by T. S. Church
The abbot began his chant.
Gar’rth was restrained by thick ropes, bound to an iron chair that sat inside a holy circle drawn on the floor. He faced the stained-glass window with the light of the sun shining directly into his face. As a cloud moved across the chapel window, it seemed to the onlookers as if his face had suddenly become inhuman, twisted and savage, the visage of a true beast.
But a second later the cloud moved on and the sunlight revealed a weary and pale Gar’rth, but the Gar’rth they knew, wracked by pain and hungry for something he knew it was wrong to take.
The abbot’s chanting continued as Brother Althric lit the incense and set it burning slowly from four golden stands. At one point the monk stepped forward and wiped a cloth soaked with holy water across Gar’rth’s forehead, provoking a sudden change in him. He became a screaming maniac, his face contorted in a rage that was devoid of any reason or humanity.
This was the beast.
Gar’rth’s rage lasted for just a minute before the holy water steamed off his forehead. As it did so, he returned once more to his former self, sweating profusely and gasping for breath.
“This will take some time” the abbot said sombrely, closing his eyes in concentration. “He is farther gone than we expected, and it may even be too late. When we continue none of you must step inside the holy circle—for Zamorak will try hard to maintain his hold.”
“It will get far uglier from now on,” Brother Althric said as the abbot began to chant once more.
FORTY-FIVE
Sulla watched the powerful figure dressed in torn robes that were so ill-kept they no longer had any distinguishable colour. The man stood alone, no more than a hundred yards away, on a small rise to the east, barring their way to the monastery.
Sulla was disturbed by the man’s ability to appear seemingly at will out of the undergrowth, evading his scouts and bypassing his patrols. So far he had done no harm, but Sulla did not like to be made a fool of.
“We have been unable to catch him,” the Kinshra scout said.
“Can’t you shoot him with an arrow?” Sulla growled.
“We have tried that, my lord. But each time he vanishes again into the undergrowth. His ability to hide is unnatural—even the horses daren’t go near him.”
“Then I shall go to him alone” Sulla mounted his horse in a single deft movement and trotted slowly toward the lone figure who stood by a dense copse at the top of the rise. He didn’t ride straight to him, but as if he meant to pass him by. As he began his ascent he closed the visor on his helmet. No man he had ever met had been able to suppress their surprise at suddenly witnessing Sulla’s mutilated face.
The closer he got, the more he had to wrestle to maintain control over his animal. The horse pulled to get away, but ultimately gave in to its master, its eyes wide with fear and foam flecking its lips.
The figure did not move as Sulla approached him, and the leader of the Kinshra did not call out. He rode within twenty yards of the man and still neither spoke. Sulla could sense the power emanating from the mysterious stranger.
“You are a follower of Zamorak?” The guttural voice sounded from inside the cowl, and the tattered man looked up to reveal two shining red eyes in the darkness of his hood.
For a brief second Sulla was uneasy, and his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.
“I am Sulla, lord of the Kinshra, followers of Zamorak, feared throughout Asgarnia and renowned throughout The Wilderness.”
“I have never heard of you. And I don’t fear you.” The words were said without malice or sarcasm.
The brutal honesty took him by surprise.
“Then I would say you are a fool. I have an army only seconds away.”
“That is more than enough time for me to kill you, if I wish.”
Again, the matter-of-fact tone disarmed the Kinshra lord. With a quick movement of his gloved hand he unclasped the visor on his helmet and raised it, staring at the robed man coolly as his marred features were exposed. He noted with satisfaction that the red eyes widened slightly in surprise.
“Many people have said as much” Sulla replied. “A few of the more foolish have tried. But you are no normal traveller. Why have you avoided my scouts and stalked my army?”
“To know who you are, lord of the Kinshra” the figure replied, his composure quickly regained. “I am not of this world and I have been hounded by the followers of Saradomin for several days now, driven from Falador while I pursued what I was sent here to retrieve. It was important that I knew who you were before I approached you. But you have no reason to fear me, Lord Sulla, for I too am a follower of Zamorak. What I seek has taken refuge in the Saradomist monastery not far from here—a place I will not be able to enter.”
“Holy barriers mean nothing to men, regardless of their god. Following Zamorak is a choice but not a destiny for us. You may join us, for we are marching on the monastery. But tell me where you are from, and let me see your face.”
“I am from Morytania,” the figure said, lifting hands which had remained hidden under the cover of his long robes. “My name is Jerrod.”
Sulla noticed instantly the two missing fingers, the long claws and the hair covering the back of his hands. And when the cowl was pulled back to reveal his face, the lord of the Kinshra was greeted by the face of a fiend.
Sulla simply smiled in his peculiar way, and then, as he dismounted, he laughed.
FORTY-SIX
The exorcism had reached a horrific stage. A loud moan came from Gar’rth’s open mouth, a chilling sound that had lasted for half an hour. A brisk hot wind swept up from inside the circle.
“It is the anger of Zamorak!” Brother Althric yelled against the wind. “He wants to keep Gar’rth for himself!”
The moaning grew. As it did, the wind roared and the light faded.
Theodore had never in his wildest imaginings dreamed of such a scene. To him, it represented everything he fought against—the domination of a being by Zamorak, the evil with which Gar’rth had been infected, the conflict in his soul.
“Fight it, Gar’rth!” he shouted. “Do not give in!” He was about to shout further encouragement when something moved... just beneath Gar’rth’s skin. “What in the name of Saradomin is that?” he cried, glancing sideways to Castimir. He noted then how pale the wizard’s face had become.
“This is not magic, Theo” Castimir said, his voice catching in his throat. “This is a contest between the gods about which I know very little.” He gave a sudden cry and covered his mouth with his hand.
Theodore looked at once to Gar’rth. There was something moving under his skin, pushing out from inside him, like a beast trying to escape. The shape of a large clawed hand appeared in Gar’rth’s chest, beneath the stretching skin, before suddenly disappearing again.
And it was not alone. Dozens of other claws and wolf-like impressions were erupting across his body as Gar’rth’s dark heritage fought back against the commanding chants of Abbot Langley. A thousand contorted visages in screaming agony were outlined in the youth’s undulating flesh. Each disappeared as swiftly as it had come, only to be replaced an instant later like ripples on a lake in a rainstorm.
“What are they?” Kara asked, her fear evident in her tremulous voice.
“It is Zamorak’s power” Brother Althric said hoarsely. “That is Gar’rth’s heritage—it is what he is, and that is what we are trying to rescue him from.” He spoke loudly, stepping to Kara’s side. “You can do nothing but pray for him now, and give him words of friendship and encouragement.” She reached out, and the wise monk caught her wrist in a suddenly tight grip. “But you must not cross into the holy circle. If you do that, he shall be lost, and so will you. You must promise me that, Kara. You must all promise me,” he demanded, looking at each of them in turn.
They nodded their assent, and the abbot’s voice rose still louder against the raging winds which threatened to extinguish the candles that Brother Althric had lit to aid them
. As the abbot shouted, Gar’rth gave a hideous cry, straining at his bonds with all his strength.
But it was no longer a man who was restrained in the holy circle. It was a werewolf.
All about him lay pieces of human skin, as if they were discarded clothes in which the wolf had dressed himself in order to masquerade as a man. His entire body was coated in shaggy hair which hung wildly about his suddenly massive frame, for the beast was nearly twice as large as Gar’rth had been in his human form.
From his face, two huge red eyes glared out at the onlookers, focusing on Kara in particular.
Kara could feel the evil presence conquering her will, and she struggled to resist it. With a stumble she stepped forward, her hands reaching out again to Gar’rth, offering pity and comfort.
“Oh Gar’rth! I’m sorry...” she began, but before she could utter another syllable she was roughly seized and pulled back.
“It is not Gar’rth, Kara!” Brother Althric yelled. “That thing is one of Zamorak’s servants sent here to prevent us from saving him. It is a creature from the Abyss, intended to lure one of his friends across the holy circle and to their doom. And it would be Gar’rth’s doom also. For your blood would have driven him beyond our power.”
Hearing Brother Althric’s words the wolf creature laughed contemptuously, an animalistic sound that carried no humour.
“Fool!” it growled. “If I do not succeed, then another will come. Even now he is near, and by nightfall he shall turn your souls over to me.” The creature gave another savage laugh and then, as the wind suddenly slowed, they saw once more that Gar’rth was at the centre of the circle, still bound to his iron chair and still wracked by the endless agony.
Throughout the afternoon the conflict continued. No more servants of Zamorak appeared after the wolf creature, and yet the abbot became increasingly strained. It was early evening when they ended the exorcism. A small pool of black liquid lay at Gar’rth’s feet. It was an oily substance and the abbot told his fellow monks not to touch it.
“It has been expelled from Gar’rth,” he said with an exhausted sigh.
“Then it is done?” Ebenezer asked. “Gar’rth is cured?”
The abbot looked away, pity on his face.
“No” he said. “It is not done, my friend. Gar’rth is too firmly under the influence of Zamorak for me to drive out the beast entirely. But we have restored his will once more, giving him control over his nature.”
“Yet how long will this last?” Theodore asked. “What shall we do when it comes once more to possess him?”
The abbot looked at Gar’rth, who was being untied from the chair by the gentle hands of the monks. He was exhausted, his eyes closed in deep sleep.
“It might never come to possess him again,” came the response. “We might have driven enough of it from him that he can always remain in control of his actions. We will know nothing until he wakes.” The abbot looked at each of them in turn. “Brother Althric shall guide you to your rooms.” He bowed as they left.
The monk guided them through the dimly-lit corridors to a set of rooms in the eastern wing. Their belongings had already been laid out for them. Even Ebenezer’s chemicals were displayed, but for once the alchemist showed no interest in them.
Yet Kara refused sleep. As soon as Gar’rth was resting under the watchful eyes of her friends, she sought out Brother Althric and asked about the records. Theodore went with her, and although the two had yet to make their peace, she offered no objection.
Despite his own fatigue, the monk took them to a room filled with books and documents of every shape and size.
“We have set aside records dating from the year 148 to 156 of the Fifth Age” he explained. “That should capture the time when your father brought you here to receive the monastery’s blessing, when you were a child.”
Kara could not resist a hopeful smile and for the first time in many days she looked happily at Theodore, forgetting her anger toward him. Theodore smiled back.
FORTY-SEVEN
Fatigue was the victor, and Theodore stumbled away to his bed, hardly able to stand.
Yet still Kara refused to sleep. She remained, alone throughout the night as the wind howled down from Ice Mountain and swept through the corridors of the monastery.
She stared at the pages for hours, rifling through the calligraphic records in awe at the skill of their authors, for each writing was the work of an artisan. She read and reread many of the pages. Never before had she taken such a simple joy in reading.
Once she nearly cried out, for she read about a local man bringing in his child for the blessing of Saradomin. But her hope was short-lived when she saw that the child had been a boy. With a patient sigh she turned the page to continue, her mind blocking out the four other volumes she had yet to examine.
But eventually reading the fine writing by spluttering candle light took its toll, and she found herself squinting heavily at the text before her. She pinched her eyes to drive away the fatigue, but it was not enough. With another sigh she stood up, stretching her tight muscles, deciding that it was time to return to her room—for it was already dawn.
Kara took the candle and left the archives, shutting the door firmly behind her. For several hours she had heard no sound that indicated any other living person, and the silence unnerved her. In such a place it was easy to believe in ghosts.
She had gone only a few yards when she heard the padded feet of a monk. He was followed by a second man, and Kara heard them speaking in low voices, their concern easily apparent from their anxious tones.
“Who are they?” asked the first man. “What do they want?”
Kara extinguished the candle before the light could give her away. There was something in their voices that made her uneasy, and somehow she suspected it was best to hide her presence.
“I do not know—but they have surrounded the monastery.” replied his companion. “There are torches being brandished at every perimeter. We must wake the abbot!”
At once Kara’s mind screamed a single word.
Kinshra.
It had to be them, she thought. Only they had the strength and daring to assault a monastery. The roving bands of thieves and outlaws who dwelt in The Wilderness were not organised enough. But the Kinshra, Kara realised, with Sulla at their head, were capable of anything.
She raced to wake her friends.
“We are ready, Lord Sulla” the chaos dwarf hissed with anticipation. He squinted up at his master in the semi-darkness of dawn, the light of the flames making him look even more deformed than usual.
“Then begin the bombardment!” the lord of the Kinshra ordered. “Let us see what these new machines can do.”
The chaos dwarf gave the order and at once the five troopers standing above the heavy iron weapons lowered their burning torches onto the fuses.
Scarcely a moment later an immense roar perforated the silence of the night. Each of the iron carriages discharged a great plume of acrid smoke as they leapt, bellowing flames from their barrels.
Sulla’s ears rang from the noise. He motioned the dwarfs to reload their guns and fire again.
Kara was entirely unprepared for the explosion. Before she could react, she was knocked to the floor as the roof collapsed, showering her with brick and timber.
“It must be a dragon!”
Castimir’s voice reached her where she lay, and she groaned and coughed as Theodore, his leather armour already strapped on, came to her aid. He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her roughly to her feet. Their eyes locked. She was ready—even eager—for a fight.
“We cannot fight dragons, Theo!” Castimir yelled in distress.
“It is no dragon,” Ebenezer shouted. “It is a perversion of science.” All around them the many cries of “Fire!” increased in urgency.
“We must gather our horses,” Arisha insisted.
“You would suggest we flee?” Theodore said, his face darkening.
“There are too many of
them” Arisha told him. “And the monks are not warriors. We must save those we can and leave this place.”
“She’s right, squire,” Doric said, his head appearing from behind the door frame to his room. “This is no mere band of outlaws—these men are organised. Sir Amik and Falador must be informed.”
Before Theodore could speak a second eruption sounded from beyond the monastery’s walls, and immediately several chilling whines came from the night sky.
“Get under cover!” Doric shouted, seizing Kara by the wrist and pulling her into his room, forcing her to shelter against the stone wall. The others followed and within seconds all were packed so tightly they could not move.
“If the shell comes through the roof and into this room...” Ebenezer looked fearfully at the low ceiling.
Feet sounded outside the door as a monk ran by. In the very same instant the corridor shook with an explosion and the door to Doric’s room was wrenched off one of its hinges as dust and smoke swept inside.
“We have to get out of here” Castimir shouted. The wizard ran to the oak door, but its distorted shape meant that he could not move it an inch. Theodore moved to help, and the two youths put all their weight into forcing it aside.
It didn’t work. The one remaining hinge, twisted by the force of the explosion, held the stout oak door in place.
“We’ll suffocate with all this smoke coming in” Ebenezer shouted. The corridor was burning. Soon the flames and heat would finish them.
Gar’rth pushed past Castimir and gave all his strength to the door, with Theodore straining at his side. The squire coughed and brushed the tears from his reddened eyes.
“It is no good. We cannot get out.”
“If I had room to swing my axe I might be able to break it,” Doric muttered. “But there is not enough time.”
“Castimir,” Ebenezer wheezed, his head close to the wizard, “in the barbarian hall when you offered to melt that knife—can you melt the hinge?”
