Betrayal at Falador (55 page)

“You should not think like that, Kara,” he said firmly. “We have fought together before, and you are as capable a warrior as I have ever known. Today is just another battle, and we will live to celebrate victory.”

“Today is different, Theodore,” she corrected him, desperate to tell him of the Emissary’s threat.

“No, Kara. It is the same as any other. Only you have changed,” he continued, drawing a curious look from her. “Do you know what the men say of you behind your back?”

Kara shook her head.

“They say you are touched by the gods. They all know your story, Kara. They have built you into a legend—and legends cannot die.”

Kara lowered her head, fighting sudden despair. The army had made her into something she wasn’t, yet she knew she had to take advantage of their fervour if they were to triumph.

She raised her head to Theodore once more and noted the bright look in his eyes.

“Then let us be about our business” she said, pushing her concerns away. “Let us save Falador.”

She signalled to Commander Blenheim, and the dwarf army began to march.

“And what are you going to do, Sir Pallas?” Finistere asked. “Falador is dying, old friend, and yet you use your last hours to confront me rather than attempting to flee.” The traitor shook his head, a mocking smile on his triumphant face. “Do you intend to kill me?”

The ancient knight stood resolute, though his sword hand continued to tremble.

“Release the prisoners first,” he said firmly. “Release them and then surrender, for I promise you I will not let you leave here alive!”

The ferocity in the old knight’s voice wiped the smile from Finistere’s face.

“Do you think you are a threat to me?” he sneered. “You are a weak old man. Whatever glory you may have had has long passed, abandoning you along with the vigour of your youth.” He drew his blade from his scabbard. “You cannot resist me.”

Sir Pallas hung his head for a moment, acknowledging that his defeat was inevitable. But then he straightened and looked his opponent in the eye.

“You might be right” he replied. “But I am willing to sacrifice everything to stop you. Are you as determined?” The old knight breathed deeply and his sword ceased to shake.

Sir Tiffy nudged Marius and whispered in the squire’s ear.

“If Sir Pallas charges him it might knock him against the gate,” he said. “If that happens then we must seize him through the bars.”

Marius nodded.

“So be it, Sir Pallas!” the traitor said. “But if we both die here, then your friends will starve—and that will be an agony slow to end.” Then, with a growl of anger, the traitor threw himself upon his enemy.

Sir Vyvin was knocked off his horse. The Kinshra pikemen pressed in against the knights, pinning them and Lord Tremene’s militia against the wall of the city. They were trapped.

A Kinshra soldier ran forward to take advantage of the situation. He put a foot on Sir Vyvin’s sword arm and raised his weapon to stab downward. Suddenly a horse neighed in challenge.

The soldier turned just in time to see Sir Amik guiding the tip of his banner toward his face. He did not have time to scream before he died.

Sir Vyvin stood and began fighting on foot next to Sir Amik, driving back the bolder warriors of the Kinshra army and giving others cause for hesitation.

Lord Tremene shouted over.

“We are ready, Sir Amik! The cavalry has been kept back behind our infantry. But we must go soon.”

The leader of the knights surveyed the situation. The Kinshra had driven them against the wall in a horseshoe shape, and the enemy advanced from all sides, leaving only trampled corpses as they closed.

But Sir Amik had foreseen this, Sir Vyvin knew. He had played a desperate gamble to lure the Kinshra army in. He had ordered his cavalry to be held back, to keep them away from the enemy so they could be used to punch a hole in the Kinshra formation that was growing ever smaller.

He was just waiting for the right moment.

Sulla watched in satisfaction as his infantry hacked their way into the mass of white-armoured knights. As long as he could keep Kara from reaching them he was confident of victory, and the goblins had been ordered north to delay her.

“Lord Sulla?” a messenger called. “Word has come from one of our scouts. The goblins are in danger, for the newcomers have hundreds of cavalry. They have hidden themselves behind our camp and are preparing to charge.”

The news stunned Sulla to silence. It was too late to warn the goblins now. A concerted cavalry charge would smash them in minutes.

Finding his voice, he cursed as he shut his visor once more, hiding his face from the uneasy looks of his men.

Kara-Meir had surprised him yet again.

Zamorak curse her!

The dwarf lines halted a hundred yards from the goblin rabble. A few dozen arrows had been fired half-heartedly by the enemy, yet they had failed to dent the dwarf resolve.

Kara sat on her horse at the head of the army and raised her sword. As she did so, the dwarf soldiers beat their axes upon their shields. The goblins jeered, attempting to drown the dwarf war ritual with their own. None of them knew the true purpose of the dwarf hammering.

But Theodore heard it and understood. He was at the head of the Imperial Guard, by Lord Radebaugh’s side, hidden from the enemy’s view.

The leader of the Imperial Guard turned one last time to his men.

“This is it!” he cried. “We must give Kara a quick victory! We must brush aside these goblins and move on to the city!”

The men cheered in anticipation, and from somewhere in their midst a cry was heard.

“For Falador, for Asgarnia and for honour!”

Every man shouted, raising his sword into the air, urging his horse on at a swift trot to answer Kara’s summons.

“For Falador, for Asgarnia and for honour!”

Castimir clutched at Theodore’s arm as they moved forward, and the squire turned to see tears in his friend’s eyes.

“We read histories of the heroes when we were young, Theo. To think that in years to come children will read our stories!”

Beside them, a growling voice replied.

“So long as they are not our obituaries, Castimir. Then I shall be satisfied” Doric muttered.

The friends fell silent as the command was given to increase the pace, for speed was now of utmost importance.

Kara held her lines back, ignoring the goblin soldiers who called out to her and made obscene gestures.

“Keep up the drumming!” she instructed. “Let it hide the sound of Theodore’s cavalry until it is too late for them.”

The goblin horde had spread out to mirror the deployment of her army, for they knew how important it was not to become surrounded by an enveloping line. But in so doing, they had fallen for Kara’s trap. Their formation would make Theodore’s cavalry charge far more effective.

The first they knew of the six hundred-strong cavalry was the cloud of dust that appeared to the east. A cry went up, but by that time it was too late for their commanders to do anything.

From the northeast came the Imperial Guard, driving headlong at full gallop into the spread-out goblin line and cutting them down as if they were blades of grass under a scythe.

Castimir was the first to fell an enemy. He rode on the edge of the charge, intending to break off and use his magic from a distance rather than engage in close combat. Fire arced from his fingers and spread fear and confusion throughout the enemy ranks.

Then it was the turn of Lord Radebaugh and Theodore, who led the charge into the breaking goblin horde. There was no wall of spears to resist them, no packed column of disciplined strength to drive them off.

It was a massacre.

Theodore’s mare trampled the first goblin under her hooves, while he beheaded another with a single stroke. The squire felt hot blood splatter his face through his visor. The scent of battle drove him on as he cut down another and guided his mare to ride over those who turned to flee.

“Fire!” Kara shouted. Five hundred carefully aimed bolts swept into the goblin mass. It was the only shot the dwarf crossbowmen would get, for they had no time to reload the bolts before the cavalry swept their enemy away.

In less than a minute, the entire goblin horde of two thousand had been put to flight. Those who had not been killed fled the field, abandoning their weapons and tearing off their armour in an effort to run all the quicker.

SEVENTY

The traitor parried Sir Pallas’s blow with ease.

“This is pathetic” Finistere spat scornfully as the old knight stumbled, breaking off his attack to catch hold of the wall for support as he wheezed heavily. “I have kept my sword arm honed, practising in secret in case I might have to fight again. You don’t have a hope.”

“Let him go, Finistere,” Ebenezer shouted. “It is murder now.”

“It was murder a long time ago,” Finistere replied.

Their swords sang as the two men exchanged several swift blows. The traitor was careful to stay away from the gate, ensuring that he was well beyond the reach of his prisoners.

“It is fortunate that I am in no rush,” the traitor mocked. “I shall let the fighting end in the city before joining the victors in a satisfying plunder of Falador. None shall be spared!”

Sir Pallas lunged desperately, and the traitor sidestepped, leaving the old knight to gather his strength again.

“Come to us, Sir Pallas” Sir Tiffy cried. “Come close in to the gate. Finistere won’t dare come so near to us.”

“I cannot,” Sir Pallas responded.

Then suddenly he grinned. “Evil must be fought, Sir Tiffy. We must all make sacrifices to that end!”

With a speed that surprised the traitor, Sir Pallas rushed him, his sword cutting a wide arc. But the traitor’s patience had ended. He didn’t even bother to parry the blow. Instead, he stepped forward, his sword darting in a single deadly thrust.

Sir Pallas gasped as the blade entered his body. He dropped his sword instantly and uttered a low moan of agony, collapsing to his knees, grasping at the traitor as if his killer would suddenly offer him a reprieve.

“Get your hands off me” Finistere said, reaching down to push the old knight away. But still Sir Pallas clawed at his killer as if his hands were weapons, tearing at his cloak and belt.

“Get away from me!” the traitor yelled, throwing the old man to the ground. He watched in contempt as the mortally wounded knight crawled with agonising slowness to the iron gate, where Sir Tiffy’s outstretched hands were reaching for him, ready to offer what little comfort they could.

“My dear friend,” he said with affection, his face dark as he observed the wound. “What could you hope to achieve by this brave act?” His hand lay on the shoulder of his friend, and he frowned as he saw Sir Pallas stretch his mouth into a pain-filled grin.

The traitor noted it, too, and was suddenly afraid.

“What are you laughing at, you old fool?” he demanded.

The dying knight smiled still.

“I have achieved a victory today, Tiffy” he gasped. “It has cost me everything, I fear, but it has been a just sacrifice to bring low a wretched enemy.”

Finistere opened his mouth to speak, but as he did so the sound choked in his throat. For Sir Pallas’s hand had fallen open, and a key dropped to the dusty stone within an inch of Sir Tiffy’s hand. It was the key to the iron gate. Sir Pallas had ripped it from his belt.

The hunter had become the hunted.

With a cry of rage Finistere kicked over his lantern and fled into the darkness as Marius put the key into the lock.

He knew he could not outrun the Squire. It was in the darkness that his salvation lay.

Sir Vyvin followed Sir Amik’s gaze north. Surely, he thought, it was time for them to begin their breakout? In the distance the goblins were fleeing as Theodore regrouped with the Imperial Guard in preparation for a second assault.

“We must go now” Sir Amik spoke for the first time to Sir Vyvin, who turned to reply, but his words were lost amongst the clamour of the Kinshra soldiers nearest the wall.

We will talk of this before the day is done, my friend,
he thought, as he turned his attention to more pressing matters.

For the citizens of Falador had entered the battle. Hundreds of them lined the ramparts above the surrounded knights. Men hurled stones and bricks onto the heads of any Kinshra within range, while women emptied buckets of boiling water into the thickest concentrations.

At the same time, the knights’ leader raised his banner, and the cavalry of Falador charged the thinnest point of the Kinshra horseshoe. Sir Vyvin was at Sir Amik’s side, shouting to him in support. The great knight shouted back, urging them on, using his banner as a lance.

To the matron, who watched from the ramparts of the castle, it seemed as if the advancing enemy was simply biding their time, occupying themselves with plunder. She cast a dark look down into the courtyard. Pale, frightened faces looked expectantly up at her—injured men, unfit for battle, roused from their beds only to await the end.

“He should be here on the wall with us,” she said to herself before turning away and marching across the courtyard. She ignored the whimpering of hungry children and weeping mothers who had taken shelter in the castle’s protective walls.