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.”
The master-at-arms passed a silver tray around the company, the white flower resting at its centre.
“Do we not have books in the library that can help us?” Sir Vyvin asked as he too gave a resigned shake of the head and passed the tray back to the start, thus completing the circle.
“We do not,” Sharpe replied. “I have spent the night checking for both the flower and this ring that the girl possessed. It, too, might tell us who she is.” The broken ring began its round on a second tray, and each knight carefully scrutinised it.
“Do you think it a family heirloom, perhaps?” a voice said from the entrance, and each man looked to the newcomer. He was older than Sir Amik by nearly ten years, and his clear grey eyes shone with a penetrating intelligence. Nature had favoured his mind over his body, however, for he walked stiffly in his armour, as if he had worn it for so long that taking it off was beyond him. The knights stood as he entered the room, two of the nearest rushing to help him to his chair.