The men of the Kinshra avoided his stare, but they nodded, eager to see the youth exact a hideous revenge on the girl who had slain their comrades.
Gar’rth gave a despairing moan as he crept as far away from Kara as the chain around his neck would allow. He lay with his hands pressed against his ears, blocking out the taunts of the onlookers.
“Well, Kara-Meir, you have gone from one bad situation to another!”
The old man’s face betrayed a savage smile that said he found her predicament amusing.
“Where am I?” she asked. Her wounds were healed and all the pain was gone. She was standing beside the small red-cloaked man on the parapet of a black castle built in the middle of a great city. It was all strangely familiar.
“You are in Falador, Kara,” he said with a wave of his hand. “A Falador as it might be if you accept my proposal. Gone are the knights, for their righteousness and arrogance destroyed them. Your armies have overrun the known world. Your empire is the largest there has ever been, your laws are upheld, and men fear to utter your name. There are no more pointless deaths, no more wars.
“Look at all you have achieved.”
Kara looked at the dismal faces of the people who had become her subjects. The people of Falador walked about their city under the hard stares of dozens of black-armoured guards. In this new world, constructed over the bodies of impressed citizens worked to death, the people were no longer free. Suddenly she was certain who it was who offered her such power.
“Zamorak!” She turned to face him. “Why am I so important to you?”
The hunchback gave a childish giggle.
“I am a mere servant of the power, not the power itself,” he said. “When I lived, many centuries ago, I was an able pawn. You would best think of me as his high emissary. One of many.”
His burning eyes stared deeply into hers.
“The world cannot continue as it is, Kara. A new system must be found, a leader who can unite all men for the new age. Under his guidance you can create a world in which no family will be destroyed as yours was!”
“And what of my friends?” she asked. “The last time you came to me you showed me a future in which I had Theodore killed.”
She stepped away from the man, looking down into the courtyard where an execution scaffold stood on permanent display, its wooden deck stained a darkish brown.
“Your friends have abandoned you, Kara,” he said in a matter-of-fact way. “For you to achieve the destiny that was meant for you, you do not need friends.”
The execution stand attracted Kara’s gaze again.
“Send me back” she demanded. “For I refuse your offer. A world ruled by fear is not a world I wish to be part of.”
The old man laughed once more, but his eyes glinted in annoyance.
“Very well, Kara-Meir, but I shall appear to you one last time before my offer is withdrawn. In the meantime, you must save yourself.” Suddenly she was paralysed, and as she tried to move she found herself back in the monastery, restrained by the thick ropes and subjected to the cruel jests of the men, her body once more bruised and aching.
But this time she did not despair. For if Zamorak’s emissary was to visit her again, then she knew she would somehow survive.
That thought gave her the strength to think clearly, and to plan.
She looked at Gar’rth, and the chain about his neck gave her an idea. With a solid resolve she turned to the Kinshra onlookers. Mustering herself, she laughed back at them, and from their expressions she knew that her sudden change unnerved them.
She knew she had to play upon their impatience now, and draw one of them close enough for Gar’rth to reach.
“How is it, Jerrod, that you are able to speak the common tongue and Gar’rth isn’t?”
“My people only learn it after adolescence, after their blooding and when their true form is set. Gar’rth is simply too young.”
Sulla turned his attention to the captives.
“You know, some of the men resent me giving Kara to Gar’rth. But she is too dangerous to be left alive, and the men will be content with the spectacle as he devours her.”
Jerrod bowed his head in acknowledgement, aware that Sulla, like his men, was growing impatient for Gar’rth to act. Worse, Kara was mocking them, and the men’s tempers were becoming strained. If one of them slew Kara themselves, then Gar’rth’s blooding would have to be postponed, again! Jerrod turned to caution Sulla about his men, but as he turned to speak a hideous cry carried across the courtyard. It was followed immediately by yells of alarm and the scrapes of swords being drawn.
One of Sulla’s men, angered by Kara’s taunting and tired of Gar’rth’s inaction had stepped toward the girl to beat the laughter from her. As soon as he strode within the range of Gar’rth’s chain, the werewolf leapt, dragging the man down as his teeth found his throat and the warm blood within. Jerrod could smell it, powerful, near irresistible.
And he knew of the danger. He knew the power fresh blood instilled in his kind, even if it did not belong to an innocent. He knew that Gar’rth might now have the power to break free from the restraining chain. With a challenging growl he hurled himself at his nephew.
They spun viciously in a swift battle. Gar’rth attacked with a mindless fury, yet Jerrod was a far more experienced fighter and his movements were unhindered by the rage that consumed his nephew.
But Gar’rth was strong. He ignored the blows that Jerrod heaped upon him. With a frenzied cry he seized his uncle by the legs, lifted him into the air, and hurled him into the Kinshra warriors who stood with their weapons drawn, afraid to enter the fray.
Jerrod rose from the damp earth, his muscles already aching from the fight. Subduing Gar’rth was going to be more difficult than he had thought.
FIFTY-THREE
Doric hated hiding. He preferred to face his foes in open battle rather than jumping from one shadow to the next. But the three of them were no match for the Kinshra and their werewolf ally.
The squire had decided that the dwarf should remove the Kinshra horses to buy them time enough to escape, once they accomplished their goal.
If they accomplished their goal.
The horses were tied near the entrance to the monastery, in the care of a single tired guard. Doric knew he didn’t have long until Theodore and Castimir launched their attack, but if the Kinshra still had their mounts then escape would be impossible.
He held Theodore’s long knife in his right hand. He had left his heavy battle-axe with his friends, knowing it would be unsuitable for the task. He crawled forward, his movements concealed by the charred remains of the once-peaceful dwelling.
Suddenly, from close by, a wooden beam fell into the rubble, kicking dust into his face. Doric held his breath, his hand tightening on the hilt of the knife, aware that the guard must have heard. Finally he peered out from between the fallen beams.
If the guard had looked, he hadn’t seen Doric. No doubt he was tired of jumping at every sound the wrecked building made. Ignoring the sound, he had stepped away from his post, eager to see the outcome of the fray.
Swiftly Doric jumped out of the ruins and ducked behind a horse. Still the guard’s back was turned.
He took his opportunity.
The two combatants smashed into the wall close to Kara and Jerrod broke away again. Twice Gar’rth had cut him, and both times it had been near his eyes. It was a sign that he was mastering his anger, for he was thinking tactically.
“Gar’rth!” Kara hissed into his ear, uncertain whether he would understand her. She saw his eyes narrow. “Cut the ropes on my wrist.”
Gar’rth lowered his hand, feeling his way toward her arm but never removing his eyes from his uncle. The Kinshra jeered, unaware of what he was doing.
“I shall enjoy hunting her down, Gar’rth,” Jerrod growled, perceiving his nephew’s subterfuge. “I can smell her fear!”