Betrayal at Falador (3 page)

It was the dream again.

She felt the fear and cold that always came with it. It started with the screams of the villagers and the shouts of the black-armoured attackers.

She had escaped the men. It was always that way. She always escaped, just as she had done all those years before. Yet she knew what was to come.

She ran for the cover of the trees, but as soon as she touched the frozen bark the cry went out. She had been seen.

Her father’s bag was heavy enough to slow the eight-year-old down, but she gritted her teeth and ignored the thin whips of the branches that tore at her face and hands as she ran, leaving red welts across her exposed skin.

She could hear the baying of the starving dogs the men had brought with them. The animals had her scent and her running figure caught their attention. She heard their growls and the jeers of the men who watched the spectacle, certain of the outcome.

And yet she knew she would escape and live. She knew it even as the first animal—running far ahead of the others—drew back to leap at her. For she had been taught how to protect herself.

Instinctively she ducked as the dog jumped, its eyes flashing in the winter sun, its red tongue anticipating the taste of young flesh. But its anticipation would be denied.

With a speed and skill that was unheard of in one so young, she slashed at its jaw with a knife from her belt. The dog howled. Then, startled at finding an enemy capable of fighting back, the beast fled—content to return to the warm corpses that lay unclaimed in the burning village.

But that was only one animal from several, and she knew already what she would be forced to do to escape the others. She knew of an island that stood in the heart of a frozen pool, not far away. In the summer evenings she had enjoyed the peace of the forest there, comfortable in the knowledge that her father, a woodcutter, was never far away.

With the baying of the other dogs close behind, she reached the pond and stepped onto the ice, making for a fallen tree that had toppled years before and lay like a bridge across the frozen pool. Clambering atop it, she was halfway across when the first dog leapt onto the fallen trunk, its starving eyes fixed feverishly upon her.

Her young heart was consumed with an anger that she had never imagined possible, a hate for the men who had destroyed her life and burned down everything she had loved.

For the first time in her life, she
wanted
to kill.

The dog advanced along the trunk, cautious at the sight of the girl’s savagery, wary of the angry tears that came into her eyes as she suddenly realised that all she loved was dead.

The girl kicked downward and shook the trunk as hard as she could. Then she shifted slightly and stamped her feet onto the frozen surface of the pond. At once it began to crack.

The end of the trunk shuddered.

The starving dog dug its claws into the decaying bark, trying to steady itself, aware that something was wrong.

The other dogs arrived and bunched, displaying the pack instinct, then crept to the edge of the pool. But they were unwilling to commit their full weight to the ice.

With a sudden loud crunch, the ice shattered. Losing her balance, the girl fell into the freezing water. She clung to the trunk to keep herself from drowning, yelling in shock, unconcerned whether her cries were heard. The trunk twisted, taking the dog under the water, trapping it beneath the icy cover and condemning it to a frigid end.

Then the trunk twisted again, rising as it turned, carrying her up and lifting her clear of the biting cold water.

For a brief minute she lay on the bark, shivering uncontrollably, indifferent to the dogs that stood a dozen yards from her, separated only by the dark eddies of the water. They didn’t matter, she thought to herself, nothing did. Her family was gone, her home destroyed.

Let them take me,
she thought.
Let them do with me what they will.
For the cold was too strong for her to fight, too seductive in offering its escape from the weariness that was replacing her rage. Ignoring the hungry growling of the starving dogs nearby, she lay her head gently on the bark to rest.

Despite the many hundreds of times that she had relived the episode in her dreams, whether or not she had found sleep she could never tell. If she had, she knew it could not have been for more than a moment.

It was the voices that stirred her—harsh words of men drunk on plunder and violence, rejoicing in their wickedness. The dogs stared at her in hungry desperation, their appetite dimmed as they became aware of the men and their metallic boots stamping over the frozen ground.

She had to hide, for if she failed to do so she would die—the final victim of the men who had destroyed her village. But it was hard for her to move farther along the trunk toward the snow-covered island. She had gone only a yard when her strength failed.

As her thoughts began to dim, she recalled the stories her father had told her, of centuries gone, when the gods fought for the destiny of the world and their terrible powers reshaped the continents and destroyed civilisations. There was one amongst them, her father had told her, who would give aid to those in need.

“Saradomin...” she whispered. The word felt awkward on her lips, as if she only half-believed the tales her father had told her on those winter nights in their cramped log cabin at the edge of The Wilderness.

“Saradomin... hide me.” The word gave her strength now—the strength necessary to clamber across the trunk and onto the small island. Her energy spent, she half-fell and hid behind a crimson bush of thorns.

She could not move, certain she was going to die on the island she had made her own in happier times.

“Well, Sulla! It looks like she got away!”

The man’s voice was hard, and he spat the words as if he meant to insult his companion.

“You think so? With no shelter? If the dogs didn’t get her then the cold will—or did you not hear the cry as we approached? Now round up these animals and muzzle them. We don’t want their yelps attracting any attention on our way back to camp.”

The other man swore under his breath as he turned to leave. In a breathless moment the girl knew she had to see this man, this “Sulla,” who had taken everything from her in a single afternoon. Carefully she raised her head, her numb hands parting the branches of the thorn bush.

The man Sulla, the commander of the attackers, had his face hidden by a black helm. As the wind picked up and tugged at his bearskin cloak, she noted that his entire armour was black, as if he were a being of soulless metal.

Then, even in her sleep, the girl shuddered involuntarily. For she knew what would come next.

Sulla removed his helm in the dream, exactly as he had done in life nearly ten years before, and it was his face that made her bury her head into the snow to stop herself crying out. His entire face was a single hideous scar, as if a heated mask had been forced onto it, burning flesh and leaving the skin blistered. From the pale left eye that stared blindly without a pupil to the cracked fissures of skin around his mouth, the man called Sulla and his hideous visage was something the young girl promised herself she would never forget.

“Sulla,” she whispered as the men left, dragging their dogs with them, encouraging them with vicious kicks and the lash of the whip. “You killed me—and I will never forget you.”

And finally, when she was alone in the freezing forest under the clear pale sky, she closed her eyes, expecting never again to open them.

THREE

A clear dawn painted the white walls of Falador a noble gold, the sunlight from the east warming the stone and making the inhabitants forget about the weeks of gusting winds and damaged homes.

For Sir Amik, the morning brought questions that needed answering. He had been awake since the first rays of light had caressed the highest tower of the castle, hours before any lawful citizens had begun to stir from their beds, going over what little he knew about the mysterious girl. He estimated her age at seventeen, but there was little else he could tell.

Of one thing he was absolutely certain, however—the girl was important. The powerful response to his prayer at her bedside was evidence of that.

“Gods move in mysterious ways,” he said to his valet, Bhuler, when the servant entered the room to stir the fire.

“When they choose to move at all, my lord—which is either too rare for some...” Bhuler jabbed at the logs with the poker, “... or too frequently for others.”

Sir Amik didn’t answer. He knew what Bhuler meant. His valet had himself once been a capable knight, many years before, and still his body was strong, a hangover from the many years of hard training. But Bhuler had been unlucky. During his first year as a knight, a joust between the two men had ended in disaster. Sir Amik had unhorsed him, and a bad landing had resulted in a leg injury that had forced Bhuler to retire from active duty. For although fit and strong, Bhuler had never since been able to run any great distance, and all knights who travelled abroad in the world needed the use of two good legs.

Since then he had spent his years managing the castle and ensuring that the knights had the home they deserved, often training with the squires and peons, for he was still a strong and skilled warrior.

On some occasions, Sir Amik secretly wondered if Bhuler harboured any anger against him for rising to the head of their order—a role to which Bhuler himself might once have aspired.

Perhaps,
he thought sometimes,
our roles could have been reversed. I could have been the servant, and Bhuler the master.
More often he was certain that the man didn’t blame him for the ruination of his career, for that was not a knight’s way. Yet he knew it had caused his valet a crisis of faith.

For how could Saradomin let such a thing happen to a man filled with nothing but faith and love for his god?

“Are these false gods we worship?” Bhuler had once cried in a brief moment of anguish. “Does Saradomin even exist?”

And then a senior knight had stood up, so quickly as to upset his chair. His gaze had locked the distraught valet into a sobbing retreat, and the words he spoke with passion made everything seem so simple and true.

“Saradomin exists,” he had said with conviction. “Yours was an unfortunate fate, no doubt the doing of Zamorak. He exists as well, and some say his will is as great as our Lord’s.”

The senior knight had bowed respectfully toward the four-pointed star that was the symbol of Saradomin, a symbol that the knights displayed proudly on their pennants and arms. Slowly Bhuler had followed his example, uttering the words of Saradomin with a hesitant yet renewed confidence.

“Strength through wisdom.”

Never again had he shown such doubt. Accepting that he could not be an active knight, Bhuler had organised the running of the castle, elevating it to a higher standard than ever before. If he could not fight Saradomin’s battles in the world at large, he would ensure that his brother knights would be equipped to do so.

And to Sir Amik, Bhuler’s quick mind had proved an invaluable asset. It allowed him to concentrate his efforts on the knights’ political affairs, knowing that the domestic matters of the castle were left in good hands.

It was therefore no surprise to any of the most senior knights that Bhuler should be present at the private counsel they convened to discuss their strange visitor.

Sir Amik recounted the tale of the young girl’s arrival to the dozen men who sat before him. All had already heard some version of it—each slightly different, for the story had been told and retold a dozen times—and like all stories it had grown in the telling. Once he finished he sat down, gesturing to the master-at-arms to reveal what he could about the girl’s belongings.

“I shall start with the sword.”

He held it up for the men to see. It was a weapon of fine workmanship, and Sir Amik noted the look of admiration in the eyes of the onlookers. He especially enjoyed the look Sir Vyvin gave it, for his sword had been smelted years before by the Imcando dwarfs, before their defeat at the hands of raiding barbarians, and so precious had it become that Sir Vyvin only used it on ceremonial occasions.

“It is neither steel nor iron. I believe it is adamant.” A murmur of respect ran through the men. Adamant was one of the strongest and rarest of all metals, and beyond the craft of any smith in Falador.

“I would draw your attention to the symbol on the blade, which is replicated on the scabbard.” Sharpe pointed to the engraving. All were familiar with the four-pointed star of Saradomin, yet this was different, imperfect, as if it had been carved into the metal by someone replicating it from memory.

The sword was handed around the circle of men, each weighing it in his hand, their faces expressing their pleasure at the quality of the blade.

“How could she have come by such a weapon?” Sir Vyvin asked.

“We have two clues that might help us answer that,” Sharpe said. “The white flower she clutched in her hand might give us an indication of her location before she teleported onto the bridge. I propose to send Squire Theodore to Taverley and the druids. They have the knowledge needed to identify the plant—knowledge none in Falador would likely possess.” He surveyed the uncertain looks of the men. “But if the case be otherwise, then here is the flower. If any of you can identify it and tell us where it grows, it would save Theodore the journey.”