But his illness was getting worse. Castimir did not know what it was. It seemed as if Gar’rth sometimes became a different person. He would sweat profusely, his eyes staring at a fixed point whenever his ailment threatened to overwhelm him. Sometimes he would cry out for a minute or so, his hands clenched before him as he fought the dreadful influence of whatever it was that held him in its grip.
Years ago, when Castimir was a boy, a madman had wandered through their village. He’d had a wild look and would break into stretches of nonsensical dialogue with imaginary onlookers that only he could see, muttering about a fantastical realm called Zanaris which was ruled by a fairy queen. Castimir wondered if Gar’rth’s illness was something similar-a disease of the mind.
Gar’rth was in full control of himself now, however. He also sat opposite Ebenezer, drinking water. The alchemist never allowed him to drink any ale or wine, and he had instructed Castimir that Gar’rth should never be given such, for fear that it would contribute to his ailment.
Castimir risked another discreet look at the girl whose blonde hair fell loosely down her back. His spirits fired by the ale he had been drinking, he stood up resolutely, left his empty mug on the table, and marched toward the women.
“Oh dear,” Ebenezer whispered, smiling mischievously at Gar’rth.
The wizard was back in less than a minute, his face downcast and burning bright red.
“They don’t like mages, these barbarians” he muttered. “They don’t trust magic. I only introduced myself and asked them if they wished me to melt an iron dagger.” He looked furtively at the table, avoiding the stares of his friends. “But they weren’t interested.”
The two women glanced over at Castimir several times in the next few moments, their faces reflecting their distrust of the blue-robed sorcerer. Castimir found himself another drink and sat down with a resigned sigh. He had taken his first sip when he saw one of the women gesture to him.
“What now?” he mused as he stood up.
“Him!” She pointed at Gar’rth who sat quietly, unaware that he was the subject of their conversation. “Is he a mage?”
Castimir shook his head.
“No,” he said firmly.
“Good!” the woman said, before turning away and muttering in a hushed tone to her younger friend.
He watched as her friend smiled, and a pang of jealousy shot through him. What did Gar’rth have that he didn’t? he wondered, looking critically at the lanky youth.
Castimir returned to his seat, giving Gar’rth a long look as he sat down next to him. He took a draught of his ale.
It was going to be one of those nights.
Theodore was certain he knew where Kara was heading. He remembered his conversations with her, about Sulla and the Kinshra she had vowed to fight. And he knew the powerful anger which drove her on.
He and Doric had left Falador several hours before, stopping briefly to question those people they met on the road.
And Kara had been seen, travelling east, toward the barbarian tribes. It made sense to Theodore. She would need to find hospitality somewhere. Indeed, one of the city guards helping in the hunt told Theodore that he had recommended to her that she stop at the barbarian village to replenish her supplies.
“The Kinshra will surely kill her if we cannot intercept her Theodore” Doric shouted as they rode swiftly on.
“Then we will ride through the night” Theodore replied. “She can be no more than three hours ahead of us.”
As strong and skilled as Kara was, fighting enemies as vicious as the Kinshra warriors was a battle that could only end in her defeat. Hadn’t she already tried to do it? Hadn’t the Ring of Life spent its power in saving her from them?
She is too stubborn, Theodore thought, before wondering exactly how they were going to bring her back if she refused to come willingly.
THIRTY-EIGHT
It was growing dark. It was the second night he had spent outside the city since the girl had wounded him.
A girl!
A girl had done this to him. If it hadn’t hurt so much, he would have laughed at the idea.
Throughout the day, he remained in the remote hollows north of Falador, protected by thick brambles and fallen trees in the most overgrown part of the wood.
Once he was woken by the sound of baying dogs, and he had had to master his instinct to run. For a few seconds the sounds had come closer, but then they turned away westward, toward the road to Taverley.
He knew he was the hunted now. His overconfidence in dealing with the humans had led to his defeat, and he had left two fingers and half an ear behind. He had not returned to his human form just yet, for his wolf form was far stronger and he could feel his stomach wound repairing itself gradually. It would be several days before he would be able to move without pain, however. But at least the bleeding had stopped.
He knew also that it wasn’t safe to stay in this country. The population had risen against him now, and scores of heavily armed men searched the woodlands. He would have to leave.
It was on the western road, south of Taverley, that he had first encountered Theodore, who carried the scent of his quarry. Despite his failure to question him, he knew the best chance of picking up the trail that he had lost would be to head north, moving only at night, backtracking along Theodore’s route.
He stood warily, his stomach protesting from the wound. He would remember the girl with the blonde hair. Before he returned east to Morytania and his dark lord, he would find her somewhere, alone in the wild, and have his revenge.
His hatred gave him the strength he needed to ignore the pain and slowly he made his way out of the overgrown hollow.
The wind was cold on Sulla’s face, yet he could sense a change in the seasons. The daylight hours were lasting longer. It would soon be time.
Behind him stood several of his commanders, waiting.
“The monastery,” he said. “Ever since I have walked this land it has always stood there, taunting us.” Sulla pointed to the east, his arm stretched out across the cliff edge to a vista covered in dense woodland and bathed in the last embers of sunlight. A white tower was just visible, rising above the trees many miles away.
“You want us to sack the monastery?” Lord Daquarius asked uncertainly.
“They are our enemies!” Sulla spat back. “They are worshippers of Saradomin.”
“Truly they are, but they are not worthy of our attention. They are old men in robes. If we attack them we will unite our enemies. If Misthalin becomes involved, if Varrock sends an army against us…”
“They will not” Sulla insisted. “We shall test our weapons on the monastery and then turn south toward Falador. Thorbarkin, are you ready?”
A hunchbacked dwarf made his way forward.
“Yes, Lord Sulla,” the figure croaked, lowering his red cowl. His smile revealed sharp teeth that had been filed down to add to his terrifying appearance. His eyes shone eerily and were maniacally bloodshot.
“How many of our weapons do you think we will need to assault the monastery?” Sulla snarled.
He didn’t like using the non-human races in his army but the chaos dwarfs who shared his faith were industrious. And they had given him new weapons that could hammer down the strongest walls and clear a path through the boldest army.
Weapons against which the knights had no defence.
“No more than five, Lord Sulla,” came the reply. “Zamorak smiles on our cause.”
“Then we will assault the monastery within days. We will test ourselves and our weapons against the faith of the monks of Saradomin.”
“And after that, my lord?”
“After that we turn south. To Falador!”
Darkness fell over the barbarian village and several braziers were lit to keep the night at bay. From over the wooden paling that surrounded the settlement scavenging dogs could be heard, barking over the scraps of meat that some children had offered as bait to draw them unsuccessfully within range of their spears.