Betrayal at Falador (48 page)

Kara knew what the priest referred to. Dwarf culture prized the skill of metalworking above all others, and in dark times it was customary for a leader to demonstrate his skill and thus reveal the will of Guthix.

She had no choice.

“What is the task?” she asked, aware that Falador’s fate now depended on her.

“The amulet of King Alvis’s queen must be repaired. For centuries it has been kept in our sacred care, waiting to reveal the mind of Guthix in a time of great adversity. The hands of a leader must be deft and skilful, for a leader must be a healer and not a destroyer.”

The priest bowed and turned away, his proclamation complete.

Murmurs rippled throughout the chamber. None could doubt the ramifications of what had been said. Finally the chairman raised a hand and spoke loudly, quieting the assembly.

“Go now, Kara-Meir,” he said, “and prepare for your task. When the priests are ready you shall be called. If Guthix so wishes, then you shall lead our armies.”

SIXTY-TWO

At dawn, the southern gate of Falador opened and several wagons rolled out, escorted by thirty men.

“I hope this works, Sir Tiffy,” Ebenezer said as he watched them go.

“One way or the other,” came the reply, “we find out which of the two remaining suspects it is.”

“You are certain Sir Pallas is not the traitor?” Ebenezer asked.

“The traitor who slew Sir Balladish had to be able-bodied. I have watched Sir Pallas discreetly, arranging some tasks for which he has needed to use his strength” Sir Tiffy shook his head. “The old man is not strong enough to be the traitor, and he could not have defeated Sir Balladish. That’s not the case with the other two suspects however—even with one arm, Sir Erical is still a strong man.”

“So you have leaked the story of the gold to just one of them?”

“That is correct” the knight said. “If the wagons are attacked, we shall know who the traitor is.”

Perhaps at the cost of the unfortunate men who drive them,
Ebenezer thought, but he held his tongue.

Their attention was drawn by a cry from the sentry above the gate. A hundred Kinshra horsemen had appeared on the crest of a hill, levelling their lances before charging down toward the wagons.

“Send out your riders!” Sir Tiffy barked to Captain Ingrew.

For the second time, the southern gate opened and two hundred armed city guards rode out to defend the wagons.

The skirmish was short and brutal. The Kinshra warriors had expected an escort, but as they rode toward the wagons the covers were ripped off, revealing a dozen crossbowmen in each. Their powerful bolts penetrated armour and felled horse and man alike.

Then, as the surviving Kinshra lancers reached the wagons, they were forced to discard their lances and use their swords, for the wagons had been modified with wooden slats to prevent lances being used effectively.

Captain Ingrew and his two hundred surrounded the attackers, as many of the crossbowmen in the wagons resorted to swords. Swiftly, the Kinshra were overcome. It was a minor victory for the city of Falador.

Once the skirmish was over, the men abandoned the wagons and retreated back to the southern gate, with Captain Ingrew’s cavalry guarding them.

The men on the southern wall cheered and Sir Tiffy smiled grimly as he signed the document that rested on the battlement.

“Here is an arrest warrant,” he said to a soldier who stood nearby. “Find Sir Erical and bring him to the castle immediately. He must not be allowed to see anyone until I get there.”

Doric was sitting up in bed, grumbling to an exasperated Theodore about the dangers of horses. Castimir slept nearby.

Gar’rth sat next to the squire and Theodore examined his injured hand. The wound had nearly closed. The squire shook his head in envy of Gar’rth’s regenerative powers. Though a look into the youth’s sad black eyes made him dismiss such thoughts, for he knew that the turmoil Gar’rth suffered far outweighed the benefits of his inhuman nature.

“Those goblins were stronger than any I have fought before,” Theodore said, interrupting Doric’s complaining.

“Ah, squire, that’s because the only goblins you’ve fought have been pitiful creatures driven from their homeland by their more vicious brethren” the dwarf explained. “You must think of them as beggars and thieves, mere nuisances throughout Asgarnia.” He laughed bitterly. “No, my young friend, the goblin
warriors
are more deadly, although they aren’t any more intelligent than their troublesome exiles.”

A loud knock at the door disturbed a slumbering Castimir, who awoke with a start. Theodore looked up to see a breathless dwarf gesturing wildly for them to follow. Without a word the companions jogged behind him, wondering what could be so urgent. After several minutes, they found themselves in the company of Commander Blenheim and several of his soldiers.

“Squire Theodore,” he said, bowing. “An army of soldiers is encamped in the foothills, nearly six hundred strong. We think they are a gathering of the Imperial Guard. Our scouts report they have little food and are debating what to do, for it appears the Kinshra have already siezed Burthorpe and have ordered the Imperial Guard to stand down. But they are still equipped for war.”

Theodore glanced at his friends, unsure of what this could mean. Then he looked back to the dwarf.

“Get me my horse!” he said, and the elderly dwarf motioned to a soldier. “I shall ride down and speak with them.”

As he said it, he wondered at the wisdom of his words.

Kara sat by Master Phyllis’s bedside, listening to his weak breathing.

“Please don’t die,” she whispered, holding back the tears. “I don’t want to be alone. There is so much I want to tell you!”

She had said these words many times, yet they had not stirred the old dwarf from his deathly slumber. But this time he gave a start and his eyes fluttered open, the orbs clouded with age. He watched her intently for a minute, and then he laughed carefully, though doing so seemed to cause him pain.

“Kara-Meir?” he asked. “What are you doing here, girl? Am I dreaming? Or am I dead? If you are here before me at Guthix’s side then I am sorry indeed!” He squeezed her hand with a surprising strength.

“You are not dead, Master Phyllis,” she replied. “And you are not dreaming. I have come back to the mountain to enlist the help of the dwarfs against the Kinshra, for they lay siege to Falador. But that is something for later. Tell me how you are feeling, Master Phyllis.”

The old dwarf smiled, and caressed her blonde hair.

“I am ready to meet Guthix, Kara-Meir. I have dreamt of him much in the last few weeks.” For a moment he looked into the distance, as if remembering something. “He told me you would come back. He told me to prepare something for you! Look under my bed, girl, in the iron box.”

She pulled out the box and opened it with a fervour she couldn’t explain, and when she saw what was inside she gasped in wonder. For it was a banner, resplendent with a golden Ring of Life and the flower of the White Pearl through its middle. Lying on the banner was a crystal vial strung on a necklace, with a blue liquid glowing unnaturally within.

“Men will rally to your banner, Kara-Meir,” he said. “And the vial—you must wear it with pride. It has been in my family for more than a hundred years, since my father journeyed far south and was granted permission by the great serpent herself to take some of the holy tears of Guthix.” Master Phyllis sighed, as though relieved of a great burden.

His grip on her hand slackened suddenly.

“Please don’t die, Master Phyllis,” she pleaded. “You are the only family I have.” She rested her head on his chest and wept, barely aware of the dwarf’s hand stroking her hair.

“We can’t always have what we want, Kara-Meir. We must make the best of what we have. I am grateful to Guthix that I have known you. You gave my final years a great purpose.”

His voice faltered and his eyes closed. After a moment his hand fell limply from her head.

Kara didn’t move. She remembered how he had found her on the mountainside in the snow, years ago, and recalled the long days in which he had taught her how to mine and smith, and how to fight.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock on the door. Kara turned to see a messenger of the council and a member of the priesthood.

“Squire Theodore has gone into the foothills to parley with the Imperial Guard who have fled Burthorpe,” the priest said. “Now it is time for your test, Kara-Meir. You must follow me.”

She stood briskly, placing the crystal vial about her neck, her eyes on the body before her.

“Rest in peace, father. I will not forget you.”

And then she left, following her escorts deeper into the earth.

SIXTY-THREE

Ebenezer was inspecting the new city militia when he heard shouts coming from the battlements.

Squire Marius and a dozen peons were drilling two bodies of four hundred men each, transforming them into fighting units capable of holding back the invading army. The men had been armed with pikes and trained to form an impassable column, which could force the enemy back into the breach.

As part of their training they remained in a perpetual state of readiness, sleeping with their weapons, never more than one hundred yards from the walls.

Yet concerns continued to plague Ebenezer. Even though Sir Erical’s treachery had been uncovered, the old knight had disappeared into the mazes of Falador. All day he had been at large, and still dangerous, but the knights could not spare the men for a search. Thus Marius drilled his men all the harder and planned for every contingency.

The panicked shouting of the guardsmen was accompanied by a series of explosions.

That could mean only one thing.

A crack in the north wall had been made. A cheer went up from Sulla’s line as they witnessed the beginnings of a breach. Like hounds scenting blood, every one of the Kinshra guns turned on that same area and within moments the firing resumed.

The alchemist knew the walls would not stand for long.

Kara wiped the sweat from her forehead and examined the blue ingot of metal that lay in her hand. She ran the point of her sword across the surface and, when it failed to even draw a scratch, her suspicions were confirmed. It was rune metal, stronger and heavier even than adamant, and far rarer.

Few were the smiths who could fashion it.

Her eyes focused on the forge and the red coals, and the image of Master Phyllis came back to her. She recalled the first time he had taught her the art of the smith, years ago. She had mined her own tin from cassiterite, smelting the metal on a fire of her own making, moulding the tin into the shapes of weapons. She had never made decorative necklaces or attractive trinkets. Always they had been the tools of violence, a symptom of her anger.

Now she pressed the bellows, blowing air into the forge. The coals responded greedily, glowing ever hotter. The colour of the forge began to turn from red to a bright yellow, hot enough to melt steel.

Her first time at the forge had also been under Master Phyllis’s watchful eye. She had smelt bronze from copper and tin that she had mined herself, using the alloy to smith her first true sword. It had taken her days to complete and she had spent long nights hammering and heating and polishing the weapon. She had loved the work and Master Phyllis had been proud of her dedication.

Kara stirred the coal toward the centre of the forge where the heat was greatest. It would not be long now.