by T. S. Church
Now Theodore looked once more at the stars, a great loneliness in his heart, a sudden feeling of smallness as he observed the heavens above him.
“Is it true, Castimir?” he asked. “What they say about the stars?”
The young wizard looked at him for a long minute, aware that their conversation was nearing its end and that it would soon be time for them to part. It had taken considerable effort to break through Theodore’s reserve, a protection the squire built around himself to keep others at a distance.
You didn’t have that before you joined the knights, Castimir thought with sadness. If you have changed like that, how must you think I’ve changed?
“What do they say about the stars, Theo?”
“That if you travel far enough, they change.” Theodore stared wistfully skyward.
“I cannot say, for I have never travelled so far. The stars in Catherby are the same as they are here—fixed in the heavens by the gods to guide seamen and reveal the secrets of the world to astrologers.”
A sudden cough sounded from nearby, and Theodore’s hand instinctively found the hilt of his sword. A moment later Ebenezer emerged from behind a fountain, his hand holding a clay pipe as he walked tentatively toward them.
“Did I hear you correctly, saying that you believed the stars to be fixed forever in the heavens, just to be used by astrologers?” He eyed Castimir with a sparkle in his eyes.
“That’s what we were brought up to believe,” the young man replied. “I know you well enough, however, to know that you do not agree.” The wizard looked at Theodore warily, knowing that he would not approve of Ebenezer listening in the darkness.
And still the squire kept his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
“I have a number of different theories about them,” the old man replied. “Though I have yet to decide which one best suits the facts as I know them. But nothing is forever—not people, not places, not worlds and not stars. Everything is subject to change.”
“Must you question everything, alchemist?” Theodore asked, unwilling to be drawn into another argument in his final moments with Castimir.
“Absolutely!” the old man replied proudly. “If you do not ask, you do not learn—a favourite maxim of many mothers, that too few children bother to practise. It is a philosophy of mine that everything must be questioned. To leave the natural world in the hands of the gods is to give even them too much credit.”
With that, Ebenezer lit his clay pipe and stood close to the two young men, pointing out the constellations to both squire and wizard. As they observed the heavens on that cold, cloudless night, a shooting star sped across the horizon and vanished behind the glistening peaks of White Wolf Mountain to the northwest.
Not a hundred yards away, Gar’rth lay in a pool of cold sweat.
Curled beneath some blankets they had laid down in the hall, he had watched as Ebenezer, finished with his chemicals, decided to stroll out for his evening smoke. The alchemist had paused at the door before opening it, looking down at Gar’rth’s shadowy outline.
“Are you all right, Gar’rth?” he asked the motionless youth. Although he did not understand any of the words save his name, Gar’rth was familiar with the manner in which they were spoken. Soft words, comforting words, the words of someone who cared. It had been long years since Gar’rth had heard any words like that.
“Thank you,” he had responded. The only words that Gar’rth had so far been able to learn, he said them with a sincerity that would make the most practised dissembler feel envious.
Gar’rth had struggled to keep himself from shaking as Ebenezer spoke to him, but when the old man shut the door he stopped trying to fight it. He lay in utter silence, his body shivering so much that even the glowing embers of the fire offered him no comfort.
Shortly afterward he began to sweat, a cold sweat that erupted from his pores and drenched the bedclothes. He was familiar with his ailment, and despite the potions that the druid had brewed for him, he knew he could not expect his condition to improve. He doubted that he would ever be rid of it.
Lying there, he recalled the taunts that his blood-brothers had heaped on him those many months ago, before he had escaped.
You can’t change what you are, Gar’rth. You’re one of us. You can’t change the way you’re born!
He had escaped, crossing rivers and borders, living off charity where he could before accepting the fact that he had to steal to survive. The one thing he never did was to harm an innocent person—that was a rule he would not break. He could never do that, for if he did then he knew he would be lost.
After the sweating came the spasms, which wracked his body as if there were something inside that hungered to be released. As he tasted his own blood in his mouth, he sniffed the mixture of crushed herbs that Ebenezer had prepared for him. Usually they soothed him, but now they affected him little.
It was the most violent attack his ailment had ever made against him, and he knew it would be worse the next time.
Crying was rare where he came from. It showed weakness, and a youth of Gar’rth’s age crying would have incurred a harsh punishment. But he was far away from that place. Covering himself entirely with the sweat-drenched blanket that was now cold against his skin, he wept, his black eyes pools of anguish.
EIGHT
The furnace bathed the room in a red glow of warmth, enough to heat the entire log cabin in winter, when the ground was frozen and the trees had shivered off their leaves.
But something had awakened him.
Living in isolation had given him a sense for trouble, and he could feel in his old bones that something was amiss. Something was coming—something dangerous.
The old dwarf’s hand shot out and grasped the heavy battle-axe that he never let out of his sight. The weapon was a comfort in his hands, yet as he stood he became aware of a sensation that he had rarely felt before. Cold fear knotted his stomach.
There was something outside the cabin, something truly terrible, something that exerted a fearsome presence through the stout wooden doors that he knew would not offer him any protection should the source of his fear decide to enter.
His mouth was dry and the words he had been preparing to shout died on his lips. Never in all his many decades of life had he felt such a presence.
Something sniffed at the door and the hardy dwarf stood back, whispering a half-remembered prayer to his most favoured deity, Guthix.
Let it come, he thought. It’ll find me ready to defend my home.
He did not feel the cold when he was hunting, and the only danger the snows presented was the possibility of leaving tracks for hunters to follow.
Only chance had put the gypsy caravan in his way. His mother had told him, years ago, that it was wrong to waste an opportunity. Ever since he had feasted on the family, he had watched warily as armed men searched the frozen woods and questioned travellers on the road.
His treats were becoming more of a risk.
This made the bloodlust stronger.
So strong had it become that the thought of taking an unprotected maiden or errant child no longer excited him. His dark thoughts had turned their attention to the isolated farmhouses and log cabins that populated the forested land between Falador and Taverley. How the residents would fear when he devoured a family in their own home!
The log cabin that he had decided upon was a squat building more isolated than any other. For two nights he had watched it from his vantage point on a steep rise. Tonight he had ventured closer.
But when he sniffed the door frame the scent was different. The occupant was not human, he realized, and he was unfamiliar with the smell.
No matter, he thought. Variety is what makes life interesting.
He jumped away from the cabin, gathering his strength in readiness to throw himself into the oakwood door.
The dwarf had fought worse than goblins in the dark caverns of his race’s mines, but something here was very wrong.
He heard
the creature sniff the ground outside, just a few yards from him, and he heard it back slowly away from the door, most likely readying itself for an assault.
It’s intelligent, he thought to himself as the cold fear once more wound his stomach in a knot. It knows I am alone.
I have lived a hundred years, he told himself firmly, and if I am to die this night, then it shall be in the way in which I have lived my life—with my axe in my hands, facing my foe.
He took a deep breath and summoned his courage. Then he stepped toward the door to open it.
He stopped at the last second, his head turning in the night air. He could hear people—many people—stomping over the frozen earth and shouting.
Too many, he thought, and likely armed.
Through the trees he could see at least a dozen burning brands held aloft, and as the wind changed direction he caught their scent. They were human men given the false confidence that came with alcohol.
He wondered for a second whether he could take them, whether he could defeat all of them. But then he remembered what he had come into Asgarnia to do, and with a bitter glance back at the oak door, he fled across the clear ground and into the darkness.
Spoil yourself with children and maidens, he thought, but not groups of men.
The door clattered open and a wave of warm air flooded out from the cabin. The dwarf stood silhouetted by the red glow of the fireplace. His eyes swiftly adjusted themselves to the dim light under the trees where the moonlight could not penetrate. He caught sight of a cloaked figure vanishing silently into the darkness, running close to the ground.
“Who’s there?” he shouted in the common tongue, trying unsuccessfully to rid all trace of fear from his voice. He gazed intently in the direction the figure had gone, his eyes attuned to see in the darkness, but so thick were the trees that he could make nothing out.
Still he could feel it. Out there, nearby, something was watching him.
Then he heard a shout, and as he walked a few yards from his cabin and onto the icy ground, out in the blackness, he saw a large body of men coming from the direction of the road.
The group was being deliberately noisy, as if the sound of their own drunken shouting was enough to protect them from whatever lurked in the darkness. For an instant the dwarf was relieved, pleased by the sudden approach of the men.
Perhaps they would let me join the hunt for the creature.
But then he noted the hostile looks and the gestures of anger that they made toward him. He recognised some of their faces, farmers from the surrounding country, lumberjacks and hunters he had lived amongst for years.
And he remembered why he kept to himself, more often than not.
As they strode up into the clearing in front of the cabin, he saw the looks of hatred on their faces. He was an experienced fighter, but he knew this many men would easily overwhelm him, unless he could get inside the cabin and into the escape tunnel that he had dug as a hidden exit, years before. It led out into the woods, a hundred yards or so to the east.
But he knew that running would be an admission of guilt in their eyes. Let them say what they will, he thought, shifting the weight of his axe more comfortably. Let me hear what my crime is.
A tall man strode forward, his purple robes unfamiliar to the dwarf. He raised his hands as the crowd shouted. Some began to throw stones at the cabin, while a few of the bolder youths walked closer, eyeing him intently.
Never before had he seen a mob, and it began to terrify him. Not the terror he had felt earlier, but a fear that was no less real, and he was lost for words.
More of the group turned their attention away from his home and toward the dwarf himself. One of them shouted and pointed accusingly in his direction.
“There is the creature!” the man in the purple robes declared. “It must know about the murders. Let us force it to confess!”
Before he could react, the men surged forward, the smell of drink rife amongst them. His axe was impotent—he couldn’t risk killing any of them, for then he would surely be lost.
This must be a misunderstanding, he thought. A mistake.
“What are you talking about?” he shouted above the din. But they paid him no heed. His arms were seized, his axe taken from him, and he was lifted bodily off the ground, his protests ignored. Vicious hands tore at him and clenched fists clubbed him in drunken rage as a dozen men forced their way into his cabin.
He could hear the crashes of his handmade furniture being overturned and broken, and he knew then what they were looking for.
“Gold!”
A cry louder than the rest silenced them all.
He knew the find would spur them to greater efforts. Kicking feebly against his captors, the dwarf could hear men ripping up the wooden panels of the floor, using his own axe to destroy his home.
He had watched the men approach the cabin. He had heard enough of their words and seen enough of the looks on their faces to know that they had only unintentionally rescued the dwarf from becoming his next victim. He looked on with an amused growl, watching the events unfold with anticipation.
The thought that an innocent creature would pay for his crimes amused him. He lowered himself to the earth underneath a small group of fir trees, whose low-lying foliage concealed him against the whiteness of the snow.
His red tongue slowly made its way around his white teeth, hunger making him salivate. The clearing was beset by the scent of fear from the dwarf, from the mob, and even from the men in purple robes.
He had encountered such men before—men who preached human superiority and lied to achieve their ends. He examined the speaker, a man who was gesturing and talking with righteous animation, and in the darkness his red eyes glinted sadistically.
He was no longer interested in the dwarf.
The fire started accidentally.
One of the men, careless from intoxication, dropped his burning brand on the stack of dry straw that the dwarf used to bed his goats during the winter. As the flames roared the looters cried out in alarm and rushed outside, the last of them barely escaping as the roof collapsed behind him.
Some men clapped and halloed, their voices slurred and their eyes burning with aggression. Others looked suddenly downcast, as if the fire marked the end of a fever.
Quickly the mob began to disperse. Some dropped their plunder in the clearing, ashamed of their behaviour—though it could not be undone. The thought of the monster still loose in the land made them remember their loved ones, defenceless at home, not far away.
With growing alarm the mob vanished.
Lying in the snow, forgotten, the dwarf’s face was curiously expressionless as he watched the burning pyre that had once been his home. He shed no tears and he uttered no curses at those who had done this deed.
The leader of the mob, his pockets now heavy with coins and jewels, knelt by the dwarf while his fellow purple-robed men stood close by.
“You should see this as a warning,” he sneered. “Some of the men might regret what they’ve done tonight, but they will convince themselves they did the right thing—they always do. Yours is not the first home I’ve burned to the ground!”
He stood and brushed the snow from his robes, careful to check that none of the coins had fallen from his swollen pockets.
“Heed this warning and return to your people. Asgarnia is a human realm!” He kicked the dwarf in the ribs. “Your goats are ours now. We’ll eat them, as you have no more use for them.”
The dwarf watched as the twelve robed men departed, until they became shadows in the darkness, dragging his goats behind them. Standing, he looked back at his burning home, wondering what to do. Should he return to the mountains, or go to Falador to demand justice?
Neither option appealed to him. If he returned to the mountains, the men in purple would have won. If he went to Falador, then he would be humiliated. The monster had stirred up this fear, and it was the monster that would have to pay.
He brushed off the snow, g
iving a final look at the tiny figures of purple-robed men as they disappeared in the darkness. His foot tripped on something heavy in the snow. Leaning down he found his axe, which had been dropped when the mob had fled the fire. Carefully he picked it up, weighing it in his hands gratefully.
It’s funny, he thought to himself, but I could have sworn there were only twelve purple-robed men. Not thirteen.
NINE
The men lay close to the fire, their blankets covering their heads to keep the cold away.
Only the speaker sat upright, his mind pondering the value of the stolen goods. He smiled, wondering whether there were any other dwarfs nearby living in isolation, a convenient target for the stirred hatred of men.
He shivered and moved closer to the fire, contemplating if he should try to sleep once more. He cast a jealous eye to his fellows, each perfectly still, corpse-like, hidden beneath their thick blankets.
He was about to stand when a movement caught his eye. It was the guard, his purple robes hanging loosely about him. The speaker watched him move toward the glow of the fire. The guard sat down opposite, his head bowed, his face hidden in shadow.
“It was a good day,” the speaker said. “A few more like that and we will be rich men.”
The guard laughed, sounding satisfied with everything the night had offered. Then he swivelled his head, peering into the shadows around them, expectantly. Watching him, the speaker continued.
“Wake your replacement and get some sleep,” he ordered. “The monster may take lone women and children, but there are twelve of us and we are all well armed.”
The guard nodded, and yawned.
“This killer is perfect for us to rally people to our cause,” the speaker added. “With the fear so rife we can make the whole of this land monster-free!” He checked himself as his voice rose, a habit from his speeches.
Swiftly he cast an eye over the silent men. Despite his words, not one of them had stirred. That was odd. He knew two or three of them were light sleepers. Then it occurred to him that even the overweight Thwait was not snoring. That was unusual.