by T. S. Church
The alchemist raised his head.
“People boast too many differences for us to have a perfect world. What is perfect for you might not be perfection for anyone else.” He saw Theodore open his mouth to respond, and held up his hand to prevent him. “As for only worshipping Saradomin, that would make the world a boring place, wouldn’t it?
“But if the pantheon were incorporated as one god, that god would possess aspects of your Saradomin to reflect justice and order, and Zamorak to reflect the need for chaos. After all, even chaos exists in the natural order of things. The fox takes a rabbit where it can, following its nature—its attack chaotic, unplanned, the strong against the weak. That is how the natural world goes,” he said firmly.
“And what aspect of order does the natural world possess?” Theodore asked, his tone sarcastic. “Any at all?”
“Order is in nature every bit as much as chaos,” the old man replied, seemingly unperturbed. “If the fox eats too many rabbits there will be no more and it will starve. Thus there will then be fewer foxes the next year to hunt the fewer rabbits. In time, however, the rabbits will breed and once their numbers are back up then they will be able to sustain a greater population of foxes. There is order there, and chaos as well, but at a level that is hard for us to see. The natural world is something that is still largely hidden from us.”
Before the argument could continue, a door slammed, and a youth with dark hair and astonishingly black eyes appeared behind Ebenezer. He stood uneasily, looking at Theodore with what the squire could only think of as fear, hiding himself partly behind the alchemist as a shy child might hide behind its mother.
He looked about a year younger than Theodore, an adolescent slightly taller than the squire. His teeth were very white, and his dark hair was thickly matted and unkempt, growing long to his shoulders. When he moved he did so with the natural grace of an animal, his thin body sinewy and tough. He noted Theodore’s gaze on him and stepped back farther still behind the old man, his white teeth showing in a feral snarl of distrust that startled the squire.
There was something about the lad that made him feel distinctly unsafe, as if he were in the company of a wild creature.
At the sound of the low growl, Ebenezer turned to reassure the lad, his hand resting on the youth’s shoulder in a gesture of reconciliation.
“You must excuse Gar’rth, young squire,” he began as the newcomer calmed. “He has had a hard life, and does not speak the common tongue. Plus he is hostile to armed men, even if they be of your righteous order.”
“He has nothing to fear from me, sir—unless he has broken the laws of the land.” As he spoke, Theodore was surprised to see Castimir glance knowingly at Ebenezer.
The old man shook his head.
“I found him on the road a few weeks ago,” the alchemist explained, “starving outside the walls of Taverley, a stranger to human kindness. Is a man guilty if he steals to prevent himself from starving?”
Theodore did not answer. In his mind theft was a crime, and crime—no matter what the cause—was inexcusable. His expression darkened, and Castimir moved closer to him, speaking quickly.
“You must excuse Ebenezer, Theodore,” he said. “He found the man that Gar’rth stole from and made full reparation. The farmer was entirely satisfied.”
“But has Gar’rth been punished?” the squire responded. “Simple reparations are not enough. He must be made to understand that what he did was unacceptable.” His hand had instinctively travelled to the hilt of his sword, caressing it unconsciously.
Before Castimir could reply, the alchemist spoke, anger colouring his voice.
“Did I not explain? He does not speak our language!” he said, his eyes flashing. “How can he be made to understand?” Ebenezer’s eyes darted between him and Castimir, and with a clear effort he calmed himself. “But I am teaching him. We are learning, aren’t we, Gar’rth?” He smiled at the youth as a teacher might smile to encourage a pupil.
After a moment of struggling, a broken phrase passed between Gar’rth’s lips.
“Thank you...”
“That is one of the few phrases he has mastered,” whispered Castimir. “The lad is a strange one, Theo, savage and astoundingly strong. To any other save Ebenezer, he is decidedly hostile. Even toward me.” He grinned broadly as he finished speaking, and Theodore decided again that there was little in life his friend took seriously. As always he found it inexplicable, yet it caused him to appreciate the friendship all the more.
Ebenezer returned to his chemistry. Carefully he took a glass vial from the tabletop. It contained a clear, still liquid. With exaggerated care he mixed the calm fluid with a cup of water.
Immediately, the compound began to froth, spitting droplets onto the tabletop and beyond.
“Oil of Vitriol! Who would have thought that adding cool water could cause such a reaction?” He laughed manically.
Castimir’s curiosity was sparked by the experiment, and he moved closer, reaching out.
“Water did this? I would not have thought it possible.”
“Do not touch it!” the alchemist shouted. “The reaction heats the liquid, and it’s still quite hot,” the old man added. “It would have burned you.”
“Heat without flame?” Theodore muttered to his friend. “Surely that is magic.”
“I told you he was worth meeting, Theo,” the young wizard responded, as a knock at the door drew their attention.
A druid stood in the entrance, the sunlight illuminating his white robes, his green cloak shining as if it were made of living plants. He had an old face that spoke of many days and nights spent outdoors and in the company of nature. His grey eyes possessed wisdom that could not be learned save by an honest journey into old age.
He focused his gaze on Gar’rth, and the youth hung his head to avoid the attention of the new arrival. When the druid spoke, his voice was deep.
“How is Gar’rth today, Ebenezer?”
“He is well, Kaqemeex,” the alchemist replied. Upon hearing the name, Theodore straightened with curiosity. “The affliction seems to have quieted since your intervention. We are all thankful for that.”
The old druid noticed Theodore’s interest, and nodded to him.
“You are the young squire from Falador, who wishes to know about a particular white flower,” he said. “The birds have told me of your coming.”
Theodore bowed his head in respect to the old man. He opened his mouth to answer the druid’s query when a high-pitched chirping sounded from nearby. A blackbird perched upon the lintel, her black eyes flicking warily from one person to the next, taking in the entire group with a flurry of motion.
“I know already, my small feathered friend,” Kaqemeex said gently, and her chirping ceased. “Go and take your fill in the cool waters of the fountains.” The small bird fluttered away, leaving Theodore to stare at the druid with undisguised scepticism.
“The birds are the most useful spies of all,” the elder man said as if giving a lecture. He seemed not the least bit daunted by the squire’s overt disbelief. “There are very few of us who can still converse with wild creatures, and of those I am possibly the most adept at doing so.” He smiled sorrowfully, as if his memory dwelt on better times.
Yet Theodore remained unconvinced.
Surely he cannot expect me to believe...
“What did she tell you?” Castimir asked in all earnestness.
“What I have known for some weeks now. There is an evil abroad in Asgarnia, that has entered the lands recently. A creature that seeks something, or someone.” He bowed his face and a cloud hid the sun, deepening the shadows.
The killer, Theodore realized with a start, and he spoke up, all thoughts of blackbirds driven from his mind.
“Sanfew told me to ask you about the monster,” he said quickly, eager to learn anything that might help him in the quest for justice. “He told me you might have some useful information?”
“I do not know what the beast
is, if that is what you ask,” Kaqemeex answered. “I know only that it pursues something. It heads north, hiding by day and moving toward its goal each night. I suspect that what it is searching for is here, in Taverley. The birds seldom sight it, for it is a canny creature.”
His eyes moved swiftly to each of them in turn, much as the bird’s had done. Castimir looked uncertainly away, and Theodore held his grey stare without moving. He turned his attention to Ebenezer, who cast a knowing look in return. Finally they came to rest on Gar’rth.
“How are his lessons, Ebenezer?” Kaqemeex asked, turning back to the alchemist.
“Slow,” Ebenezer replied ruefully. “Gar’rth is not a linguist, I fear. Teaching him the common tongue will take time. Castimir has helped, however.”
The druid nodded in Castimir’s direction and then he turned his eyes back on Theodore.
“I understand you have a query about a white plant, as well,” he said.
At that, Theodore reached into his pack and drew the specimen out reverently.
Kaqemeex stared at the flower in Theodore’s upturned palm. He did not touch it at first, and after a minute he bent low to smell what fragrance remained with the flower. As far as the squire could tell, there was none.
“Do you recognise it, sir?” Theodore asked with ill-disguised anticipation.
“Yes, it is a White Pearl, so called because of the fruit it produces,” the druid replied, and at his words a shiver passed through the squire. “They are found up on White Wolf Mountain.” He nodded his head northward to where the range of icy peaks marched into the distance as far as the eye could see. “They do not grow exclusively on that mountain range. Ice Mountain also harbours its own population of White Pearl.”
At last, a clue!
Theodore’s excitement caused him to smile broadly. He extended his hand in gratitude to the old man.
“May the blessing of Saradomin be upon you! This is excellent news indeed.” He turned to his friend. “I will return to Falador at first light tomorrow.”
SEVEN
It was night. The faces of the men were eerily lit by the burning brands they held in the crowded dell.
Before them stood twelve men clad in purple robes, addressing the audience and engaging them with swift hand movements and carefully chosen words.
“What kind of men are we, citizens of Asgarnia, who would let monsters roam the countryside?” one said. “How many more of our womenfolk must we see seized by the roadside and devoured? How many of our children? The attack on the caravan is not the first of its kind, and even now a conspiracy amongst the Imperial Guard and the knights exists to deny it— to prevent us knowing the truth!”
The speaker paused for breath, clenching his fist as he raised his hand and then pointed to the onlookers theatrically.
“Do you know what that truth is, fellow citizens?” The faces looked expectant under the light of the burning torches. “Do you?” the speaker cried loudly, he bunched his hand in a tight fist and punched the air, challenging the crowd.
“No! Tell us!” someone shouted from the back, and immediately his call was backed by others in the crowd. The speaker in the purple robe let them continue for a moment before calmly raising his arms in a gesture that bespoke of reconciliation and peace.
The crowd fell silent, everyone captivated by these strange men who had come amongst them, preaching humanity’s superiority over all other creatures.
The speaker resumed.
“The truth is that they can’t protect you! They cannot protect any of you! Not the elitist Imperial Guard, too concerned with protecting the crown prince in Burthorpe. Not the knights, too caught up in their righteous ways to care about the needs of the so-called common people!
“And both...” He pointed at the crowd once more, emphasising his point, “...and both caught up in their own militant rivalry!” He spat the words in disgust, and a few voices shouted out excitedly from the crowd, agreeing with him.
“They do not want us out here, hunting for the monster ourselves! They feed on our insecurity, on the belief that simple men like us cannot protect our homes—making us believe we need them! Look around you! Look at your neighbour! Can he not protect himself? Would he not die to save his family?” He spread his arms wide before him in a suddenly sweeping gesture, and the audience of men, glaring now at one another, nodded their heads and shouted in agreement.
“They rule only by our consent. They govern us only by our own leave. They exist only because we allow them to!” The speaker’s finger once more extended toward the night sky, and he paused for a moment to let them consider the enormity of his words. If the authorities had heard him speak in such a manner in one of the cities, he would be arrested for sedition. He knew that well. But here in the open country, and with Falador a day’s ride south, standing amongst farmers and travellers and men to whom the monster was a very real thing, he was free to do as he wished.
“But in truth, we are to blame,” he continued. “Look again at your neighbour—if he can protect himself, then why does he rely on the goodwill of others? If he can fight, why then is he so eager to extol the virtues of the knights and depend upon them for safety? Why, if a common man has faith in the strength of his own arm, are we so eager to let the strutting knights and officers of the exclusive Imperial Guard collect their taxes and rob us of our livelihood, just to pay for the silver buttons on their ceremonial coats?
“Remember, they rule only because we let them. They rule only because we fear to take our destinies into our own hands!”
A pungent smell made the speaker smile inwardly. His fellow believers had done well, passing the strong brew amongst the onlookers, feeding their frenzied minds with the potent alcohol. Such was their animation that he doubted the crowd would be willing to disperse without some activity to vent their rage.
It is so easy, he thought to himself before continuing, to take advantage of their innate fear.
“They say a monster is loose!” he cried. “A creature that devours its victims! They say they do not know what it is, and they secretly encourage us to let our own imaginations build their monster into something mythical.
“Werewolves!” He punched the air viciously. “Vampires! Ghouls!” With each word another savage punch, and with each blow a roaring tempest of voices shouting encouragement.
“But what has it attacked so far? A single woman barely out of girlhood! A lone gypsy caravan, isolated from any help, with just a grandfather and young mother to protect a defenceless child! Look at your neighbour, my friends, and ask yourselves why we should be afraid. Search amongst you for any who would not fight to protect their families from a beast that kills the old and the weak. This is no werewolf. This is no vampire or ghoul. But it is not human either. What human would do such a thing?”
The faces of the men showed doubt under the torchlight.
“It is something masquerading as a monster—something designed to instil fear into our souls,” he said, his voice filled with certainty. “What else could it be?”
The men shook their heads.
“Goblins can be found in these parts—we all know of the settlement north of here. Could it be a goblin?” he asked, facing the foremost onlookers directly, one after the other.
“Goblins aren’t smart enough.” The voice was thick with the rural accent.
“But what else can it be?” This second voice was familiar to the speaker, for he had told the man exactly what to say.
The result was exactly as he had hoped.
“There’s a dwarf that lives hereabouts. Just off the road to Taverley, a few miles north of here. He lives on his own, as a hermit.”
Doubtful expressions drew the speaker’s attention. Some of the crowd still needed convincing.
“A hermit?” the speaker yelled suddenly. “Does he show a hatred of people?”
“He don’t like them getting too close!” the rural voice shouted out, and several nodded in agreement. The dwarf was a well-
known hermit who had lived in the lands of Asgarnia for two dozen untroubled years, but as the farms of men had grown closer, he had become an angry neighbour.
He’s perfect, the speaker mused.
“Dwarfs are known for their cunning,” he said in a thoughtful manner. “They are the masters of metal, hoarding their treasures, unwilling to share even the basest trinket. What lengths would he go to in order to protect his privacy? How well do we know him? We cannot trust a creature like that!” His fiery eyes observed new jugs of alcohol being passed amongst the crowd, and to his delight he noted several men swaying uncertainly.
“How can we trust a thing that hoards its wealth?” he continued. “Dwarfs are known for their love of shiny metals. They share the magpie’s lust to decorate their homes with what is precious to humankind. Gold! Silver! Rubies! Where a dwarf makes his home, you will find such things.”
The speaker had lit the fire of envy in the eyes of the onlookers, and as they drank he could see the effects of his appeal to their greed. Each of them pictured what secret wealth the lone dwarf might possess in his isolated log cabin.
“I say we go and see the dwarf,” the rural voice called from the rear of the crowd. “Ask him about the murders!” A dozen voices rose in agreement.
“It will know something, my friends! The caravan was only a few miles from its lair when it was attacked.” The speaker had changed his approach. The dwarf had been demoted to an “it”, his home rechristened a lair.
He smiled as the angry voices echoed amidst the dell. A lair was so much easier to burn than someone’s home.
The clear night glittered with so many stars that Theodore thought they must be beyond count.
He had sat up late with Castimir, talking extensively of their childhood together in Rimmington, a town that lay several days’ travel from Falador. The two had shared laughter, reliving the halcyon days of their youth, their faces lit under the strong moonlight that softly touched the thatched rooftops and white walls of Taverley. The fountains glistened in the gloom, their faint music of cascading water an eerie enchantment.
