Runescape

by T. S. Church

  Castimir was the first to fell an enemy. He rode on the edge of the charge, intending to break off and use his magic from a distance rather than engage in close combat. Fire arced from his fingers and spread fear and confusion throughout the enemy ranks.

  Then it was the turn of Lord Radebaugh and Theodore, who led the charge into the breaking goblin horde. There was no wall of spears to resist them, no packed column of disciplined strength to drive them off.

  It was a massacre.

  Theodore’s mare trampled the first goblin under her hooves, while he beheaded another with a single stroke. The squire felt hot blood splatter his face through his visor. The scent of battle drove him on as he cut down another and guided his mare to ride over those who turned to flee.

  “Fire!” Kara shouted. Five hundred carefully aimed bolts swept into the goblin mass. It was the only shot the dwarf crossbowmen would get, for they had no time to reload the bolts before the cavalry swept their enemy away.

  In less than a minute, the entire goblin horde of two thousand had been put to flight. Those who had not been killed fled the field, abandoning their weapons and tearing off their armour in an effort to run all the quicker.

  SEVENTY

  The traitor parried Sir Pallas’s blow with ease.

  “This is pathetic” Finistere spat scornfully as the old knight stumbled, breaking off his attack to catch hold of the wall for support as he wheezed heavily. “I have kept my sword arm honed, practising in secret in case I might have to fight again. You don’t have a hope.”

  “Let him go, Finistere,” Ebenezer shouted. “It is murder now.”

  “It was murder a long time ago,” Finistere replied.

  Their swords sang as the two men exchanged several swift blows. The traitor was careful to stay away from the gate, ensuring that he was well beyond the reach of his prisoners.

  “It is fortunate that I am in no rush,” the traitor mocked. “I shall let the fighting end in the city before joining the victors in a satisfying plunder of Falador. None shall be spared!”

  Sir Pallas lunged desperately, and the traitor sidestepped, leaving the old knight to gather his strength again.

  “Come to us, Sir Pallas” Sir Tiffy cried. “Come close in to the gate. Finistere won’t dare come so near to us.”

  “I cannot,” Sir Pallas responded.

  Then suddenly he grinned. “Evil must be fought, Sir Tiffy. We must all make sacrifices to that end!”

  With a speed that surprised the traitor, Sir Pallas rushed him, his sword cutting a wide arc. But the traitor’s patience had ended. He didn’t even bother to parry the blow. Instead, he stepped forward, his sword darting in a single deadly thrust.

  Sir Pallas gasped as the blade entered his body. He dropped his sword instantly and uttered a low moan of agony, collapsing to his knees, grasping at the traitor as if his killer would suddenly offer him a reprieve.

  “Get your hands off me” Finistere said, reaching down to push the old knight away. But still Sir Pallas clawed at his killer as if his hands were weapons, tearing at his cloak and belt.

  “Get away from me!” the traitor yelled, throwing the old man to the ground. He watched in contempt as the mortally wounded knight crawled with agonising slowness to the iron gate, where Sir Tiffy’s outstretched hands were reaching for him, ready to offer what little comfort they could.

  “My dear friend,” he said with affection, his face dark as he observed the wound. “What could you hope to achieve by this brave act?” His hand lay on the shoulder of his friend, and he frowned as he saw Sir Pallas stretch his mouth into a pain-filled grin.

  The traitor noted it, too, and was suddenly afraid.

  “What are you laughing at, you old fool?” he demanded.

  The dying knight smiled still.

  “I have achieved a victory today, Tiffy” he gasped. “It has cost me everything, I fear, but it has been a just sacrifice to bring low a wretched enemy.”

  Finistere opened his mouth to speak, but as he did so the sound choked in his throat. For Sir Pallas’s hand had fallen open, and a key dropped to the dusty stone within an inch of Sir Tiffy’s hand. It was the key to the iron gate. Sir Pallas had ripped it from his belt.

  The hunter had become the hunted.

  With a cry of rage Finistere kicked over his lantern and fled into the darkness as Marius put the key into the lock.

  He knew he could not outrun the Squire. It was in the darkness that his salvation lay.

  Sir Vyvin followed Sir Amik’s gaze north. Surely, he thought, it was time for them to begin their breakout? In the distance the goblins were fleeing as Theodore regrouped with the Imperial Guard in preparation for a second assault.

  “We must go now” Sir Amik spoke for the first time to Sir Vyvin, who turned to reply, but his words were lost amongst the clamour of the Kinshra soldiers nearest the wall.

  We will talk of this before the day is done, my friend, he thought, as he turned his attention to more pressing matters.

  For the citizens of Falador had entered the battle. Hundreds of them lined the ramparts above the surrounded knights. Men hurled stones and bricks onto the heads of any Kinshra within range, while women emptied buckets of boiling water into the thickest concentrations.

  At the same time, the knights’ leader raised his banner, and the cavalry of Falador charged the thinnest point of the Kinshra horseshoe. Sir Vyvin was at Sir Amik’s side, shouting to him in support. The great knight shouted back, urging them on, using his banner as a lance.

  To the matron, who watched from the ramparts of the castle, it seemed as if the advancing enemy was simply biding their time, occupying themselves with plunder. She cast a dark look down into the courtyard. Pale, frightened faces looked expectantly up at her—injured men, unfit for battle, roused from their beds only to await the end.

  “He should be here on the wall with us,” she said to herself before turning away and marching across the courtyard. She ignored the whimpering of hungry children and weeping mothers who had taken shelter in the castle’s protective walls.

  She climbed the stairs and knocked upon the stout door.

  “Bhuler! It is me. Open up!”

  She listened at the door, expecting to hear the crackle of burning papers, the documents that Bhuler had said he would destroy to prevent them from falling into enemy hands.

  “Have they come?” a voice responded. “Is it the end?”

  As it spoke the matron opened the door.

  “Not yet, old friend” she said, “for Sir Amik has...”

  Her words died in her mouth. For sitting before her in his bed was Sir Amik Varze himself, his grey eyes regarding her coolly. He looked stronger than before, and with a gasp of sharp pain he pushed himself out of his bed and stood up.

  “Where is Bhuler?” he asked calmly. “And where is my armour?”

  The matron stifled a gasp as a cold realisation dawned on her. She remembered seeing Sir Amik ride out under the gate at the head of the cheering knights to face the Kinshra, and how his appearance alone had raised their spirits.

  “It is Bhuler, Sir Amik!” she said. “It must have been him all along.”

  Before the walls of Falador, Bhuler knew he had been right. All those years of hard work and quiet determination had been worth it. Saradomin had spared him for a greater purpose.

  He urged the men on, driving into the Kinshra formation and scattering them with his ferocity. Behind him the knights charged, their sudden rush surprising the enemy who had begun to assume an inevitable victory.

  Horses and men screamed as sharpened blades stabbed through armour and flesh. The knights had focused their attack intelligently, and the Kinshra line could not contain them.

  Out onto the open plain he rode, the first to break through. He circled wide to keep his men in formation as he turned back to drive into the rear of the Kinshra horseshoe. Now pikemen faced horsemen.

  The offensive started a panic in the enemy lines. Very quickly the
y began to retreat, attempting to regroup into compact formations to resist the enemy cavalry. As the invaders turned their backs, the men of the city militia and those knights without horses exacted a terrible price, taking advantage of their disarray to fell many of their enemies.

  Bhuler wept behind his visor.

  “For Falador! For the knights! For Saradomin!” he shouted, raising Sir Amik’s banner above his head and urging his horse forward into the mêlée.

  “Over here!”

  Finistere heard the squire’s voice echo in the tunnel mouth as the sounds of two men wading through the shallow water of the sewer reached him in his hiding place. Finistere could hear the wheezing of Sir Tiffy and Ebenezer as the two older men caught up with the squire.

  They only have one lantern between them now, the one I left in Sir Erical’s chamber. I made sure of that when I sent the boy to lure Sir Tiffy here. How long can it last?

  “He cannot be far away. He must be hiding,” he heard Sir Tiffy say.

  “We must not separate” Ebenezer replied. “We have an advantage in numbers.”

  “Finistere! You know you can’t escape, ” Sir Tiffy cried. “We’ll find you sooner or later. Give it up!” he yelled. “Come out and I promise you will be treated fairly.”

  No one moved for a long moment, each waiting for the other to make the first sound that would give them away.

  “We must flush him out.” Ebenezer’s voice echoed as the low glare of the lantern flickered alarmingly in the chamber.

  It cannot last for much longer. The lantern will die soon, and then I will be able to make my move in the darkness.

  “There are only two ways he can go from here—back to the city, or under the wall and outside,” Sir Tiffy continued loudly. “Let us be patient, for we are the hunters now.”

  The lamp flickered again as a cool draft of air swept through the chamber.

  No one moved.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  Sir Amik stood in the highest room in the castle, looking north, a spyglass to his eye. He watched as the cavalry regrouped itself and rode back to the dwarf line, which was moving south.

  To the east he saw Sulla’s remaining cavalry, several hundred strong. The horsemen were riding west to prevent the armies of Falador from combining with the dwarfs.

  He lowered his head in grief.

  “Bhuler, I pray you know what you are doing. If not, you have condemned us all.”

  But there was nothing he could do save watch.

  Sulla had hurled the last of his men into the battle. His cavalry had been dispatched to keep the dwarf forces occupied while his infantry moved to annihilate the outnumbered knights. Even Jerrod had been forced into the battle. Sulla’s one instruction to him was chillingly concise.

  “Bring me Sir Amik’s head! Fell him and the rest will follow.”

  The werewolf growled in acknowledgment. He had never fought in a pitched battle before. His fights had always been ones of hunting and ambush, never amidst hundreds of desperate, well-armed men. Feeling suddenly vulnerable, he moved to obey Sulla’s command, knowing that his best chance for survival was to stay close to the Kinshra lord.

  Kara’s crossbowmen reloaded as they marched. She had ordered Theodore to keep himself between her and the Kinshra cavalry, aware of the threat they posed. She knew she had to beat them, for she could not enter the battle with the cavalry still at large.

  She raised her hand as they reached the abandoned artillery. Commander Blenheim’s engineers inspected the weapons.

  “How long?” she asked.

  “Just a few minutes” he said with certainty. “But the guns will only have one shot each.” Kara nodded, examining her army.

  “Bring the men together on a narrower front. That way our crossbowmen will be able to concentrate their fire. It will also make us look nervous in the face of the cavalry.”

  Commander Blenheim returned her nod, but she knew he was uneasy. His men were armed with axes and crossbows but no pikes. If the Kinshra charge reached them it would be a massacre.

  “Get those guns ready,” he whispered to his engineers urgently. “Do it quickly, but make sure you do it right.”

  Theodore kept his cavalry close to the enemy, barring their view of Kara’s engineers, who were realigning the guns. Lord Radebaugh rode next to him, watching for her signal.

  “This could be a disaster, Theodore” he said. “If the Kinshra reach the line...”

  Theodore stopped him with an abrupt wave of his hand.

  “Kara-Meir is touched by the gods” he said vehemently. “We must have faith!”

  Lord Radebaugh made no reply, watching as Kara waved her sword.

  “She’s giving the signal,” he cried suddenly.

  Theodore stood in his stirrups and raised his sword. As one, the cavalry turned south, heading for the enemy.

  Now it was all a matter of timing.

  As Theodore turned his men toward the Kinshra cavalry, Sir Amik watched, transfixed. It was a move of which the enemy horsemen must have been wary, for the Imperial Guard were on slightly higher ground where they would benefit most from a sudden attack.

  Seeing their foes make their move, the Kinshra rode to meet them. As the two forces approached each other, Sir Amik muttered under his breath.

  “Saradomin help you, Theodore. If you fail, then Kara’s line will be crushed.”

  The knight watched helplessly as the Imperial Guard charged in amongst the Kinshra. Despite the distance, he heard the crash as the two packed formations collided. They pressed against each other like tired fighters in the final desperate stages of a vicious match, but it was only a minute before one of them broke.

  Sir Amik despaired as the Imperial Guard rode back to the east, away from the enemy cavalry and away from the city. At their head he could make out the white armour that distinguished Theodore from the black-clad Imperial Guard.

  “How could you, Theodore?” Sir Amik moaned, knowing Kara’s line was vulnerable now. “How could you?”

  The Kinshra cavalry took a moment to regroup in preparation for their charge. Kara was defenceless. Her dwarf soldiers were arranged in several lines, one behind the other on the slope, those behind overlooking those in front.

  Yet a cavalry charge would break any line, Sir Amik knew.

  Sulla’s bodyguards cheered as they watched their cavalry charge toward Kara’s troops. The anticipation calmed the fighting before the wall, for all knew that the outcome of the charge would decide the fate of the battle.

  Sulla grinned beneath his visor, confident his army would smash through the thinly-spaced enemy and trample their bodies into the earth. But then two things caught his eye and his smile vanished.

  He noticed the dwarfs standing beside the cannons, foremost in Kara’s line. And he noted also how the fleeing Imperial Guard had rallied and turned, with the knight at their head, riding back toward Kara, to intercept the Kinshra horsemen.

  Their flight had been a ploy. They had lured his cavalry in, making them think that the infantry was vulnerable and unprotected.

  It was all a trap. And his men had fallen for it.

  Kara stood with her sword clutched anxiously. The earth shook as several hundred horses galloped toward her. The entire horizon seemed composed of black-clad warriors.

  “Castimir?” she asked weakly, her mouth dry from fear.

  “I am here,” the wizard said. After his attack on the goblins, both he and Doric had chosen to stand by her side in the line.

  “You haven’t opened your eyes for two minutes” Doric noted, looking at the pale-faced sorcerer.

  “I think if I did I would run,” Castimir said over the growing thunder of hooves.

  “Commander Blenheim?” Kara said, her voice threatening to falter.

  “Do not worry, Kara-Meir,” the dwarf said with a stern face.

  The cavalry were two hundred yards away. It was nearly time.

  “Wait!” Kara yelled, finding strength as her eyes chanced u
pon her banner. The charge had closed to within one hundred and eighty yards, and Kara noted how the dwarf crossbowmen blinked nervously as they raised their weapons to aim.

  “Wait!” she yelled again, as the pounding of horseflesh at full gallop drowned out all other sounds.

  She held her sword high above her head. She could feel the tears on her face as she adamantly refused to look elsewhere, not even risking a glance toward Theodore, who was riding swiftly back toward them.

  If he times it right, she thought, he should reach them seconds before they reach us.

  Gar’rth’s hand rested on her shoulder and she grasped it for comfort.

  The horses were one hundred and twenty yards away when she gave the signal, lowering her sword with a savage yell.

  In that second, the thunder of hooves was wiped out by the roar of the guns that rolled backward on their wheels and obscured the Kinshra in white smoke. The shots ripped through the tight cavalry formation. The cries of horses and men and the crashing of metal-armoured soldiers falling to the earth followed immediately.

  Then the first of the dwarf lines fired their crossbows, aiming purposefully at the horses to impede the ones behind with the bodies of the fallen. Castimir, meanwhile, hurled bolts of fire into those riders closest to him. Seconds later the second line of crossbowmen fired, followed by the third, and then the fourth. Finally, as the Kinshra horsemen closed to within thirty yards of the line, the fifth and last rank of dwarf crossbowmen fired. Their steel bolts hissed through the air to penetrate armour and horseflesh with ease, amid the screams of man and beast alike.

  The several hundred bolts the dwarf soldiers had loosed destroyed the cavalry formation entirely. From a compact line of men riding shoulder to shoulder, the charge had been decimated. Those in the rear ranks had noted the approach of Theodore and had broken off to either engage him or to flee.

  A dozen riders did make it to the line dwarf. One horse, driven mad with pain, attempted to throw its rider, who grimly held on, directing the animal toward Kara’s position. It reared up scant yards before her, its forelegs threatening to crush Kara’s skull. Gar’rth stepped forward instinctively. His hands seized the stallion’s forelegs and his body bent low as he dug his feet into the soft earth. The horse was pushed forward on its hind legs, the rider swearing. Within a few seconds, the horse fell onto the screaming rider, who was crushed beneath his steed.