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  Suddenly the priest stopped and stared. He knelt and examined a portion of the fountain wall.

  “Look here.” Father Lawrence’s voice had lost all trace of warmth. Theodore knelt at his side. At the base of one of the statues was a painted mark. What he had thought at first was an act of vandalism was evidently something more.

  It was the image of an owl, with its wings spread and its head turned fully behind it.

  “I have seen several of these images in my time in Varrock,” Theodore noted. “But what are they? What do they mean?”

  “It is the symbol of vigilance, Theodore. We in Varrock are barely more than a day’s travel from the holy river. Being so close to such a powerful evil, we must always be watchful. Some whisper that the Society of Owls protects Varrock from Lord Drakan’s minions, that its followers venture into Morytania itself. It is a Varrock folklore, I fear, and in times of worry citizens are apt to scrawl the sign above doorways and upon walls to give one another confidence.”

  “In times of worry?”

  Father Lawrence stood, his face drawn.

  “There is nothing to concern you, Squire Theodore,” he said. “Let us leave it at that. It is late, and you should return to the palace, while I find my way back to my church and to bed.”

  The two men shook hands and made to part. As they did so, a passing black cat with a red collar arched his back and hissed aggressively.

  Instinctively Theodore turned, following the cat’s gaze.

  Something large flew overhead, in a westerly direction. He caught a glimpse of immense leathery wings and was reminded instantly of a bat.

  “Did you see that?” he cried. “What was it?”

  But Father Lawrence was already moving, running to the western side of the square.

  “Follow me Theodore. We must act quickly!”

  And in his hand, Theodore saw the four-pointed silver star that was the symbol of their shared god, Saradomin.

  The two men arrived shortly at a street of tall grey-stone town houses that stood in neat, three-storey serried ranks which bespoke of commerce and wealth.

  “There! The tailor’s house. Did you see?” Father Lawrence hissed. “It went in there. The top window.”

  Theodore didn’t hesitate. He drew his sword as he ran, and by the time he reached the door he could hear the screams. It was a woman’s voice.

  The door broke inward as he crashed against it. It was a stout barrier, and he winced as pain lanced through his shoulder. Quickly he cast the feeling aside and climbed the stairs. Above him, he could see weird shadows convulsing in the candlelight. A woman screamed again.

  Saradomin give me speed!

  He reached the top of the stairs as the shattering of glass sounded. It was followed by a wail.

  “You can’t take her!” a man shouted as Theodore burst into the topmost room. He scanned the room in a second, taking in the chaos in the nursery, the desperate tailor and his wife and the thing they both fought against.

  He had faced werewolves and goblins, as well as human foes of every shape and size. Yet all his experience had not prepared him for the creature that met his eyes in that room. Huge horned wings protruded from its shoulders, each like a curved shield the height of a tall man. On their underside they looked like those of a bat, but on the outside they were covered by a thick leather skin, tough enough to fend off the tailor’s attacks. But the thing beneath the wings was what paralysed Theodore.

  He had the impression of a female, lost under a dark hirsute body. The face was like a bat’s, its nose a wide snout above a long mouth tipped with fangs and revealing a thin, whip-like tongue. But it was its eyes that held him. Orange flames burned in the pupils, sweeping across them all with an unnatural hatred.

  It stared, its gaze baleful.

  “Give me my daughter!” the tailor demanded, wielding a broken wooden chair leg that was utterly ineffective as a weapon. He smashed it against its wing as the monster stepped back and knelt in preparation to jump, and at that moment Theodore caught sight of a baby clutched in its arms, grasped by long fingers each ending with an inch-long talon.

  Its arm snapped out and raked the tailor’s face.

  The man dropped his club and pressed his hand over the wound, screaming as blood ran through his fingers. His expression shifted from rage to pleading.

  “Please don’t take her,” he cried. “Please.”

  That released Theodore from his paralysis. He ran forward, raising his sword, but the tailor’s wife leapt into his path, forcing him to twist his weapon to one side to avoid skewering her.

  “She is needed,” the creature said, its voice animalistic and unnatural. “You will not be parted for long. Soon we will all share in his darkness.”

  Theodore pushed the mother aside and brought his sword arm around in a wide sweep, intending to sever the creature’s legs. But already it had jumped back, quicker than he could have believed, diving through the window and out into the night.

  Shouts echoed up from the street outside, followed by the twang of crossbows and the hiss of bolts slicing through the air.

  The squire caught a last glimpse of the creature, flying quickly eastward above the uneven rooftops of Varrock. On the street below he could make out the yellow tabards of the city guard, accompanied by a number of men in black-leather armour. Curious citizens were being herded into doorways and instructed to return to their homes and draw their curtains.

  “My daughter. She’s gone, gone.” The tailor’s wife wept upon the bed as Father Lawrence appeared in the door frame. “Why do you not speak? My husband…” She reached in his direction, but seemed rooted to the spot.

  Theodore sheathed his sword and approached the tailor. The man had fallen backward, and his hand still covered his face.

  “Don’t touch him!” Father Lawrence commanded. “There is more here than you know.”

  The priest advanced and pulled the man’s hand away. The tailor said nothing, and didn’t resist.

  Very quickly Theodore saw why.

  “Gods!” He shook his head and stepped back instinctively, for the man’s face had turned black around the wound the creature had inflicted. As they watched, the tailor uttered an agonized rattle of breath, convulsed, and lay still.

  The tailor’s wife let out a howl of utter anguish and ran to the dead man.

  “Theodore, don’t let her touch his wounds!” Father Lawrence shouted.

  Quickly the squire grabbed her and held her, ignoring her blasphemies, threats and pleas as he sought to keep her away from her husband’s body.

  “Saradomin will care for him,” he said, trying to sound reassuring and knowing that he failed utterly. “I promise you.”

  “And what of my daughter?” she demanded, choking back sobs of anger. “Where’s your god now? The city is doomed. We are all doomed. The time of the prophecy is upon us and there is nothing anyone can do.”

  Theodore could not think of a suitable reply. As he restrained her he heard a host of feet trampling up the stairs. A body of the black-clad men he had seen in the street crowded into the room, a tall man, also in black, at their head. Theodore thought he had seen him before, at the palace.

  The squire felt the man’s eyes fall on him, his gaze was cold. Then he addressed his men.

  “Get the woman downstairs and into the cart,” he barked, his eyes still on Theodore. “You know where to take her. Handle the body of her husband with extreme caution,” he looked at the dead man, “and respect. Then board up the windows and doors and leave the mark of the plague upon the lintel.”

  His men carried out his orders quickly and efficiently. One of them unwound a black silk sheet which they used to wrap the tailor’s corpse. It was bound at both ends and he was carried swiftly from the room.

  “What’s going on?” Theodore demanded. “I know you-I’ve seen you around the court. Who are you?”

  “Theodore, this is the Lord Despaard,” Father Lawrence said. The man in black offered the squi
re no greeting. Instead, he took off his gloves and adjusted the cloak that was secured about his neck by a silver chain.

  Finally, Lord Despaard spoke.

  “I know you too, Theodore Kassel,” he said grimly. “I know of the famed knights and I know well your own reputation. They say you are a god-fearing man.”

  Theodore nodded. He was conscious of Lord Despaard’s soldiers, who had returned to the room in number. Two of them went to the window, which they began to board up, while the others surrounded him in a loose circle.

  “My Lord Despaard,” Father Lawrence said earnestly, “Squire Theodore can be relied upon to keep the peace. He need not be imprisoned like the rest.”

  Like the rest?

  Theodore’s hand found his sword hilt.

  “Imprisoned? What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  “I know that as a hero of the war and a respected ambassador of the knights you have the ear of many nobles in Varrock,” Lord Despaard said coldly. “But these are matters in which you have no power, and none will aid you, should it come to that.”

  Father Lawrence’s hand fell onto Theodore’s shoulder.

  “Heed his words, my young friend. You must do as he says.”

  Despaard spoke again.

  “I command you to keep silent about what occurred here tonight,” he said. “If you do not then you will be… detained, as others have, to prevent panic from spreading.”

  “What is happening, Lord Despaard?” the squire asked, making little effort to hide the anger in his voice.

  “This is not a question of fighting an enemy armed with a sword, as you are used to,” the man replied. “These are the doings of Morytania, which we must fight as best we can.”

  Theodore’s eyes narrowed.

  “I have fought enemies from that land, as well, Lord Despaard.”

  The nobleman gave a quick look of surprise.

  “Then you should know that we fight for a greater good,” he said. This time his voice carried a hint of respect. “I haven’t just fought invaders from Morytania, I have been to Morytania. That land leaves its mark on those who walk there.”

  Despaard walked to the window, and as he passed his men stood aside. One of the shutters had yet to be boarded up. He opened it to look out across the rooftops.

  “Can you feel her, Theodore? Can you hear her?” He stared, as if his eyes could pierce the darkness. “I can, sometimes, when she is near, when she comes to Varrock to feed.”

  “I have felt a presence similar to hers before,” Theodore answered, looking into the faces of the men nearby. They were hard men, he saw, soldiers who existed only for their secret war. “Last year in Asgarnia a werewolf named Jerrod crossed the River Salve and killed several people.”

  But I will not tell you any more.

  “Then you and I may have more in common than you think, squire of Asgarnia.” Despaard turned from the window, which was quickly nailed shut. “But for now, take your hand off your sword and return to the palace. If you refuse, then I shall have my men escort you.” He raised his right hand to reveal a ring on his finger. Theodore saw it bore the insignia of a black owl, resting on a ruby background, with its wings spread and its head turned around. He breathed out deeply to conceal his surprise, and looked furtively to Father Lawrence, who was standing too far away to see it for himself.

  “This ring of office grants me whatever power I need to fulfil my obligations,” Despaard said in a tone that once again had become coldly matter-of-fact. “Now go.”

  Theodore pursed his lips.

  “I shall do as you bid,” he responded, “but covering up this evil will not make it go away.” At that he left the room hastily, aware of Father Lawrence following closely behind him.

  They made their way back to the main square. Theodore said nothing at first, for the priest obviously knew far more about the creature than he had let on.

  Finally, he could keep quiet no longer.

  “How many others have there been, Father Lawrence?” he demanded through gritted teeth. “How long has this been going on?”

  The old man bowed his head and remained silent for a long moment as they walked briskly.

  “There is no other way, Theodore,” he said. “You do not understand.”

  “Then explain it to me.” The squire’s back ached horribly after his exertion. He groaned slightly as he stretched as best he could in his armour. The priest glanced at him with concern.

  “Do you wish to sit down perhaps? You are clearly in pain.”

  “It’s a war wound, Father,” Theodore replied quickly. “A Kinshra knight bested me in single combat in the final hours of the siege. He would have killed me if Castimir hadn’t intervened with his magic.” He winced again. “My back has never been right since, but now I am more concerned with what is happening here. A baby was kidnapped tonight.” The memory of it caused him to shudder.

  Father Lawrence ran his hand over his tonsured head before he spoke.

  “There have been kidnappings, and there have been killings. This creature-what we call the Wyrd-has been plaguing our city for about eight months. Sometimes it will be a farm hand in the eastern countryside. That was how it all began. People disappearing, their bodies found mutilated. Then it was children, stolen from their beds at night, some never found. It is Lord Despaard’s unenviable job to take the relatives of the victims and make certain they cannot spread a panic throughout the city.”

  Theodore stared at him in amazement.

  “Would they not understand?” he asked finally. “Morytania has plagued your realm for centuries. Surely this is just the latest in a long line of horror that you have had to deal with from Lord Drakan?”

  Father Lawrence laughed bitterly.

  “What do you know of the High Priest of Entrana, Theodore-of the man known as Leo the Fifth?”

  The squire was silent for a moment before he replied.

  “Leo was the High Priest of Saradomin a century ago,” he said. “Famous for his prophecies…”

  “Aha! Let me stop you there,” the priest said, holding up a hand. “Yes, exactly. He was famous for his prophecies, and that is the problem. Do you know what his final prophecy was?”

  Theodore shook his head. He had little faith in prophecies, preferring to focus his attention on tasks he could perform with his own two hands-aiding the poor and hungry, defending Asgarnia from those who would do it harm, and opposing the followers of Zamorak. Living his life to be an example to others. In his experience, prophecies rarely came true, and were the work of charlatans.

  Father Lawrence spoke again.

  “It goes something like this,” he said. “Five score shall pass and a creature of death shall haunt the land, and in its wake, the true King will come. When he crosses the river, the lands will be one. One King for one kingdom. A kingdom of the living and of the dead.

  “He uttered that prophecy on his deathbed, it is said-almost a century ago. Whether or not he actually spoke those words matters not in the least-it is believed across the land, and the coming of this killer has been enough to cause Varrock to begin to tear itself apart. That is why Lord Despaard is ensuring there can be no witnesses left after seeing this Wyrd.”

  “Yet he let me go.”

  “He did,” the priest replied. “You are not a peasant, Theodore. You are one of us. And you will keep the silence, for what else is there to do? Now, I must away to my church, for tomorrow I will ride out to the estate of Draul Leptoc to give what little comfort I can to those poor individuals Lord Despaard is holding.” He pulled his cloak more tightly around him. “Goodnight Theodore.”

  He extended his hand, and only after a long moment did Theodore take it.

  The squire watched as Father Lawrence left the square, and as he turned to take in a last view of the fountain, he was surprised to see a young woman standing in the shadows.

  How long has she been there?

  She watched him, carefully, and Theodore could see by her expression
that she was afraid. She had the look of high birth, for her dark hair was brushed and her skin was without any blemish, yet her clothes were that of a lady’s servant. He moved to approach her.

  “You are a Knight of Falador?” she asked.

  “I am Theodore, a squire of the knights,” he corrected. “Is anything amiss?”

  “I know the reputation of the Knights of Falador, and I have heard of you before for your conduct in the war. It is said you fought bravely and with honour.”

  “I did my duty as best I could.” Theodore stopped some distance away from her. “Have we met before?”

  “No, Theodore, we have not,” the woman replied, straightening somewhat. Her voice became stronger, louder as she spoke. “As I said, I know your order, yet I am puzzled. By you.” Suddenly she was shouting. “What kind of squire would help the authorities of Varrock kidnap innocent people?”

  “But I haven’t…”

  Before he could finish his sentence the woman drew back and hurled a stone toward him. He raised his arm only just in time to prevent it from striking his face.

  By the time he had recovered, she was but a shadow fleeing to the south of the square.

  “You are wrong!” he cried as she vanished into the darkness.

  Shaking his head in anger and confusion, Theodore suddenly felt very tired indeed.

  2

  It was afternoon, and a grey light shone through the high windows of the palace’s great hall. The sweat on Theodore’s clothes was cold against his skin after the exersion of overseeing the training of twenty recruits for the knights.

  The squire shook his head bitterly as he approached the grand staircase. Although the knights had triumphed in the siege of Falador, the cost had been tremendously high. He hadn’t been present when his order had been betrayed and surrounded by Sulla’s forces, where nine out of every ten men had died. Even now, it was something he found impossible to even imagine.