by T. S. Church
He caught the scent on the morning wind, brought to him by the northern breeze. The smell excited him. It was more poignant than it had been in a long time, sweeter and more recent.
He had woken from his half-sleep salivating, the wet jewels of his hunger dampening the robe that he wore to conceal himself. As he raised his head to the early light, his bed still shaded amongst the warm pine needles that carpeted the forest floor, he noted that the birds had fallen silent. He cursed them. They were too quick for him to catch. The best he could do was to make them afraid, but their silence would alert others.
The scent grew as he left his bed, chasing it through the forest toward the west, toward the road a mile away. Once, he lost it as the wind changed and he stood absolutely still, distending his feral nostrils and breathing in deeply. Within seconds he picked it up again, continuing his journey at a lope.
He heard them before he saw them, and he recognised the scent of the dwarf. He could hear them talking in the hollow where he had stood only hours before, the sweet smell of human blood still dominant over all others.
It only made him salivate more, his long red tongue lolling from his mouth, curling itself in anticipation. He had gorged himself on the body of the guard he had slain, but it was not a meal he had enjoyed. Adult men were too sinewy for his taste. Maidens and fat children were more his appetite.
He watched as they mounted the horse, observing as the fair-haired man cast his eyes woefully about the carnage, looking sorry to leave the dead untended. It was on him that the scent was strongest, and yet his quarry was not present.
For months he had trailed the scent of his prey and only now-as he had indulged himself to dangerous levels that would surely attract the attention of armed hunters-had he come so near his goal.
Patience, he told himself as the mare left the clearing. You will find him. He is near.
His red eyes glinted in the morning light. Knowledge was what he needed now. Who was this young squire who carried the scent of his prey? He would follow them wherever they were headed and keep hidden.
TWELVE
It always snowed in the dream and in her bed the girl shivered, her mind far away.
Outside the window the day was dawning, the low sun not yet high enough to warm the white towers. There was not even enough of a breeze to make the proud flags stir and they hung limply, as if they were no more than sodden rags put out to dry by one of the city’s washerwomen.
The girl’s brow wrinkled and she breathed sharply. Somewhere in her mind she told herself that she need not be afraid, that she had experienced the dream hundreds of times before. But it would not be enough, she knew.
She opened her eyes as small flecks of snow chilled her bare skin, her face raw in the winter afternoon. It was already dark, and the bright stars that shone through the wispy clouds were the first sights that made her realise she was still alive.
She sat up, knowing instinctively that she would have to move if she was to survive. Her father’s pack was still tied to her back, its heavy weight causing her to struggle as she crouched low, peering intently from her hidden vantage point.
For several minutes she watched the still scene, her senses alert for any sign that some of the men might have remained.
The world was absolutely silent.
She crept quietly to the trunk that now lay partially submerged, the ice once more covering the black water, hiding any indication of her struggle with the savage dogs.
Tentatively she tested the ice with her foot, her weight pressed against the trunk. She hardly dared to breathe but the ice seemed thick enough to support her weight. She took a single step. Then, emboldened, she took another.
With a crack the ice broke, plunging her into the freezing water. The shock of the terrible cold made her cry out.
Overwhelmed with utter isolation and despair, she pulled herself out onto the frosted shore. For long moments she could do nothing but hold herself and weep, cursing the unfairness of the world and the men who had taken everything from her-and most of all her parents, who had so suddenly left her alone.
Anger replaced despair, and then she ran. She ran west, toward the mountain that loomed ominously above her, blocking out the clouds with its high summit and treacherous crags. All her life she had gazed at it, wondering what lay beyond.
But now she knew only that she had to keep running.
After several hours the forest grew less dense and the trees sparser. With each step the snow swallowed her to her knees and tested the very limits of her strength. Only then did the fatigue quench her burning rage. Only then did she fall.
It was the howls that forced her to her feet again. She was so tired that she imagined that the fleeting glimpses of the wolves might be an illusion. But they were not. They were real. Their yellow eyes glowed at her from the growing shadows on the white landscape, their predatory growls gathering in intensity as more of the pack added their voices to their terrible chorus.
Let them come, she thought to herself. I have done everything I possibly can, and the world has gone against me. She loosened her grip on the dagger that hung from her leather belt.
She took deep breaths, forcing the fear from her mind, intent on making peace with the world in her last few minutes.
Darkness gathered, and close behind her she could hear the soft tread of padded feet digging into the snow, a low growl emanating from a lupine throat.
She was ready to die, to submit herself to Saradomin.
And then she caught sight of stars that twinkled in the dark haze. It was the constellation of Saradomin himself, made up of four brilliant stars that stood out in the heavens. Her father had made certain she would recognise it.
The growl sounded again, closer this time, but now she knew what she had to do. Her hand tightened on the hilt of her dagger.
The wolf leapt and she turned, crouching low and swinging inward with the blade. She felt it bite deep into the creature’s flesh, her hands turning warm from the hot liquid that spilled out from the mortal wound.
The wolf rolled onto its back as it tried in vain to reach the deadly injury in its throat. The howling had ceased and the bright eyes that had looked at her hungrily withdrew into the night, suddenly aware of the savagery in this eight-year-old girl.
She watched as the wolf gave a final yelp and died, and she knew that she needed warmth to survive. She lay atop the animal’s body, gripping its fur tightly in her bloodied, clenched fists. The sweet scent from the wound sickened her as she embraced the warm corpse.
The matron noted a slight smile on the face of the girl as she slept. It was the first sign of any happiness that she had seen, and she prayed it heralded a recovery.
“Run and inform Sir Amik, Elise!” she barked. “I think she might be waking.”
The warmth of the wolf made her sleep. She was exhausted and hungry, but she knew she was safe.
“Wolf Cub” was what they called her when they found her some hours later-“Kara-Meir” in their language. A dozen hardy dwarfs led by the master forger Phyllis had set off from the mountain to investigate the flames from the village. They were dour folk who rarely mixed with the humans who lived in the shadow of the mountain, but they knew how hard life on the edge of The Wilderness could be.
She had woken to see them standing over her, their ashen faces wrinkled in concern. They had talked for an hour amongst themselves, speaking in a language she could not understand, forcing her to drink a hot liquid that made her cough and splutter but which restored feeling to her chilled limbs. The dwarfs had ventured as far as they dared, unwilling in their small band to confront the likes of Sulla and his Kinshra, for it was a rescue mission, not one of war.
Master Phyllis lifted her up onto his own back, her bare arms clasped about his neck, taking comfort in knowing that they had not failed-not entirely-that they had rescued at least one innocent from the ravages of the wild.
Outside, in the courtyard, the sound of hooves clattering over stone co
uld be heard, followed by the white mare’s neigh of celebration now that she was home and safe.
In the ward, Kara-Meir’s eyes opened as the smell of clean linen and a warm fire blazing in a hearth reminded her of something she thought she had forgotten. It was the smell of happiness and people, bringing back memories of her family in their cabin and of her happy youth, before the time of Sulla.
She knew then, as she had known all those years ago when Master Phyllis had taken her from the mountainside and adopted her as his own, that she was safe.
THIRTEEN
The man was dying. He wiped his lips and saw with wide-eyed shock that the back of his hand was coated in blood.
“When?” he stuttered. “Who has done this to me?”
He sank to his knees, an invisible force draining him of his strength. Somewhere a door slammed.
“It will not be long now, my lord,” a woman’s voice murmured behind him. It was his mistress, a slave girl he had taken years before and for whom he had developed a true fondness.
“I am not ready…” he murmured through blood-stained lips, his hand outstretched in a plea for mercy he knew would not be granted.
“You were ready a long time ago!” a harsh voice snapped, rejoicing in the sight of a dying man. It was Sulla. He had orchestrated this man’s murder as only Sulla knew how-totally without pity, using a loved one as the instrument of death, corrupting someone who had been trusted.
The dying lord of the Kinshra noted Sulla gesture toward his mistress. She looked despairingly into the scarred man’s face, his grimace the closest thing to a smile that he could manage. His blank white eye shone with an inner delight. He was revelling at the spectacle.
“Do it!” he told the woman. “Kill him!”
“Is the poison not enough for you?” She bowed her head in fear, looking with genuine sympathy to her dying master. “He will be dead shortly as it is!” Her voice broke into a wail at the thought of what Sulla had made her do.
“Not soon enough!” Sulla growled. “And poison is too easy for him. I want him to know that I now possess everything he treasured in life!”
“Do as he says!” the dying man cried out. “Kill me, but only if it frees you after this day!”
Sulla nodded.
The woman stepped forward, a pillow grasped tightly in her hands, her knuckles white from the grip. With a cry she forced it over his face, holding it as tightly as she could, ignoring his muffled words. Her weeping grew louder in contrast to her lover’s efforts, which began to weaken and finally ceased altogether.
Her weeping was the only sound in the room.
Sulla regarded the woman coolly. He removed the curved knife from his belt and tossed it onto the floor beside her.
“I am offering you your freedom,” he hissed in anticipation. “Take it!”
She looked at him, her eyes uncomprehending.
“You die today, or I will keep you alive for months. I don’t need to tell you what that will mean for you. You are a murderess.”
Slowly it dawned on her what he meant, what he had planned from the very outset of his coup. She took the dagger gingerly in both hands and turned it slowly, fearfully, upon herself.
Sulla watched as she threw herself forward, thinking for a second that she would turn on him. But she fell next to her dead master, and Sulla’s eye shone as he watched her body contort itself in the agony of the wound, but she did not scream.
That was brave of her, he thought, nearly as brave as the girl who had ambushed him some days before, and whom he had shot from his horse. She hadn’t cried out as she had fallen from the cliff’s edge, although he remembered with a slight shudder that his men had not found any trace of her body.
Surely the wolves had taken her.
With a snarl he banished such thoughts. The girl would not spoil his triumph!
Sulla knelt next to the dead Kinshra lord. The signet ring sparkled on his limp hand, tempting him to take it.
“How long have I coveted you!” Sulla said, breaking the finger in order to force the ring from its former owner. Without any delay, he slipped it onto the finger of his right hand. Now he was the lord of the Kinshra.
After a moment more, alone with the two bodies, he called the guard.
“Take them outside for the beasts,” he instructed, “or give them to the starving miners, if necessary!”
The winter had been harder than they had expected, and their slaves would starve for lack of food. This year they needed slaves, for Sulla had grand ambitions, and the miners were worked to death, pulling as much coal from the mountain as they could. Coal, Sulla thought to himself, as he shouted to his men and called a council of senior Kinshra, coal to fuel my war machine.
My war machine! he suddenly thought. He was now the lord of the Kinshra, and he would make certain the world knew it.
FOURTEEN
Theodore had made his report to Sir Amik and master-at-arms Sharpe, answering their questions as accurately as he could and with absolute truth. Even when he admitted to the fear he had experienced he spoke clearly, never seeking an excuse, unafraid to admit to it.
Sharpe knew that other squires might have chosen to disguise their fear, and Theodore’s open honesty drew appreciative nods from both men.
The dwarf was called in after the squire had given his version of events.
Respectfully removing his helm, he began.
“My name is Doric. For many years I have lived away from my kin, in the company of the men south of the mountain. I have known several knights throughout my life. I have trust enough in your order to know that I have nothing to fear by telling the whole truth, in the hope that my tale will help somehow in bringing this monster to a swift end!”
Doric’s telling of their adventure supported Theodore’s version in every way, and the dwarf didn’t hesitate even when revealing the existence of his adamant bars. When he finished speaking, a quiet settled over the four of them.
“So you know the metal well, Doric?” Sharpe asked, breaking the silence.
“Aye!” the dwarf said. “I know it as well as any father can know a son.”
The men glanced furtively at one another, and Doric followed their looks.
Sir Amik noted his sudden unease and sought to calm him.
“Your coming here at this time is surely fated, my aged friend,” he said. “I would have your opinion on a matter of which we are unsure. A weapon has come into our hands in the most exceptional circumstances-a sword we believe to be made of adamant. Would you be willing to examine it, to confirm or deny our suspicions?”
Doric nodded without hesitation.
And following an order from Sharpe, Theodore left the room at once.
As the young man walked swiftly across the courtyard he could feel the excitement in the air. He felt eyes focus upon him from high windows and shaded arches. He could feel the jealousy of the younger knights, who envied the fact that fate had dropped the girl into his life, and his subsequent adventure to and from Taverley. It wasn’t that the town was far from Falador-many of the squires and all of the knights had been farther afield-but the existence of the monster had given his short journey an adventurous tone that few of theirs could equal.
He saw the longing looks of the young peons, and in them he noted a different light-an aspiration, an increased willingness to be more like him. But he noted too the jealous looks of his fellow squires. To them, he had always been seen as the hardest worker, and recent events would most likely turn their envy into anger.
He knew his life would be more difficult from that moment on.
The excitement that permeated the castle was enhanced by the fact that the mysterious girl had awoken, lending a breathless fever to all who crossed his path. One old knight, whom Theodore held in high regard as the ideal of restraint and humility, glanced at him with open curiosity.
“She’s awake, is she?” he asked the squire.
“Yes, sir-so I’ve heard.”
The ol
d knight pulled on his moustache in excited thought.
“What can it herald?” he mused aloud. “There is a meaning to this mystery, Theodore, I know there is!”
The squire bowed in acknowledgment of the knight’s experienced words before continuing.
The excitement had also seized Theodore. He tried to resist it, but couldn’t. As he retrieved the sword from the armoury, wrapping it in a dark cloth under the watchful gaze of the duty guard, he decided to take a different route back to the interview, one which would take him directly past the ward.
He stepped rapidly as he descended the steep spiral staircase that wound itself inside the tower. His footsteps were louder than he would have liked, as if the stone were intent on betraying his presence. As he turned a corner he caught sight of two peons he knew by name, keeping a secret vigil outside the doorway in case any person left it open long enough for them to catch a sight of the mysterious girl who lay within.
“Be on your way Bryant! I expect better of my peons!”
The peon farthest away fled immediately, but the boy Bryant stood his ground.
“I am sorry Squire Theodore. We meant no harm.”
Theodore nodded. Bryant was one of his twelve charges, and it was his duty to coach them in the best traditions of the knights, looking after their physical and spiritual needs. He had tried hard with Bryant-more so than with any other peon-for the boy was neither dexterous nor strong, and often he would lag behind the others in their exercises. But he was popular nonetheless, for his great strengths were history and lore, much as Castimir’s had been when they were children together.
He was imaginative, clever, and quick-witted.
Still, Theodore often doubted if it would be enough. Knights had to be fighters first and thinkers second.
“Everybody is talking about her, Squire Theodore,” the peon stammered. Theodore knew Bryant was right. The thought of the girl and her identity was irresistible to him, as well.
Am I any different? I too have made my way to the ward when there was no need for me to do so.
