by T. S. Church
King Roald entered again to the sound of a horn, and at once everyone stood. Only when he was seated on the throne did the parliament follow suit.
All save one, for Ellamaria had been left without space on the bench.
Struggling to his feet, Albertus Black offered her his place.
“Keep your chair, sir,” she said, “for you look as if you have more need of it than I.”
William guffawed in laughter. The merriment was shared by the onlookers, and even King Roald smiled slightly. Albertus, looking suddenly lost, sat back down in a daze.
Despaard moved forward and spoke.
“We all know what has been happening,” he said grimly. “The question we must answer now is what are we going to do about it. The King will offer a generous reward to anyone who can lead us to the Wyrd, more to the person who can track down and kill the creature, and even more if she can be taken alive.
“But besides that, what more can we do?”
Albertus Black shuffled to his feet once more.
“Indeed, there is the question of the Wyrd’s purpose. Why is she here? What does she seek to accomplish with her reign of terror? I know the thoughts of the prophecy are worrying to many. I myself don’t have such certainty in it...”
Kara saw Reldo nod in approval.
“...but I feel certain that we must somehow divine her role. She is not just a creature that has escaped the bounds of the holy river, and now feasts on our people. The words she has left about this prophecy tell us that she is more. The question is simply, in what way?”
Papelford, the King’s ancient archivist, forced himself to his feet. His breath was laboured, and he leaned on a thin ash stick that he held at his waist. When he spoke, Kara had to concentrate to hear, for his voice was feeble and wavering.
“She is Lord Drakan’s servant,” he said with conviction. “She is sent to prepare for his coming. The prophecy is nigh, and she must be located if we are to have any hope of preventing it.”
Reldo shook his head, and as Papelford sat down the young man leapt up.
“I must... respectfully disagree with my master,” he said, looking as if he expected retaliation. “All the references to this prophecy— without exception—are written by men who lived a hundred years ago here in Varrock, not Entrana. There is no evidence at all that the High Priest ever spoke those words.”
Papelford dropped his head and put his hand over his eyes.
“And yet the Wyrd still kills, and leaves hints of the coming,” Lord Despaard protested. “How do you explain that? You cannot separate the two.”
Reldo pursed his lips and twisted his head to one side. After several seconds of silent thought he shook it and sat back down, his face bitter.
“What about an invasion?” Gideon Gleeman piped up from behind Raispher. “Why don’t we make the first move?” His words were greeted with claps and cheers. King Roald shook his head as Raispher stood and replied.
“That is impossible,” he snapped angrily. “We cannot invade them—nor they us. So say the Edicts of Guthix, laid down under Saradomin’s guidance when the river was blessed a millennia ago.”
“That’s Raispher for you,” William commented drily. “Most people would say that Guthix is the most powerful god, but not him. Saradomin conquers all, apparently.”
Kara saw Theodore frown.
He’s right though, Theodore, she thought. This Raispher is a fanatic—even more so than you and the knights. But she didn’t say it aloud.
“Yet if we cannot invade, can’t we at least send someone into Morytania to determine the truth?” Ellamaria advanced toward the stage as she spoke, arms held wide, looking to the balconies above.
She is a performer, Kara observed, and a good one. She knows how to address the crowd. Ellamaria let the silence last a moment more before continuing.
“Can we not at least send an embassy of sorts across the river?”
Lord Despaard looked quickly to Lord Ruthven, and then to the King. Suddenly Papelford stood.
“It is possible to do so,” the archivist said. “I have read of it in the histories of our realm. There is such a thing as the blood mark, and it is said that whoever bears this mark shall pass unmolested through Lord Drakan’s realm. But we would need to verify this somehow. Never in living memory has there been an attempt to send an emissary from Varrock.”
Ellamaria glowered in frustration as she spoke again.
“But surely there is someone who has been to Morytania? Is there no one who can help us now?”
Kara stood.
She hadn’t intended to, but suddenly she found herself on her feet. All eyes turned to her, and she felt King Roald’s gaze upon her as she marshalled her thoughts.
They will only execute him otherwise.
“There is one man, my King, who can help us here,” she said. “Only one who has unique experience of Morytania and who would be willing to help us. He is loyal, Sire. I trust him implicitly. So, too, can Varrock.” Her eyes swept across the faces in front of her. “You know of whom I speak—he will help. He is the only one who can.”
She sat back down as the parliament digested her words.
“You may have condemned him, Kara,” Theodore hissed angrily. “He ran away from there. What if he has no wish to return, even if King Roald decides to send an embassy across the river?”
“At least in this way he is useful to Varrock, Theodore,” she argued. “The King won’t be so hasty to execute him now. It gives him a chance.”
Kara’s speech had lit a fuse of questioning. The onlookers cried from the balconies, demanding the identity of the mysterious individual and even William, sitting behind them, couldn’t contain his curiosity. But his questions were lost in the din.
“We can have faith in Kara-Meir,” Ellamaria shouted, but to no avail. It was only when the King stood that silence once again fell over the chamber.
“Kara-Meir’s words have persuaded me,” he said. “There is truth in what she has said, and a good sense that cannot be denied. I will meet with her friend in private, along with my most trusted councillors.
“This parliament is ended.”
14
Gar’rth could feel the poison still in his body, but he was stronger now, slightly recovered from the scratches the Wyrd had given him. Yet his wrist was still bound to the wall, and the pain he felt told him that there was a two-pointed blade nearby.
He had woken for the first time that day when Theodore had left him, the knight advising him to be cautious of a man named Simon, who had been charged with watching over him.
Gar’rth’s throat was parched and when he spied Theodore’s near-full water jug, he said a silent thank you to the knight. Still, even as he drank, he knew water wouldn’t assuage the hunger that cramped his stomach.
“So you are finally awake, werewolf,” a man’s voice said from the darkness beyond the gate to his cell.
“I am,” he said. “I am hungry.”
The man laughed, and the sound had a sadistic element to it.
“Your kind are always hungry, wolf. If I had my way I would chain you in a cage and leave you to starve in Varrock’s main square, to be jeered at by children and taunted by maidens. It is no less than you deserve.”
“What have I done?” Gar’rth asked. “I don’t know you. Are you Simon?”
“I am.”
A tall man stepped forward into the light of the torch. Gar’rth saw his black-leather armour, rugged face and perceived at once the two-pronged dagger he held. It made him feel nauseous, and he sat down again, for fear he might lose consciousness.
“A wolfbane dagger,” Simon said as he rattled it across the bars. “One of the very few weapons that gives me and my friends power over your ilk. Would you be angry to know that I have killed your race before? On three occasions.”
He rattled the dagger across the bars again, and the sound made Gar’rth wince.
“Please,” he said. “Please, I am... not like the
m.”
“Lord Despaard told me of your history. He told me how you would say something like that. The tragedy is that you might actually believe it, but your kind cannot deny your nature. Soon— or maybe not so soon, but one day nonetheless—you will change. The blood lust will become too strong.” He leaned closer and peered through the bars. “It would be better to kill you now. Better for you, and for us.”
Simon held his dagger in a tight grasp. As Gar’rth watched, he reached for a key on his belt.
“Don’t,” Gar’rth said. “Please... just wait.”
I can’t fight him. Not now, not with that dagger.
Suddenly Simon laughed and sheathed his weapon.
“I am not going to kill you. Not yet. My orders are just to watch.”
The man disappeared back into the darkness, leaving Gar’rth in silence. A cold sweat erupted from his pores. He cursed himself for being so weak, both in spirit and strength.
Would Kara ever have pleaded like that? he thought with shame. Would Theodore? Did Doric or Castimir do so when Jerrod beat them mercilessly?
Simon returned carrying a chunk of raw meat on an iron plate. He placed it on the ground at the edge of the cage and watched as Gar’rth scrambled forward to get it, the shackle on his wrist barely allowing him reach. It was the first thing he had eaten since being injured by the Wyrd.
“It’s only animal meat, I am afraid,” Simon said with a grin. “Lord Despaard wouldn’t let you eat any prisoners, even the one you and Kara-Meir brought in. He’s to hang this morning, by the way, in case you are interested. In fact, you might well be joining him.”
The guard vanished back into the darkness as Gar’rth’s appetite died.
They won’t let them hang me. None of them will. Not my friends.
But then his fear turned to anger. He hurled the iron plate against the bars of the gate. It clattered loudly in the darkness and the only reward for his hatred was a chuckle from his guard.
“That’s good, wolf boy. It’s good that you’re afraid.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong!” Gar’rth shouted back.
Simon only laughed again.
“You were born wrong, boy,” he replied. “It’s that simple.”
Gar’rth felt tears on his face, a rage against the injustice of his situation. Where was Kara? Where were Theodore and Castimir? Why weren’t they here for him?
Have they really done it? Have they abandoned me, finally?
He felt the urge to change, to become a wolf and revenge himself upon all humankind. But the urge ended with a convulsion in his throat. He staggered and fell and rolled upon the ground, upsetting the jug of water as his mouth foamed.
“I’ve seen it before,” his tormentor said. “You want to change, but you can’t. That’s one of the talents of these little daggers. They stop you from doing so.”
Finally Gar’rth gave a roar that only sounded feeble, before lapsing into a violent fit of coughing. His vision blurred as Simon laughed again, and Gar’rth tried to stand, but was too weak to do so.
He wept.
He had tried so hard to prove to his friends that he was different from the others of his race, and now he was condemned by prejudice alone.
Where are they—where are my friends?
Suddenly the door to the dungeons swung open as booted feet descended the three short steps. Gar’rth blinked away the moisture from his eyes to see Theodore and Kara in the company of a dozen guards.
Why do they need the guards? Have they come to take me to my death? Then he found his voice.
“Kara, you must help me,” he said. “Please, they mean to hang me...” But before she could reply, Captain Rovin spoke from behind the small group.
“Unchain him,” he ordered. “Have him shackled, just in case. Both his hands and his feet.”
“Kara? Theodore?”
“It is all right Gar’rth,” Kara said, reaching out to him through the bars, her hand on his arm. “No one will harm you. I have the word of the King himself. He wishes to talk to you—that is all. We will be with you all the time.”
“It’s true,” Theodore said. The knight looked at the conditions of the cell, his eyes taking in the upturned water jug and the remnants of Gar’rth’s meal which lay upon the ground. “Captain Rovin, I demand an explanation. My friend has been mistreated since I left here.”
Rovin gave a shrug.
“There are no friends of yours being held here, Sir Theodore. Only enemies of the realm.”
“You know what I mean, Captain,” Theodore said icily as the gate was opened and Gar’rth’s wrists were shackled together, followed by his legs. “Simon has abused my friend.”
“I’m sorry, Sir Theodore. Since last night I don’t hear so well. Did you say Simon?” Rovin gave an uncharacteristic and very false smile. “There is no Simon I know of, Sir Theodore.” Over their heads, Gar’rth could see that his tormentor had gone.
“Never mind that, Theodore,” Kara said. “Let’s just get Gar’rth out of here.”
Gar’rth staggered forward, his legs chained together at his ankles. Kara and Theodore stood either side of him, their arms around him, supporting him.
“We must hurry,” Rovin commanded. “We can’t keep the King waiting.”
Thank you my friends. Thank you.
As Gar’rth ascended the steps and saw daylight for the first time since his imprisonment, his strength returned. He followed Rovin through the palace, and noted how guards stood in front of doors and along corridors, barring any servant or courtier from seeing his shackles.
“The King wants your advice,” Kara told him as they went. “He wants to know about the blood marks that foreign emissaries have used to enter Morytania unharmed.” As they approached a doorway guarded by two men with familiar faces—men who had been present when the Wyrd had wounded him and who knew his heritage—Kara leaned forward to whisper in his ear.
“Please, Gar’rth,” she said, her voice urgent. “You must prove your worth to King Roald, otherwise he will not have a reason to keep you alive.”
He gave a nod as they entered the long throne room with its white walls and yellow banners. At the southern end, below the stained-glass window, the King sat on his yellow-cushioned throne, the morning light shining behind him. Gar’rth saw Castimir and Doric standing to his right, while facing them across the aisle were Despaard and Ruthven, with the old man Papelford before them. The librarian’s hard eyes followed Gar’rth as he approached, studying him intently.
Perhaps he’s only ever read of werewolves in books.
Gar’rth turned his head as he approached the throne and he noticed a small door he had not seen before, discreetly set in the stonework. At its side, leaning against a pillar, stood his black-clad tormentor from the dungeon, one hand resting on his scabbard. Simon never took his eyes off Gar’rth.
The small door opened and Aubury the wizard entered, followed by Arisha. The mage stood at the front of the King’s dais, his hands clenched around his runes, as if ready to cast a spell.
Do they really fear me so much? he wondered. Even shackled, am I still so dangerous?
He turned his head to look behind and noted the familiar guards who had been present the night before. Everyone in the room knew his secret.
“How is Ebenezer?” Doric said to Arisha as the priestess joined his friends at the King’s side. Arisha nodded.
“He is recovering,” she said, and the words caused a wave of relief to sweep over Gar’rth. “But slowly. Until he wakes I cannot be sure. Guthix still refuses to aid him.”
King Roald also heard, and he turned his attention to the prisoner, leaning forward on the throne.
“Just as he will refuse to aid you, Gar’rth, should you lie to me here, today,” he said. “The wizard Aubury will tell me if you offer a falsehood. His magic is powerful.”
Gar’rth saw Castimir frown.
Could he really do that? Castimir has never said anything of such magic.
&nb
sp; He bowed his head to the throne before he spoke.
“I will not lie, Sire,” he promised.
“Good,” King Roald said, sitting back. “Soon we will be joined by others who do not know your true nature—some of the leading members of my parliament. We here all know of your curse, so I would take this opportunity to ask you if you know about the blood mark that some say allow men to pass unharmed through Morytania. Help us, and it will help you in your cause.
“Does such a thing exist?”
“The blood mark is true, my King,” Gar’rth replied, “But I have never seen one. There are other ways though. A respected member from Canifis, an elder perhaps, can give his protection to outsiders. This is done for gypsies and traders who visit.”
“How do we make the blood mark?” King Roald asked.
Gar’rth felt his brow crease as he recollected the tales of his youth.
“In our stories it is simply a cut on the hand to make you bleed. That tells Morytania you are an outsider. Then the wound must be bathed in water from the Salve.”
Papelford nodded.
“That is similar to the descriptions offered in the texts I have,” he remarked sagely. “Although a priest of Saradomin or Guthix must bless the wound.”
“But would the blood mark work, Gar’rth?” Despaard asked. “Would it be respected?”
“Yes. It is death to break it. More than death.”
“Would it protect you, Gar’rth?” Kara said. “If you had to return.”
So that is it! he thought as understanding dawned. Am I to be sent home, to save them from the bother of executing me? Is that all the clemency I am offered, after near capturing the Wyrd for them? He pushed back his mounting anger.
“I don’t know,” he said. “In Canifis it would, but... not against Him.”
“Who?” King Roald asked, angrily now.
“Lord Drakan, my King.”
Gar’rth’s reply chilled the air. No one spoke for some time. Lord Despaard shared a concerned look with Lord Ruthven, and the King rubbed his hand across his face in uncertainty.
