Betrayal at Falador (runescape)

by T. S. Church

  Overhead, the leather wings of several bats sounded and Castimir instinctively ducked.

  “I’m not sure how much more I can stand of the swamp.”

  The prisoner sat with his hands in his lap, shivering in the darkness. The knights had made him deliberately uncomfortable: he had been left in the dungeons, below ground, kept in cold and darkness.

  I should have tried harder to escape the old man, he thought, recalling his journey back to Falador under the watchful eye of the man they called The Alchemist. Zamorak was not a forgiving deity. If he ever returned to Sulla’s army, his capture would likely mean his death.

  He had believed he would die in Falador, executed by the knights as a murderer. As his mind dwelt on that, he wept in the lonely darkness, cursing the fate that made him a prisoner. And then he felt the draft of cool air through the iron bars, and knew he wasn’t alone.

  “Eat,” the newcomer whispered from the darkness. A hand appeared between the bars, holding a wooden bowl with fruit and recently-cooked meat. “Do not leave anything for the guards to find.”

  The bowl was upturned and the precious food dumped upon the stone. But the prisoner didn’t care, for he was ravenous.

  “I will come again tomorrow night,” the voice continued. “Keep your strength up, for you shall soon be leaving here. I need you to give some information to Sulla.”

  And then the man vanished back into the darkness, making no sound as he went. The prisoner smiled bitterly for the first time in several days.

  The next night the man came again as promised. As before, he brought fresh fruit and cooked meat with him.

  “Tomorrow night you escape.” The man had held out his hand, revealing two keys in his open palm. “One for your cell and the other for the guardroom at the end of the corridor. After the guards change their watch, you will count to one hundred ten times. Then you must make your move. There will only be a single guard in the guardroom-and he will have been drugged. Behind the door you will find the uniform of a messenger. There are dozens of riders coming and going each day and at all hours-no one will think it suspicious.

  “With the uniform, there will be a satchel with a suitable pass to get you out of the castle and the city. My message to Sulla is concealed between two sheets of paper-a map of Falador and one of Asgarnia. It describes how I will communicate with him once he begins his siege.

  “Also in the satchel you will find a guide to the stables of the castle. There, a swift horse will be waiting for you.

  “Do you understand?”

  The prisoner swallowed hard, his mouth still full. It was a lot to take in.

  “I do,” he said, his words distorted as he chewed greedily.

  “There is one other thing I need you to do for me.”

  “What?”

  “You must kill the guard. Although he will be drugged, he needs to die by your own hand to give your escape veracity. Else he could identify my presence here and I would be under suspicion.” “

  “I will do it,” the prisoner hissed, knowing that his situation was radically altered, aware that he would return to Sulla’s army as a hero.

  “What is your name, prisoner?” the man asked as he made ready to leave.

  “Gaius. And you?”

  The traitor laughed in the darkness.

  “Just do your job, Gaius. Make certain the guard dies tomorrow night!” Without waiting for an answer, he left as silently as he had the night before.

  And now it was the night of his escape.

  From his cell Gaius could hear the sound of chairs scraping on the stone floor and the friendly remarks as one guard arrived to replace the other. When the prison went silent again, he began to count.

  One… two… three…

  A moment passed. He heard the sounds of two men talking. The guard sounded surprised at the appearance of another man. The prisoner continued to count, disregarding the talk to make certain it did not interrupt his concentration.

  Seventy-four… seventy-five… seventy-six… he counted for the third time.

  A dull thud sounded from the room, followed immediately by a clatter as a chair was overturned.

  There was nothing more as he counted the minutes away.

  On the ninth count his mind was made up. He could no longer restrain himself. The key was unsteady in his hot hand and he wasted precious seconds getting it into the lock. With a savage turn, the door fell open.

  He seized the key and rushed into the corridor. There were no other prisoners, for the knights rarely detained anybody other than the agents of their enemies. He ran toward the guardroom, the second key ready in his hand.

  Silently he listened at the door before attempting to open it. There was no sound from within.

  Swiftly now, and calmer than before, he placed the key in the lock and turned it easily, pushing the stout wooden door open.

  The guard was lying on the flagstones, his food half-eaten on the table where he had sat. He was breathing quietly.

  Gaius knew what he had to do. He took a hammer from the bench at the far wall and with several hard blows he made certain the guard would never open his eyes again.

  The uniform was where the traitor had said it would be and in a satchel with it he found the pass and maps which concealed the traitor’s message. Within scant seconds he was changed, making sure the cap was pulled low over his forehead. He knew the chances of anyone recognising him were small, and at this hour-when many of the men would be retiring-he knew his escape was near certain.

  But he wasn’t so sure when he opened the door of the prison house. As he crossed the courtyard he passed two knights deep in conversation. Both ignored him.

  It was the same in the stables. No one bothered to challenge a messenger. Several men were tending to their steeds, each looking as exhausted as their animals. Gaius ignored them as he looked for the horse the traitor had promised him.

  But it was not there. A panic gripped him.

  “Are you looking for your horse, sir?”

  He jumped, then glanced down to see a stable boy yawning sheepishly.

  “I am” he answered. “You have moved it?”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said. “I had to move her, as we are running out of room in the stables now that Sir Amik has commandeered the citizens’ horses. But I will take you to her.”

  The youth led him to a brown mare, already saddled and prepared for immediate use. With a vicious look at the boy, Gaius mounted the animal and rode out into the courtyard, a sudden elation gripping his stomach. He could feel the smile tugging at his lips and he had to resist the urge to laugh.

  He was so nearly free!

  The guard at the end of the bridge took a single look at him and didn’t bother even to read his pass, waving him on with an impatient look.

  The second guard was different, however. As Gaius trotted over the bridge the man moved to intercept him.

  “Where are you off to this time?” he asked without suspicion. “Varrock? Burthorpe?”

  “Burthorpe,” Gaius said impatiently, as if he were eager to start upon the three-day journey to the town north of Taverley. The guard looked up to speak, but Gaius interrupted him.

  “… again!” he added.

  The guard nodded in understanding.

  “Is it true what they are saying? Is the crown prince unwell?”

  “I am just a messenger, my friend. And a very tired one at that.”

  The guard nodded and stepped back, gesturing for him to continue. He headed north to the city’s gate, where several guards glanced at him without even attempting to question him.

  With a widening grin he rode out unchallenged onto the open road north of Falador and finally gave a triumphant laugh.

  For he was free.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  “The people are already speaking of defeat, Sir Amik,” Nicholas Sharpe said. “You must pass the order, for the security of Falador is at stake!”

  The knight raised his eyes, glancing first to
Sir Tiffy, who nodded very slightly, and then to Bhuler, who turned away.

  He knew he had no choice.

  “Then it shall be done” he said. “If it is not, panic will overrun the citizens, before the enemy.” He leaned forward, his quill scratching the parchment. “Any dissenters and seditionists will be arrested. There are to be no gatherings of more than fifteen citizens. Any mob is to be instantly dispersed.”

  An uneasy silence settled over the four men. Sir Amik knew that for the people of Falador, their ancient and hard-won rights were of great importance.

  “The people will not like it, Sir Amik,” Bhuler said plainly. “The policy could backfire, further convincing them that we are desperate.”

  Sir Amik raised a hand to stop him.

  “The security of Falador outweighs all,” he said. “We must be under no illusion. Crown Prince Anlaf has been manipulated by the Kinshra and will not side with us. We cannot wait idly by, not any more. We have already arranged our plans depending on the actions Sulla takes.

  “If he comes south and starts a siege then we will break out in an attempt to disrupt his cannons, attacking from the swamplands where we will gather our strength. He will not expect that.” He yawned, exhausted and suddenly feeling very old.

  The master-at-arms spoke.

  “We have commandeered a great number of horses, so every man who can fight will have a mount. For the plan to work we will need to assault the Kinshra with Falador’s full strength-a combination of both the knights and the city guardsmen.” Sir Amik nodded in agreement.

  “Then call in all able men, even those from the almshouses, for every one of them will be needed.” He smirked suddenly as he spoke. “I have seen Sir Erical wandering around the castle in recent days, as well as a few of the other retired knights. Let us hope they still know how to wield a blade and ride a horse.”

  The daylight was reduced to a sickly twilight under the gnarled trees that grew north of the swamp. The companions had spent an uneasy night, sleeping fitfully as they listened to strange and haunting sounds. Only Gar’rth seemed comfortable in that dismal place, for he had grown up in Morytania, a land of swamps and mires, where the dead did not rest.

  They had been travelling again for an hour when Theodore raised his hand to signal a stop, betraying a sense of urgency which made his companions freeze.

  He pointed to the east, where a large body of mist rolled gently over a calm lake. The companions could see several bodies on the shore.

  “Goblins!” Doric hissed.

  “And druids, too,” Castimir said quietly, a pained look on his face. “Why would the goblins kill druids? What is the point of it?”

  “Goblins kill for the sake of killing” Doric grunted, readying his axe. “If they are patrolling this far south, it might mean that Taverley has been attacked.”

  “But why would Sulla waste men and resources assaulting Taverley?” Theodore pressed. “Why destroy a place that holds no consequence to his war?”

  “That’s goblins for you, squire” Doric muttered. “Besides, occupying Taverley means that none of our messengers can get to Burthorpe. It means Falador is alone.”

  “Then we must make a decision” Theodore said. “Taverley is a day’s journey away. If it is occupied, we will find it difficult to break east and make for Ice Mountain. Instead, we could start eastward now and skirt around the south of the lake.”

  “That could lead us straight into the Kinshra army north of Falador,” Kara warned.

  “Then we take our chances with Taverley” Theodore said. “And pray it hasn’t fallen.”

  The crown prince woke to find both his valet and his Imperial Guards replaced by Kinshra warriors. He demanded first to see Lord Amthyst, and when he was told that his most senior advisor was under arrest for treason, he demanded to see the person on whose authority it had been done.

  That was Lord Daquarius.

  “Where is Lord Amthyst?” Anlaf’s voice rose as Lord Daquarius entered his bedchamber. The prince’s knuckles clenched, bleaching his fingers white.

  “Lord Amthyst is in several places, my lord,” Lord Daquarius said coldly. “He was executed this morning-in the manner befitting a traitor. It transpired that he had been systematically poisoning you over some months. Documents seized from his chamber prove this. Therefore, we have taken steps to ensure that you are protected.”

  The crown prince gasped. Lord Amthyst executed? But Amthyst was his oldest and most trusted advisor, the closest thing he had to a friend!

  He fell to the plush vermillion carpet, biting his clenched fist and weeping uncontrollably.

  “My lord, Asgarnia needs you” Daquarius said firmly. “You must be strong!” The prince felt the Kinshra commander’s hand on his shoulder and he knew Daquarius was right. His nation needed him. Slowly, his tears and wails subsided.

  He stood unsteadily.

  “You are right, Daquarius,” he muttered. “What must I do to ease the burdens of my realm? Who is to blame for this ill fate?”

  “Is it not obvious, my lord?”

  The crown prince glanced wildly from one wall to the other. He shook his head doubtfully.

  “Surely if anyone is to blame, it is the Knights of Falador,” Lord Daquarius said. “Has not Sir Amik Varze tried to entrench his order in Asgarnia? Has he not always been in competition with your Imperial Guard? Has he not always sought to confine my own order to the barren wastes of Ice Mountain, where we are permanently assailed from The Wilderness, while he sits like a fatted calf supping on the milk of Asgarnia’s greatest city?

  “Is this not all true, my lord?”

  “It is!” A fever gripped him now. “I have always thought so, by Saradomin!”

  Suddenly, his mood changed. He felt sure he could trust Lord Daquarius. Had he not dreamed of riding to war with the Kinshra in the service of their dark god?

  “Yet I have never really worshipped Saradomin, for I was taught that a ruler should wield balance. The ways of Guthix appealed most to me, but recently, in my dreams, another has spoken to me. You do understand, Daquarius?”

  “I think so, my lord.”

  He turned his back on Lord Daquarius and moved quickly, waving for his guest to follow. He climbed into a large cupboard and pressed the back panel forcefully, revealing a secret door. It led to a narrow passageway that disappeared into the darkness, and into that blackness he plunged.

  The two men walked briskly in silence. When finally they halted, Lord Daquarius knew that the sybil’s magic had worked its poison, far better than he had imagined.

  They stood before an altar of Zamorak, stained with the blood of several animals. Lord Daquarius had never seen such a crude shrine. He had to restrain an urge to laugh.

  With a sudden reverence, Crown Prince Anlaf knelt before the altar and began to pray to Zamorak, the god of chaos.

  And unwilling to disturb the man’s tormented mind, Lord Daquarius knelt at his side.

  By late morning the Kinshra army sat encamped only three miles north of Falador, their scouts riding unconcerned and unopposed just beyond the range of a bow. Just beyond that range stood Sulla, looking south toward the city.

  “Can we see the house from here?” He asked the officer, Gaius, who stood close at hand.

  “I believe it is that one,” Gaius said, pointing. “It is one of the few houses that stand higher than the walls. Each night he will send a signal by torchlight. In his letter he explained the code that he will use.”

  “And what house is that?” Sulla growled. “Who does it belong to?” He was still unsure whether this might be a ploy of the knights to deceive him. He had debated this point with his officers, but none of them believed the knights would willingly let the prisoner murder a man in order to escape. Their code of honour would not allow such a bloody move.

  “Some of our spies who returned from Falador have told me that it is the almshouse of the knights.”

  “Then the knights have a spy in their ranks” Sulla chor
tled. “Make sure that every hour of every night we have keen eyes trained on the house, for we must know what he is telling us.”

  Gaius nodded enthusiastically, and left to make the arrangements.

  “Should you not secure the camp, Sulla?” Jerrod asked. “That would seem to be the first priority.”

  Sulla dismissed his concerns with a wave of his hand.

  “The goblins are going to dig a trench around our position, my friend. As we journeyed south you will have undoubtedly noted how my men have hacked away the trees?”

  “I did notice,” the werewolf replied. “I thought they were eager to fight, or simply enjoyed the random destruction.”

  Sulla laughed.

  “They are, my friend, and they do. But they have also been cutting stakes as we have marched south. Those will be hammered into the ground to form a perimeter about our camp.”

  “And the goblins?” Jerrod asked with an amused grin.

  “The goblins are to stay on my western flank. They will form their own defences. Five hundred of them have gone to secure Taverley, which no doubt means they will destroy it, for they have argued with the druids over land rights for generations. But the goblins are my tactical advantage over the knights-they are the expendable soldiers I can use to tie down my enemy.”

  “The goblins won’t stand very long against the knights,” Jerrod observed.

  “Only long enough for my Kinshra pikemen to come up on their flanks, and for my cavalry to hem the knights in from behind. Then…” Sulla’s smile widened as he spread his fingers apart and pressed both hands together, his fingers interlocking. “Then we simply squeeze!”

  It was afternoon when the companions emerged from the swamp. The landscape had turned from bleak mire into verdant groves where the song of the trees swaying in the afternoon breeze seemed deceptively calm.

  Doric, more used to a life underground, looked cautiously from side to side as if expecting trouble. He had been unnerved by what they had found at the lakeside.

  Suddenly, Kara stopped in her tracks.

  “The birds have stopped singing,” she warned, drawing her sword.