“I made a vow years ago, Sulla, to avenge those you took from me.”
Sulla shook his head.
“I don’t even know who you are.”
“You destroyed my family,” she replied. “You killed my parents when my father begged for my mother’s life. You denied him even that.”
“I don’t remember…” he gasped.
“That is the real tragedy, Sulla. You have done so much evil over so long a time that you do not even remember the faces of those you have slain.”
She raised her sword, ready to destroy him forever. It was what she had dreamt of for as long as she could remember.
But she couldn’t do it. She recalled Bhuler’s words, begging her to forgive her enemy, making her promise to release her anger.
So Kara-Meir turned her sword at the last moment, ramming it into the earth at Sulla’s side, her cries the only sound in the circle of men who looked on.
“I knew you couldn’t do it!” Sulla taunted her. “I knew you lacked the courage. Your father lacked courage as well-he never begged for your mother’s life. He offered her to me if I would spare him.”
But she knew he lied.
“I will not kill you, Sulla. Not today. The words of a man a thousand times better than you prevent me from doing so. ButI shall take from you the only thing that has counted in your miserable life.”
Kara bent down and picked up Sulla’s severed right hand, examining it closely. Suddenly she held a glittering object up above her head.
“Men of the Kinshra, I have taken Sulla’s hands. And from his hands I take this signet ring-the symbol of your leader. It is mine now! Take yourselves and be gone from here.” She looked down at Sulla. “And take this man also. He is responsible for your defeat. Take him and do with him what you will.”
Several Kinshra soldiers ran forward and dragged him away, slinging him over a horse and mounting their own steeds before heading north. Hundreds of others followed after them, none daring to meet Kara’s gaze.
Swiftly her friends gathered about her, their hands on her shoulders in comfort. She wept as she knelt on the earth with her sword before her. Never had the weapon felt so alien in her grasp.
Kara-Meir wept. She wept because she was in pain, she wept because she was sad, she wept because she had had her vengeance. But mostly, Kara-Meir wept because she had kept her promise.
SEVENTY-SIX
Every day brought new heartache and sorrow, for the dead were many. The families of the missing prayed hourly that news would come of their safe return and rescue, but it rarely did. Before the end of the second day, when hearing that someone was still missing and unaccounted for, men and women would shake their heads in sorrow, knowing that only a corpse would be found.
Sir Amik took command of the clean-up efforts. The knights were deployed with the city guard to keep a watch over the dead, to ensure their bodies were not dishonoured by the carrion birds and animals or by human thieves.
On the third day it was decided to burn the dead. Burial parties were recruited from the men of the city, and slowly the corpses of both sides were lowered into the trench that the goblins had dug to guard Sulla’s encampment. In their midst, dry straw packets were laid amongst the enemies who now slept side by side. When the trench was full, the pyre was lit. For three days and nights it burned, kept alight by the men of Falador who wished to purge their city of the dead and leave no trace for any beast to devour.
Only a few dozen bodies were retrieved from the field. Several of them were high-ranking knights who were interred in the chapel, stripped and washed before being laid to rest in the most hallowed chambers of the castle. Amongst these men were Sir Erical and Sir Pallas, retrieved by a dozen peons led by Sir Tiffy and Sir Vyvin.
A special place was reserved for the man who had sacrificed everything for the city he had cherished so much. Bhuler’s funeral was attended by thousands, and his grave was not in the castle of the knights. Rather, in memory of his sacrifice, he was laid to rest at the foot of the newest part of the wall that was being rebuilt and strengthened through the skill of the dwarfs. His body a symbol to inspire future generations. He was wrapped in Kara-Meir’s banner, and his horse was buried beneath him.
Kara was tempted to place her sword at his side, but her friends persuaded her to keep it, despite a change in her character since Sulla’s defeat.
“Those touched by the gods aren’t let off so easily, Kara,” Theodore warned her. “And the sword was given to you by Master Phyllis. You should keep it as an heirloom of the family that adopted you.”
Theodore was right, but she didn’t want to fight again, not ever again. She recalled Bhuler’s words to her as he had died. You cannot be angry all your life. And she wasn’t angry any more. She was just tired.
The day after Bhuler’s funeral, word reached Falador that Burthorpe had been liberated without a battle. Lord Radebaugh and the Imperial Guard had presented Lord Daquarius with Sulla’s severed hands and his ring of office, which Kara had sent so that the Kinshra would realize it would be futile to fight. Within a day they had left the citadel.
Lord Radebaugh wrote to them of his discovery of the crown prince’s secret shrine to Zamorak. He had destroyed it and the crown prince was confined for his own safety, raving like a madman. He finished his letter by informing Sir Amik that he would consult the druid Kaqemeex for help in curing the prince of his hallucinations.
It was a week of exhaustion for all, but by the end of it the traders could be seen at their stands again, the washerwomen at their laundry and the city guards-under their new chief, Colonel Ingrew-patrolling the streets.
Slowly, things returned to normal.
In the foothills of Ice Mountain a man drew a black dagger.
“I am tired of your whimpering! No one will miss you, Sulla. After the disaster you led us into, this dagger is going to be a swifter end than the one you deserve.” The Kinshra soldier of the lowliest rank strode forward. None of his friends moved to stop him. None even spoke in protest.
The soldier placed the dagger to Sulla’s throat.
Sulla pleaded weakly for his life.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice growled from the shadows of the fir trees. From under their low boughs a tall figure appeared, wearing a ragged red robe, his hand pressed against his wounded shoulder.
The Kinshra warrior stepped away.
“That is Sulla’s demon” one of the men remarked, recognising Jerrod.
“I need one man” Jerrod said slowly, “for only a short service.” His burning eyes fixed on the soldier who had planned to kill Sulla. “Will you aid me?”
The man glanced at his friends and shrugged. They all knew the werewolf had fought at their side in the battle. With a confident step, he approached. It was the last thing he ever did. Jerrod seized him by the throat and squeezed with such strength that the man didn’t have time to scream.
“I told him it would be for a short service,” Jerrod growled as he removed the man’s fur cloak, wrapping it around Sulla.
The Kinshra soldiers fled into the woods, not daring to face him. He had expected nothing else of them.
“Why are you helping me?” Sulla muttered, his teeth chattering from the cold.
“I was going to kill you,” the werewolf admitted. “But as I slept after the battle, an emissary of Zamorak himself spoke to me. He wants us working together, Sulla. Whatever game the gods are playing, it is not yet concluded. The first chapter only, but there is always a second.”
Sulla lowered his head, cushioned by the warm cloak.
“I need food,” he said.
Jerrod nodded.
“And you shall have it, my friend. I shall make a fire, for you would not like your meat raw. Sleep now, whilst I work.”
The werewolf’s eyes focused on the dead man. With a skill perfected by years of practice he began his dreadful work. In only a few minutes, under the boughs of the low trees, a fire crackled and a grim cut of meat cooked on a stick above the flames.