“I have it, Castimir,” Arisha said with surprising calm. Her wide eyes looked sadly at him as she handed him the staff. Upon seeing his unharmed yak by her side, the wizard managed a sudden grin that looked entirely out of place on his blanched face.
“I don’t know what I would do without you, Arisha.” He slurred the words, his voice cracking.
Suddenly he swayed in the saddle.
“Do it, Castimir. Do it now!” Ebenezer spoke urgently.
Castimir held up the staff, and the knotted end glowed fiercely with its inner flame. Ebenezer removed the unexploded shell he had retrieved when he had taken shelter behind the courtyard fountain.
“Light the fuse” he said briskly.
As soon as Castimir’s staff touched it, the fuse came to life with a loud sizzle.
“Ride now, my friends” Ebenezer instructed them.
Arisha took Castimir’s horse by the reins and galloped swiftly after the disappearing monks.
“You must go too, Theodore” he said. “And you, Doric. We have no time left.” He held out the adamant blade for the squire.
Theodore shook his head, taking Kara’s sword and wearing a vicious look on his face. Doric, too, said nothing, but goaded his horse away from where he knew Ebenezer would throw the spitting explosive, just where the pathway ended.
The alchemist kept his keen eye on the fuse until the first of the Kinshra rode out onto the rise, yelling in triumph. Ebenezer did not need to think, for he had rehearsed the action in his mind. As soon as the spitting shell left his hand he dug his heels into his steed and lowered his head, yelling at the horse.
“Ride! Faster-”
The explosion silenced his words, shattered men and ripped through horses. He saw Theodore and Doric gallop at full speed into the suddenly disorientated enemy. But he could hear little, for the noise of the explosion had near-deafened him.
As he turned back to see the dozen contorted bodies of armoured men and horses that lay scattered like broken toys, he could barely hear the screams of the injured. Even Theodore’s war cry sounded far off.
Theodore’s timing was perfect. The first of the Kinshra who rode from the now smoke-filled path was unarmed, his hands pressed against his helmet in great agony. Theodore didn’t hesitate. The man was a follower of Zamorak. He had helped to violate the monastery and desecrate a peaceful place of worship.
He had to die.
With a practised move the squire brought Kara’s slender blade across the man’s throat. With shocking ease the adamant bit through the armour and cleaved deeply into his neck. Giving only a sudden cry the man fell from his horse and crashed awkwardly onto the grass where he remained, utterly motionless.
He was dimly aware of Doric, guiding his horse directly into a black-armoured warrior who staggered aimlessly on foot, stunned by the blast. The man screamed as the dwarf’s horse charged into him, knocking him violently off his feet and trampling him underfoot.
For the Kinshra the battle was lost. Most of the pursuers had been killed outright by the blast or stunned and knocked from their horses. Those who hadn’t, who had waited near the back, were not the bravest of men. Theodore’s vicious war cry and the yells of their dying comrades made them swiftly turn their horses away, toward the monastery.
For Theodore there could be no mercy. With each of the men he killed he thought of Kara-of how he had failed to protect her, of how he had betrayed her in Falador, and of not having the opportunity to make his peace with her before she was killed.
“Theodore!” Doric called as the squire leaned forward in his saddle to run through one of the few remaining Kinshra. The man screamed as he died and Theodore withdrew the sword, already looking for another enemy to feed his passion for revenge.
“Theodore, stop! We need a captive” Doric cried. “We need to know what the Kinshra are planning, and how many of those weapons they have.”
The squire halted upon hearing Doric’s words. His eyes were bloodshot with anger and he breathed deeply as he fought to regain control of himself. Rage was not the way of the Knights of Falador, and with a grim look at the carnage all around him, he lowered his sword in shame.
“You are right, my friend,” he muttered, reminding himself that it was Kara’s own anger that had ultimately resulted in her death. “No good can come of revenge.”
A low moan attracted his attention. It was one of the Kinshra-an officer of minor standing, judging from the man’s insignia. He was lying upon the smouldering grass, pinned beneath his dead horse. He had removed his helm to tend to his injuries. His face was blackened and he held his hand across his eyes.
“He’ll do,” Doric said, gesturing to the man with his axe.
“I beg for mercy!” the wounded man pleaded when Theodore dismounted. “Please! I am unarmed!” His voice shook with fear.
Theodore looked at him in contempt.
“You Kinshra deserve only the same mercy you offer to others. But I shall spare your life today, for you are coming with us to Falador. If you cause me or my companions any problems, we will kill you.”
“We should search him thoroughly,” Doric said, carefully looking over the man.
“He will not need his armour-it will weigh down our horses.” Theodore forced the man to his knees and carefully cut the straps with Kara’s blade, mindful not to injure him. With a loud clatter the man’s heavy breastplate fell to the ground, followed by the rest of his cumbersome plating.
They bound the man’s hands and sat him on one of the Kinshra horses that had survived the attack, tying him to the saddle and ensuring that the reins were secured to Theodore’s steed.
“Where is Arisha leading us?” Doric called as they rode to catch up.
“To the east, to Edgeville, I think. It is a full day’s journey, and the monks have little food with them.” Theodore spoke as if he disagreed with her decision.
“Then where are we headed?” Doric asked, knowing that only one destination could be important for the squire.
“We will catch up with them and make our farewells. Then we will ride on to Falador. The Kinshra will not be far behind.”
It was fully daylight by the time they galloped away, leaving the cold light of the cloudy winter morning to illuminate the colder faces of their dead enemies.
FIFTY
“Dig him out!” Sulla shouted across the courtyard. His temper mirrored the weather, for it had started to rain heavily and he was in ill spirits.
He looked toward the east wing of the monastery, which was smouldering now that the fires had been dampened. It seems the chaos dwarfs’ weapons have worked, he mused with a hint of satisfaction. He relished the idea of turning them against the crowded city of Falador. He imagined the streets running with the blood of innocents. Of women shielding their young, of the sheer helplessness of the knights in trying to protect their city from the falling shells.
His reverie was interrupted by the yell of a soldier who stood over the collapsed wall. Sulla stalked quickly over as they shifted enough of the debris to locate their demonic ally.
“Get him some water!” he spat. The nearest of his men ran to a fountain and filled one of the buckets abandoned by the monks. With a nod from his superior he emptied it over the werewolf’s dust-covered face.
Instantly an agonized howl caused all but Sulla to back away.
“It burns me!” the werewolf bellowed. “The water had been blessed by the priests of Saradomin.”
Sulla glared at Jerrod furiously. He contemplated leaving the creature there, or perhaps emptying several more buckets of water onto him and putting the bricks back, abandoning him to starve to death.
The werewolf struggled to free himself, pushing upward with a sudden strain. The bricks on top of him shuddered slightly in response.
“Free him!” Sulla ordered, before leaving to commandeer a room for himself in the western wing of the monastery, all of which was untouched by fire and undamaged from his bombardment.