Betrayal at Falador (10 page)

Then he hoisted himself into the saddle, and headed off along the road to Falador.

He had gone no more than five miles when he pulled on the reins to halt the mare. Her breath was visible in the cold morning air, and she shied a bit, as if aware of the sudden change in her master’s mood.

Theodore stood in his stirrups, looking to the east.

A black pall of smoke was rising from the dense woods not far from the road, and he could see the black shapes of carrion eaters flocking to the south. He knew well what the black wings meant.

Slaughter.

He had no choice but to investigate. Dismounting, he led the mare off the road and into the drifts that carpeted the forest floor. The going was slow and Theodore had to keep the sun before him to ensure that he was travelling in the right direction, for the tall trees obscured his view of the smoke.

After several minutes of stumbling through the soft snow that crunched underfoot, he came upon a track. Here he could see that the snow had been churned up by a large but disorganised body of men that had passed over it very recently. They had not taken the time to hide their numbers, and to Theodore’s eyes it looked as though they had deliberately tried to make themselves known to the forest. He wondered if they were the hunters led by the Imperial Guards that he had encountered. Perhaps the smoke was from a pyre they had used to burn the body of the monster?

Then a cold shiver ran through him.
Perhaps they had burned the bodies of more victims?

The smell of smoke grew stronger and the faint breeze could no longer hide its presence. Ensuring that his sword was loose in his scabbard, Theodore followed the trail to the edge of a clearing.

The smoke came from the smouldering remains of a cabin on the edge of the tree line. The road from Taverley to Falador had often harboured highwayman and bandits, he knew, although he had never heard of them attacking the farms that lay scattered and isolated across the countryside.

Warily he drew his sword, his free hand covering the mare’s mouth to indicate that silence was required.

It was the angry voice he heard first. A great shout issued from the ruin, followed by a loud crash as several timbers were knocked aside.

Still Theodore waited, his sword in his hand, craning his head to see. He could make out a small figure, his face blackened from the wreckage, using an axe to dig through the hot embers. Sheathing his sword loudly so that the dwarf would hear, he walked confidently into the clearing, leading his horse by the reins.

“Can I be of any assistance to you, master dwarf?” His voice was loud in the stillness of the forest. Theodore had met several dwarfs before, in Falador, and knew that good manners would be needed to get a civil response—or any response at all.

The dwarf started back at the sound of Theodore’s voice, his axe raised. He peered intently at the squire, who kept a respectful distance between them, his hands empty and open.

The dwarf’s lips pursed but he said nothing.

Then, approaching a small collection of belongings that he had rescued from the ruins, he swung his axe with perfect precision onto the padlock of a stout metal box. The metal shattered with a spark. Somewhere nearby birds cried out in protest at the sudden noise, and flew raucously into the sky.

“I keep my most precious items in here!” the dwarf spat, lifting the lid with the blade of his axe. Inside, Theodore could see the heads of bottles glinting in the early morning sun. The dwarf reached in and picked out the nearest one, leaning on his axe for support as he unscrewed the lid. He took a swig.

“Hid it well, too,” he said. “The mob never came near it!”

Theodore walked closer, a faint smile on his face.

“What happened here?” he asked, looking curiously around the clearing. “There are tracks of a large body of men coming and going down the path to the road. Did they do this?”

“Aye!” the dwarf said, taking a second swig, and Theodore was close enough now to smell the alcohol. “Called me a monster! Thought I’d killed the gypsy and the child. A mob of farming men and hunters—some of whom have known me for years! They were led by men in purple robes.”

At the mention of the robed men, Theodore thought back, to the words of the man at the campfire, near the statue of Saradomin.

They will lynch some poor fool if they can, and it will be the wrong man.

“Then you must come with me to Falador,” he said emphatically, “to lodge a complaint with the authorities. The criminals must be brought to justice.”

The dwarf looked on impassively, until he seemed to have made up his mind.

“Criminals! It is the monster that needs tracking,” he said, and a strange look passed over his face. “It makes everyone afraid—and fear makes men do bad things.”

“True words, master dwarf,” the squire said. “But you have not answered my original question—can I be of any assistance to you?”

The dwarf took another swig from his bottle and looked sternly at the squire. No doubt he needed help, for digging through the ruins with an axe was tiring work. Two pairs of hands would make the work far easier and quicker, and Theodore was certain the dwarf wouldn’t want to be standing in the clearing after dark, not with a fiend on the rampage.

“I accept your help, Knight of Falador,” he said finally. “I have a rope here, and your horse can help drag the timbers aside. I need to get two more boxes such as this one.” He patted the upright lid with his hand, and the bottles jingled in the rack.

Theodore stared back suspiciously.

“You want to spend time digging up beer and wine?” He shook his head. “I will aid you, master dwarf, if you sincerely need my help. I can take you to Falador if you wish, but I will
not
help you waste our time digging for liquor.”

“Very well then,” the dwarf said, kneeling down. He lifted the rack of bottles from the box, and Theodore perceived that there was a hidden space beneath. From it the dwarf pulled out a solid bar of polished metal that glowed mysteriously with a green tint. He used both hands to hold it, turning it for the squire to see as if he were trying to sell it to him.

“What is it?” Theodore asked.

The dwarf raised his eyes to the morning light, grimacing in frustration.

“It is adamant!” he said. “One of the finest ores that can be mined. It takes years of practice to craft it into a weapon, and that is something that is no doubt beyond the skill of any human smith! I have another two boxes down there, each with four bars in.

“Now, will you help?”

TEN

Sulla spat.

He had been dreaming again, the same dream that he did not understand. It was the girl, the same girl of whom he had dreamed before.

He ran his large hand over his scarred face. It was damp with cold sweat. His mind was suddenly fearful that he might be developing one of the many dreadful illnesses that afflicted those folk who chose to live in The Wilderness. He went to the open window to look down into the darkness of the castle’s yard. Daylight was still some minutes away, for the castle stood on the lower slopes of Ice Mountain and the yard was shaded by the foreboding walls of black stone.

Suddenly the dream was pushed from his mind. A small group of chained prisoners drew his attention.

“Recruits” was his term for describing the unfortunate people—and creatures—his men enslaved in their raiding parties. Amongst the thirty or so captured this time were several goblins, stumbling clumsily in their shackles. Sulla frowned. Goblins were not very useful as slaves. In truth the only useful task they could accomplish was to mine ores from the endless miles of tunnels that honeycombed the mountain on which the fortress stood.

“Check they all have good teeth, guard!” he roared out of the window to the men below. “If they have good teeth, they can eat. If they can eat, then they have the strength to work!”

Turning, he moved back into the room.

He thought uneasily about the dream again. He had had the same dream for the third night in a row now. And he knew he needed advice. He would consult with the sybil, the old hag of a woman who lived in the depths of the castle near the dungeons, close enough that she could hear the screams of those unfortunates whom the Kinshra wished to interrogate.

He pulled a bearskin cloak about him and unlocked the stout wooden door that led to the stairwell beyond, seizing a torch to light his way. The castle moaned with the cold drafts that ran down off the mountain peaks to the west. Some of the younger men believed that the castle was haunted by the souls of their victims, but in all his years Sulla had never seen anything that resembled a ghost. He had decided long ago that such superstition was only a weakness, and had chosen not to believe in anything that was said to be as relentlessly vicious as he could be.

Those men who knew him believed he was probably right. He knew well the rumors, and they served his purpose.

Some said that Sulla had made a pact with Zamorak, back in his youth, and to uphold his end of the bargain he needed to commit an evil act every single day. No one knew what Zamorak had offered in exchange for this worship.

Others whispered that he had sealed the bargain to gain control of the Kinshra, and that he was destined to lead them to conquer all the lands of Asgarnia. But no one knew for certain.

What they
did
all know was that Sulla was hated by his superiors—hated by them because they feared him—and factions were emerging amongst the Kinshra as they anticipated a struggle for supremacy.

As he descended, Sulla could hear the piteous cries and moans of those creatures under interrogation in the bowels of the fortress. He pursed his lips as the smell of despair reached him, pausing outside a wooden door that seemed to have twisted itself in response to the evil inside.

“Come in, my brave soldier!” a voice hissed. Before he could raise his hand to open the door it swung inward of its own accord, creaking as if it were imitating the sounds of the dying inhabitants of the dungeons.

Sulla blinked, his one good eye not used to the artificial haze which bubbled up from the huge black cauldron that sat upon a fire. He could make out the sybil behind the cauldron, her yellow teeth catching the light of his torch as her lips peeled back in a malicious smile. Sulla hated her, partly because he needed her, but also because he didn’t understand her ways or powers.

“I have had the dream again,” he said. “About the girl.”

“Do men ever dream of anything different?” she replied, mocking him. Instinctively his powerful fists clenched.

If she were anyone else I would kill her,
he thought.

“It is definitely her,” he said. “Yet I saw her as the bolt pierced her, only days ago. She pulled it out and fell down the cliff face. She
must
be dead!”

The sybil looked at him with her bloodshot eyes, regarding him coolly.

Without a word she hobbled to a bench and began picking through the iron pots and knives that lay scattered about. Then, having set aside a pan and a knife, she hobbled toward a set of dark drawers that stood nearby. Her head bent low to examine the plants and dead animals that lay heaped atop it.

Sulla lost patience.

“Did you not hear what I said?” he demanded. “Why do I dream of her again after killing her? I dreamed of her before I even saw her, and I continue to do so now! What does it mean? Is she dangerous to me still? Answer me!”

The hag turned from the drawer and peered at him intently. Sulla felt suddenly very weak under her vicious gaze.

“She is dangerous to you, Sulla,” she replied. “And you have only yourself to blame for that! An obsession—that is what she is. Who can this girl be who killed your men? Who fought like an animal? Who is she who knows your name when she has never even met you?

“You fear her Sulla, for her hate burns hotter than yours!’

He considered her words... and laughed. It was a sound he rarely made, and whenever he did, it sounded as if he were out of practice.

“Fear her?” he responded. “A dead girl? She ambushed my men and killed them with her hunter’s tricks, but she is no warrior. My men wounded her and I killed her myself with my crossbow. I do not fear her, witch!” He spat the words, his anger giving him the power to believe them.

“Let us see, Sulla,” the hag said quietly. “Do you have something that belonged to her? Any trinket? A piece of hair? Of torn clothing?”

Sulla knew her ways and he had come prepared. He handed the hag a dagger that the girl had hurled at his head. The witch took it reverently, eyeing it closely, and then she wrapped it in several leaves that she had taken from the drawer. She placed it in the iron pan, then picked up a dead creature, which Sulla dared not examine too closely, using her knife to expose its entrails. Swiftly she stirred them, the knife scraping the bottom of the iron pan, making an excruciating noise.

Sulla held his breath.

The sybil leaned over her foul concoction and looked at it very closely, her beady bloodshot eyes examining it in fine detail. For several minutes she remained silent.