by T. S. Church
T.S. CHURCH
TITAN BOOKS
COMING SOON FROM TITAN BOOKS:
RUNESCAPE: RETURN TO CANIFIS
BY T.S. CHURCH
RUNESCAPE: BETRAYAL AT FALADOR
ISBN: 9780857682918
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark St
London
SE1 0UP
First edition October 2010
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
The names, characters, logos, symbols, designs, visual representations and all other elements of RuneScape are trade marks and/or copyright of Jagex Limited and are used under licence.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group UK Ltd.
To my grandparents, parents, and the Giraffe, and to my nephews, who I hope will take as much enjoyment from the book as they do from the game. And also to the talented staff at Jagex who have devoted so much of their time to this project.
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
SIXTY-SIX
SIXTY-SEVEN
SIXTY-EIGHT
SIXTY-NINE
SEVENTY
SEVENTY-ONE
SEVENTY-TWO
SEVENTY-THREE
SEVENTY-FOUR
SEVENTY-FIVE
SEVENTY-SIX
SEVENTY-SEVEN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RUNESCAPE: RETURN TO CANIFIS
ONE
“Get some light over here! We need some light!”
Master-at-arms Nicholas Sharpe shouted loudly into the wind in order to be heard by his fellow knights on the bridge. A fair young man ran forward, shielding his blazing torch from the anger of the winter storm.
“Thank you, Squire Theodore. Now, let us see what damage has been done.”
Half a dozen men stood around as firelight flickered over the fallen masonry. It was a life-sized statue of a knight which had come crashing down from the castle heights an hour after midnight, when the storm had been at its most ferocious. The crash had been loud enough to raise the alarm.
“That’s more than a thousand pounds of solid stone,” Sharpe said, peering up into the darkness from whence it had plummeted. “Must’ve been a wicked gust to move it.
“We can’t leave it here,” he added. “Get hold of it. On three we’ll lift.”
There was some jostling as the knights moved closer, every man packing himself as close to the statue as possible.
“One... two... three!” Sharpe counted out, and on his last call the small group of men lifted the marble statue with a collective groan of effort. “Carry him to the courtyard. We can’t leave one of our own out here in the cold!”
The men staggered under their burden, moving slowly from the exposed bridge toward the open gates, Squire Theodore lighting the way.
The statue will be safe there until the morning, the master-at-arms mused, as long as the damage wasn’t serious enough to break it into a thousand pieces as they moved it.
And as long as nothing more comes down on our heads, he added silently. It wasn’t safe in the streets of Falador that night; several people had already been killed by falling debris, and the quicker their party was back inside the castle, the better.
But the pessimistic thought turned to prophecy. A sharp crack, a sudden cry, and the statue dropped again to the paving, scattering the men who had lifted it. Only two had retained their grips on the polished marble, and now they held the right leg between them, detached from the rest of the figure.
“Get the torch back here!” Sharpe hollered, his temper rising. He swiftly noted the anxious faces gazing toward the courtyard. “Where’s the torch?” he called. “Where has Theodore got to?”
A sudden gust of wind, biting cold in its journey south from Ice Mountain, swept across the bridge. The squire emerged from the gatehouse, bringing the torch with him and carrying a heavy bundle under his arm. As soon as he reached the shivering party, there was a crack from above and a cry of warning rang out.
“Watch your heads!”
Each man instinctively looked up, crouching low in readiness. Spinning from the rooftops, a tile crashed onto the bridge and exploded on the stonework scant yards away, sending sharp chips of slate into the turbulent moat below.
“Come on; we must not stay out here any longer,” Sharpe said decisively. For all the statue meant, it wasn’t worth the lives of the young men who stood close to him. “Theodore, don’t run off again. We need the light to see what we’re doing.”
He noted the look of disappointment on the young man’s face. Theodore was an excellent squire; the master-at-arms couldn’t recall any better. Yet he took himself too seriously, making him an easy target for any of his peers who envied his dedication, or even despised him for it.
“I have blankets, sir,” Theodore said. “We can carry the statue on that. It will allow more of us to help lift it and prevent any more accidents like the last one...” His voice trailed off as a couple of the knights regarded him coolly.
But Sharpe nodded.
> “It’s a good idea, Theodore. Pull the blankets under the statue when we lift it—on three again!” And as soon as the men around him had obeyed, the master-at-arms began the count.
“One...
“Two...
“Three!” Each man issued a grunt as they hefted their burden.
A sudden flash erupted from the polished marble above the entrance to the courtyard, and once again the stone knight fell, the impact knocking several of the knights off their feet. One stumbled against Theodore, so that he was forced to loosen his grip on the spluttering torch and the light vanished as it splashed into a puddle.
Immediately, concerned voices called out in the darkness.
“What was that?”
“Are we under attack?”
“There’s been no thunder—it must be magic!”
Sharpe bellowed from the side of the bridge.
“Get me a light!”
Theodore crouched and seized the torch, only to find that it was soaked from the puddle. He was on his feet in a second, running toward the gatehouse where the night watch kept lights burning. He was careful to avoid the dazed knights who risked tripping him in the dark.
“Help me!”
A voice called out nearby. It was faint and unusual, and Theodore dismissed it, knowing he could not help anyone until he had light. As he entered the gatehouse, the voice groaned again, closer now.
When Theodore emerged holding the burning torch, he nearly dropped it in surprise. For lying not far away was a young girl, shivering from the cold. Looking closer, he could see that she was in shock from the savage injuries that covered her body. In one hand she held a strange flower, and in the other a golden ring, broken in two, that appeared to be smouldering in her open palm. It boasted a crystal clear gem, and an acrid scent hung heavy on the night air.
Her eyes, wide and dark, looked into his. He had never seen anything so...
“Help me... please.”
The girl blinked once and opened her eyes. Then with a sigh she closed them again, and her head lolled back.
Sir Amik Varze’s mood reflected the weather outside.
Freezing winds howled down from the mountain and The Wilderness that lay beyond, and his order had been busy dealing with food shortages and a desperate population. Though the night was black as pitch, on a clear day, from his room in the tower of marble overlooking the city of Falador, Sir Amik could see Ice Mountain in the distant north, a foreboding sharp pinnacle which could look deceptively beautiful on those evenings when the sun reflected off the frozen summit.
Beautiful, but deadly, he thought as the gale blew open a shutter. It struck the wall with a raucous clatter.
From his younger days as an ambitious squire and all through his long career, Sir Amik had travelled more than most throughout the lands of Gielinor, east to the borders of the dark realm of Morytania where even the dead could not find rest, and south to the vast wastes of the Kharidian Desert which no man had ever crossed.
Yet of all his achievements, he was most proud of his role in manoeuvring the Knights of Falador as a serious political force within the realm of Asgarnia. He had ruled in old King Vallance’s place, making and enforcing the laws that kept the nation safe. For two years the king had been bedridden, and Sir Amik had made certain that the knights had filled the vacuum before instability could threaten.
Not everybody had been happy about that, however. The Imperial Guard—under the direct rule of Crown Prince Anlaf—had questioned Sir Amik’s intentions, and were aware that his knights controlled the nation’s treasury. The prince had governed the town of Burthorpe in northwest Asgarnia for many years, placed there by his father to amass experience and prepare him for his inevitable succession to the throne. Under Anlaf’s management, the Imperial Guard kept the nation safe from the trolls in the northern mountains, and rarely interfered in Asgarnia’s wider affairs.
Yet the rumours swirled. Some predicted that a power struggle would plunge the nation into civil war, but Sir Amik would not let it come to that. As long as he lived, honour and truth would conquer the petty politics of such self-interested men.
It was the will of Saradomin.
Amik was old now, though. Not so old, however, as to be confined to the almshouses in the city, which the knights maintained to shelter those who had survived to reach the age of retirement, spending their days in the parks and lecturing the younger generation about the virtues of truth and honour.
No, not yet, he thought as he stood up to close the offending shutter. He was still capable of putting in as many hours as were required to guarantee the security of Asgarnia and the blessings of Saradomin.
Rather than closing the shutter, however, he pulled it back, taking a moment to glance down to the courtyard. Even over the wind, which sung its shrill song amongst the rooftops, he could hear raised voices. He saw several torches flickering in the darkness and shadowy men running in animated confusion. Before he could call out, however, footsteps sounded on the steep stairwell outside the door to his private study, and a moment later it shook under the anxious hammering of a man’s clenched fist.
“Sir Amik? Are you awake?” a familiar voice said. The man’s tone betrayed his excitement.
The knight sighed, knowing that he was going to be forced to postpone his sleep.
“What is it, Bhuler?” he called out, closing the shutter and turning to cross the room. “What catastrophe has you running up these stairs at this hour?” He unlocked the door, and there stood his personal valet.
“It’s a woman, sir!”
Sir Amik raised an eyebrow. “At your age, Bhuler?”
“No, sir.” The man looked to the floor, disarmed by his master’s quick humour. “Outside, in the courtyard. She just appeared on the bridge—it has to be magic. But she’s badly injured—Sharpe doesn’t think she’ll pull through.”
Sir Amik’s expression hardened.
“Where is she now?” he asked. His curiosity was piqued. The knights had many enemies, and in order to counter any hostile entry, the castle was guarded by more than walls alone. It was supposed to be impossible to teleport anywhere within the perimeter of the moat.
“She’s been taken to the matron in the east wing, sir.”
They exited the room, and the valet led the way down the spiral stairs and across the courtyard.
The entire castle had been roused by the news, and Sir Amik couldn’t imagine a swifter call to action. Lights shone from the dormitories of the peons—those boys who worked to attain the rank of squire and who carried out the menial labours. Above the howling of the wind, he heard a squire muttering of an elven princess, sent to warn the knights of impending disaster.
Already the rumours have started, he thought. Even ones as foolish as that. He smiled thinly, for the elven race had vanished from the world long ago—if they had ever existed at all. Yet this was a point the young squire ignored entirely.
Then his smile disappeared. Some things he would not allow.
“Turn out those lights!” he roared. Hastily the young peons extinguished their lamps and ceased their speculations, aware that tomorrow would bring a punishment drill. Sir Amik’s attitude toward discipline was well-known: it was at the heart of their order.
Arriving at the matron’s quarters, he found master-at-arms Sharpe and the young Squire Theodore there, as well. But it was no elven princess under the matron’s anxious care, rather a very human young girl. Her blonde hair was matted with dried earth and sharp thorns were entangled in the long strands. Her skin was deathly pale. She looked like some feral animal.
“What do you think, matron?” he asked.
“She is badly injured, Sir Amik.” The heavy-set woman’s eyes flicked to the patient. “Prayer is her best hope now.”
“Then I may help. The will of Saradomin is not known to me, but his wisdom has never failed to aid me before.” The elderly matron nodded. Her considerable skills were of no use to a girl with such savage injuries.
/> “Clear the room,” Sir Amik ordered briskly. The matron complied, taking the others with her. When he was alone, he knelt at the bedside to pray, clearing his mind. His head bowed in reverence and his hands rested on the girl’s cold forehead.
“My Lord Saradomin, I have served you without question since I was old enough to govern the path of my life, and I do not claim to know your will. I pray now for the sake of this unknown girl. I pray that you will give her the strength to live.”
He felt the power within him, stemming from his heart and cascading along his outstretched arms and into the still body. His eyes snapped open with surprise. Never before had he felt so much energy. He struggled to keep his hands steady and his mind clear, lest the conduit that he had become be broken.
After a minute the charge ceased, and Sir Amik called to the matron.
“Saradomin be praised!” he claimed as he stood. “She will live.”
At his words, the girl stirred as if gripped by a fitful nightmare. She would live.
As he left the room carrying the mysterious girl’s belongings, Theodore glanced back at her.
He didn’t want to leave her side, and Sir Amik’s order to clear the room had made him unusually angry, though he knew better than to voice his feelings. Instead he decided to keep himself busy, accompanying Sharpe toward the armoury to catalogue the girl’s property.
“I saw the way you looked at her, Theodore,” the master-at-arms said as they ascended a polished stairwell. “You know that as a Knight of Falador there can be no chance for romance. A lonely but honourable life in the service of Saradomin is our reward—not for us a hearth and a home.”
“I know that, sir,” Theodore replied, his face warming. “But as the only person she has spoken to, I felt it might be best if I was there when she wakes.”
Sharpe looked sympathetically at the squire.
“You should prepare yourself, Theodore,” he said calmly. “She might not wake up.” He didn’t slow as they entered the armoury. The squire stopped for a moment, shocked at the fatalistic thoughts of his tutor.
“She will wake up, she will!” he declared.
Bending down and opening a wooden box, Sharpe didn’t even look up at the young man’s brief tirade. After a moment Theodore followed him.
