Runescape

by T. S. Church

  It was morning, and Doric was angry.

  After a sleepless night in one of Falador’s gaols, spent in the company of a flatulent drunkard, he was released at dawn with a warning from the guard who had arrested him.

  “No more talk of the monster, citizen,” the man said pompously. “We can’t afford a panic in the city.” With that, the self-important law-giver shut the door.

  As he stood alone in the morning light, Doric shivered, and anger gave way to wisdom. He recalled the scene of the purple-robed men who had been killed in their sleep. It was no mere animal with a taste for flesh they were after; it was a callous assassin, a cunning murderer who possessed monstrous strength. Whatever it was, its intellect made it doubly dangerous.

  His first plan was to alert Theodore. He made his way to the castle, and his mood darkened further when he was told by a guard that the squire could not take the time to see him.

  “You have not even told him that I am here,” he said angrily. “Tell the squire that the monster is in the city.” His voice rose, and he tried his best to put fear into the man. “Tell Sir Amik to recall his men from the countryside. Tell him to bring them home to patrol the streets of Falador!”

  But to no avail. The guard ceased even responding to his entreaties, and he left with a foul curse on his lips. With no other course to follow, he returned to The Rising Sun and retrieved his weaponry and helm, for he would not be caught unguarded. It was shortly after midday when he found his way once more to the gem stall in the marketplace.

  The trader gave him a long look as he saw him approaching.

  “You won’t be disturbing my customers again, will you, master dwarf?” he asked.

  “No disturbance today,” the dwarf said quietly, swallowing his pride and leaning heavily on his axe. He couldn’t let his temper get the better of him again. “But I am interested in the old woman. Do you happen to know where she lives?”

  The trader pointed the dwarf toward a squalid quarter with narrow streets and dark alleys that people called the Dens.

  “Most people in Falador know of her, my friend,” he said, his tone almost conspiratorial now. “If you head that way and continue asking, then you should be able to find her.”

  Doric thanked the man and slung his axe over his shoulder. As he left the marketplace he ran his hand over the two sharp daggers he had secured in his belt, and the smaller throwing axes that hung from his hip.

  He took comfort in his weapons, and he had a grim feeling that he would be glad to have them.

  Theodore pulled back the cloth and smiled as Kara’s eyes widened in happiness.

  “I thought you should have it back.” The words came surprisingly easy to Theodore as he watched her examine the adamant sword closely.

  It is because I am telling her the truth, he thought to himself.Kara should have her sword, and not just in case she might need it to protect herself from the traitor.

  “Thank you, Theodore.” She put the sword down and embraced him. The young man stiffened at her touch. She released him with an embarrassed look.

  “You said you had received a message—was it important?” she asked suddenly, changing the subject to that of the anxious guard who had knocked nervously at the door some hours earlier.

  “Not really” Theodore lied. The guard had told him how angry Doric had been at being denied entry to the castle, and how he had raved about the monster. Perhaps, Theodore thought, he had been drinking again.

  And yet...

  He went to the window and looked up at the ramparts. The day was cloudy. Sir Amik had invited the residents of the almshouse into the castle, and quite unexpectedly. He had requested their help in teaching the peons, for their training was suffering because many knights had been sent to hunt the monster in the countryside north of Falador. The old warriors had willingly agreed, thankful to be of use to their order once more.

  Yet Theodore knew the truth. He knew it was a ploy by Sir Amik to bring the traitor back amongst them, to let him think he had a realistic chance of striking at Kara before he could be identified.

  That was why the young squire refused to leave her. That was why he had ignored Doric’s warning in the morning. Kara’s safety was more important to him than anything else. He would not leave her side while the residents from the almshouse were in the castle.

  The peon Bryant had been sequestered by the amiable Sir Balladish. The old knight needed the youth to run to the apothecary to purchase the ingredients for one of the many potions he consumed to ease the pains of an old body dented in battle.

  “Make sure you get everything, young soldier,” Sir Balladish told Bryant as he eagerly took the list. “We old war dogs need all the medicine we can get to keep us going. Isn’t that right, Sir Finistere?”

  “Indeed it is, Sir Balladish,” the bearded man agreed, turning to add his own encouragement to the young man. “Run along, and be sure to get everything he requires.”

  Bryant ran all the way, his face beaming in pleasure that he had been chosen for the task. In his eagerness, he turned a corner swiftly and ran directly into someone who was coming the opposite way.

  “I’m very sorry, sir!” he said as he regained his balance. The newcomer had hardly flinched. “It was entirely my fault!”

  The tall figure in the red robes said nothing, and Bryant’s face wrinkled as he caught a sweet smell from the man. He could feel the man’s eyes, concealed deep within the cowl, watching him eagerly. After a moment he spoke.

  “Are you one of the knights?” the man asked. “I am new to these parts, and I am eager to meet the warriors of Falador.” He spoke in a guttural tone, an animalistic accent which Bryant couldn’t place, emanating from deep inside his body.

  “I wish to be, sir!” the young man said eagerly. “I am Bryant, a peon, under the tutelage of Squire Theodore.”

  “Squire Theodore?” The man said the words with a tone Bryant assumed was reverence.

  “Yes, indeed—you have heard of him, sir? He’s the squire who rescued the dwarf from the monster, and found the corpses of the human supremacists. He’s the best of our order, and promises to be a great knight!”

  “Indeed, I have heard it said so.” The man spoke softly, his voice suddenly gentle. “I would like to meet him, young peon. Do you think you could arrange that?”

  Bryant shook his head.

  “I am afraid not, sir. The squires are far too busy to meet with the citizens of Falador, especially with so many of the knights away hunting the monster!”

  “That is unfortunate” the man said slowly.

  For a second Bryant stiffened, suddenly feeling as if, for some unknown reason, he was in great peril.

  “But I do understand,” the man uttered finally, and his soft words diffused Bryant’s concerns. He said nothing more, however, and stepped past, briskly disappearing into the crowds.

  Aware that the delay had cost him time, Bryant ran quickly on.

  A few seconds later, the red-hooded man turned the corner once again, this time following the peon’s path, even though the young man was no longer in sight. He found his way easily to the apothecary several streets away, as if following an invisible trail that only he could see.

  He watched the youngster through the murky pane as a list was handed over to the apothecary, and he noted, too, how the shopkeeper’s eyes widen as he read the list.

  “I hope your knight knows what he is about, master peon,” the older man said grimly. “If he mixes these in the right doses, then he will come up with a rather nasty poison.”

  A look of confusion swept over Bryant’s face.

  “He does know—he must, for he often uses potions as a salve for his ancient injuries. Many of the older knights do.”

  “Be that as it may, master peon, you just remind your knight of what I’ve said.” Then the apothecary disappeared, hunting amongst his jars and powders to fulfil the needs of the list in his hand.

  Several minutes later, Bryant emerged from the shop
, closing the door behind him and looking downcast. The apothecary had charged him more than he had expected, and Bryant had not had enough money to pay him. Knowing he was a peon of the knights, however, the kind apothecary had given Bryant all he had asked for, on the condition that he would return that same day to pay the outstanding sum.

  “You have my word, sir!” Bryant had told him as he left.

  In his disappointment, knowing he would have to make another trip and have to explain the embarrassing situation to his tutor, he failed to notice the tall man in the red robes who was concealed in the shadows of a large doorway, watching him depart.

  “I trust you, boy” the figure muttered to himself, unheard by all. “You will return to the apothecary today and in an hour it will be dark. Then I shall have my bait!”

  Red eyes glowed under the hood.

  THIRTY

  Doric had spent five hours asking about the “mad old beggar lady” and had narrowed down her place of residence to all but a few streets. But the deeper he got into the Dens, the less people were willing to volunteer information, for their poverty formed a bond between them that was hard for an outsider to penetrate.

  It will be dark soon, he thought. He hefted his axe from his shoulder and leaned on it, deep in thought, and as he did so some coins chinked in his tunic.

  They may not volunteer information to an outsider, he thought, but they will very likely sell it.

  He considered briefly going back to the castle to see if Theodore had become available, but his mood soured when he remembered the morning guard.

  I will go back to him when I have something conclusive, he decided. So he lifted his axe once more to his shoulder and approached the nearest door to renew his search.

  Bryant arrived in the courtyard entirely breathless, his face bright red. He had wanted to return to the apothecary before the afternoon grew dark, but it seemed as if the low clouds and ailing sunlight were deliberately mocking him.

  Sir Finistere and Sir Erical were touring the courtyard and reminiscing. The peon always thrilled at hearing their stories, for their words took him back to a glorious time.

  “I remember the first time I ever stood here, Sir Erical,” Sir Finistere said, casting his fond eyes to the daunting heights of the white towers. “First as a peon, then as a squire, and finally as a knight preparing for battle. We lost a lot of good men in those days.” The men lowered their eyes.

  Then Sir Finistere noticed Bryant labouring for breath nearby.

  “Ah, boy!” he said. “Did you get everything on Sir Balladish’s list? He does have some very odd requirements.”

  “I have it all here, sir!” Bryant’s words tumbled out. “The apothecary said that he must be wary of mixing them, for they could be blended to make a poison! I promised to inform him.”

  Sir Finistere’s eyes narrowed.

  “That is interesting” he commented mildly. “I’ll be sure to tell him when I give him the ingredients.”

  Bryant handed Sir Finistere the brown box that he had been given, and prepared to run to his trunk to retrieve the money necessary to pay back the apothecary. He dared not ask a knight as distinguished as Sir Finistere for the funds. But as soon as he turned to leave, the knight stopped him.

  “Where are you going at such a rate, lad?”

  Breathlessly, Bryant told him how he intended to make things right with the apothecary.

  “A noble cause, but you should know this—knights do not run about the streets looking red-faced and desperate. We must take pride in our appearance. Here!” He flicked Bryant a coin and took him by the shoulder. “That should cover the expenses. But before you return to his shop, I want you to run some water over your face and have a ten-minute sit down. And when you do return, you will walk and not run. Not for a single yard!”

  With that, Sir Finistere turned his back on Bryant, nodding to Sir Erical as he passed him. “I will deliver this to Sir Balladish. Good evening, Sir Erical.”

  The old knights exchanged genteel nods, and Bryant walked slowly away, intent on obeying Sir Finistere’s words to the letter.

  A quarter of an hour later, having washed himself down and regained his breath, Bryant walked confidently across the courtyard and out of the castle.

  I shall wait a while, until the right moment, the man thought to himself. Deftly, he ducked from one doorway to another, following the boy expertly. I am not so old yet that I cannot overtake a mere peon, he thought. His right hand massaged the hilt of the curved dagger that he had tucked into his belt.

  It will be quick, he mused, but that is the only promise I can make, for the boy has learned enough to reveal my treachery.

  Even if he doesn’t know it just yet.

  The apothecary was about to shut the shop for the evening when he spied the peon crossing the street. He smiled and waved to him. It was good to know there were people in the world that could still be trusted. Whatever others might think of the knights and their fanatical devotion to Saradomin, he at least was thankful for their presence in the city.

  The boy named Bryant apologised again for not having enough money in the first place, and then thanked him for his trust, even bowing as he left the shop.

  How polite they are, as well, the apothecary thought as he watched the peon walk swiftly back the way he had come. Then he cast a wary eye skyward as he felt the first drops of rain on his bare face, and noted the hurried footsteps of all those citizens who were still out of doors as they rushed to get home before the downpour came in earnest.

  He hardly noticed the tall figure in the red robes who stepped swiftly after the vanishing peon.

  An ominous feeling crept into the traitor’s heart. It was a feeling born of experience that had kept him alive and undetected throughout his long career.

  He watched Bryant enter the apothecary’s, and he observed the figure in the red robes standing on the opposite side of the street.

  Something was very wrong. He did not know what it was, but his senses remained honed enough to detect another intelligence focusing on the boy. He stepped back into the shadows of the doorway and watched, waiting for a moment as Bryant paid the apothecary and emerged with a satisfied look on his young face. There had been too many people on the streets for him to strike during the journey so far, but he hoped that the winter darkness would give him his opportunity.

  Now Bryant walked briskly across the street and back the way he had come.

  The handle of the dagger was slippery in the traitor’s grasp. The anxiety of what he had to do was causing him to sweat, despite the chill of the evening.

  The red-robed man also turned to follow Bryant. The traitor watched with a growing realisation that this figure was the source of his ominous fear. He decided it would be best to watch, rather than to interfere. Besides, he thought, Bryant’s information is only useful if I carry out my original plan.

  Yet he knew also that if he did not act to silence Kara, then her knowledge of Justrain’s investigation would see him hanged for treachery.

  He gripped the dagger tightly. If the opportunity presented itself, then the peon would die by his hand. Once he was dead, Kara would follow, and no one would have the knowledge to incriminate him.

  The rain gathered strength and Bryant held his hand flat above his eyes to prevent the drops from obscuring his vision. People were beginning to huddle under doorways and to take advantage of whatever shelter they could.

  His hair was becoming soaked and his clothing dishevelled. He thought of Sir Finistere’s words about taking pride in his appearance, and he knew he could not return to the castle in such a state. As he lifted his gaze to evaluate the rain, he decided its strength could not last. Surely it would exhaust itself in a few minutes. So he looked about for a place to wait it out.

  Seeing that he was now nearly alone on the street, he identified several suitable shelters. He ducked into the nearest one available, beneath an overhanging rooftop that gave him easily enough room to avoid the inclement weat
her.

  As he stood waiting for it to end, his thoughts turned to Lady Kara. He was envied by the other peons for having attracted her attention, and the title he had bestowed upon her had led many to think of him as one of her favourites. Although none would admit it, some were fervently jealous of his achievement. It was the first time in his life that he had actually outdone his fellow peons. Although they often were warned of the dangers of pride, he could not deny himself a congratulatory smile.

  So caught up was he in his thoughts that he barely noticed the tall man in red duck under the overhang to share his shelter from the rain. Without a word, he moved along the wall to allow room for him.

  Concealed behind a timber frame down the street, the traitor watched the two figures share their shelter. He observed the red-robed stranger step close to Bryant and noted with a feeling of sudden apprehension that the peon was in danger.

  The rain suddenly sleeted toward him and he turned away from the street in order to draw his hand across his eyes. Above him the first thunder sounded, echoing off the high white walls and bouncing across the city rooftops. He blinked to clear his eyes and turned to look back toward the two figures.

  But no one was there.

  Bryant had vanished, and the red-robed man was disappearing swiftly into the darkness, visible only for a second as he turned and hastened down the nearest alleyway.

  I cannot miss this chance.

  He cursed in the darkness, running out into the street to where Bryant had stood only seconds before. His legs ached in protest, unused to such exercise and enfeebled by his age, but he ignored the pain with an angry grimace. He rushed into the alleyway to see the red-robed figure stoop, a heavily-laden sack slung over his right shoulder.

  The sack didn’t move, but as the man disappeared amongst the buildings, the traitor saw a booted foot slip from the cover.

  It was Bryant. The man had kidnapped him.

  The traitor hoped that he was dead, but the fact that the man had taken him made it more likely that he was alive. Slavery had long been outlawed in Asgarnia, yet there were always rumours of children being carried off to the savage communities in The Wilderness, or even smuggled to Morytania by the wandering gypsy folk, where their fates were beyond the imaginings of even the darkest human mind.