Runescape

by T. S. Church

  “And who is to go with you?” The old man gazed into the goblet.

  “Kara and Theodore will both come. As will Castimir and Gar’rth.” The dwarf’s voice trailed off and Doric lowered his eyes to the ground. “It will be a hard journey, Ebenezer.”

  “I understand, Doric. I am not a good rider—my bones are too old to withstand the jostling of a horse beneath me. I think I will be of more use here in Falador than battling my way through enemy lines. But I do insist that you promise me one thing.”

  “Anything,” the dwarf said earnestly.

  “Make sure they all come back.”

  Doric took Ebenezer’s hand in a tight grip but said nothing.

  For it was not a promise he could make.

  Night had fallen. To the north of Falador, no more than a two-day ride from the city, Sulla sat hunched over a map. His one eye squinted in the candlelight as he read the details of his army’s deployment.

  Behind him, standing silently in the dark shadows, was Jerrod.

  “Our picket lines are watching every approach to the camp, whilst the goblins are securing our western flank” Sulla said. “Tomorrow they should join with us.”

  “And what then?” Jerrod’s voice was even harsher than usual, for he was impatient for the war to start.

  “Then we will move to within sight of Falador’s walls. The goblins will be used for the manual labour—digging trenches to secure our positions. Depending on how well they perform, we could use them as a diversionary force.

  “My guns will make short work of the walls of Falador. The chaos dwarfs think that within a few days—perhaps sooner—we will have opened a fissure large enough to exploit.” Sulla leaned away from his desk, his face a macabre picture of wicked humour. “The knights have no way of countering my guns.

  “For generations the people of Falador have mocked us,” he continued. “For decades we have been despised in Asgarnia.” He turned to face Jerrod, a dark glint in his eye. “Soon Falador will fall. Its streets will run with blood and its ruins will be ploughed into the earth. Let the people of Falador believe in peace, let them pray for a diplomatic resolution. But know this, Jerrod—there will not be one. Falador is in its final hour!”

  “And then, Sulla?” Jerrod asked, his curiosity aroused.

  “I will seize the throne of Asgarnia and the worship of Zamorak will enter a new age. We shall both have our revenge against those who have stood against us.”

  Outside, under the blanket of cloud that concealed the stars, the wind whipped through the camp, taking Sulla’s dark promise toward the south.

  FIFTY-SIX

  They rode through the starless night, the long shadows concealing their movements. Theodore carried a map, given to him by Sir Amik, with several locations marked to the north of Falador.

  “We keep a number of hideaways for our scouts,” Sir Amik had said. “In case they should be cut off from the city. You will hide in the daytime and travel at night. When you reach Ice Mountain you will be in Doric’s hands.”

  The squire also carried a small cage with several pigeons. The birds would fly back above the besieging armies, bearing any message from Theodore.

  To the west of Falador lay a swampland where an army could hide, concealed by the treacherous terrain through which only the knights knew the correct path. Dead branches and buzzing insects harassed the companions, and several times they saw bright lights bobbing up and down, as if a man were signalling to them.

  “What are those lights?” Kara asked.

  “Some think they are spirits of the dead” Theodore answered. “Whilst others claim they are just a natural phenomenon. I heard Ebenezer say that they were most likely caused by marsh gas.”

  “He places too much emphasis on science,” Castimir said, swiping the air in front of his face to deter a cloud of midges.

  “Maybe, Castimir, but I would feel more comfortable with him here,” Doric observed.

  “He is more use in Falador, Doric,” Kara said. “He admitted that himself when he came to see us leave.” Few people had been present to watch them go, for their mission was secret.

  Overhead, the leather wings of several bats sounded and Castimir instinctively ducked.

  “I’m not sure how much more I can stand of the swamp.”

  The prisoner sat with his hands in his lap, shivering in the darkness. The knights had made him deliberately uncomfortable: he had been left in the dungeons, below ground, kept in cold and darkness.

  I should have tried harder to escape the old man, he thought, recalling his journey back to Falador under the watchful eye of the man they called The Alchemist. Zamorak was not a forgiving deity. If he ever returned to Sulla’s army, his capture would likely mean his death.

  He had believed he would die in Falador, executed by the knights as a murderer. As his mind dwelt on that, he wept in the lonely darkness, cursing the fate that made him a prisoner. And then he felt the draft of cool air through the iron bars, and knew he wasn’t alone.

  “Eat,” the newcomer whispered from the darkness. A hand appeared between the bars, holding a wooden bowl with fruit and recently-cooked meat. “Do not leave anything for the guards to find.”

  The bowl was upturned and the precious food dumped upon the stone. But the prisoner didn’t care, for he was ravenous.

  “I will come again tomorrow night,” the voice continued. “Keep your strength up, for you shall soon be leaving here. I need you to give some information to Sulla.”

  And then the man vanished back into the darkness, making no sound as he went. The prisoner smiled bitterly for the first time in several days.

  The next night the man came again as promised. As before, he brought fresh fruit and cooked meat with him.

  “Tomorrow night you escape.” The man had held out his hand, revealing two keys in his open palm. “One for your cell and the other for the guardroom at the end of the corridor. After the guards change their watch, you will count to one hundred ten times. Then you must make your move. There will only be a single guard in the guardroom—and he will have been drugged. Behind the door you will find the uniform of a messenger. There are dozens of riders coming and going each day and at all hours—no one will think it suspicious.

  “With the uniform, there will be a satchel with a suitable pass to get you out of the castle and the city. My message to Sulla is concealed between two sheets of paper—a map of Falador and one of Asgarnia. It describes how I will communicate with him once he begins his siege.

  “Also in the satchel you will find a guide to the stables of the castle. There, a swift horse will be waiting for you.

  “Do you understand?”

  The prisoner swallowed hard, his mouth still full. It was a lot to take in.

  “I do,” he said, his words distorted as he chewed greedily.

  “There is one other thing I need you to do for me.”

  “What?”

  “You must kill the guard. Although he will be drugged, he needs to die by your own hand to give your escape veracity. Else he could identify my presence here and I would be under suspicion.” “

  “I will do it,” the prisoner hissed, knowing that his situation was radically altered, aware that he would return to Sulla’s army as a hero.

  “What is your name, prisoner?” the man asked as he made ready to leave.

  “Gaius. And you?”

  The traitor laughed in the darkness.

  “Just do your job, Gaius. Make certain the guard dies tomorrow night!” Without waiting for an answer, he left as silently as he had the night before.

  And now it was the night of his escape.

  From his cell Gaius could hear the sound of chairs scraping on the stone floor and the friendly remarks as one guard arrived to replace the other. When the prison went silent again, he began to count.

  One... two... three...

  A moment passed. He heard the sounds of two men talking. The guard sounded surprised at the appearance of another man. T
he prisoner continued to count, disregarding the talk to make certain it did not interrupt his concentration.

  Seventy-four... seventy-five... seventy-six... he counted for the third time.

  A dull thud sounded from the room, followed immediately by a clatter as a chair was overturned.

  There was nothing more as he counted the minutes away.

  On the ninth count his mind was made up. He could no longer restrain himself. The key was unsteady in his hot hand and he wasted precious seconds getting it into the lock. With a savage turn, the door fell open.

  He seized the key and rushed into the corridor. There were no other prisoners, for the knights rarely detained anybody other than the agents of their enemies. He ran toward the guardroom, the second key ready in his hand.

  Silently he listened at the door before attempting to open it. There was no sound from within.

  Swiftly now, and calmer than before, he placed the key in the lock and turned it easily, pushing the stout wooden door open.

  The guard was lying on the flagstones, his food half-eaten on the table where he had sat. He was breathing quietly.

  Gaius knew what he had to do. He took a hammer from the bench at the far wall and with several hard blows he made certain the guard would never open his eyes again.

  The uniform was where the traitor had said it would be and in a satchel with it he found the pass and maps which concealed the traitor’s message. Within scant seconds he was changed, making sure the cap was pulled low over his forehead. He knew the chances of anyone recognising him were small, and at this hour—when many of the men would be retiring—he knew his escape was near certain.

  But he wasn’t so sure when he opened the door of the prison house. As he crossed the courtyard he passed two knights deep in conversation. Both ignored him.

  It was the same in the stables. No one bothered to challenge a messenger. Several men were tending to their steeds, each looking as exhausted as their animals. Gaius ignored them as he looked for the horse the traitor had promised him.

  But it was not there. A panic gripped him.

  “Are you looking for your horse, sir?”

  He jumped, then glanced down to see a stable boy yawning sheepishly.

  “I am” he answered. “You have moved it?”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said. “I had to move her, as we are running out of room in the stables now that Sir Amik has commandeered the citizens’ horses. But I will take you to her.”

  The youth led him to a brown mare, already saddled and prepared for immediate use. With a vicious look at the boy, Gaius mounted the animal and rode out into the courtyard, a sudden elation gripping his stomach. He could feel the smile tugging at his lips and he had to resist the urge to laugh.

  He was so nearly free!

  The guard at the end of the bridge took a single look at him and didn’t bother even to read his pass, waving him on with an impatient look.

  The second guard was different, however. As Gaius trotted over the bridge the man moved to intercept him.

  “Where are you off to this time?” he asked without suspicion. “Varrock? Burthorpe?”

  “Burthorpe,” Gaius said impatiently, as if he were eager to start upon the three-day journey to the town north of Taverley. The guard looked up to speak, but Gaius interrupted him.

  “... again!” he added.

  The guard nodded in understanding.

  “Is it true what they are saying? Is the crown prince unwell?”

  “I am just a messenger, my friend. And a very tired one at that.”

  The guard nodded and stepped back, gesturing for him to continue. He headed north to the city’s gate, where several guards glanced at him without even attempting to question him.

  With a widening grin he rode out unchallenged onto the open road north of Falador and finally gave a triumphant laugh.

  For he was free.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  “The people are already speaking of defeat, Sir Amik,” Nicholas Sharpe said. “You must pass the order, for the security of Falador is at stake!”

  The knight raised his eyes, glancing first to Sir Tiffy, who nodded very slightly, and then to Bhuler, who turned away.

  He knew he had no choice.

  “Then it shall be done” he said. “If it is not, panic will overrun the citizens, before the enemy.” He leaned forward, his quill scratching the parchment. “Any dissenters and seditionists will be arrested. There are to be no gatherings of more than fifteen citizens. Any mob is to be instantly dispersed.”

  An uneasy silence settled over the four men. Sir Amik knew that for the people of Falador, their ancient and hard-won rights were of great importance.

  “The people will not like it, Sir Amik,” Bhuler said plainly. “The policy could backfire, further convincing them that we are desperate.”

  Sir Amik raised a hand to stop him.

  “The security of Falador outweighs all,” he said. “We must be under no illusion. Crown Prince Anlaf has been manipulated by the Kinshra and will not side with us. We cannot wait idly by, not any more. We have already arranged our plans depending on the actions Sulla takes.

  “If he comes south and starts a siege then we will break out in an attempt to disrupt his cannons, attacking from the swamplands where we will gather our strength. He will not expect that.” He yawned, exhausted and suddenly feeling very old.

  The master-at-arms spoke.

  “We have commandeered a great number of horses, so every man who can fight will have a mount. For the plan to work we will need to assault the Kinshra with Falador’s full strength—a combination of both the knights and the city guardsmen.” Sir Amik nodded in agreement.

  “Then call in all able men, even those from the almshouses, for every one of them will be needed.” He smirked suddenly as he spoke. “I have seen Sir Erical wandering around the castle in recent days, as well as a few of the other retired knights. Let us hope they still know how to wield a blade and ride a horse.”

  The daylight was reduced to a sickly twilight under the gnarled trees that grew north of the swamp. The companions had spent an uneasy night, sleeping fitfully as they listened to strange and haunting sounds. Only Gar’rth seemed comfortable in that dismal place, for he had grown up in Morytania, a land of swamps and mires, where the dead did not rest.

  They had been travelling again for an hour when Theodore raised his hand to signal a stop, betraying a sense of urgency which made his companions freeze.

  He pointed to the east, where a large body of mist rolled gently over a calm lake. The companions could see several bodies on the shore.

  “Goblins!” Doric hissed.

  “And druids, too,” Castimir said quietly, a pained look on his face. “Why would the goblins kill druids? What is the point of it?”

  “Goblins kill for the sake of killing” Doric grunted, readying his axe. “If they are patrolling this far south, it might mean that Taverley has been attacked.”

  “But why would Sulla waste men and resources assaulting Taverley?” Theodore pressed. “Why destroy a place that holds no consequence to his war?”

  “That’s goblins for you, squire” Doric muttered. “Besides, occupying Taverley means that none of our messengers can get to Burthorpe. It means Falador is alone.”

  “Then we must make a decision” Theodore said. “Taverley is a day’s journey away. If it is occupied, we will find it difficult to break east and make for Ice Mountain. Instead, we could start eastward now and skirt around the south of the lake.”

  “That could lead us straight into the Kinshra army north of Falador,” Kara warned.

  “Then we take our chances with Taverley” Theodore said. “And pray it hasn’t fallen.”

  The crown prince woke to find both his valet and his Imperial Guards replaced by Kinshra warriors. He demanded first to see Lord Amthyst, and when he was told that his most senior advisor was under arrest for treason, he demanded to see the person on whose authority it had been don
e.

  That was Lord Daquarius.

  “Where is Lord Amthyst?” Anlaf’s voice rose as Lord Daquarius entered his bedchamber. The prince’s knuckles clenched, bleaching his fingers white.

  “Lord Amthyst is in several places, my lord,” Lord Daquarius said coldly. “He was executed this morning—in the manner befitting a traitor. It transpired that he had been systematically poisoning you over some months. Documents seized from his chamber prove this. Therefore, we have taken steps to ensure that you are protected.”

  The crown prince gasped. Lord Amthyst executed? But Amthyst was his oldest and most trusted advisor, the closest thing he had to a friend!

  He fell to the plush vermillion carpet, biting his clenched fist and weeping uncontrollably.

  “My lord, Asgarnia needs you” Daquarius said firmly. “You must be strong!” The prince felt the Kinshra commander’s hand on his shoulder and he knew Daquarius was right. His nation needed him. Slowly, his tears and wails subsided.

  He stood unsteadily.

  “You are right, Daquarius,” he muttered. “What must I do to ease the burdens of my realm? Who is to blame for this ill fate?”

  “Is it not obvious, my lord?”

  The crown prince glanced wildly from one wall to the other. He shook his head doubtfully.

  “Surely if anyone is to blame, it is the Knights of Falador,” Lord Daquarius said. “Has not Sir Amik Varze tried to entrench his order in Asgarnia? Has he not always been in competition with your Imperial Guard? Has he not always sought to confine my own order to the barren wastes of Ice Mountain, where we are permanently assailed from The Wilderness, while he sits like a fatted calf supping on the milk of Asgarnia’s greatest city?

  “Is this not all true, my lord?”

  “It is!” A fever gripped him now. “I have always thought so, by Saradomin!”

  Suddenly, his mood changed. He felt sure he could trust Lord Daquarius. Had he not dreamed of riding to war with the Kinshra in the service of their dark god?