by T. S. Church
As the traitor turned to leave, he added a last mocking comment.
“To think I had to risk everything because of a mere woodcutter’s daughter,” he said. “It is an amusing thought now the game has ended!”
The words stirred Sir Tiffy.
“Why do you call Kara a woodcutter’s daughter? All our stories were based around the probability that she was Justrain’s daughter, and he never mentioned being a woodcutter in any of his reports.”
The words seemed to catch the traitor by surprise, and he thought for a moment, then a new light appeared in his eyes.
“I see it all now.” He spoke with the voice of a man savouring the ultimate victory. “You deliberately endangered her life in an effort to make me act.”
He laughed, delighted by the knowledge of how desperate his enemies had been to find him.
“But Justrain is Kara’s father, for he did pose as a woodcutter. I know this because the Kinshra informed me that their agents had intercepted a letter from a village woodcutter who matched Justrain’s description.” He waited for a moment to allow them to comprehend what he had said. “And when I signed my reply, I signed his death warrant and orphaned Kara, as well.”
“So it was you who killed Bryant?” Sir Tiffy asked. “And Sir Balladish?”
“It was. I added several requests to Sir Balladish’s list before it was sent to the apothecary-he did not know the exact details, but it is a routine we had established over many years in the almshouse. I made certain I was available in the courtyard to await Bryant’s return, intending to destroy the list and remove my items before anyone knew exactly what I had ordered.
“But the apothecary had told Bryant of the possibility of using the herbs for poison, and the peon told me so. I knew that if Kara died from my potion, then Bryant would be suspicious. Therefore he had to die. Sir Balladish trailed me to Dagger Alley, however, confronting me after I slew Bryant. I do not know why he suspected me, but he died before he could make his suspicions known.”
Again Finistere turned to leave.
“I have heard everything I n-needed to hear,” a voice stuttered in grief from the entrance of the cellar. “And still I feel no triumph.”
It was a voice every one of them knew. It was Sir Pallas.
With a grim look on his face, the old knight of the almshouse stood before the traitor, his unsteady hand holding a sword.
Sulla wiped the sods of earth from his face. He had been thrown from his saddle by the force of the explosion that had destroyed his camp.
“Someone must have lit the black powder!” Jerrod roared angrily as men and horses attempted to recover. “I can smell it!”
Nearby, the messenger groaned.
“The black powder is lost to us now. Soon our guns will exhaust their current supplies and they will be entirely useless,” Sulla said grimly. “This is a failure that cannot go unpunished, and as you are the only survivor of those who failed me.”
He nodded to Jerrod, who stood over the messenger. The werewolf reached toward his throat before the man could defend himself. The messenger gave a brief cry before he died.
Sulla did not even bother to look, for he knew he had to rally his men.
“We must abandon the cannons,” he said. “We cannot get to them in time now. We must concentrate on the knights first, for they are exhausted. Then we will turn our attention to her!”
He clenched his fists at the thought of the girl who had dared to interfere with his plans so many times, and he promised himself that-one way or another-it would not happen again.
SIXTY-NINE
Kara rode at the head of her army, which marched in a line. Under Theodore’s direction, the cavalry remained hidden behind the burning encampment.
They had travelled south via ways unknown to any Kinshra patrol, under the earth, following Commander Blenheim. When they had come suddenly upon the enemy, they caught them totally by surprise.
Upon taking the camp, she had written her message to Sulla on his own paper and sealed it with his own crest, knowing it would enrage him. Then she had ordered everything else to be burned.
“Now is your hour, Kara! Now is the hour in which you will recognise your own power and take up my offer!”
The voice was one she had heard twice before. His audacity is growing, she mused. Before his words had made her fearful, but this time she was unmoved. Without even bothering to look at the ghoulish hunchbacked figure cloaked in red, she replied.
“So you have come to me again, Emissary, as you said you would.” Her voice was calm. “Have your say, for there are more pressing things I must do.”
“The way of the warrior is not the way of Saradomin, my dear,” he said seductively. “I am offering you a place as commander of Zamorak’s armies. Will you accept?” The High Emissary stepped toward her and held out his hand.
Kara looked at him for the first time.
“I have made my choice, Emissary. I will never follow your teachings. Nor will I follow Saradomin. I have suffered much at the hands of his followers, but I have suffered worst from your own. For me, the way is that of Guthix, the god of balance who exists in all things.”
The figure stared at her for long moments before responding.
“Very well, Kara-Meir. If you survive this day, then I am certain we shall meet again.” He turned his head at the sound of a horse galloping toward them. When his eyes settled upon Theodore he smiled evilly. “Know also that you have upset the balance. The Kinshra upset it first by marching on Falador and defeating the knights, but your refusal of my offer has made the pendulum swing yet again. This time the balance is too far toward the light. A sacrifice shall have to be made.”
Before she could reply the High Emissary had vanished and Theodore was at her side. The Emissary’s threat had found the one gap in her armour. Kara was not overly concerned for herself, but her friends were a different matter altogether.
“The cavalry is deployed as you instructed and the men are ready” the squire reported.
“Theodore” she said, as if she was seeing him for the first time in days. “I must tell you something, Theodore, before we go into battle.” For a second she avoided his stare. “I just wanted to thank you for all you have done for me, in case I do not get another opportunity.” She swallowed hard as she gathered her thoughts.
Theodore spoke before she could say anything more.
“You should not think like that, Kara,” he said firmly. “We have fought together before, and you are as capable a warrior as I have ever known. Today is just another battle, and we will live to celebrate victory.”
“Today is different, Theodore,” she corrected him, desperate to tell him of the Emissary’s threat.
“No, Kara. It is the same as any other. Only you have changed,” he continued, drawing a curious look from her. “Do you know what the men say of you behind your back?”
Kara shook her head.
“They say you are touched by the gods. They all know your story, Kara. They have built you into a legend-and legends cannot die.”
Kara lowered her head, fighting sudden despair. The army had made her into something she wasn’t, yet she knew she had to take advantage of their fervour if they were to triumph.
She raised her head to Theodore once more and noted the bright look in his eyes.
“Then let us be about our business” she said, pushing her concerns away. “Let us save Falador.”
She signalled to Commander Blenheim, and the dwarf army began to march.
“And what are you going to do, Sir Pallas?” Finistere asked. “Falador is dying, old friend, and yet you use your last hours to confront me rather than attempting to flee.” The traitor shook his head, a mocking smile on his triumphant face. “Do you intend to kill me?”
The ancient knight stood resolute, though his sword hand continued to tremble.
“Release the prisoners first,” he said firmly. “Release them and then surrender, for I promise you I will not l
et you leave here alive!”
The ferocity in the old knight’s voice wiped the smile from Finistere’s face.
“Do you think you are a threat to me?” he sneered. “You are a weak old man. Whatever glory you may have had has long passed, abandoning you along with the vigour of your youth.” He drew his blade from his scabbard. “You cannot resist me.”
Sir Pallas hung his head for a moment, acknowledging that his defeat was inevitable. But then he straightened and looked his opponent in the eye.
“You might be right” he replied. “But I am willing to sacrifice everything to stop you. Are you as determined?” The old knight breathed deeply and his sword ceased to shake.
Sir Tiffy nudged Marius and whispered in the squire’s ear.
“If Sir Pallas charges him it might knock him against the gate,” he said. “If that happens then we must seize him through the bars.”
Marius nodded.
“So be it, Sir Pallas!” the traitor said. “But if we both die here, then your friends will starve-and that will be an agony slow to end.” Then, with a growl of anger, the traitor threw himself upon his enemy.
Sir Vyvin was knocked off his horse. The Kinshra pikemen pressed in against the knights, pinning them and Lord Tremene’s militia against the wall of the city. They were trapped.
A Kinshra soldier ran forward to take advantage of the situation. He put a foot on Sir Vyvin’s sword arm and raised his weapon to stab downward. Suddenly a horse neighed in challenge.
The soldier turned just in time to see Sir Amik guiding the tip of his banner toward his face. He did not have time to scream before he died.
Sir Vyvin stood and began fighting on foot next to Sir Amik, driving back the bolder warriors of the Kinshra army and giving others cause for hesitation.
Lord Tremene shouted over.
“We are ready, Sir Amik! The cavalry has been kept back behind our infantry. But we must go soon.”
The leader of the knights surveyed the situation. The Kinshra had driven them against the wall in a horseshoe shape, and the enemy advanced from all sides, leaving only trampled corpses as they closed.
But Sir Amik had foreseen this, Sir Vyvin knew. He had played a desperate gamble to lure the Kinshra army in. He had ordered his cavalry to be held back, to keep them away from the enemy so they could be used to punch a hole in the Kinshra formation that was growing ever smaller.
He was just waiting for the right moment.
Sulla watched in satisfaction as his infantry hacked their way into the mass of white-armoured knights. As long as he could keep Kara from reaching them he was confident of victory, and the goblins had been ordered north to delay her.
“Lord Sulla?” a messenger called. “Word has come from one of our scouts. The goblins are in danger, for the newcomers have hundreds of cavalry. They have hidden themselves behind our camp and are preparing to charge.”
The news stunned Sulla to silence. It was too late to warn the goblins now. A concerted cavalry charge would smash them in minutes.
Finding his voice, he cursed as he shut his visor once more, hiding his face from the uneasy looks of his men.
Kara-Meir had surprised him yet again.
Zamorak curse her!
The dwarf lines halted a hundred yards from the goblin rabble. A few dozen arrows had been fired half-heartedly by the enemy, yet they had failed to dent the dwarf resolve.
Kara sat on her horse at the head of the army and raised her sword. As she did so, the dwarf soldiers beat their axes upon their shields. The goblins jeered, attempting to drown the dwarf war ritual with their own. None of them knew the true purpose of the dwarf hammering.
But Theodore heard it and understood. He was at the head of the Imperial Guard, by Lord Radebaugh’s side, hidden from the enemy’s view.
The leader of the Imperial Guard turned one last time to his men.
“This is it!” he cried. “We must give Kara a quick victory! We must brush aside these goblins and move on to the city!”
The men cheered in anticipation, and from somewhere in their midst a cry was heard.
“For Falador, for Asgarnia and for honour!”
Every man shouted, raising his sword into the air, urging his horse on at a swift trot to answer Kara’s summons.
“For Falador, for Asgarnia and for honour!”
Castimir clutched at Theodore’s arm as they moved forward, and the squire turned to see tears in his friend’s eyes.
“We read histories of the heroes when we were young, Theo. To think that in years to come children will read our stories!”
Beside them, a growling voice replied.
“So long as they are not our obituaries, Castimir. Then I shall be satisfied” Doric muttered.
The friends fell silent as the command was given to increase the pace, for speed was now of utmost importance.
Kara held her lines back, ignoring the goblin soldiers who called out to her and made obscene gestures.
“Keep up the drumming!” she instructed. “Let it hide the sound of Theodore’s cavalry until it is too late for them.”
The goblin horde had spread out to mirror the deployment of her army, for they knew how important it was not to become surrounded by an enveloping line. But in so doing, they had fallen for Kara’s trap. Their formation would make Theodore’s cavalry charge far more effective.
The first they knew of the six hundred-strong cavalry was the cloud of dust that appeared to the east. A cry went up, but by that time it was too late for their commanders to do anything.
From the northeast came the Imperial Guard, driving headlong at full gallop into the spread-out goblin line and cutting them down as if they were blades of grass under a scythe.
Castimir was the first to fell an enemy. He rode on the edge of the charge, intending to break off and use his magic from a distance rather than engage in close combat. Fire arced from his fingers and spread fear and confusion throughout the enemy ranks.
Then it was the turn of Lord Radebaugh and Theodore, who led the charge into the breaking goblin horde. There was no wall of spears to resist them, no packed column of disciplined strength to drive them off.
It was a massacre.
Theodore’s mare trampled the first goblin under her hooves, while he beheaded another with a single stroke. The squire felt hot blood splatter his face through his visor. The scent of battle drove him on as he cut down another and guided his mare to ride over those who turned to flee.
“Fire!” Kara shouted. Five hundred carefully aimed bolts swept into the goblin mass. It was the only shot the dwarf crossbowmen would get, for they had no time to reload the bolts before the cavalry swept their enemy away.
In less than a minute, the entire goblin horde of two thousand had been put to flight. Those who had not been killed fled the field, abandoning their weapons and tearing off their armour in an effort to run all the quicker.
SEVENTY
The traitor parried Sir Pallas’s blow with ease.
“This is pathetic” Finistere spat scornfully as the old knight stumbled, breaking off his attack to catch hold of the wall for support as he wheezed heavily. “I have kept my sword arm honed, practising in secret in case I might have to fight again. You don’t have a hope.”
“Let him go, Finistere,” Ebenezer shouted. “It is murder now.”
“It was murder a long time ago,” Finistere replied.
Their swords sang as the two men exchanged several swift blows. The traitor was careful to stay away from the gate, ensuring that he was well beyond the reach of his prisoners.
“It is fortunate that I am in no rush,” the traitor mocked. “I shall let the fighting end in the city before joining the victors in a satisfying plunder of Falador. None shall be spared!”
Sir Pallas lunged desperately, and the traitor sidestepped, leaving the old knight to gather his strength again.
“Come to us, Sir Pallas” Sir Tiffy cried. “Come close in to the gate. Finistere won�
�t dare come so near to us.”
“I cannot,” Sir Pallas responded.
Then suddenly he grinned. “Evil must be fought, Sir Tiffy. We must all make sacrifices to that end!”
With a speed that surprised the traitor, Sir Pallas rushed him, his sword cutting a wide arc. But the traitor’s patience had ended. He didn’t even bother to parry the blow. Instead, he stepped forward, his sword darting in a single deadly thrust.
Sir Pallas gasped as the blade entered his body. He dropped his sword instantly and uttered a low moan of agony, collapsing to his knees, grasping at the traitor as if his killer would suddenly offer him a reprieve.
“Get your hands off me” Finistere said, reaching down to push the old knight away. But still Sir Pallas clawed at his killer as if his hands were weapons, tearing at his cloak and belt.
“Get away from me!” the traitor yelled, throwing the old man to the ground. He watched in contempt as the mortally wounded knight crawled with agonising slowness to the iron gate, where Sir Tiffy’s outstretched hands were reaching for him, ready to offer what little comfort they could.
“My dear friend,” he said with affection, his face dark as he observed the wound. “What could you hope to achieve by this brave act?” His hand lay on the shoulder of his friend, and he frowned as he saw Sir Pallas stretch his mouth into a pain-filled grin.
The traitor noted it, too, and was suddenly afraid.
“What are you laughing at, you old fool?” he demanded.
The dying knight smiled still.
“I have achieved a victory today, Tiffy” he gasped. “It has cost me everything, I fear, but it has been a just sacrifice to bring low a wretched enemy.”
Finistere opened his mouth to speak, but as he did so the sound choked in his throat. For Sir Pallas’s hand had fallen open, and a key dropped to the dusty stone within an inch of Sir Tiffy’s hand. It was the key to the iron gate. Sir Pallas had ripped it from his belt.
The hunter had become the hunted.