Betrayal at Falador (12 page)

The warmth of the wolf made her sleep. She was exhausted and hungry, but she knew she was safe.

“Wolf Cub” was what they called her when they found her some hours later—“Kara-Meir” in their language. A dozen hardy dwarfs led by the master forger Phyllis had set off from the mountain to investigate the flames from the village. They were dour folk who rarely mixed with the humans who lived in the shadow of the mountain, but they knew how hard life on the edge of The Wilderness could be.

She had woken to see them standing over her, their ashen faces wrinkled in concern. They had talked for an hour amongst themselves, speaking in a language she could not understand, forcing her to drink a hot liquid that made her cough and splutter but which restored feeling to her chilled limbs. The dwarfs had ventured as far as they dared, unwilling in their small band to confront the likes of Sulla and his Kinshra, for it was a rescue mission, not one of war.

Master Phyllis lifted her up onto his own back, her bare arms clasped about his neck, taking comfort in knowing that they had not failed—not entirely—that they had rescued at least one innocent from the ravages of the wild.

Outside, in the courtyard, the sound of hooves clattering over stone could be heard, followed by the white mare’s neigh of celebration now that she was home and safe.

In the ward, Kara-Meir’s eyes opened as the smell of clean linen and a warm fire blazing in a hearth reminded her of something she thought she had forgotten. It was the smell of happiness and people, bringing back memories of her family in their cabin and of her happy youth, before the time of Sulla.

She knew then, as she had known all those years ago when Master Phyllis had taken her from the mountainside and adopted her as his own, that she was safe.

THIRTEEN

The man was dying. He wiped his lips and saw with wide-eyed shock that the back of his hand was coated in blood.

“When?” he stuttered. “Who has done this to me?”

He sank to his knees, an invisible force draining him of his strength. Somewhere a door slammed.

“It will not be long now, my lord,” a woman’s voice murmured behind him. It was his mistress, a slave girl he had taken years before and for whom he had developed a true fondness.

“I am not ready...” he murmured through blood-stained lips, his hand outstretched in a plea for mercy he knew would not be granted.

“You were ready a long time ago!” a harsh voice snapped, rejoicing in the sight of a dying man. It was Sulla. He had orchestrated this man’s murder as only Sulla knew how—totally without pity, using a loved one as the instrument of death, corrupting someone who had been trusted.

The dying lord of the Kinshra noted Sulla gesture toward his mistress. She looked despairingly into the scarred man’s face, his grimace the closest thing to a smile that he could manage. His blank white eye shone with an inner delight. He was revelling at the spectacle.

“Do it!” he told the woman. “Kill him!”

“Is the poison not enough for you?” She bowed her head in fear, looking with genuine sympathy to her dying master. “He will be dead shortly as it is!” Her voice broke into a wail at the thought of what Sulla had made her do.

“Not soon enough!” Sulla growled. “And poison is too easy for him. I want him to know that I now possess everything he treasured in life!”

“Do as he says!” the dying man cried out. “Kill me, but only if it frees you after this day!”

Sulla nodded.

The woman stepped forward, a pillow grasped tightly in her hands, her knuckles white from the grip. With a cry she forced it over his face, holding it as tightly as she could, ignoring his muffled words. Her weeping grew louder in contrast to her lover’s efforts, which began to weaken and finally ceased altogether.

Her weeping was the only sound in the room.

Sulla regarded the woman coolly. He removed the curved knife from his belt and tossed it onto the floor beside her.

“I am offering you your freedom,” he hissed in anticipation. “Take it!”

She looked at him, her eyes uncomprehending.

“You die today, or I will keep you alive for months. I don’t need to tell you what that will mean for you. You are a murderess.”

Slowly it dawned on her what he meant, what he had planned from the very outset of his coup. She took the dagger gingerly in both hands and turned it slowly, fearfully, upon herself.

Sulla watched as she threw herself forward, thinking for a second that she would turn on him. But she fell next to her dead master, and Sulla’s eye shone as he watched her body contort itself in the agony of the wound, but she did not scream.

That was brave of her,
he thought, nearly as brave as the girl who had ambushed him some days before, and whom he had shot from his horse. She hadn’t cried out as she had fallen from the cliff’s edge, although he remembered with a slight shudder that his men had not found any trace of her body.

Surely the wolves had taken her.

With a snarl he banished such thoughts. The girl would not spoil his triumph!

Sulla knelt next to the dead Kinshra lord. The signet ring sparkled on his limp hand, tempting him to take it.

“How long have I coveted you!” Sulla said, breaking the finger in order to force the ring from its former owner. Without any delay, he slipped it onto the finger of his right hand. Now he was the lord of the Kinshra.

After a moment more, alone with the two bodies, he called the guard.

“Take them outside for the beasts,” he instructed, “or give them to the starving miners, if necessary!”

The winter had been harder than they had expected, and their slaves would starve for lack of food. This year they needed slaves, for Sulla had grand ambitions, and the miners were worked to death, pulling as much coal from the mountain as they could.
Coal,
Sulla thought to himself, as he shouted to his men and called a council of senior Kinshra,
coal to fuel my war machine.

My
war machine!
he suddenly thought. He was now the lord of the Kinshra, and he would make certain the world knew it.

FOURTEEN

Theodore had made his report to Sir Amik and master-at-arms Sharpe, answering their questions as accurately as he could and with absolute truth. Even when he admitted to the fear he had experienced he spoke clearly, never seeking an excuse, unafraid to admit to it.

Sharpe knew that other squires might have chosen to disguise their fear, and Theodore’s open honesty drew appreciative nods from both men.

The dwarf was called in after the squire had given his version of events.

Respectfully removing his helm, he began.

“My name is Doric. For many years I have lived away from my kin, in the company of the men south of the mountain. I have known several knights throughout my life. I have trust enough in your order to know that I have nothing to fear by telling the whole truth, in the hope that my tale will help somehow in bringing this monster to a swift end!”

Doric’s telling of their adventure supported Theodore’s version in every way, and the dwarf didn’t hesitate even when revealing the existence of his adamant bars. When he finished speaking, a quiet settled over the four of them.

“So you know the metal well, Doric?” Sharpe asked, breaking the silence.

“Aye!” the dwarf said. “I know it as well as any father can know a son.”

The men glanced furtively at one another, and Doric followed their looks.

Sir Amik noted his sudden unease and sought to calm him.

“Your coming here at this time is surely fated, my aged friend,” he said. “I would have your opinion on a matter of which we are unsure. A weapon has come into our hands in the most exceptional circumstances—a sword we believe to be made of adamant. Would you be willing to examine it, to confirm or deny our suspicions?”

Doric nodded without hesitation.

And following an order from Sharpe, Theodore left the room at once.

As the young man walked swiftly across the courtyard he could feel the excitement in the air. He felt eyes focus upon him from high windows and shaded arches. He could feel the jealousy of the younger knights, who envied the fact that fate had dropped the girl into his life, and his subsequent adventure to and from Taverley. It wasn’t that the town was far from Falador—many of the squires and all of the knights had been farther afield—but the existence of the monster had given his short journey an adventurous tone that few of theirs could equal.

He saw the longing looks of the young peons, and in them he noted a different light—an aspiration, an increased willingness to be more like him. But he noted too the jealous looks of his fellow squires. To them, he had always been seen as the hardest worker, and recent events would most likely turn their envy into anger.

He knew his life would be more difficult from that moment on.

The excitement that permeated the castle was enhanced by the fact that the mysterious girl had awoken, lending a breathless fever to all who crossed his path. One old knight, whom Theodore held in high regard as the ideal of restraint and humility, glanced at him with open curiosity.

“She’s awake, is she?” he asked the squire.

“Yes, sir—so I’ve heard.”

The old knight pulled on his moustache in excited thought.

“What can it herald?” he mused aloud. “There is a meaning to this mystery, Theodore, I know there is!”

The squire bowed in acknowledgment of the knight’s experienced words before continuing.

The excitement had also seized Theodore. He tried to resist it, but couldn’t. As he retrieved the sword from the armoury, wrapping it in a dark cloth under the watchful gaze of the duty guard, he decided to take a different route back to the interview, one which would take him directly past the ward.

He stepped rapidly as he descended the steep spiral staircase that wound itself inside the tower. His footsteps were louder than he would have liked, as if the stone were intent on betraying his presence. As he turned a corner he caught sight of two peons he knew by name, keeping a secret vigil outside the doorway in case any person left it open long enough for them to catch a sight of the mysterious girl who lay within.

“Be on your way Bryant! I expect better of my peons!”

The peon farthest away fled immediately, but the boy Bryant stood his ground.

“I am sorry Squire Theodore. We meant no harm.”

Theodore nodded. Bryant was one of his twelve charges, and it was his duty to coach them in the best traditions of the knights, looking after their physical and spiritual needs. He had tried hard with Bryant—more so than with any other peon—for the boy was neither dexterous nor strong, and often he would lag behind the others in their exercises. But he was popular nonetheless, for his great strengths were history and lore, much as Castimir’s had been when they were children together.

He was imaginative, clever, and quick-witted.

Still, Theodore often doubted if it would be enough. Knights had to be fighters first and thinkers second.

“Everybody is talking about her, Squire Theodore,” the peon stammered. Theodore knew Bryant was right. The thought of the girl and her identity was irresistible to him, as well.

Am I any different? I too have made my way to the ward when there was no need for me to do so.

Theodore drew a long breath and put his hand on Bryant’s shoulder.

“I can’t fault you for your curiosity Bryant. I would be a hypocrite if I did so. But skulking in shadows and passageways is not a habit I wish to see continued. Have you said your midday prayers?”

The peon nodded.

“Then I have a task for you. Go to the stables and ensure that my mare is being adequately looked after. And make sure she has enough hay. It’s scarce enough in this winter and I suspect that Marius’s peons have been taking more than their share for his animals.”

“Yes, Squire Theodore.” The boy ran from him quickly, no doubt glad of so slight a reprimand.

Finally, when he was alone, he put his hand gently against the the door to the ward.

It wasn’t locked, and swung open with ease.