“This is not magic, Theo” Castimir said, his voice catching in his throat. “This is a contest between the gods about which I know very little.” He gave a sudden cry and covered his mouth with his hand.
Theodore looked at once to Gar’rth. There was something moving under his skin, pushing out from inside him, like a beast trying to escape. The shape of a large clawed hand appeared in Gar’rth’s chest, beneath the stretching skin, before suddenly disappearing again.
And it was not alone. Dozens of other claws and wolf-like impressions were erupting across his body as Gar’rth’s dark heritage fought back against the commanding chants of Abbot Langley. A thousand contorted visages in screaming agony were outlined in the youth’s undulating flesh. Each disappeared as swiftly as it had come, only to be replaced an instant later like ripples on a lake in a rainstorm.
“What are they?” Kara asked, her fear evident in her tremulous voice.
“It is Zamorak’s power” Brother Althric said hoarsely. “That is Gar’rth’s heritage-it is what he is, and that is what we are trying to rescue him from.” He spoke loudly, stepping to Kara’s side. “You can do nothing but pray for him now, and give him words of friendship and encouragement.” She reached out, and the wise monk caught her wrist in a suddenly tight grip. “But you must not cross into the holy circle. If you do that, he shall be lost, and so will you. You must promise me that, Kara. You must all promise me,” he demanded, looking at each of them in turn.
They nodded their assent, and the abbot’s voice rose still louder against the raging winds which threatened to extinguish the candles that Brother Althric had lit to aid them. As the abbot shouted, Gar’rth gave a hideous cry, straining at his bonds with all his strength.
But it was no longer a man who was restrained in the holy circle. It was a werewolf.
All about him lay pieces of human skin, as if they were discarded clothes in which the wolf had dressed himself in order to masquerade as a man. His entire body was coated in shaggy hair which hung wildly about his suddenly massive frame, for the beast was nearly twice as large as Gar’rth had been in his human form.
From his face, two huge red eyes glared out at the onlookers, focusing on Kara in particular.
Kara could feel the evil presence conquering her will, and she struggled to resist it. With a stumble she stepped forward, her hands reaching out again to Gar’rth, offering pity and comfort.
“Oh Gar’rth! I’m sorry…” she began, but before she could utter another syllable she was roughly seized and pulled back.
“It is not Gar’rth, Kara!” Brother Althric yelled. “That thing is one of Zamorak’s servants sent here to prevent us from saving him. It is a creature from the Abyss, intended to lure one of his friends across the holy circle and to their doom. And it would be Gar’rth’s doom also. For your blood would have driven him beyond our power.”
Hearing Brother Althric’s words the wolf creature laughed contemptuously, an animalistic sound that carried no humour.
“Fool!” it growled. “If I do not succeed, then another will come. Even now he is near, and by nightfall he shall turn your souls over to me.” The creature gave another savage laugh and then, as the wind suddenly slowed, they saw once more that Gar’rth was at the centre of the circle, still bound to his iron chair and still wracked by the endless agony.
Throughout the afternoon the conflict continued. No more servants of Zamorak appeared after the wolf creature, and yet the abbot became increasingly strained. It was early evening when they ended the exorcism. A small pool of black liquid lay at Gar’rth’s feet. It was an oily substance and the abbot told his fellow monks not to touch it.
“It has been expelled from Gar’rth,” he said with an exhausted sigh.
“Then it is done?” Ebenezer asked. “Gar’rth is cured?”
The abbot looked away, pity on his face.
“No” he said. “It is not done, my friend. Gar’rth is too firmly under the influence of Zamorak for me to drive out the beast entirely. But we have restored his will once more, giving him control over his nature.”
“Yet how long will this last?” Theodore asked. “What shall we do when it comes once more to possess him?”
The abbot looked at Gar’rth, who was being untied from the chair by the gentle hands of the monks. He was exhausted, his eyes closed in deep sleep.
“It might never come to possess him again,” came the response. “We might have driven enough of it from him that he can always remain in control of his actions. We will know nothing until he wakes.” The abbot looked at each of them in turn. “Brother Althric shall guide you to your rooms.” He bowed as they left.
The monk guided them through the dimly-lit corridors to a set of rooms in the eastern wing. Their belongings had already been laid out for them. Even Ebenezer’s chemicals were displayed, but for once the alchemist showed no interest in them.
Yet Kara refused sleep. As soon as Gar’rth was resting under the watchful eyes of her friends, she sought out Brother Althric and asked about the records. Theodore went with her, and although the two had yet to make their peace, she offered no objection.
Despite his own fatigue, the monk took them to a room filled with books and documents of every shape and size.
“We have set aside records dating from the year 148 to 156 of the Fifth Age” he explained. “That should capture the time when your father brought you here to receive the monastery’s blessing, when you were a child.”
Kara could not resist a hopeful smile and for the first time in many days she looked happily at Theodore, forgetting her anger toward him. Theodore smiled back.
FORTY-SEVEN
Fatigue was the victor, and Theodore stumbled away to his bed, hardly able to stand.
Yet still Kara refused to sleep. She remained, alone throughout the night as the wind howled down from Ice Mountain and swept through the corridors of the monastery.
She stared at the pages for hours, rifling through the calligraphic records in awe at the skill of their authors, for each writing was the work of an artisan. She read and reread many of the pages. Never before had she taken such a simple joy in reading.
Once she nearly cried out, for she read about a local man bringing in his child for the blessing of Saradomin. But her hope was short-lived when she saw that the child had been a boy. With a patient sigh she turned the page to continue, her mind blocking out the four other volumes she had yet to examine.
But eventually reading the fine writing by spluttering candle light took its toll, and she found herself squinting heavily at the text before her. She pinched her eyes to drive away the fatigue, but it was not enough. With another sigh she stood up, stretching her tight muscles, deciding that it was time to return to her room-for it was already dawn.
Kara took the candle and left the archives, shutting the door firmly behind her. For several hours she had heard no sound that indicated any other living person, and the silence unnerved her. In such a place it was easy to believe in ghosts.
She had gone only a few yards when she heard the padded feet of a monk. He was followed by a second man, and Kara heard them speaking in low voices, their concern easily apparent from their anxious tones.
“Who are they?” asked the first man. “What do they want?”
Kara extinguished the candle before the light could give her away. There was something in their voices that made her uneasy, and somehow she suspected it was best to hide her presence.
“I do not know-but they have surrounded the monastery.” replied his companion. “There are torches being brandished at every perimeter. We must wake the abbot!”
At once Kara’s mind screamed a single word.
Kinshra.
It had to be them, she thought. Only they had the strength and daring to assault a monastery. The roving bands of thieves and outlaws who dwelt in The Wilderness were not organised enough. But the Kinshra, Kara realised, with Sulla at their head, were capable of anything.