“Then I shall leave tonight” Doric announced. “In another two days the goblin army and the Kinshra will meet, and the way northward will be blocked.”
“But you won’t be going alone, Doric. You must go with someone we can trust, someone who also knows the ways of the dwarfs, and their language.” Sir Amik looked intently at the dwarf, knowing that one person would immediately come to mind.
“I will take Kara,” Doric replied. “She knows our ways and is apparently famous amongst my people. Theodore, too, and Castimir and Gar’rth should come. We have endured much together and it seems right that we should try and see it through to the finish.” He shifted the helm that he held precariously under his right arm, a sudden agitation gripping him.
“And the alchemist?” Sir Amik asked. “He’s been with you since the beginning.”
“That is true, but his skills will be of more use here. We will likely have to fight our way to Ice Mountain. It will be a swift journey through enemy lines and the alchemist isn’t suited to it.” Doric lowered his eyes. “I shall speak with him first, but I think… I hope he will understand.”
The dwarf found Ebenezer drinking water greedily from a wooden goblet, hot and exhausted from the day’s hard work.
“It has taken people’s minds off the imminent threat. Citizens from all different backgrounds are lending a hand-they are actually hopeful, Doric!” The alchemist’s eyes smiled from above the rim of the goblet.
“There is even more good news. Sir Amik has approved my suggestion, Ebenezer. I am leaving tonight.” The dwarf stood with his feet wide apart, hands on the axe before him, willing himself to be as immovable as stone.
“And who is to go with you?” The old man gazed into the goblet.
“Kara and Theodore will both come. As will Castimir and Gar’rth.” The dwarf’s voice trailed off and Doric lowered his eyes to the ground. “It will be a hard journey, Ebenezer.”
“I understand, Doric. I am not a good rider-my bones are too old to withstand the jostling of a horse beneath me. I think I will be of more use here in Falador than battling my way through enemy lines. But I do insist that you promise me one thing.”
“Anything,” the dwarf said earnestly.
“Make sure they all come back.”
Doric took Ebenezer’s hand in a tight grip but said nothing.
For it was not a promise he could make.
Night had fallen. To the north of Falador, no more than a two-day ride from the city, Sulla sat hunched over a map. His one eye squinted in the candlelight as he read the details of his army’s deployment.
Behind him, standing silently in the dark shadows, was Jerrod.
“Our picket lines are watching every approach to the camp, whilst the goblins are securing our western flank” Sulla said. “Tomorrow they should join with us.”
“And what then?” Jerrod’s voice was even harsher than usual, for he was impatient for the war to start.
“Then we will move to within sight of Falador’s walls. The goblins will be used for the manual labour-digging trenches to secure our positions. Depending on how well they perform, we could use them as a diversionary force.
“My guns will make short work of the walls of Falador. The chaos dwarfs think that within a few days-perhaps sooner-we will have opened a fissure large enough to exploit.” Sulla leaned away from his desk, his face a macabre picture of wicked humour. “The knights have no way of countering my guns.
“For generations the people of Falador have mocked us,” he continued. “For decades we have been despised in Asgarnia.” He turned to face Jerrod, a dark glint in his eye. “Soon Falador will fall. Its streets will run with blood and its ruins will be ploughed into the earth. Let the people of Falador believe in peace, let them pray for a diplomatic resolution. But know this, Jerrod-there will not be one. Falador is in its final hour!”
“And then, Sulla?” Jerrod asked, his curiosity aroused.
“I will seize the throne of Asgarnia and the worship of Zamorak will enter a new age. We shall both have our revenge against those who have stood against us.”
Outside, under the blanket of cloud that concealed the stars, the wind whipped through the camp, taking Sulla’s dark promise toward the south.
FIFTY-SIX
They rode through the starless night, the long shadows concealing their movements. Theodore carried a map, given to him by Sir Amik, with several locations marked to the north of Falador.
“We keep a number of hideaways for our scouts,” Sir Amik had said. “In case they should be cut off from the city. You will hide in the daytime and travel at night. When you reach Ice Mountain you will be in Doric’s hands.”
The squire also carried a small cage with several pigeons. The birds would fly back above the besieging armies, bearing any message from Theodore.
To the west of Falador lay a swampland where an army could hide, concealed by the treacherous terrain through which only the knights knew the correct path. Dead branches and buzzing insects harassed the companions, and several times they saw bright lights bobbing up and down, as if a man were signalling to them.
“What are those lights?” Kara asked.
“Some think they are spirits of the dead” Theodore answered. “Whilst others claim they are just a natural phenomenon. I heard Ebenezer say that they were most likely caused by marsh gas.”
“He places too much emphasis on science,” Castimir said, swiping the air in front of his face to deter a cloud of midges.
“Maybe, Castimir, but I would feel more comfortable with him here,” Doric observed.
“He is more use in Falador, Doric,” Kara said. “He admitted that himself when he came to see us leave.” Few people had been present to watch them go, for their mission was secret.
Overhead, the leather wings of several bats sounded and Castimir instinctively ducked.
“I’m not sure how much more I can stand of the swamp.”
The prisoner sat with his hands in his lap, shivering in the darkness. The knights had made him deliberately uncomfortable: he had been left in the dungeons, below ground, kept in cold and darkness.
I should have tried harder to escape the old man, he thought, recalling his journey back to Falador under the watchful eye of the man they called The Alchemist. Zamorak was not a forgiving deity. If he ever returned to Sulla’s army, his capture would likely mean his death.
He had believed he would die in Falador, executed by the knights as a murderer. As his mind dwelt on that, he wept in the lonely darkness, cursing the fate that made him a prisoner. And then he felt the draft of cool air through the iron bars, and knew he wasn’t alone.
“Eat,” the newcomer whispered from the darkness. A hand appeared between the bars, holding a wooden bowl with fruit and recently-cooked meat. “Do not leave anything for the guards to find.”
The bowl was upturned and the precious food dumped upon the stone. But the prisoner didn’t care, for he was ravenous.
“I will come again tomorrow night,” the voice continued. “Keep your strength up, for you shall soon be leaving here. I need you to give some information to Sulla.”
And then the man vanished back into the darkness, making no sound as he went. The prisoner smiled bitterly for the first time in several days.
The next night the man came again as promised. As before, he brought fresh fruit and cooked meat with him.
“Tomorrow night you escape.” The man had held out his hand, revealing two keys in his open palm. “One for your cell and the other for the guardroom at the end of the corridor. After the guards change their watch, you will count to one hundred ten times. Then you must make your move. There will only be a single guard in the guardroom-and he will have been drugged. Behind the door you will find the uniform of a messenger. There are dozens of riders coming and going each day and at all hours-no one will think it suspicious.