Betrayal at Falador (37 page)

But the time for games had passed. He was about to order a charge when the sounds of an approaching rider drew his attention. He turned and found to his surprise that he faced an old man.

“What do you want?” he called out. “Have you come to beg for a quick end?”

“Two of your champions have died today,” said the elder. “If you do not let us pass, then many more of you shall follow them to the Abyss!” The man looked swiftly to the ground and Sulla followed his gaze, noting the half-filled buckets of water that stood next to the horses. They had been left over from the monks’ firefighting. Then the newcomer glanced furtively at the fountain from which some of the Kinshra horses were drinking.

What can he be seeing?

Sulla looked warily at the old man, and for the first time noted that he had blindfolded his horse. He held several small pouches in his hands. Was he a wizard also? That might pose a problem.

“My name is Sulla, old fool,” he said angrily. “And it is a name you will die cursing!” The black-armoured warrior raised his sword.

The man paled, but he held his ground.

“Then you have brought this upon yourself” he uttered as he hurled the first of his dozen small pouches toward the water bucket close to Sulla’s horse. A greyish cake-like substance fell loosely from the leather packet and splashed into the liquid.

A sudden explosion flashed from the bucket. Sulla’s horse gave a wild cry of fear, rearing onto its hind legs then turning quickly away from the violent reaction.

But the old fool had not finished. With a triumphant yell he hurled several of the pouches into the fountain. At once the water fumed as if it were boiling, sending bright flashes and pale clouds of powder into the air as echoes of the explosions rebounded from one side of the courtyard to the other in a roaring cacophony.

Pandemonium reigned now. Sulla lost his grip on his horse and fell to the ground with an impact that made him grit his teeth in pain. He saw his horse gallop away through the desecrated gateway.

The panic was contagious—some of the horses followed, while others fled into the courtyard to escape the explosions. Within mere moments, the disciplined Kinshra troops devolved into a chaotic mass.

Sulla cursed, knowing that without a horse he was vulnerable. He watched as his enemies, led by the old man, spurred their horses forward, toward the shattered gateway.

Knowing he was absolutely powerless to prevent their get away, Sulla leapt to one side to avoid being trampled.

“Come on!” Ebenezer yelled, leaning forward to pull the blindfold from his horse’s eyes. As he did so he noticed Kara’s sword lying forgotten on the ground. Moving quicker than he had for many a year, he dismounted to pick it up as the monks rode past him to their freedom, unchallenged by the panicked Kinshra horsemen.

Theodore and Doric came last with Arisha, for the priestess had prepared two horses for them in the stables. Following her was Castimir’s faithful yak and the alchemist’s mule, still laden with its saddlebags.

Saradomin bless her,
he thought gratefully.

“And Gar’rth? And Kara? What about them?” Doric called as he rode by.

The alchemist shook his head.

“There is nothing we can do for them. And our dying here will do no good, either.” He spurred his horse through the gateway. As he did, he saw the man called Sulla lurch to his feet.

“Get after them” the Kinshra leader roared.

Immediately a small group of riders who had managed to regain control of their steeds followed them through the gateway.

Ebenezer turned to Castimir, who looked so weak that it amazed the old man that he could retain his grip on his horse.

“I need you, Castimir!” he shouted, reining in his steed as they gained a small rise. “For the last time today.”

“I cannot. I am so weak,” the wizard responded hoarsely, his mouth parched and his throat stained with his own blood that had now begun to clot. “And I have no more runes left for an offensive spell.”

“Your fire staff then. Quickly, Castimir, or it will be too late.”

The sorcerer sat up, straightening his back with a visible effort.

“I do not have it, Ebenezer,” he said, suddenly alarmed.

The thunder of the Kinshra horsemen, charging down a narrow path that led to the rise, grew. They were seconds away.

“I have it, Castimir,” Arisha said with surprising calm. Her wide eyes looked sadly at him as she handed him the staff. Upon seeing his unharmed yak by her side, the wizard managed a sudden grin that looked entirely out of place on his blanched face.

“I don’t know what I would do without you, Arisha.” He slurred the words, his voice cracking.

Suddenly he swayed in the saddle.

“Do it, Castimir. Do it now!” Ebenezer spoke urgently.

Castimir held up the staff, and the knotted end glowed fiercely with its inner flame. Ebenezer removed the unexploded shell he had retrieved when he had taken shelter behind the courtyard fountain.

“Light the fuse” he said briskly.

As soon as Castimir’s staff touched it, the fuse came to life with a loud sizzle.

“Ride now, my friends” Ebenezer instructed them.

Arisha took Castimir’s horse by the reins and galloped swiftly after the disappearing monks.

“You must go too, Theodore” he said. “And you, Doric. We have no time left.” He held out the adamant blade for the squire.

Theodore shook his head, taking Kara’s sword and wearing a vicious look on his face. Doric, too, said nothing, but goaded his horse away from where he knew Ebenezer would throw the spitting explosive, just where the pathway ended.

The alchemist kept his keen eye on the fuse until the first of the Kinshra rode out onto the rise, yelling in triumph. Ebenezer did not need to think, for he had rehearsed the action in his mind. As soon as the spitting shell left his hand he dug his heels into his steed and lowered his head, yelling at the horse.

“Ride! Faster—”

The explosion silenced his words, shattered men and ripped through horses. He saw Theodore and Doric gallop at full speed into the suddenly disorientated enemy. But he could hear little, for the noise of the explosion had near-deafened him.

As he turned back to see the dozen contorted bodies of armoured men and horses that lay scattered like broken toys, he could barely hear the screams of the injured. Even Theodore’s war cry sounded far off.

Theodore’s timing was perfect. The first of the Kinshra who rode from the now smoke-filled path was unarmed, his hands pressed against his helmet in great agony. Theodore didn’t hesitate. The man was a follower of Zamorak. He had helped to violate the monastery and desecrate a peaceful place of worship.

He had to die.

With a practised move the squire brought Kara’s slender blade across the man’s throat. With shocking ease the adamant bit through the armour and cleaved deeply into his neck. Giving only a sudden cry the man fell from his horse and crashed awkwardly onto the grass where he remained, utterly motionless.

He was dimly aware of Doric, guiding his horse directly into a black-armoured warrior who staggered aimlessly on foot, stunned by the blast. The man screamed as the dwarf’s horse charged into him, knocking him violently off his feet and trampling him underfoot.

For the Kinshra the battle was lost. Most of the pursuers had been killed outright by the blast or stunned and knocked from their horses. Those who hadn’t, who had waited near the back, were not the bravest of men. Theodore’s vicious war cry and the yells of their dying comrades made them swiftly turn their horses away, toward the monastery.

For Theodore there could be no mercy. With each of the men he killed he thought of Kara—of how he had failed to protect her, of how he had betrayed her in Falador, and of not having the opportunity to make his peace with her before she was killed.

“Theodore!” Doric called as the squire leaned forward in his saddle to run through one of the few remaining Kinshra. The man screamed as he died and Theodore withdrew the sword, already looking for another enemy to feed his passion for revenge.

“Theodore, stop! We need a captive” Doric cried. “We need to know what the Kinshra are planning, and how many of those weapons they have.”

The squire halted upon hearing Doric’s words. His eyes were bloodshot with anger and he breathed deeply as he fought to regain control of himself. Rage was not the way of the Knights of Falador, and with a grim look at the carnage all around him, he lowered his sword in shame.

“You are right, my friend,” he muttered, reminding himself that it was Kara’s own anger that had ultimately resulted in her death. “No good can come of revenge.”

A low moan attracted his attention. It was one of the Kinshra—an officer of minor standing, judging from the man’s insignia. He was lying upon the smouldering grass, pinned beneath his dead horse. He had removed his helm to tend to his injuries. His face was blackened and he held his hand across his eyes.

“He’ll do,” Doric said, gesturing to the man with his axe.

“I beg for mercy!” the wounded man pleaded when Theodore dismounted. “Please! I am unarmed!” His voice shook with fear.

Theodore looked at him in contempt.

“You Kinshra deserve only the same mercy you offer to others. But I shall spare your life today, for you are coming with us to Falador. If you cause me or my companions any problems, we will kill you.”

“We should search him thoroughly,” Doric said, carefully looking over the man.

“He will not need his armour—it will weigh down our horses.” Theodore forced the man to his knees and carefully cut the straps with Kara’s blade, mindful not to injure him. With a loud clatter the man’s heavy breastplate fell to the ground, followed by the rest of his cumbersome plating.

They bound the man’s hands and sat him on one of the Kinshra horses that had survived the attack, tying him to the saddle and ensuring that the reins were secured to Theodore’s steed.

“Where is Arisha leading us?” Doric called as they rode to catch up.

“To the east, to Edgeville, I think. It is a full day’s journey, and the monks have little food with them.” Theodore spoke as if he disagreed with her decision.

“Then where are we headed?” Doric asked, knowing that only one destination could be important for the squire.

“We will catch up with them and make our farewells. Then we will ride on to Falador. The Kinshra will not be far behind.”

It was fully daylight by the time they galloped away, leaving the cold light of the cloudy winter morning to illuminate the colder faces of their dead enemies.

FIFTY

“Dig him out!” Sulla shouted across the courtyard. His temper mirrored the weather, for it had started to rain heavily and he was in ill spirits.

He looked toward the east wing of the monastery, which was smouldering now that the fires had been dampened.
It seems the chaos dwarfs’ weapons have worked,
he mused with a hint of satisfaction. He relished the idea of turning them against the crowded city of Falador. He imagined the streets running with the blood of innocents. Of women shielding their young, of the sheer helplessness of the knights in trying to protect their city from the falling shells.

His reverie was interrupted by the yell of a soldier who stood over the collapsed wall. Sulla stalked quickly over as they shifted enough of the debris to locate their demonic ally.

“Get him some water!” he spat. The nearest of his men ran to a fountain and filled one of the buckets abandoned by the monks. With a nod from his superior he emptied it over the werewolf’s dust-covered face.

Instantly an agonized howl caused all but Sulla to back away.

“It burns me!” the werewolf bellowed. “The water had been blessed by the priests of Saradomin.”

Sulla glared at Jerrod furiously. He contemplated leaving the creature there, or perhaps emptying several more buckets of water onto him and putting the bricks back, abandoning him to starve to death.

The werewolf struggled to free himself, pushing upward with a sudden strain. The bricks on top of him shuddered slightly in response.

“Free him!” Sulla ordered, before leaving to commandeer a room for himself in the western wing of the monastery, all of which was untouched by fire and undamaged from his bombardment.

“Wake up, Kara!”

The voice sounded far away. She opened her eyes slowly, unsure of what she saw. The last thing she remembered was the stinging smoke in her lungs and the searing heat on her face.

“Am I dreaming?” she asked, her voice weak. Somewhere nearby a man laughed, finding amusement in her confusion.

“You
should
actually be dead. Both you and Gar’rth.”

At the mention of his name Kara looked wildly about, but she was alone on the side of a red mountain under an eerily dark sky which obscured the stars.

“Where is Gar’rth? Where am I?” Panic filled her voice.

“Gar’rth is not required, not yet anyway,” the voice answered calmly. “It is you with whom I wish to speak. And do not be afraid—you will not be kept here very long.”

“Who are you?” She found herself staring at a diminutive figure swathed in red robes. His eyes gleamed cunningly and his bent frame caused him to look up at her, a smouldering orange glint in his pupils. The man’s face was misshapen, his forehead swollen, and red sores were prevalent over his pale skin. He drooled somewhat, as if he were a fool.