Betrayal at Falador (46 page)

The enemy’s drumbeats quickened. As they did so, the Kinshra infantry moved in with a terrible haste, pinning back individual knights with several pikes at a time.

“Gather to me, men!” Sir Amik roared. “Under my banner we shall make a stand that will inspire a hundred generations of men!” His eyes were tearful as he drove his standard into an earth made soft not by rain but by the blood of men and goblins.

With a great shout his host charged the northern flank, hacking and slashing and dying on the impenetrable pikes, cutting down any berserker that landed amongst them.

Master Troughton, one of the most skilled of all the knights, was slain as he ducked in under the pikes, cutting down three of the Kinshra warriors before falling.

Nicholas Sharpe died also, saving Sir Amik from being impaled in an area where the two Kinshra lines had come close enough for the end of one pike to touch the end of its opposite number. And it was here that the real slaughter began.

The knights had thinned out as they had been squeezed, and now each man fought desperately to keep the pikes from stabbing at his front and his back. It was a battle that could only end in one brutal way. The men could only hope to delay their deaths.

Sir Amik was stabbed viciously in the side, and as he staggered another pike rammed into his calf. He dropped his sword in agony and seized his banner for support, and he knew the end could not be far away.

He looked at the men he had led to their deaths. With a feeling of pride he noted that none of them begged, that no one cursed him for his leadership. They were true Knights of Falador. They would die as they had lived.

Yet suddenly a panic seized the northern line of Kinshra infantry. Sir Amik watched as Colonel Payne and his sixty guardsmen crashed in upon the rear, forcing the pikemen to scatter across a wide front.

“Sir Amik Varze! Knights of Falador! To me! To me!” The colonel rode amongst the pikemen, mercilessly cutting them down as he perceived the carnage that they had wrought. Such was the ferocity that he and his men exhibited, Sir Amik was able to rally his troops.

“Knights of Falador, we must retreat!” he called. “Back to the city! Back to Falador!” Every man that could, took to the nearest horse, some even seizing steeds of fallen Kinshra warriors.

“Here, Sir Amik, take my horse,” a young squire shouted, helping him up.

“Run, boy!” Sir Amik cried faintly. “Save yourself—and our banner!”

But the squire seemed not to listen. As the Kinshra cavalry pushed their way through their panicked infantry to finish the last few knights left, he gave a savage slap to the horse’s flank that sent Sir Amik on his way to life and freedom.

The youth had no time to run as a steel blade swept down on him in a deadly arc.

“Hold them off!” Colonel Payne cried, riding at full speed into the Kinshra cavalry, preventing them from pursuing the fleeing knights.

But his luck had run out. The Kinshra soldiers surrounded him, hacking at him from all directions. He fell from his horse into the soft earth.

“Shall we pursue them?” Gaius called to Sulla.

“No. Let them go” Sulla replied. “Let the people of Falador see their beloved protectors run. Let them know there is no one who can save them.”

He turned to look at the city walls, visualising the weeping of men, women, and young children.

He imagined their fear. And he revelled in it.

SIXTY

Their journey was one of utter silence.

Once, just after crossing the southern road that led to Falador, Kaqemeex had hastily instructed them to lie their horses down behind a small embankment covered in ferns. Within a minute a troop of goblin infantry clattered past only yards away.

The druid left the companions at the foot of the mountain with Doric to guide them the rest of the way.

The dwarf led them further east, up onto the slopes of the mountain, heading always toward the snow line. After three hours of climbing, the atmosphere was noticeably cooler. Castimir took his fire staff and warmed them all in the red glow from the knotted tip when they paused to rest.

All of them were sombre, and seemed to become more so as they climbed.

“It is not far now. Another hour at the most,” Doric said loudly, intending to instil some confidence into his friends. “We must travel along that ledge above us. It is wide enough for three men to walk side by side, and it will lead us to the entrance on the western face of the mountain” He noted the look of fear on all their faces, and admitted to himself that he didn’t much like the ledge, either, with its terrifying drop of hundreds of feet.

“I do not recall this entrance,” Kara said, “but I spent most of my time on the other side of the mountain. There is even a village above ground on a plateau to the south.”

“All of that is true” Doric said, breathing wearily. “But this entrance is the most secure, and one which I am certain I can locate. Better this than spending hours searching for one of the hidden entrances near the valley floor, where the goblins would certainly find us.” Without waiting for any further discussion, he urged them upward toward a flat plateau which led onto a narrow ledge.

“Here we should blindfold the horses,” he said. “It will prevent them from panicking.”

Doric led the way, with Kara and Gar’rth following closely. Behind them stumbled Castimir, his face an ill shade of green. Theodore remained several yards behind, making sure they weren’t being followed.

“Don’t look down, Castimir,” the squire urged his friend. “Get in against the rock face and hug the wall.”

But the treacherous path was not as long as they had feared, and as they rounded a corner, a plateau similar to the one they had left moments before presented itself. Doric led his horse confidently forward and removed the blindfold. His companions followed his example.

“We are nearly there. The entrance is hidden nearby, carved into the rock and under the frozen ice sheet.” His voice echoed amid the natural walls above them. He was about to continue when Gar’rth hissed a warning.

“What is it?” Kara asked, her hand finding her sword.

“Battle.”

It was one of the few words Gar’rth had learned in the travels with his friends, and it was a word none expected to hear so high up, so isolated from the rest of the world.

“Battle!” he said again, pointing to the ice that lay ahead. And sure enough, faint cries and the crash of steel could just be heard.

The dwarfs were badly outnumbered, fighting on the ice against goblin soldiers who had studded their boots with iron nails. The three wolves that the goblins used in place of horses had also turned the battle in favour of their enemies, for the small dwarf patrol had no cavalry of their own.

And it wasn’t just the goblins they were fighting.

The trap had been a simple one. A group of chaos dwarfs had been seen, wearing the red robes of Zamorak. The patrol had chased them across the frozen glacier... and straight into the arms of the waiting goblins.

Instantly the battle had become a disaster.

Commander Blenheim knew they were losing. The dwarfs had been unprepared and the wolves were taking a heavy toll on his men.

“Stand together!” he cried, raising his axe and gesturing for his men to gather close to the chasm that stood behind them. Yet that very same chasm cut off their retreat.

The three wolf riders grouped together to the north of the dwarf warriors, their commander barking out orders. The goblin commander pointed his sword and gave a harsh cry. The three wolves leapt forward, their yellow eyes focusing on their prey.

The gap had nearly closed when a spitting ball of red flame exploded in the face of the foremost beast, causing it to turn from its path and forcing its two companions to halt their charge. As they did, new sounds reached the dwarf patrol—hooves crashing on the ice, a battle cry of the Knights of Falador, and the familiar cry of a dwarf warrior calling his fellows to arms.

Theodore and Kara careened into the nearest of the wolves—the one Castimir’s fire strike had wounded. They trapped it between them, each hacking from different sides. The goblin yelled as he swung his curved sword at Kara’s face. Her adamant blade intercepted the thrust, shattering the goblin’s weapon as she stabbed through his breastplate with enough strength to penetrate his black heart. As the rider died the wolf leapt at her horse, forcing Kara to jump from the saddle as her steed collapsed.

She thrust her sword into the beast’s body as Doric and Castimir rode by. The wizard’s second ball of flame went wide, passing between the two remaining goblin riders to burn a hole in the ice which rose like a wall above them.

But the enemy were scattered now. Shouting, the dwarf commander charged forward, closing the gap with the nearest of the wolf riders. Several of his men followed and with vicious hacks they felled the wolf and dispatched the rider.

Kara watched as the third wolf leapt at Doric, forcing him from the saddle with a blow of its forepaw. He landed hard upon the ice, cracking the frozen surface with his head, where he remained still. Above, the goblin rider raised his sword and lunged, his blade plunging toward Doric’s unguarded back.

I cannot reach him in time! I cannot save him!

But then she saw that she didn’t have to.

At the last second a strong hand seized the blade, its edges cutting the flesh of Gar’rth’s palm deeply. With a cry the youth fell from his horse, landing atop the stunned Doric yet still holding the weapon in his bare hand.

The goblin rider dared to laugh. With a brutal wrench, he pulled his sword free from Gar’rth’s grasp. But his savage laugh evaporated when he noticed the black blood on the blade.

The wolf caught the scent and let out a startled yelp, taking a step back as Gar’rth threw back his hood. His face was not human. His skin had turned grey, his eyes were two pools of blackness and his teeth and fingers had extended into bestial fangs and talons.

The goblin rider raised his sword in challenge.

The wolf leapt forward, obeying its master’s command.

And Gar’rth stood his ground.

With snarling rage the two locked themselves in a dreadful embrace, Gar’rth ducking beneath the flailing maw and fastening his arms against the wolf’s shoulders. With a chilling roar he dug his feet into the ice, which cracked under the strain.

Taking one miserable step after the other, Gar’rth pushed the wolf and its suddenly fearful rider back, yard by yard, closer to the chasm that yawned behind them. On they went, the goblin rider swinging and missing, shrieking at his mount, and urging it forward with the most virulent curses he could muster.

But it was no good.

Kara watched in awe as Gar’rth gave his enemies a final shove. With a despairing wail, both goblin and wolf fell into the black abyss. They spiralled into the darkness, their cries reverberating off the icy walls.

The werewolf’s triumph spelled the end of their enemies’ resistance. The dwarf patrol—with Castimir riding ahead of them—attacked the goblin troops and the chaos dwarfs who remained. Between the wizard’s sorcery and the vengeful axes of the dwarfs, none escaped their wrath.

Far to the south, Bhuler watched as the Kinshra bombardment began. The trebuchets attempted to return the fire, only to find that their range fell woefully short of the enemy cannons.

As the first shots splintered stone and crushed wood, Sir Amik and the few survivors of his army returned to the city. They rode straight for the castle, ignoring the desperate looks of the people.

Sir Tiffy’s face paled when they appeared in the courtyard. Turning to Sir Finistere and Sir Pallas, both of whom stood close by, he spoke, and Bhuler heard every shocked word:

“Of every ten men who rode out, only one has returned.” And for the first time he could remember, the ancient knight wept.

Sir Amik was shouting as he fell from his horse.

“We were betrayed!” he bellowed. “They knew we were coming.” With a cry of impotent rage he threw his banner to the ground.

“Get them off the horses and to the ward” Bhuler instructed the squires and peons, who stood watching them in open-mouthed shock.