Runescape

by T. S. Church

  “It is Kara!” he cried. “She’s not in the ward, and has not been seen for half an hour.”

  “She cannot have got out again, can she?” Doric asked, looking wearily from one young man to the other.

  “Search everywhere, Marius,” Theodore said. “She must not be allowed to leave the castle. Sir Amik still has questions for her.” His voice faded as he issued the instruction. He didn’t know exactly what Sir Amik wanted from her. She could provide no useful information about her past. But Theodore knew he didn’t want Kara to leave, for she had become very special to him.

  “Peons are scouring every room” Marius said. “If she were in the castle, she would have been found by now.”

  Theodore recalled how angry she had been with him at his deception, and he knew she had escaped from the castle.

  “Then I shall go after her” he said. “She is my responsibility.”

  He moved forward, but Marius’s hand stopped him.

  “You cannot leave, Theodore. There is unfinished business between us. In a few days’ time we have a challenge to settle. I called you a coward and you called me to answer for it by trial of combat.”

  Theodore met his gaze.

  “I haven’t time for this, Marius. Kara is everything at the moment.” He made to go, but Marius’s hand remained fixed against his chest. Theodore’s eyes burned. “Let me pass, Marius, or I shall force you aside!”

  “If you pursue Kara, Theodore, you will miss our trial and bring dishonour upon yourself. I cannot allow that.”

  “I am warning you, Marius. Stand aside!”

  “I will not, Theodore. Another squire can pursue her.”

  Theodore smashed his fist against Marius’s jaw and knocked him to the floor. Marius tried to stand but Theodore hit him again, bloodying his nose before racing past him, Doric following close behind.

  Theodore grabbed the first peon he found and the boy looked up into his fiery eyes.

  “What is the news of Kara?”

  “A guard has come from the city gates. Kara stole a horse and headed east!”

  Theodore ran to the stables, shouting instructions to those peons he came across. One was sent running for maps, another for a sword and shield, still another for food and water skins. He had decided to wear his leather armour rather than his full plate, for his mare would need all her speed.

  Within five minutes he trotted swiftly across the courtyard, Doric hanging precariously behind him. He would not gallop on the stones. He would wait until he was out of the city before urging his mare on over the soft earth.

  As soon as he recovered, Marius went to Sir Amik, and now the squire stood in the knight’s study high up in the tower.

  Sir Amik listened to his report.

  “Theodore was right to pursue her, Marius” the knight said when he had finished. “They have a connection between them that neither understands, but they are both aware of it.”

  Marius shifted uncomfortably. He had not been able to stop entirely the blood that flowed from his nose. He had even wasted a few precious minutes attempting to hide his injury before reporting to his superior.

  “Who broke your nose, Marius?” Sir Amik asked. Marius’s eyes darted briefly out of the window, and then quickly back.

  “Nobody, Sir Amik,” he said earnestly. “I ran into a door in my haste to inform you of the news.”

  Even as he spoke, however, he knew the knight could tell that he was lying. He felt his face flush under Sir Amik’s unflinching gaze.

  “It has nothing to do with Theodore, does it?” Sir Amik pressed. “I know you two are scheduled to fight each other. If he struck you before the challenge, then he would forfeit the match. You would be declared right and just in the eyes of Saradomin.”

  Marius’s face fell. He knew now with absolute certainty that Theodore was no coward, and that the grievance between them had been of his own making.

  “Sir Amik,” he said slowly, his head pounding and his eyes feeling a huge pressure swell up behind them, “Sir Amik, I must confess to a lie. The grievance between us was instigated by me. I accused him of cowardice, and I know he is no coward.”

  He breathed deeply, and the swelling behind his eyes relieved itself as tears on his face. Then he continued.

  “I hadn’t expected him to challenge me, but he did so, and now I admit my lie. I offer myself for the harshest penalty appropriate to my actions. I admit now what I think I have always known—I admit that Theodore is a better man than I.” His words were broken by muffled sobs, and his hands shook at his sides.

  Sir Amik’s face softened slightly.

  “A lie is a very serious offence, Marius. Deception is not a part of our order and is against what we stand for. You realise I could expel you for this?”

  Marius nodded in miserable understanding.

  “I have no wish to do that, however,” the knight continued. “You are a good squire, perhaps as good as Theodore, but you shall have to do penance for your transgression.”

  “I will do it gladly, Sir Amik!” he declared.

  “You will be confined to the castle; the city is off limits to you until I say otherwise. And you are to take over the management of Theodore’s peons. You will train them alongside your own. I would advise you to adopt more of Theodore’s methods, as well.”

  The squire bowed his head, and left without another word.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  When he was young, Castimir had read with wide-eyed interest of the barbarian tribes that lived east of Falador.

  Now he had spent the day with Ebenezer and Gar’rth, exploring the village’s wooden huts and marvelling at the fine beauty of the pottery and metalwork. The barbarians offered the travellers food and ale in their great hall, an immense building with a thatched roof that stood so high that the beams were in perpetual shadow. Their belongings, left on Ebenezer’s wagon, were protected by the barbarian code of hospitality to the extent that they did not even need a guard. Truly their word was their bond.

  “You are quiet tonight, Castimir,” Ebenezer remarked, readying his pipe.

  The young wizard sighed and raised his eyes to look discreetly at the two barbarian women who stood several yards away. They dressed themselves in short fur skirts and leather brassieres that allowed the eager Castimir a good view of their midriffs. They adorned themselves with finely crafted jewellery, so subtly and intricately fashioned that Castimir could not recall seeing any finer. He examined the necklace of one of the women, the blue stone shining at its centre, and wondered how many years of practice it would take to craft something of such beauty.

  He laughed quietly to himself when he recalled his first attempt to make even a simple ring while under the tutelage of his uncle. He had dropped the mould and the boiling metal had scalded him, ending his career as a craftsman that same day. Truly, he thought, the reputation of the barbarian women’s skill in the art of crafting, from fine pottery to cunningly-fashioned bracelets and necklaces, was well deserved.

  One of the women returned his gaze, direct and unembarrassed. Castimir choked on his drink and looked away.

  “You might have insulted her, averting your gaze like that,” Ebenezer chuckled.

  “How did you know I was looking at her?” Castimir asked, for the alchemist was facing him across the table, his back to the two women.

  “I may be old now, Castimir, but I was young once. Though I cannot remember when.”

  Castimir didn’t respond. The journey from Taverley to the barbarian settlement had taken nearly three days. The entire way their minds were fraught with fear of the monster.

  The young wizard glanced to his side and observed Gar’rth. The youth was trying hard at his lessons in the common tongue. He had mastered several dozen words that gave him a limited ability to communicate.

  But his illness was getting worse. Castimir did not know what it was. It seemed as if Gar’rth sometimes became a different person. He would sweat profusely, his eyes staring at a fixed point wheneve
r his ailment threatened to overwhelm him. Sometimes he would cry out for a minute or so, his hands clenched before him as he fought the dreadful influence of whatever it was that held him in its grip.

  Years ago, when Castimir was a boy, a madman had wandered through their village. He’d had a wild look and would break into stretches of nonsensical dialogue with imaginary onlookers that only he could see, muttering about a fantastical realm called Zanaris which was ruled by a fairy queen. Castimir wondered if Gar’rth’s illness was something similar—a disease of the mind.

  Gar’rth was in full control of himself now, however. He also sat opposite Ebenezer, drinking water. The alchemist never allowed him to drink any ale or wine, and he had instructed Castimir that Gar’rth should never be given such, for fear that it would contribute to his ailment.

  Castimir risked another discreet look at the girl whose blonde hair fell loosely down her back. His spirits fired by the ale he had been drinking, he stood up resolutely, left his empty mug on the table, and marched toward the women.

  “Oh dear,” Ebenezer whispered, smiling mischievously at Gar’rth.

  The wizard was back in less than a minute, his face downcast and burning bright red.

  “They don’t like mages, these barbarians” he muttered. “They don’t trust magic. I only introduced myself and asked them if they wished me to melt an iron dagger.” He looked furtively at the table, avoiding the stares of his friends. “But they weren’t interested.”

  The two women glanced over at Castimir several times in the next few moments, their faces reflecting their distrust of the blue-robed sorcerer. Castimir found himself another drink and sat down with a resigned sigh. He had taken his first sip when he saw one of the women gesture to him.

  “What now?” he mused as he stood up.

  “Him!” She pointed at Gar’rth who sat quietly, unaware that he was the subject of their conversation. “Is he a mage?”

  Castimir shook his head.

  “No,” he said firmly.

  “Good!” the woman said, before turning away and muttering in a hushed tone to her younger friend.

  He watched as her friend smiled, and a pang of jealousy shot through him. What did Gar’rth have that he didn’t? he wondered, looking critically at the lanky youth.

  Castimir returned to his seat, giving Gar’rth a long look as he sat down next to him. He took a draught of his ale.

  It was going to be one of those nights.

  Theodore was certain he knew where Kara was heading. He remembered his conversations with her, about Sulla and the Kinshra she had vowed to fight. And he knew the powerful anger which drove her on.

  He and Doric had left Falador several hours before, stopping briefly to question those people they met on the road.

  And Kara had been seen, travelling east, toward the barbarian tribes. It made sense to Theodore. She would need to find hospitality somewhere. Indeed, one of the city guards helping in the hunt told Theodore that he had recommended to her that she stop at the barbarian village to replenish her supplies.

  “The Kinshra will surely kill her if we cannot intercept her Theodore” Doric shouted as they rode swiftly on.

  “Then we will ride through the night” Theodore replied. “She can be no more than three hours ahead of us.”

  As strong and skilled as Kara was, fighting enemies as vicious as the Kinshra warriors was a battle that could only end in her defeat. Hadn’t she already tried to do it? Hadn’t the Ring of Life spent its power in saving her from them?

  She is too stubborn, Theodore thought, before wondering exactly how they were going to bring her back if she refused to come willingly.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  It was growing dark. It was the second night he had spent outside the city since the girl had wounded him.

  A girl!

  A girl had done this to him. If it hadn’t hurt so much, he would have laughed at the idea.

  Throughout the day, he remained in the remote hollows north of Falador, protected by thick brambles and fallen trees in the most overgrown part of the wood.

  Once he was woken by the sound of baying dogs, and he had had to master his instinct to run. For a few seconds the sounds had come closer, but then they turned away westward, toward the road to Taverley.

  He knew he was the hunted now. His overconfidence in dealing with the humans had led to his defeat, and he had left two fingers and half an ear behind. He had not returned to his human form just yet, for his wolf form was far stronger and he could feel his stomach wound repairing itself gradually. It would be several days before he would be able to move without pain, however. But at least the bleeding had stopped.

  He knew also that it wasn’t safe to stay in this country. The population had risen against him now, and scores of heavily armed men searched the woodlands. He would have to leave.

  It was on the western road, south of Taverley, that he had first encountered Theodore, who carried the scent of his quarry. Despite his failure to question him, he knew the best chance of picking up the trail that he had lost would be to head north, moving only at night, backtracking along Theodore’s route.

  He stood warily, his stomach protesting from the wound. He would remember the girl with the blonde hair. Before he returned east to Morytania and his dark lord, he would find her somewhere, alone in the wild, and have his revenge.

  His hatred gave him the strength he needed to ignore the pain and slowly he made his way out of the overgrown hollow.

  The wind was cold on Sulla’s face, yet he could sense a change in the seasons. The daylight hours were lasting longer. It would soon be time.

  Behind him stood several of his commanders, waiting.

  “The monastery,” he said. “Ever since I have walked this land it has always stood there, taunting us.” Sulla pointed to the east, his arm stretched out across the cliff edge to a vista covered in dense woodland and bathed in the last embers of sunlight. A white tower was just visible, rising above the trees many miles away.

  “You want us to sack the monastery?” Lord Daquarius asked uncertainly.

  “They are our enemies!” Sulla spat back. “They are worshippers of Saradomin.”

  “Truly they are, but they are not worthy of our attention. They are old men in robes. If we attack them we will unite our enemies. If Misthalin becomes involved, if Varrock sends an army against us...”

  “They will not” Sulla insisted. “We shall test our weapons on the monastery and then turn south toward Falador. Thorbarkin, are you ready?”

  A hunchbacked dwarf made his way forward.

  “Yes, Lord Sulla,” the figure croaked, lowering his red cowl. His smile revealed sharp teeth that had been filed down to add to his terrifying appearance. His eyes shone eerily and were maniacally bloodshot.

  “How many of our weapons do you think we will need to assault the monastery?” Sulla snarled.

  He didn’t like using the non-human races in his army but the chaos dwarfs who shared his faith were industrious. And they had given him new weapons that could hammer down the strongest walls and clear a path through the boldest army.

  Weapons against which the knights had no defence.

  “No more than five, Lord Sulla,” came the reply. “Zamorak smiles on our cause.”

  “Then we will assault the monastery within days. We will test ourselves and our weapons against the faith of the monks of Saradomin.”

  “And after that, my lord?”

  “After that we turn south. To Falador!”

  Darkness fell over the barbarian village and several braziers were lit to keep the night at bay. From over the wooden paling that surrounded the settlement scavenging dogs could be heard, barking over the scraps of meat that some children had offered as bait to draw them unsuccessfully within range of their spears.

  And it wasn’t just the children who were disappointed. Returning to his wagon to gather his bedding from under the seat, Ebenezer found that one of the front wheels had cracked. It put a
n end to the early start he had hoped for. He knew the monastery would not be reached the night after tomorrow, as he had initially planned.

  Swiftly, he returned to Castimir and Gar’rth, who were still sitting in the crowded hall.

  “My wagon is going to need fixing” he announced. “The front wheel is splintered and won’t last the journey north.”

  “I do not think we can take your wagon north with us anyway, Ebenezer” Castimir said. “The roads are non-existent and the dense woods will make it all the slower.”

  The alchemist sat down heavily on the bench. He hated being away from his wagon for any period of time.

  The young wizard’s usually humorous face darkened.

  “And if our friend’s condition is as severe as you think it is, time will not be on our side.” He cast a swift glance to Gar’rth, who sat next to him, unaware of their conversation. “We need to find a guide, Ebenezer, or else we could find ourselves lost in the heart of The Wilderness.”

  Ebenezer raised his eyes and looked despairingly into Castimir’s round and clean-shaven face.

  “Tell me, wizard, which guide did you have in mind?”

  “Well, alchemist,” Castimir laughed, his eyes darting past the old man’s shoulder, “do you see that woman over there? The one with the big...”

  “Even I’m not so old as to miss her, young man.”

  “Be that as it may, it’s not her, Ebenezer.” Castimir exaggerated a sigh of despair. “It’s the dark-haired girl who is standing next to her—the one in the pale blue gown.”

  “The one with the silver tiara?” the alchemist asked, glancing in the direction Castimir had indicated. “She doesn’t look like one of the barbarian peoples. Who is she?” He was peering at the girl through his thick glasses, and his gaze caught her attention.

  She turned her head uncomfortably.

  “You’re staring at her,” Castimir hissed in alarm. “She’s a priestess!”

  Their conversation caught the attention of another traveller who had just entered the hall. A blonde-haired girl with a pale face sat quietly on a nearby bench, her back to the wall as if she were unwilling to let anyone out of her sight. She held her long sword carefully across her lap as if it was more precious to her than anything in the world.