by T. S. Church
Suddenly he swayed in the saddle.
“Do it, Castimir. Do it now!” Ebenezer spoke urgently.
Castimir held up the staff, and the knotted end glowed fiercely with its inner flame. Ebenezer removed the unexploded shell he had retrieved when he had taken shelter behind the courtyard fountain.
“Light the fuse” he said briskly.
As soon as Castimir’s staff touched it, the fuse came to life with a loud sizzle.
“Ride now, my friends” Ebenezer instructed them.
Arisha took Castimir’s horse by the reins and galloped swiftly after the disappearing monks.
“You must go too, Theodore” he said. “And you, Doric. We have no time left.” He held out the adamant blade for the squire.
Theodore shook his head, taking Kara’s sword and wearing a vicious look on his face. Doric, too, said nothing, but goaded his horse away from where he knew Ebenezer would throw the spitting explosive, just where the pathway ended.
The alchemist kept his keen eye on the fuse until the first of the Kinshra rode out onto the rise, yelling in triumph. Ebenezer did not need to think, for he had rehearsed the action in his mind. As soon as the spitting shell left his hand he dug his heels into his steed and lowered his head, yelling at the horse.
“Ride! Faster—”
The explosion silenced his words, shattered men and ripped through horses. He saw Theodore and Doric gallop at full speed into the suddenly disorientated enemy. But he could hear little, for the noise of the explosion had near-deafened him.
As he turned back to see the dozen contorted bodies of armoured men and horses that lay scattered like broken toys, he could barely hear the screams of the injured. Even Theodore’s war cry sounded far off.
Theodore’s timing was perfect. The first of the Kinshra who rode from the now smoke-filled path was unarmed, his hands pressed against his helmet in great agony. Theodore didn’t hesitate. The man was a follower of Zamorak. He had helped to violate the monastery and desecrate a peaceful place of worship.
He had to die.
With a practised move the squire brought Kara’s slender blade across the man’s throat. With shocking ease the adamant bit through the armour and cleaved deeply into his neck. Giving only a sudden cry the man fell from his horse and crashed awkwardly onto the grass where he remained, utterly motionless.
He was dimly aware of Doric, guiding his horse directly into a black-armoured warrior who staggered aimlessly on foot, stunned by the blast. The man screamed as the dwarf’s horse charged into him, knocking him violently off his feet and trampling him underfoot.
For the Kinshra the battle was lost. Most of the pursuers had been killed outright by the blast or stunned and knocked from their horses. Those who hadn’t, who had waited near the back, were not the bravest of men. Theodore’s vicious war cry and the yells of their dying comrades made them swiftly turn their horses away, toward the monastery.
For Theodore there could be no mercy. With each of the men he killed he thought of Kara—of how he had failed to protect her, of how he had betrayed her in Falador, and of not having the opportunity to make his peace with her before she was killed.
“Theodore!” Doric called as the squire leaned forward in his saddle to run through one of the few remaining Kinshra. The man screamed as he died and Theodore withdrew the sword, already looking for another enemy to feed his passion for revenge.
“Theodore, stop! We need a captive” Doric cried. “We need to know what the Kinshra are planning, and how many of those weapons they have.”
The squire halted upon hearing Doric’s words. His eyes were bloodshot with anger and he breathed deeply as he fought to regain control of himself. Rage was not the way of the Knights of Falador, and with a grim look at the carnage all around him, he lowered his sword in shame.
“You are right, my friend,” he muttered, reminding himself that it was Kara’s own anger that had ultimately resulted in her death. “No good can come of revenge.”
A low moan attracted his attention. It was one of the Kinshra—an officer of minor standing, judging from the man’s insignia. He was lying upon the smouldering grass, pinned beneath his dead horse. He had removed his helm to tend to his injuries. His face was blackened and he held his hand across his eyes.
“He’ll do,” Doric said, gesturing to the man with his axe.
“I beg for mercy!” the wounded man pleaded when Theodore dismounted. “Please! I am unarmed!” His voice shook with fear.
Theodore looked at him in contempt.
“You Kinshra deserve only the same mercy you offer to others. But I shall spare your life today, for you are coming with us to Falador. If you cause me or my companions any problems, we will kill you.”
“We should search him thoroughly,” Doric said, carefully looking over the man.
“He will not need his armour—it will weigh down our horses.” Theodore forced the man to his knees and carefully cut the straps with Kara’s blade, mindful not to injure him. With a loud clatter the man’s heavy breastplate fell to the ground, followed by the rest of his cumbersome plating.
They bound the man’s hands and sat him on one of the Kinshra horses that had survived the attack, tying him to the saddle and ensuring that the reins were secured to Theodore’s steed.
“Where is Arisha leading us?” Doric called as they rode to catch up.
“To the east, to Edgeville, I think. It is a full day’s journey, and the monks have little food with them.” Theodore spoke as if he disagreed with her decision.
“Then where are we headed?” Doric asked, knowing that only one destination could be important for the squire.
“We will catch up with them and make our farewells. Then we will ride on to Falador. The Kinshra will not be far behind.”
It was fully daylight by the time they galloped away, leaving the cold light of the cloudy winter morning to illuminate the colder faces of their dead enemies.
FIFTY
“Dig him out!” Sulla shouted across the courtyard. His temper mirrored the weather, for it had started to rain heavily and he was in ill spirits.
He looked toward the east wing of the monastery, which was smouldering now that the fires had been dampened. It seems the chaos dwarfs’ weapons have worked, he mused with a hint of satisfaction. He relished the idea of turning them against the crowded city of Falador. He imagined the streets running with the blood of innocents. Of women shielding their young, of the sheer helplessness of the knights in trying to protect their city from the falling shells.
His reverie was interrupted by the yell of a soldier who stood over the collapsed wall. Sulla stalked quickly over as they shifted enough of the debris to locate their demonic ally.
“Get him some water!” he spat. The nearest of his men ran to a fountain and filled one of the buckets abandoned by the monks. With a nod from his superior he emptied it over the werewolf’s dust-covered face.
Instantly an agonized howl caused all but Sulla to back away.
“It burns me!” the werewolf bellowed. “The water had been blessed by the priests of Saradomin.”
Sulla glared at Jerrod furiously. He contemplated leaving the creature there, or perhaps emptying several more buckets of water onto him and putting the bricks back, abandoning him to starve to death.
The werewolf struggled to free himself, pushing upward with a sudden strain. The bricks on top of him shuddered slightly in response.
“Free him!” Sulla ordered, before leaving to commandeer a room for himself in the western wing of the monastery, all of which was untouched by fire and undamaged from his bombardment.
“Wake up, Kara!”
The voice sounded far away. She opened her eyes slowly, unsure of what she saw. The last thing she remembered was the stinging smoke in her lungs and the searing heat on her face.
“Am I dreaming?” she asked, her voice weak. Somewhere nearby a man laughed, finding amusement in her confusion.
“You should actua
lly be dead. Both you and Gar’rth.”
At the mention of his name Kara looked wildly about, but she was alone on the side of a red mountain under an eerily dark sky which obscured the stars.
“Where is Gar’rth? Where am I?” Panic filled her voice.
“Gar’rth is not required, not yet anyway,” the voice answered calmly. “It is you with whom I wish to speak. And do not be afraid—you will not be kept here very long.”
“Who are you?” She found herself staring at a diminutive figure swathed in red robes. His eyes gleamed cunningly and his bent frame caused him to look up at her, a smouldering orange glint in his pupils. The man’s face was misshapen, his forehead swollen, and red sores were prevalent over his pale skin. He drooled somewhat, as if he were a fool.
Yet Kara feared him.
“Just an old friend,” the hunchback replied. “You do not know me, but I have watched over you for a long time. Since the day you were born, in fact.”
“Are you saying that you knew my parents?” she asked, hope in her voice.
“Alas, I did not,” came the answer. “But I do not wish to speak to you about the past. It is the future I am interested in. Look, there, to the east.”
The man pointed, and she followed the direction of his hand. Then she gasped.
The entire horizon was swarming with an army encamped. Never had she imagined such a mass of men and weaponry with their thousands of campfires, more numerous to her than the stars in the night.
“Who are they?” she asked, awestruck.
“They are your followers, Kara-Meir. If you wish them to be.”
“Mine?” Suddenly she was afraid.
“Yes, my dear. Yours. Think, Kara, about the past.” The voice was seductive, compelling. “The world cannot go on as it is. You feel hatred against the Kinshra for what they did to your family, and rightly so. But where should the true blame lie?”
“With Sulla?” Her voice was faint, unsure.
The small figure in the red robes shook his head patiently.
“No, not with Sulla—for he is just a man. A victim like yourself. No, who has waged war on the followers of Zamorak for generations? Who strives for domination in the world at this time? Think, Kara—who has betrayed you?”
Realization dawned as she understood what was being said.
“The Knights of Falador used me” she said slowly. “It is they who...” For some reason she could not bring herself to finish the sentence.
“They have hounded the followers of Zamorak for decades, Kara—and yet still they permit the Kinshra to live. The deaths of your family occurred not because of Sulla, but because of the Knights of Falador. Do you not see? They need the Kinshra to remain a threat to the people of Asgarnia—they need an enemy to justify their own existence. They could have destroyed the Kinshra years ago, if they wanted.
“But they didn’t, and because of that your family are dead and you are alone. You know their lies and their hypocrisy—they endangered you to achieve their own ends. They are attempting to take over Asgarnia, making the people believe them indispensable by letting the Kinshra continue with their savagery. This is their plan.”
Kara lowered her head in thought.
“Let me show you something, Kara,” the man said, his mouth twisting into a macabre smile.
And suddenly she was amongst the huge army of black-clad men, standing next to a column of horsemen who rode under a black banner. As they drew parallel with Kara their leader raised a hand and the column halted.
“What are they going to do?” Kara whispered.
“Just watch, Kara-Meir. They cannot see or hear you.”
The leader spoke and Kara recognised the voice. For it was her own, although different somehow, harsh and impatient.
“Where is he?” her voice said, as the figure removed her helm, shaking the blonde hair that fell loosely about her shoulders, her dark eyes flashing in the light. Kara gasped in amazement, for it was her—at least ten years older—who commanded the many thousands of men.
“Here he is, my lady,” a guard shouted, dragging a man who wore a torn white tunic and whose long unkempt hair hid his identity. He was thrown before her horse.
“Have you considered my proposal?” her older self asked, and to Kara’s ears there was a definite malice in her words.
“I will not take up the sword again,” said the man whose voice was alarmingly familiar. “I vowed to Saradomin never to do so.”
“Do not speak his name!” She spat the words, her face contorted in sudden rage. Her expression softened after a moment however, and even appeared gentle. “Tell me you will reconsider,” she ordered.
“I will not, Kara,” came the reply. “You have kept me prisoner for years, ever since my order fell at your hands. My mind is fixed.”
The prisoner suddenly wept and Kara, looking on, realised with a cold shock who it was.
“It is a shame, for I had hoped you would join me in forging a better world. But I see it is not to be. I can no longer waste time on you.” She tugged on her horse’s reins. “Goodbye, Theodore, last of the Knights of Falador.”
With a dark look she rode past him, nodding briefly to the guard who stood behind the kneeling man. She did not bother to turn her head as the guard brought his axe down, and she did not bother to look as Theodore breathed his last, his eyes looking to her as his life left him.
“I would never do that! I will never become that!” Kara shouted in outrage. “This is a nightmare. No one can see the future.” She stared at Theodore’s corpse and began to sob.
But the robed figure seemed not to care.
“It is only one of many possibilities, Kara,” the hunchback said. “Think about the power you could wield—the power to change the world, to stop all this war and needless death. The world needs a saviour, Kara-Meir, and I am offering you the chance to accept.”
Kara bent over to hide her tears.
“Think about it, Kara-Meir. That is all I am asking. I shall come to you twice more before you need to give me an answer.
“Farewell, Kara-Meir, for now.”
And with a sudden gasp, she awoke.
FIFTY-ONE
The werewolf stood above the collapsed wall, covered in the dust that the stonework had left on him. Sulla’s men stood back, suspicious that he might require an infusion of human blood after the battle.
“Lord Sulla wishes to see you,” one of the captains called, a hint of fear in his voice.
The werewolf sniffed the dawn air. The scent of blood stirred his appetite.
“There are some captives, or corpses, if you need to eat,” the captain continued, gesturing to three injured monks who had been unable to escape, and near them several lifeless bodies.
“It must be fresh” the werewolf said, looking at the monks in contempt. They were small and bony men, and would not make for a satisfying kill. He said nothing more as he went to answer Sulla’s summons.
“I have to say, my inhuman friend, that I expected more from you.” The words were said calmly, for Sulla had no doubt there were limits to the monster’s patience.
“It is this place, Sulla. The power of Saradomin enervates me.”
“Then why do you not eat, and build your strength back up? We have some captives.”
As if on cue, a low moan sounded from the adjoining room, drawing the werewolf’s attention. He ducked under the low doorway and found himself in Sulla’s makeshift hospital, where two of his footsoldiers lay badly injured. The two men were young and strong, and the werewolf stared.
Sulla noticed his greedy look.
“I doubt very much either will live long. Take your pick but keep it quiet, for the men would not like it. And know this—the boy Gar’rth and the girl were last seen running into the inferno. I doubt very much they could have survived. It seems your mission is finished, so we will have to work out a new purpose for you.” He paused to allow what he had said to sink in.
“If you wish, you can join th
e Kinshra, for your strength and abilities would be an asset.” Sulla stared at the two men who lay in contorted pain. “Think about it, while you eat.”
The lord of the Kinshra walked silently away, pulling the tattered curtain across before returning to his planning. He tried to block out the sound of the powerful maw crunching a man’s bones into powder.
Moments later the captain came bursting into the room in obvious excitement.
“We have located more survivors, Lord Sulla!” he said. “It is the girl and the boy, Gar’rth. They are alive—trapped in a cellar under the archives.”
“Take me to them,” Sulla said gleefully. At long last he would force the mysterious girl to tell him who she was, and why she had plagued his dreams.
Gar’rth could not lift the beam that had shielded them from the falling debris. Now it prevented them from escaping. Kara had seen the black-armoured men look down into the pit and she knew they would return in greater numbers.
“Kara! Help me!” Gar’rth said, straining at the beam once more.
“I cannot reach it, Gar’rth,” she moaned, still weak from the smoke that she had inhaled. She looked upward to the grey daylight behind the charred black rafters that hung precariously from the burnt ruins. Her mind was numb and she was overcome by sudden terror. If the Kinshra were still there, then what had become of her friends?
And what would become of Gar’rth and her?
Suddenly she wept. She wept because the Kinshra had won yet again. They had destroyed her life years ago, they had defeated her in her first quest for vengeance, and they had sacked a monastery and murdered innocents—and still they went unpunished!
“Is this what you want, Saradomin?” she asked, a futile whimper in her voice. “Is this all you can promise those who follow you?” She ignored Gar’rth’s stare and pulled her legs up under her chin and cried, overcome by the injustice that seemed so prevalent in the world.
Suddenly a harsh voice intruded upon her sorrow from above.
“It should teach you the value of worshipping false and weak gods.” Kara knew to whom it belonged even before she raised her tear-stricken face. Whether heard across fire or ice, the voice remained the same.
