Betrayal at Falador (runescape)

by T. S. Church

  To be underground amongst the foundations of the earth was one thing, but to build towers of stone that touched the sky could only be folly. If the earth ever decided to shake again, then the white towers would come crashing down.

  With such thoughts making sleep impossible, he decided to get some air in the courtyard. He pulled on his soft doublet and boots, but decided not to don his armour. He rarely went anywhere without wearing it, yet he forced himself to remember that he was in a castle in one of the biggest cities that men had ever built.

  Patting himself down with a satisfied sigh, Doric opened the door and stepped warily down the spiral staircase beyond.

  He crossed the moat soundlessly, concealed in the shadow of its high banks. Despite his many years he had never learned to swim, and while he had a very real fear of water, he possessed a far greater fear of his dark master.

  He used a log to support himself as he forced his way across the still water, moving slowly enough to appear natural and to ensure that he did not make a splash.

  No one challenged him as he swiftly ran to the base of the wall, soaked through, his hunter’s instinct alert to anything that might give him away.

  He could smell the men on the wall above, his glowing red eyes enabling him to see them in the darkness. He was not there to kill, however-he was searching for the young squire who knew the location of his quarry.

  He would need to wait until he was dry before continuing. When the moment arrived, long claws found purchase in the white stone which would have defeated any human.

  But he was no human.

  With a grunt he began to climb, his shape obscured by a tower that stood scant inches to his left. His wide nose took in the night air cautiously. The men on the wall and at the bridge were not alarmed, for the scent of their sweat was no more than was usual on a human being. Swiftly he ascended, always keeping at least two points of his body gripping the white stone.

  It would not take him long now; the parapet was near.

  “Halt! Who goes there?”

  The sharp scrape of steel sounded as the guard drew his sword.

  Doric sighed.

  “It’s me! Doric-the dwarf who arrived with Squire Theodore today,” he growled. It was the third time he had been challenged, and now-here on the northern wall, as he gathered the courage to walk upon the parapet-the man’s words raised his ire.

  “I beg your pardon, my friend,” the man said with a nod of his head. “Vigilance is imperative, you know.” The sword scraped as it was returned to the man’s scabbard. “You may proceed-but I should warn you of the guard at the other end.”

  Doric thanked him and stepped warily onto the walkway. The stone gave him comfort, and with each step he gained confidence until he was striding as if he had forgotten his fear of heights.

  Squire Theodore!

  He felt elation as he hung from the wall only yards away. He could smell the dwarf-the very one he had stalked in the forest-and his animal senses enabled him to discern every word.

  And now his prey had a name.

  He waited for the footsteps to cease. As soon as he heard the next sentry’s challenge and the dwarf’s gruff reply, he reached for the parapet.

  But try as he might, he couldn’t grasp it. His hand could not touch the lip of the nearest merlon. Even though he put as much strength into it as he dared, he was prevented from touching it by only the slightest distance.

  He had felt this power before. He was not a creature of this land and coming into it had been exceptionally difficult for one of his kind. The sacred river that separated his homeland from the realms of men could be crossed only by the vilest desecration and the most powerful will. Only the power of his master had enabled him to do so. But he could not turn to his master here, many miles from his home. He would have to find another way to reach Squire Theodore.

  He looked to the moat below. He hadn’t planned on climbing so high only to be forced to climb down again. He wasn’t even sure he could. But if he leapt from the wall his presence would be betrayed, and he might drown.

  No, he would have to climb back to the ground.

  As he lowered his leg he knew his efforts had not been in vain. He knew the squire by name now. He would lure him out into the city and away from the castle’s holy protection on some pretext, and then take his time in the interrogation.

  He would have to kill again, and soon.

  EIGHTEEN

  “You look concerned, Castimir. Tell me, what is on your mind?” Ebenezer gently disturbed the young wizard’s reverie, and he looked up.

  “Soon I shall return to the Wizards’ Tower to complete my training,” Castimir replied. “For my year’s journey is nearly at an end.” His voice trailed off as his hand unconsciously squeezed one of the many pouches on his belt. Those pouches held the most precious things a wizard could possess, the alchemist knew. For they contained the rune stones he needed to control his magic. Without them, he could no more accomplish magic than the meanest charlatan.

  Ebenezer didn’t speak, leaving it to the young man to reveal his concerns in his own time. Gar’rth entered the room and stood nearby, awaiting the first instructions of the new day. The old man drew a large book from the shelf and ignored the scowl Gar’rth adopted when he saw that it was a book on human language.

  “It was the mages’ discovery of the rune stones that enabled human civilisation to thrive,” Castimir mused aloud. “Using them we were able to dominate the lands of Gielinor at the end of the Fourth Age.”

  Ebenezer glanced sympathetically at the young man. He knew, of course, the history that was preached by the wise, but he didn’t necessarily believe it himself. He knew the mages saw themselves as the saviours of humanity, whose actions had enabled mankind to dominate the world so much that the Fifth Age was often called “The Age of Humans.”

  And yet Ebenezer could recall times from his youth when the blue-robed wizards had been a more common sight. It seemed to him that they had lessened their wanderings, as if they were growing afraid to send members of their order abroad.

  In fact, Castimir was the only wizard he had seen in months.

  “Are you having doubts about the path you have chosen, Castimir?” Ebenezer sat down next to Gar’rth and took a long sip of his coffee, savouring in the taste.

  The first of the season’s trading caravans had made its way across White Wolf Mountain, arriving the day before and bringing with it exotic fruit and coffee beans that had found their way from the southern islands to Catherby. Being the first to cross the mountain, they had expected an excellent profit, but they had been disappointed. Fear of the monster had deterred many Falador traders from making the usually safe journey to Taverley.

  Recognising that fewer buyers meant better prices, Ebenezer had decided to purchase several sacks of coffee beans. He had tasted coffee before, but not for a long time.

  The alchemist sipped from his cup while he waited for the blue-robed youth to reply. The wizard was obscured from view by the steam that rose from the hot liquid and fogged his glasses. With a sigh he finished his drink, set the empty cup down, and wiped his spectacles on a small cloth that he kept for that purpose.

  As he did, Castimir finally spoke again.

  “Not about the path, Ebenezer,” Castimir said. “I have no doubt that I am best suited to be a wizard. Could you imagine me as a farmer, or a miner, or a blacksmith?” He shook his head. “I grew up with books, learning about places far off, entertaining the other children with legends. My most eager student then was Theodore.” He smiled at the fond remembrance. “No, Ebenezer, my worry stems from something else, which could have severe implications for us all, over time.”

  But he fell silent again, reluctant to explain further, for to do so-even to a trusted friend like Ebenezer-was strictly against the rules of his order.

  And how could Castimir ever admit the truth, and tell Ebenezer that the rune stones were actually running out? Existing supplies could not be replenished, and th
e wizards were thus restricting the number of mages allowed to use them. Castimir had been granted permission because of his unusual aptitude for magic. His masters were certain he could be a great asset to the Wizards’ Tower, and an invaluable force for protecting the human realms from their enemies.

  Only the royal households of each nation knew of the dwindling supply of runes, for it was a secret that could unleash panic amongst the citizens who believed that the wizards would always be there to protect them. Castimir feared that his would be the last generation of wizards. So limited were the runes that even to use them for practice was a rare privilege, reserved for only the most skilled mages.

  Each time Castimir conjured a spell, he felt guilty watching the pebble-like objects dissolve in his hands as they were consumed to summon his magic.

  “I am sorry, Ebenezer,” he said. “Pay no heed to my mutterings.” Castimir thought of a lie that would divert his friend’s attention, and he was summoning the courage to speak, when a knock on the door distracted them both.

  It was Kaqemeex. His face was grave.

  “Ebenezer, would you be kind enough to walk with me? I have some thoughts on your proposal.”

  The druid looked kindly at Gar’rth, who bowed his head in respect.

  The alchemist stood up.

  “I would be happy to,” he said, following the druid out of the room, leaving the two youths alone.

  NINETEEN

  “Theodore will be here shortly,” the matron whispered to Bhuler. The valet was sitting at the girl’s bedside, a bowl of thick, warm broth in one hand, a wooden spoon in the other.

  “You must eat,” he pleaded with the girl, who stared at him darkly. She still hadn’t spoken to anyone other than Theodore, despite the matron’s comforting words and his own attentions.

  With visible reluctance, the girl took the spoon and proceeded to eat. She managed only two mouthfuls before she handed the spoon back to him and shook her head.

  “But it’s delicious,” Bhuler insisted, tasting some in an effort to convince her. His smile vanished as he struggled to swallow the foul-tasting broth, and his eyes watered as he tried hard to ignore the taste.

  The girl managed a stiff smile, as if she hadn’t smiled for a very long time and was unused to it.

  And her expression did not go unnoticed by the canny valet. He decided not to try to force her into conversation, fearing that her good mood might vanish if she thought he was taking advantage of it.

  Instead he decided to gain her goodwill by forcing a smile from her once more.

  “It’s really not that bad, my dear,” he whispered, lowering his head to speak to her privately, while the matron turned her back to dispose of the bandages that she had removed from the girl’s hand. He risked another mouthful and exaggerated the natural grimace that the taste inspired. His suddenly grotesque appearance had the desired effect, for the girl smiled once more, looking at him as if she thought him a fool.

  Saradomin knows what they put in this, Bhuler thought as he prepared himself for a third mouthful, wondering how he could survive such punishment. He stopped the spoon just before his open mouth.

  “No, I cannot lie to you,” he confessed. “It is awful!”

  He put the broth down by his side and stuck the spoon in its dark surface. It stood upright without support from the bowl, as a dead log might stand in a thick swamp. To Bhuler it looked horrible, and it tasted even worse than it looked.

  So the valet reached inside the folds of his white robe, and withdrew a red apple. He saw the girl’s eyes light up.

  “Why don’t I leave you this, then?” he said as her eager hands reached for it. “But don’t let the matron see!” He looked back at the broth with a sorrowful expression. “She has interesting ideas about food.”

  He patted her arm gently as he stood, and was shocked when he found her unwilling to let him go. Gently he brushed her hair back from her pale face.

  “I have to leave now, my dear. I have my duties to attend.

  I must ensure the castle’s seamstress and tanners are finishing off your new clothes as per my instructions.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I have commanded they be fashioned in a similar way to your previous dress, even replacing your stubbed leather brigandine. They should be ready for you tomorrow. But do not fear, I will not be gone for long.”

  With a smile on her face, she watched him go, her head resting on the pillow. Bhuler reminded her of the last person who had called himself father to her, the old dwarf who had picked her out of the snow all those years before.

  “Kara-Meir” was what the dwarfs had called her, and while she knew she had possessed a human name before that time, she could not remember it. Nevertheless, her traumatised mind was reliving her youth again, when she had been in the company of humans. Slowly she was recalling her life in the village.

  The tune that the matron had repeatedly sung was familiar to her. She envisioned the long summer evenings when her father, the woodcutter, would return to their house singing a similar verse.

  She recalled the evening that her father had returned to the cabin with an injured bear cub. She had nursed it back to health before he had decided to return it to the wild the following year. It shocked her that she could ever have forgotten something like that. It was as if a door had been opened in her mind, through which she could witness those peaceful days of village life.

  Suddenly she needed to talk to someone about her experiences, to tell another human being about her childhood and to confide in someone as she had never done before.

  The door to the ward opened and Theodore strode in quietly. She turned to look at him.

  “Theodore!” she said, and a look of surprise swept over his face. Nearby the matron gasped.

  The young squire sat by her side, looking unsure of what to say. But Kara-Meir needed no spur to the conversation, for she wanted to tell him of her life in the shadow of the mountain.

  For an hour she talked ceaselessly.

  Sir Amik’s face was impassive as Theodore told him the girl’s story.

  He began with her name, Kara-Meir, which was the only name she said she could remember. Her father had been a village woodcutter, often staying away from the community for days at a time. One of her first memories was being taken from the village to a monastery some days’ walk from her home. There, her father had asked for Saradomin’s blessing upon her, and the monks had given it.

  The young girl had received special attention, for children were very rare visitors to the monastery, and the monks had been enchanted with her innocent smile and wide, enquiring eyes.

  Under her father’s loving tutelage she had learned how to stalk and forage, how to live in the wild, how to shoot a bow and how to wield a sword. Her upbringing had been that of a hunter rather than a maiden.

  It was toward the end of her story that Sir Amik grew more interested.

  Her father had stayed away from the village for several weeks, and one evening he had returned badly injured. He had been in a battle. A few weeks after that, as the winter snows had fallen thick upon the earth and isolated the village, a man had come with others at his side, and her happy life had ended.

  She had not mentioned the man by name, for her focus was on the happy time before he had entered her life.

  Moved by her tragic story, Theodore had not wished to press her for details.

  “You must find out more,” Sir Amik told him. “It seems as if her father’s actions might have brought the men to the village. I believe them to be the Kinshra.”

  “Am I to give this priority over my other duties, Sir Amik?” Theodore asked.

  “You are, Theodore,” Sir Amik ordered, not taking his eyes off the young man. “But I know your reputation. I know you will not neglect your duties.” With that, he dismissed the squire.

  Sir Amik watched Theodore go, his brow furrowed in thought. He was indeed an excellent squire, but he wondered if the youth had enough aggression to succeed as a knight. T
raining against others was not a mark of ability-fighting for your life against your enemies was what counted.

  All of the squires had yet to prove themselves in this manner.

  TWENTY

  Theodore returned to the ward to continue his discussions with Kara-Meir. The sky was grey and overcast with low clouds which threatened rain, and the blue flags of the kingdom shook energetically in the breeze.

  “Tell me about the knights, Theodore,” Kara said as soon as he sat down by her side. A swift glance told the squire that the matron was nearby, her vigilance unrelenting.

  “We are an old order, Kara,” he said. “We were formed at the end of the Fourth Age, before the founding of Asgarnia as a nation under King Raddallin more than a hundred and fifty years ago. We were charged with protecting Falador, and gained new prominence during the war with the dark wizards, followers of Zamorak, who were once welcome in the order of mages.

  “It was their betrayal and subsequent burning of the Wizards’ Tower that gave our cause impetus and righteousness, for all men had until that time lived as one, their actions not governed by their religion. But then the world lost its most powerful mages, and since that time our cause has been at odds with the followers of Zamorak, especially the Kinshra.”

  “And have you yourself ever fought any of these ‘followers’?” she asked eagerly, her eyes flashing.

  “No.” Theodore dipped his head slightly. “Not yet. I am still a squire, training to be a full knight.”

  “What about the men who attacked my village? Surely they are followers of the god of chaos?”

  “I think it very likely that they, too, are the Kinshra. The people of Falador refer to them as the ‘black knights’. They are our most hated enemy, yet they still wield some political power in Asgarnia, albeit a shadow of their former influence.

  “Their founders were once men of wealth and power, fighting alongside the knights under King Raddallin at the founding of Asgarnia, until our differing religious views-heightened by the sacking of the Wizards’ Tower-forced them to leave the city. Yet with King Raddallin’s help, and in repayment for their services in uniting the nation, they built a castle on the eastern slopes of Ice Mountain, promising to guard the kingdom from the dangers that populate The Wilderness.