Theodore frowned, but did not respond. Nor did he back down.
“He is not royalty, human, but he is of minor nobility,” Jerrod continued. “Even if he were not, if he were born the lowliest of birth, I would still pursue him. For amongst our race children are rare.” His maw broadened into a twisted smile. “Our race is not as… prolific as your own, and every newborn is valuable.
“My offer still stands. I want the girl and I want Gar’rth. The rest of you are of no consequence.”
“We have given you our answer,” Doric stated, his voice barely audible over the angry fire that roared through the eastern side of the monastery, its black smoke drifting across the courtyard.
As if the smoke were a signal, Jerrod gave an eerie howl and ran forward, crouching low, ready to launch himself at the nearest of his enemies.
He had identified the wizard as the only threat in the battle, and sought to remove him first. He seized the dwarf and threw him toward the magician, knowing that the young man would not risk harming his friend with his magic, forcing him to jump aside to avoid colliding with his dwarf ally.
In doing so, the wizard forfeited his chance to use his magic effectively. He frantically hurled a ball of fire that only singed Jerrod’s thigh.
The werewolf was upon him before he could ready a second spell. Jerrod hit him before deftly running his long claws across the young human’s throat, intending to kill him outright. At the last moment he hesitated, however, thinking that it would be more amusing to keep the unconscious wizard alive for later, once he was defenceless.
With a swift strike from his dagger-like claws he tore the man’s belt from his waist and hurled it into the burning monastery. Even if the wizard did regain consciousness, he would have no runes with which to wield his magic.
Casting his victim aside, Jerrod then occupied himself with the fun of revenging himself upon the dwarf and the squire. He took his time, dodging their attacks and pushing them away as a tutor might disdainfully parry a hot-headed pupil.
But then the wind changed. He caught their scent in the air, carried on the burning embers.
It was the girl and Gar’rth.
Kara knew she had made a mistake. Her eyes ran with stinging tears. Her lungs burned as she coughed feebly in an effort to breathe clean air.
“Come on, Gar’rth,” she called weakly, the strength fading from her legs as the smoke threatened to overwhelm her. She had made it through to the archives with Gar’rth close behind her, but as they had entered, the roof in the passageway behind had come crashing down, cutting off their exit.
Kara seized the four books that she had put aside for later inspection and quickly they made their way out onto a narrow stone staircase that had thus far avoided the flames.
Yet when they reached the next floor, Kara’s gut twisted itself in fear, for the only way out was back into the burning part of the monastery.
She knew her luck had run out.
The flames were engulfing the passage ahead, and the wooden floor had already collapsed in several places. There was no way they could cross.
But if they could not escape that way, she could at least divest herself of the cumbersome books. She smashed the stained-glass window with the hilt of her sword and prepared to push the weighty volumes through the small gap. But as she looked down she hesitated.
Her friends were losing the battle. She instantly recognised the werewolf as he lifted Doric straight off his feet with one hand while simultaneously fending off a thrust from Theodore. Then her eyes fell on Castimir in his blue robes, and she uttered a silent prayer, for the young sorcerer lay on the ground, his hand held to his throat, his face deathly pale.
“Get up, Castimir! They need you” she shouted, but her voice could not carry over the roaring of the flames.
There was only one thing she could do. Without hesitation, she hurled the books out into the courtyard, unsheathing her adamant sword as they fell. As Theodore was beaten to the ground and disarmed by his vicious opponent, she hurled her sword toward him and attempted to shout his name.
But she couldn’t muster the strength to do so.
A wave of dizziness and despair overwhelmed her, and she knew they were trapped. Her arrogance and selfishness had killed them both-perhaps all of them.
Kara gave a despairing moan as her knees gave way beneath her, the smoke too much for her.
“Saradomin forgive me,” she muttered as her eyes closed. “May my friends forgive me.”
She felt Gar’rth’s strong arms slip under her back as he heaved her across his shoulder. She felt weightless as he turned back toward the archive and the stairwell that they had just climbed, away from the burning passageway that was filled with black smoke.
Then all consciousness fled.
Jerrod’s acute hearing picked out her cry, and he turned to look at her briefly as she threw the sword.
Instantly he knew-it was the sword that had harmed him in Falador.
The squire managed to grab the hilt of it before the werewolf delivered a vicious kick to his side. Theodore staggered, attempting a desperate lunge which the werewolf dodged easily.
He smashed a heavy fist into the squire’s skull and took the adamant sword from his grasp. As Theodore knelt, dazed, Jerrod hurled the green-tinted blade toward the Kinshra soldiers.
At a distance, he saw Sulla nod in approval of his strategy.
“You won’t need that” he laughed as he lifted Theodore from the ground only to dump him at the wizard’s side. The squire felt limp in his arms, and Jerrod knew the human possessed barely enough strength to stand. He would enjoy taking his revenge on his enemies, a slow revenge that would last long hours. There was only one enemy left now who dared to fight him.
Jerrod turned his attention once more to Doric, who stood wearily.
The dwarf is strong, to still stand after so much punishment.
“Let’s be having you,” Doric growled, his voice quieter than usual, as if resigned to a fate he knew no mortal being could ever avoid.
Jerrod laughed. It had been so easy once he had removed the wizard and the girl’s sword, for his two enemies had nothing else left with which to hurt him.
“Castimir,” Theodore muttered, his jaw swollen from the crushing blows of his enemy’s huge fists. “We need you, Castimir!”
The wizard gave a low groan and opened his eyes.
“There is nothing I can do, Theo” he wheezed. “He has taken away my runes.”
“Not all of them, Castimir. Look, on the ground next to you. He must have torn through your pouches when he ripped your belt.”
The wizard’s eyes lit up in sudden hope and he struggled to his knees.
“Gather them up, old friend,” he said. “Let us see what we can muster for our final moment.”
Quickly and as discreetly as he could, Theodore hid Castimir from the werewolf’s view, his hands working quickly in the damp earth. Within seconds he had thrown at least a dozen of the small stones back to the wizard.
“Can you do anything with them, my friend? Do you have enough?”
Castimir’s voice sounded strong as he breathed deeply.
“I have enough, Theo. When I cast my spell we shall have one chance and only for a few seconds. Now listen very carefully.”
Theodore listened silently to Castimir as Doric was once again beaten to the ground by a savage blow.
“I understand,” the squire said meekly. Very slowly, as if he had no more to give, he rose, drawing the werewolf’s attention.
Ebenezer returned his knife to his pocket. He had finished what he had set out to do. It had taken him a few minutes, sitting behind the fence near the stables, and all the time he had watched the battle unfold.