
A hunchbacked dwarf made his way forward.
“Yes, Lord Sulla,” the figure croaked, lowering his red cowl. His smile revealed sharp teeth that had been filed down to add to his terrifying appearance. His eyes shone eerily and were maniacally bloodshot.
“How many of our weapons do you think we will need to assault the monastery?” Sulla snarled.
He didn’t like using the non-human races in his army but the chaos dwarfs who shared his faith were industrious. And they had given him new weapons that could hammer down the strongest walls and clear a path through the boldest army.
Weapons against which the knights had no defence.
“No more than five, Lord Sulla,” came the reply. “Zamorak smiles on our cause.”
“Then we will assault the monastery within days. We will test ourselves and our weapons against the faith of the monks of Saradomin.”
“And after that, my lord?”
“After that we turn south. To Falador!”
Darkness fell over the barbarian village and several braziers were lit to keep the night at bay. From over the wooden paling that surrounded the settlement scavenging dogs could be heard, barking over the scraps of meat that some children had offered as bait to draw them unsuccessfully within range of their spears.
And it wasn’t just the children who were disappointed. Returning to his wagon to gather his bedding from under the seat, Ebenezer found that one of the front wheels had cracked. It put an end to the early start he had hoped for. He knew the monastery would not be reached the night after tomorrow, as he had initially planned.
Swiftly, he returned to Castimir and Gar’rth, who were still sitting in the crowded hall.
“My wagon is going to need fixing” he announced. “The front wheel is splintered and won’t last the journey north.”
“I do not think we can take your wagon north with us anyway, Ebenezer” Castimir said. “The roads are non-existent and the dense woods will make it all the slower.”
The alchemist sat down heavily on the bench. He hated being away from his wagon for any period of time.
The young wizard’s usually humorous face darkened.
“And if our friend’s condition is as severe as you think it is, time will not be on our side.” He cast a swift glance to Gar’rth, who sat next to him, unaware of their conversation. “We need to find a guide, Ebenezer, or else we could find ourselves lost in the heart of The Wilderness.”
Ebenezer raised his eyes and looked despairingly into Castimir’s round and clean-shaven face.
“Tell me, wizard, which guide did you have in mind?”
“Well, alchemist,” Castimir laughed, his eyes darting past the old man’s shoulder, “do you see that woman over there? The one with the big…”
“Even I’m not so old as to miss her, young man.”
“Be that as it may, it’s not her, Ebenezer.” Castimir exaggerated a sigh of despair. “It’s the dark-haired girl who is standing next to her-the one in the pale blue gown.”
“The one with the silver tiara?” the alchemist asked, glancing in the direction Castimir had indicated. “She doesn’t look like one of the barbarian peoples. Who is she?” He was peering at the girl through his thick glasses, and his gaze caught her attention.
She turned her head uncomfortably.
“You’re staring at her,” Castimir hissed in alarm. “She’s a priestess!”
Their conversation caught the attention of another traveller who had just entered the hall. A blonde-haired girl with a pale face sat quietly on a nearby bench, her back to the wall as if she were unwilling to let anyone out of her sight. She held her long sword carefully across her lap as if it was more precious to her than anything in the world.
She looked exhausted, and peered earnestly at the succulent meats that the barbarians cooked over the open fires.
“Do you think a priestess will know the way to the monastery?” The alchemist faced Castimir. “And if she does, would she be willing to help us?’
The wizard shrugged.
“That is the question we have to ask.”
Castimir looked about him as if deep in thought and again noticed the young blonde who was staring enviously at their food. He watched her for a second, noticing how pretty and how sad she looked, as if she carried the troubles of the world on her shoulders.
He noted how Gar’rth watched her, too, and he was shocked to see a look of fear on his face. Or was it a look of hope? He knew so little of Gar’rth-where he was from, what his background might be-that it was hard for him to understand his expressions at a glance.
“Are you all right, Gar’rth?” he asked, placing his hand on the youth’s shoulder, suddenly concerned that he was about to fall ill again.
Gar’rth closed his large hand around Castimir’s in a grasp of friendship. Then he stood and made his way over to the girl in silence. She watched his approach with a distrustful stare.
He stopped before he reached Kara, taking a portion of meat that had moments before been cooked over a fire. Amongst the barbarian people a guest could eat freely in the hall, a tradition of which the girl must have been unaware.
“Food?” Gar’rth muttered, holding a clay dish out to her. He backed away, however, as he saw her eyes flash in sudden anger.
“I have no money!” she said fiercely, thinking he was taunting her.
Castimir rose to intervene.
“Young lady, I must come to my friend’s rescue. He speaks only a few words of the common tongue, but you should know that guests of the barbarian tribes eat freely. As long as you do not abuse their trust, the
n you have nothing to fear.”
The young man’s round, smiling face disarmed Kara. Her flight from Falador and the theft of the horse had made her angry with herself. She was not a thief-she had never stolen in her life- but she knew she had to escape from the knights.
“Thank you,” Kara said, bowing her head to the man with the plate.
He smiled at her, and returned the bow.
“It is not appropriate for a young lady to be travelling alone,” the blue-robed man continued. “Forgive me, but I know my companions would be as happy as I if you would accept our invitation. Will you join us?” He extended his hand in exaggerated gallantry.
Kara accepted, and as introductions were made, she was confident that she had made a good decision. There was safety in numbers, they knew the tribe’s customs, and Kara felt less threatened than when she had sat by herself.
But there was more to it than that. Castimir’s joking and Ebenezer’s scientific speculations were second in importance to the one called Gar’rth. She felt a bond with him, as two outsiders might come together in the face of common hostility or danger. It was as if they alone shared a secret knowledge that barred anyone else from coming between them. He could not speak the common tongue yet his actions spoke for him and his gaze never left her face.
Kara sensed a great strength in him that made him stand out against the fiercest barbarian warrior. When he returned from fetching travelling blankets from the wagon, he pushed open both of the double oak doors to the hall without pausing to muster his weight or gather his strength. It was a feat that even the largest warrior found difficult, yet here was a youth who had done it without strain.
The barbarian chatter thinned as the men saw him enter, a cold gust racing into the hall from the darkness outside. Some murmured in approval of his obvious strength, while others stared darkly at the youth.
Kara noted one barbarian woman gazing admiringly at Gar’rth and fiercely at her. She felt the woman’s hostility from across the hall, cold enough to douse any warmth from the burning braziers.