Runescape: Return to Canifis Page 12

  “That is not quite appropriate. Gideon himself is not a problem— he is in fact a respected man at court. But not the other fellows he was with. To them, you are a wizard, young man. That means you must be more than they.”

  Castimir said nothing. He felt suddenly embarrassed.

  “I have lived in Varrock for many years. More than I would like to admit, anyhow,” Aubury continued. “I am a Master of the Tower, and my role here is to ensure that our order is properly represented in Misthalin and in the court of King Roald. It is absolutely vital that we have the crown’s support. We cannot allow that to be jeopardised by any unnecessary or uncouth fraternisation. Wizards must be held in awe by the common folk. We cannot be seen drunk or boisterous or prideful. You know this.” Aubury’s eyes narrowed. “And you know why.”

  Because our power is an illusion, Castimir answered silently. Because we don’t know how to replenish our runes, and they are fast running out.

  “I do know why, of course,” Castimir replied instead, biting his tongue.

  “Good. That’s good.” Aubury spoke in the manner of a teacher encouraging a wayward pupil. “And I have news for you, Castimir. News I think you are expecting?”

  Castimir felt his stomach curdle in nervousness.

  “My thesis? Did I pass?”

  His fingers pressed themselves into the wood of his staff. His heart thundered in his ears and head.

  “You have passed. Congratulations. You are no longer an apprentice.”

  Castimir sighed volubly.

  Thank the gods!

  “But you didn’t pass well,” Aubury continued. “It was a very close affair, indeed. In fact, you were the last in your class of five. The tutors thought the subject matter too complex for one of your years. Your inexperience showed.”

  Castimir’s relief turned to sudden anger.

  “Inexperience?” he said. Realizing he had spoken loudly, he lowered his voice. “But I’ve done more than most do in their entire lives!”

  “I know,” Aubury conceded. “But some fear it has made you arrogant. You have time enough not to rush things, Castimir. And nonetheless, you passed, and I have here the token of your new office.”

  He produced a long thin box, which Castimir recognised immediately.

  “My new wand,” he remarked drily. “I lost my apprentice wand when I was in Kandarin.”

  “And this is a teacher’s wand,” Aubury told him. “Sent to us from our desert-dwelling colleagues in Al-Kharid. Please try not to lose it.”

  Castimir took the box with care. He had never really liked wands, for they were limited in their use, but they did help a wizard concentrate his spells. Even so, he favoured his staff over a wand, for at least the staff could be used as a weapon, should his magic fail or his runes run out.

  Then the thought of his thesis brought the riddle back into his mind.

  “Master Aubury, have you ever heard of the Dark Lady?”

  The older man thought for a moment.

  “It could be a name for the daughter of Lord Drakan of Morytania, though her existence is only legend. Other than that I do not know. Why do you ask?” Suddenly Castimir realised that he might have spoken too quickly, and revealed more than he had intended. But as he struggled to come up with a plausible reply, Aubury spoke again. “Ah! Your friend Theodore is about to begin his mélèe.”

  They looked across the bailey to the enclosure, a raised wooden structure a man’s height with heavy ropes strung along each side. The eleven men under Theodore’s command climbed the steps to the space within. It was not entirely free of obstacles, for two wooden spokes sat in the centre, with enough room for several men to fight between. They helped to keep the contest more interesting for the onlookers.

  Behind Theodore’s group came twelve more men, their armour blackened to distinguish them from their opponents. At their head was a huge fellow in black-dented armour with tusks protruding from his helm. Castimir feared him instinctively.

  He’s bigger than Sulla! Theodore, be careful.

  “That’s Lord Hyett, the Black Boar,” Aubury said seriously. “The strongest knight in Varrock, if not all of Misthalin. Let us hope Theodore knows how to hunt boar—for his own sake.”

  The marshal sounded the gong, and Theodore leapt forward. The smell of leather, already wet with his sweat, dominated his senses inside the claustrophobic helm.

  Through his visor’s two eye-slits, he saw the nearest of his enemies. But his thoughts were of his charges.

  Don’t panic, men, he willed. Remember what I told you. They may be the best knights in Varrock but they fight as individuals, not as a group. But we will fight as one. And we will win.

  He was conscious of the pounding of armoured feet behind him, following his lead. A vicious knock caught his shield, but it was a tourney, and in such events only blunted weapons were used. Still, he knew that there were often fatalities in such a contest.

  In he crashed, the sword wielded in his right hand landing squarely upon the head of his opponent. At his side a whitearmoured gauntlet drove a shield into his enemy’s side, forcing the man off balance and causing him to fall onto his back.

  A cry erupted from the crowd.

  That’s it! Together we target them, one at a time.

  But the man on the enclosure floor still hadn’t yielded—to be the first to do so would be a sign of weakness. So Theodore knew he had to be ruthless. Once the first had given in, others would find it easier to do so.

  He swung his blunted tourney sword down, intending to smash the man’s sword hand.

  It never made it.

  With a roar a hulking shadow filled Theodore’s visor. He caught sight of a black boar on a red shield as it smashed his weapon aside and bludgeoned into him.

  Such strength, he thought, his mind reeling. The man is a giant.

  Now it was his turn to stagger as his new foe bellowed.

  “No knight of Varrock will fall before those of Falador!”

  The crowd cheered as the Boar closed the gap. Theodore saw the sweep of his sword as it came in. Lord Hyett wielded a broadsword in just his right hand, though most men would have been forced to use both.

  Instinctively Theodore swung his wooden shield up. But the broadsword cut through the lower half, and as it was withdrawn the crowd gasped and cheered, and Theodore saw how the blade glinted.

  That is no tourney blade, he realised grimly. It still has an edge. And the Boar means to use it!

  He stepped back as the Boar came on. Once more, however, his men heeded his instructions. Three went forward as one. The man on Theodore’s left parried the Boar’s blade and pushed his arm wide, while the man on his right hacked at the red shield.

  Leaving Theodore to deliver as hard a blow as he could muster. He brought his sword over his shoulder and cleaved down. Metal rang out against metal as the blade smashed against the Boar’s helm and slid off to impact upon his shoulder.

  The crowd drew breath as the Boar staggered, his knees giving slightly and Theodore remembered Lady Anne’s advice.

  Attack him from his left. His eye is blurred and his ankle is weak.

  Theodore ducked low and lunged with his blade at Lord Hyett’s kneecap. A blow connected with his shoulder and he fell forward, gasping in sudden pain, his lunge only managing a passing hit on the Boar’s leg greave.

  But then the fighting opened up, and it was each man against another. Through his eye-slits, Theodore saw that still no one had yielded. He parried a thrust with his damaged shield, feeling it splinter under the impact. A second hack carried its remnants from his wrist entirely.

  As he stood, his teeth gritted, the red shield of the Boar swallowed his view. He ducked as Lord Hyett’s sword flashed an inch from his gorget.

  That could have killed me if it had struck.

  Theodore went cold.

  Maybe that is his intention. Here it will look like an accident. I humiliated him when I unhorsed him in the lists, and he is probably aware that La
dy Anne and I...

  A man in white armour came to Theodore’s rescue, his blow careening off the Boar’s chest plate.

  Theodore stumbled backwards, painfully aware of the jeering crowds.

  Castimir held his hand to his face. It was terrible to watch. He turned his head and winced when Theodore lost his shield, and he prayed when the giant advanced, hoping that Theodore might save himself. He sighed in relief when one of the squire’s men came to his rescue and gave him time to regain his balance.

  The wizard saw William’s eyes upon him. The young noble pursed his lips and shook his head grimly.

  Theodore isn’t finished yet, Lord William, he responded silently. He’s been through worse. Give him a chance.

  Castimir remembered Lady Anne, and the dismissive laugh she had given after Sir Prysin’s eldest had been so gravely injured. He looked for her now.

  To his surprise, the expression she wore was very different.

  She looks afraid, he realised. Could she really be so attached to Theodore?

  “The first man has yielded!” someone yelled from nearby, under the canopy. Castimir turned back to see that it was in fact two men who had left the enclosure, one wearing the white armour of Falador and the other the black of Varrock.

  His eyes fell on Theodore. He gasped as he saw his friend rush in again to confront the strongest knight in Varrock.

  Theodore’s saviour broke under the Boar’s relentless blows. The white-armoured man collapsed as his legs buckled, his weaponless hands palm up to show that he had yielded. Blood dripped from under his visor as the Boar gave three heavy blows with his edged sword, ignoring the surrender.

  Theodore’s world went red.

  Leading with his shoulder, he cannoned into the Boar’s legs from his enemy’s left. He felt the man stagger and then with a heave the squire sent him flying face down.

  A sword smashed against his head as he crouched, but he ignored the blow, instead leaping forward to where he thought the Boar must be. He felt a man’s armoured body beneath him, face down, and with a shout he thrust his sword under his helm, pulling it back as he held the edge to the man’s throat.

  “Yield!” he commanded as a roar arose from the spectators. “Yield or I swear I will cut your throat.”

  The Boar swore in reply, his hand snaking toward his own sword, which had fallen from his grasp when the squire had barrelled into him.

  Theodore increased the pressure on the blade, but too late he saw a Varrock knight appear beside him. This one wielded a heavy wooden mace, and Theodore knew he had to avoid it at all costs. With a cry, he rolled free as the mace sailed by.

  But it was not a disaster. For his roll had taken him to within range of the Boar’s own weapon. He dropped his own tourney blade in exchange for his enemy’s, gripping the broadsword in both hands. At the same time he lashed out with his foot, his heel connecting with Lord Hyett’s helm with a satisfying crash that snapped one of the Boar’s tusks.

  Now I have the edge, he thought. Your edge—and we will see what you think of that.

  “He nearly had him!” Castimir shouted to anyone who cared to listen. “Come on, Theodore. Finish the brute off.”

  And in fact, I thought you were about to kill him.

  From his viewpoint the wizard could easily see the whole enclosure. At least five of the knights were down. From one— the man who had saved Theodore—the ground was soaked with blood. Six more yielded and left the enclosure to join the two who had already retired.

  Which gave Castimir cause to smile, for now Theodore’s men had the advantage. Now, it was six against five.

  “Come on Theodore,” he muttered. “You don’t need to be a hero today. Your men are doing you proud.”

  Theodore fell as a man’s black gauntlet wrapped around his neck and pulled him backward. The Varrock knight fell beneath him, and as he landed Theodore thrust backwards with his elbow with as much force as he could muster.

  He heard the man gasp through his visor.

  Up! Up! Seize the advantage and force him to yield!

  The squire made it to his knees and with both hands swung Lord Hyett’s sword, not bothering to stand, not daring to waste a single second that might endanger his advantage. The edged blade severed the top of the man’s finger and sent his weapon flying from the enclosure to the excited whoops of the crowds.

  “I yield! Gods I yield!” the man roared as he crawled to the ropes to be dragged from the enclosure by the waiting stewards.

  Theodore stood wearily, his body lurching from one side to the other. The weight of the weapon further threatened his balance.

  I am exhausted. Can’t keep going for much longer.

  But he knew that his enemies must be in a similar state, and in a rare moment of calm he had a chance to survey the enclosure.

  We are winning! he realised then. We are two men up, six against four. But I need air, I need to breathe.

  He opened his visor, thanking Saradomin for the wind that blew against his sweat-drenched face. He watched as Lord Hyett batted a man aside, still with his dented red shield. As the man fell, Theodore staggered forward to his aid while about him the four Varrock knights confronted five opponents.

  The Boar had his back to him, yet somehow the knight turned in time to avoid a wild slash that would have smashed against the back of his head. Unbalanced again, Theodore staggered from exhaustion, drinking in great gulps of air, his visor still wide open. He stumbled to one side, crashing against one of the great wooden wheels used to divide the ground in the enclosure.

  On the man came. Even now, the giant still possessed the strength to run and thrust. He was wielding the wooden mace which Theodore had only just avoided a moment before.

  I am not sure if I can do it again! Too tired.

  “You are mine, Falador,” Lord Hyett gritted. “You are mine.”

  He swung the mace as Theodore collapsed, sliding backward alongside the wheel. His back throbbed with pain. He desperately attempted to parry, but the tip of the heavy sword went agonisingly wide.

  Still, he kept himself out of the Boar’s reach.

  “Open your visor, Lord Hyett,” he challenged, not entirely knowing why he did so. “Let me look you in the face.” Perhaps he could goad the man into making a mistake.

  There was no reply, and Theodore had suspected he would be too canny to give in to such an obvious tactic. Behind him, on the opposite side of the wheel, a man screamed as the sound of armour crashing to the floor was drowned out by cheering shouts.

  I don’t care if we win this match or not, he admitted to himself. Saradomin, just give me the chance to avenge myself against this murderous creature.

  The Boar roared as he charged in, his red shield held before him in his left hand, the mace raised overhead in his right.

  He is weak on his left.

  His eye and ankle.

  The squire leapt forward, hoping to catch his foe by surprise. His foot lashed out, connecting perfectly with Lord Hyett’s left ankle. Something crunched as Theodore’s foot came away.

  The Boar screamed.

  He tottered forward, the mace wavering as he fell.

  And at the same time, Theodore thrust his sharpened blade upward, both hands driving the sword tip into the breastplate of his enemy.

  The blade pierced the metal and sheered through the flesh beneath. Theodore felt the familiar sensations of horror and fascination as his blade struck home—the soft flesh, the sinewy muscle, and the hard but brittle bone beneath. The sword glanced upward as it ricocheted off the Boar’s breastbone and deeper into his body.

  Red blood pumped from his wound as the immense man fell atop Theodore, yelling in pain.

  The squire took a delicious elation in the man’s screams. He knew it was wrong to do so—that Saradomin as the god of peace would condemn him—but today he didn’t care. He had beaten an enemy who had come to kill by treachery. Lord Hyett was nothing but a murderer.

  Theodore stood, breathing heavily,
aware that the Boar was gravely injured.

  The crowd was silent. No one had beaten this man in a mélèe for at least a decade. Looking behind him, over the wheel, he saw that two of his own men still stood, a single Varrock knight between them who sensibly yielded rather than face them both.

  Labouring with the effort, Theodore pulled the blade out in a single movement, trying hard to block out Lord Hyett’s groans. Then he held the red sword up, and as he did so the crowd roared. He swayed uncertainly as his name echoed around the bailey, his vision blurred, his mouth parched and his heart thundering.

  “Do you hear that, Lord Hyett? It is my name they cry now. Mine. Your subterfuge and trickery have failed.” He lowered the sword, and stared at it. “Normally, it is not the way of my order to take a fallen foe’s property, and had you fought with honour I would not do so. But today I shall.”

  Theodore raised his voice as he staggered backward from the fallen knight. Already marshals and stewards were entering the enclosure to attend to those who had been injured and to offer what aid they could—a certain sign the contest was ended.

  “By the right of victor, in all the traditions of Varrock and her long history,” the squire announced loudly, “I claim my right to disarm you. Your armour is mine. As is your blade!” He raised the sword into the air again and the crowd responded, shouting even louder.

  Theodore allowed himself to be helped from the enclosure by the stewards. He insisted that they first aided those who had fallen, and made sure he was the last of his men to leave the arena. Then he found his way to Philip, the man who had fallen under the repeated blows of the Boar.

  When the man’s visor was pulled back, Theodore saw that his face was caked in blood.

  “Philip?” he said. “Can you hear me?”

  Incredibly the man smiled and nodded.

  “It looks far worse that it is,” he said weakly.

  “We won, Philip. And without you I would have fallen. Thank you.”

  “But the Boar? What happened to him?”

  One of the stewards shook his head.

  “His is the worst wound here today,” the fellow said, a hint of awe tingeing his words. “Squire Theodore may have killed him.”