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  The outlaw was missing one eye. The fatted crow high in the branches stretched its wings as a man might stretch his arms after a satisfying meal.

  “You recognise him, Kara-Meir?” Despaard asked.

  “I do,” she replied grimly. “One of Sulla’s band.”

  “May Saradomin have mercy on his soul,” the cleric Drezel said earnestly.

  “It is a dreadful waste of life,” Albertus bemoaned.

  “He was hanged this morning,” Ruthven told them. Gar’rth saw him stare at the corpse in contempt. “And with luck we will soon have Sulla himself by the neck. How I would dearly like to see him swing from the gallows tree.”

  Lord Ruthven wants Sulla badly. I wonder why?

  Theodore and Kara shared a confused look, no doubt thinking the same.

  Meanwhile, the elderly noble goaded his horse on and the column advanced once more. Despaard waited at the side of the road as the column passed, rejoining it only when Gar’rth drew level with him.

  “When we get to Lord Ruthven’s manor tonight, I want you to tell the embassy your history in Canifis. It will be useful for us to know before we cross. I tell you now so you will have time to compose your thoughts.”

  With that he was gone, galloping back to the head of the column, his going attracting the attentive gaze of their companions.

  At his side, Simon gave a narrow grin.

  And Gar’rth noted how even now, his hand still rested on the hilt of his wolfbane dagger in its curious bark sheath.

  Darkness fell an hour before they neared Lord Ruthven’s manor, but the absence of light meant little to Gar’rth. As they approached the manor house, set on a small hill and surrounded first by a circle of dense thorn and hazel, and then by a shallow moat that had turned the ground to a black marshland, he couldn’t fail to detect the rotting stench that the combination of a hot summer and stagnant water produced.

  It is not unlike Morytania, he thought at first, before reconsidering. No. Only superficially, as a painting resembles life. Here, the dead remain still.

  They rode up through the gatehouse, where a single man stood beneath a burning torch that illuminated Lord Ruthven’s symbol upon a banner that hung nearby. Gar’rth caught sight of the sun at its centre, standing behind two pale moons and underlined by a silver sword.

  “Lord Ruthven’s family’s banner,” Reldo commented at Gar’rth’s side. “Symbolizing his role as a guardian of the Salve, standing between life and death. His family have had that for centuries.”

  “My lord,” the gatehouse keeper said to Ruthven. “We received word of your passage a few hours ago via a King’s pigeon. The great hall has been prepared, as per your instructions, and the servants have been asked to leave the manor for you and your guests tonight.”

  “Thank you, Ralph. We will go to the great hall now and take our supper.”

  “But there is something you should know, my lord. Several men arrived a few hours ago, among them the master of hounds from King Roald’s own household. They tracked a fugitive and her brother east, to the river.” The man lowered his voice, but Gar’rth heard what he had to say. “The fugitives crossed the river my lord, the girl Pia and her brother.”

  Ruthven spared Kara a glance, and saw that she had heard.

  “Then they are likely already dead. I am sorry Kara-Meir. Your servants have erred most dangerously.”

  “There is a chance they might live,” Gar’rth said. “If they find their way to one of the human villages hidden in the swamp.”

  “It will be a hard life, and one without luxury if they have,” Despaard observed.

  But better than no life at all. Or a hanging death, for that matter.

  Kara said nothing, but her dark thoughts were visible on her face.

  The column made its way through the gatehouse, passing several small farm buildings that constituted a small community housed under Lord Ruthven’s protection. Pale faces gazed out of shadowed doorways and mothers grasped children as the column rode by. Some even made the sign of Saradomin as they passed.

  Their fear is palpable. Living within a half-day’s travel of the river, it is no small wonder.

  “They offer us their blessing,” Despaard explained when they halted before the manor, with its pointed dovecote and squat church tower. “The people here know about us, and they are aware that we travel across the holy river. Lord Ruthven’s estates are on the front line in our secret war, and these people help as best they can.”

  Gar’rth followed his friends through to the great hall, where a generous supper awaited them on a long table with fourteen seats. Of the dozen black-clad soldiers who escorted them under Lord Despaard’s direction, only Simon sat at the table. Roast pig turned on a spit, summer fruits and cheeses and fresh bread were offered up on wooden platters, yet despite the abundance, there was little conversation and no merriment. They were watched by the rest of Despaard’s men, for the usual servants had been dismissed for the evening.

  “You don’t like bread?” Simon asked Gar’rth with an amused smile as the werewolf flicked the bun to one side of his plate. “Nor fruits?”

  Gar’rth shook his head.

  “Bread makes me sick.”

  “A meat-eater then,” Simon replied. “I hope you can digest cooked meat, or else you will go hungry.”

  “Leave Gar’rth alone,” Kara said frostily. “He is the best hope we have of succeeding in this mission. Varrock’s own efforts have been woefully lacking so far, a fact you had best remember.”

  “He is guarding your friend, Kara-Meir,” Despaard said through a mouthful of honeyed bread. “By King Roald’s own command.”

  Gar’rth saw how Lord William and the jester Gleeman looked uncomfortable, casting him inquisitive looks.

  I wonder if they suspect?

  Never mind, soon enough they will know.

  After a strained silence that followed, Gideon Gleeman spoke.

  “I see you have a minstrels gallery, Lord Ruthven. Are we to have music tonight?”

  Lord Ruthven gave the jester a cold stare.

  “The gallery has not been used for many years, fool. Not since my wife perished in agony, cursed by Drakan’s servants.” He looked to the painting above the crackling fireplace, and Gar’rth saw a younger version of the lord standing behind a young woman holding a babe in her arms. “And now I am the last of my line.”

  Nothing more was said.

  Very soon the supper was ended, and Lord Despaard turned his eyes to Gar’rth.

  “It is time,” he said. “Time you told us all of your history, so everyone here will know the truth.”

  Gar’rth nodded briefly.

  “Very well,” he said. “I have prepared myself on the ride here. I will speak as best as I am able.”

  19

  At last. We will finally learn of Gar’rth’s history.

  Theodore waited with intense curiosity. Castimir gave him a quick look of excited anticipation as their friend haltingly began to speak.

  “Most of you know me. What I am.” Gar’rth looked to William and Gideon Gleeman. “I am a werewolf, from Morytania.”

  “By Saradomin,” Drezel uttered fearfully, only to be silenced by a glare from Lord Despaard.

  William raised his eyebrows and looked quickly at Theodore, who nodded his head slowly. Reldo’s face paled. Albertus lowered his goblet quickly. The jester’s hands gripped the table, but when no one else moved he relaxed.

  Theodore saw Doric grin in the Gleeman’s direction.

  “I escaped from Morytania months ago. You should all know that I have never taken an innocent life. That means Zamorak does not rule in here.” Gar’rth beat his chest with his clenched right hand, indicating his heart.

  “I was different from others of my race. I was never trusted by them.” He paused to gather his words. “I was ten years old, I think, when I found out why. It was my parents. They were werewolves who had been sent to serve at Meiyerditch and Castle Drakan itself some years
before I was born. Those who do so and survive are treated with suspicion, and not trusted.” Gar’rth took a drink of water and closed his eyes as he gathered his thoughts.

  “That was no honour,” he laughed bleakly. “Many who go never return. Those who are sent are usually the losers in a game of chance, for none offer themselves up to serve such a master. Death offers no release there.

  “But my parents were not chosen by chance. It is said the Lord Malak himself came to my mother in the night, ordering them both to leave the following day. Malak… may the Gods curse him!”

  Gar’rth shook his head and gritted his teeth in anger.

  “They say he corrupts the very earth he walks upon, that living grasses die from his passing. He is not one of my people. Malak is a vampire lord who commands the town of Canifis and the werewolf race. He is hated there, and he is feared-feared as no human lord can ever be. Legend says he is thousands of years old, that he fought in the God Wars and helped found Morytania. In Canifis, he decides who lives and who dies. He governs absolutely, and can overturn any decision made by the elders. It is even said that if you dream ill of him, he will know.”

  So the magic of Drakan’s kin is true, then.

  Theodore reached to his sword and drew comfort from its cold hilt.

  Gar’rth breathed deeply before continuing.

  “But whatever the truth, Malak sent my parents to Castle Drakan before I was born. Several years later, only my mother returned to Canifis, with me as an infant. My father, an elder, was killed only a few months before I was born.

  “It was the thought of him-murdered on a vampire’s whim- that started my path to rebellion. I was ten when I first asked my mother about Castle Drakan, for by then I had heard the stories the other children whispered about me. She refused to speak of it, and we grew apart, for the memories were painful to her.

  “When I was thirteen, her brother came and took an interest in me. His name was Jerrod. He was a hunter, and would spend weeks away from Canifis trading with gypsies-” Gar’rth looked at the table suddenly and avoided their stare.

  I know what he will say. We have all suspected it.

  “Sometimes he brought human children and slaves to Canifis, sold by the gypsies.”

  The cleric Drezel groaned and took his silver star in his hand. Reldo watched, transfixed, his eyes never leaving Gar’rth’s face. Gideon Gleeman looked once to the remains of the pig on the spit and grimaced.

  “I am sorry for what happened to them. But that year everything changed for me. My friends and I were forced to witness the blooding of those a few years older than we were. Malak carried it out, and each of them had to drink innocent blood and swear to Zamorak.

  “They were different after that. They were cruel and enjoyed the pain of others. Yet my friends and I were terrified by what we had seen, as was intended by Malak, to prepare us for our own blooding, to make us strong.

  “That night, I took an oath. I promised to escape. My mother knew I was different from others, and it made her hate me.” Gar’rth shook his head and wiped his hand across his face.

  “She hated me,” he said quietly. “On the night she died, she said I was a curse on her, and when she was gone, Jerrod hated me more, blaming me for her death. That was when he took over my care.”

  “Care?” Doric growled. “That is hardly the word I would use.”

  Gar’rth smiled for a moment.

  “You are right, my friend. Jerrod thought me weak. He often beat me, and told me how soon I would undergo my own blooding. He found amusement in that.

  “But my blooding was put back. I was slower developing than my friends. Some said it was the curse of Meiyerditch, that my birth there had affected me somehow. In Canifis, being different makes you an outcast. Jerrod grew angrier, his punishments harsher, and I watched again as my friends underwent their blooding and gave themselves to Zamorak.

  “Then I was alone in Canifis, so I decided it was time to fulfil my oath. I planned my escape, over many months.

  “Jerrod helped me, though accidentally. He regularly took me with him on his hunts, forcing me to run until I collapsed, at first, before I grew strong enough to keep up with him and then to run faster than him. And he taught me the secret routes around Canifis. Ways used by the hunters, through swamps and marsh known to very few. In tormenting me, he had given me a strength beyond many of my race, and knowledge of secret ways which would allow me to escape.

  “After several weeks, I crossed the Salve far to the south of here, forced to do so as Jerrod very nearly caught me. The power of the river prevented him from crossing, but it was no hindrance to me, for, as the monks found, I am still an innocent, untainted by Zamorak. Then I believed I was free, until some weeks later, when I caught his scent among the farming communities and woods.”

  “That would be Lumbridge,” Ruthven said. “Last year we trailed a beast that crossed the river, and followed it there, where we lost the trail. That must have been Jerrod.”

  Gar’rth nodded.

  “Then I must thank you. He would have caught me if you hadn’t pursued him. I used all the tricks I knew to lose him. I followed rivers, I double-backed over many miles and long days and tried to hide in crowds. As the winter closed in, I turned west and north, before I found my way to Taverley and into the arms of Ebenezer. I was exhausted then. I could not have gone farther, and without his help I would have died. Or worse.”

  Gar’rth took another draught of water.

  “But Jerrod could not keep his discipline. I know that he murdered a young mother and her child south of Falador, and Theodore himself discovered the wreck of the gypsy caravan after he killed three more. How many others he slaughtered, before and since then, I don’t know, but their deaths haunt me.”

  Gar’rth gave Kara a long look. In return she nodded slowly.

  She has travelled with Gar’rth after the war. Theodore mused. She and Arisha will know all this already. He felt a sudden stab of jealousy.

  “But I know this also,” Gar’rth continued. “To leave him alive is a death sentence to others. That is why we followed him into The Wilderness. He must be found. He must be destroyed.”

  “That will be Varrock’s task now,” Lord Despaard said. “For all his evil, Jerrod is only one individual. Our task is more important, dealing with Morytania, and the unknown.”

  Albertus Black slumped suddenly, waking to catch himself with a stir.

  He is too old for this. He should not be coming.

  “We have travelled far today,” Ruthven said with a sidelong glance at the old man. “And we have another journey tomorrow. I think we should all find our beds.”

  Those at the table rose as a distant chime sounded.

  “It is midnight,” Ruthven observed grimly as he listened. “And that is an eastern bell, for the wind heralds from Morytania tonight. Should any of you have cause to venture outside, do not go beyond the gatehouse. It will be guarded. And when you do rest, lock your windows and keep your weapons close at hand, for such winds have carried far worse than stale air.”

  Theodore saw Doric roll his eyes.

  “We aren’t even in Morytania yet,” the dwarf said with ill-disguised contempt. “Surely we are safe on this side of the river, dark or day, wind or no wind.”

  Ruthven shook his head bitterly.

  “There are those who think so. I was once one of them, yet I paid for that arrogance with everything I loved in life. Now all that remains to me is vengeance.”

  Outside the manor house, but still within easy reach of the torch that burned above the doorway, Doric lit his pipe. Theodore watched the dwarf’s nose wrinkle in sudden delight at the smell. It was comforting to him, as well.

  “Well, what’s on your mind squi-” Doric growled and corrected himself. “-Sir Knight?”

  Theodore grinned hesitatingly. He still wasn’t used to it either.

  And after wanting it for so long, since I was a boy.

  Is it all I thought it would b
e? Something seems to be missing now. So much has happened in such a short space of time.

  “I am worried,” he said, “about Albertus. Do you not think he is too frail to take part in this journey?”

  “He’s a younger man than I by thirty winters,” Doric sighed, scuffing at the ground with his right foot as if kicking a nagging doubt. “But this is not a fight we are going to. It is a diplomatic mission.” He grunted softly and whispered. “At least I hope it is, anyhow.”

  “It’s not just him I worry about, Doric. I am still worried about Ebenezer…”

  “There was nothing any of us could do for him in Varrock, squire,” Doric said, making no effort to correct himself this time. “Better to be here, with your friends, by their side when they need you. Here, we can make a difference.”

  “I hope so, Doric. I hope so.”

  Somewhere beyond the gatehouse and near the moat, a goose honked several times. A duck replied with a high-pitched squawk of its own, as if they were two neighbours arguing.

  “Do they have birds in Morytania?” Doric asked quietly.

  Theodore shook his head.

  “I don’t think so. Gar’rth never mentioned them.”

  “Ah, but I am glad I know his tale now. Long have I wanted to understand his history.” Doric took the pipe from his mouth. “And Ebenezer would wish to know also. Might we ask Reldo to write down Gar’rth’s account of his past, so that it can be relayed to Varrock for when he wakes?”

  “Yes. I will do that tomorrow,” Theodore agreed. “He can complete it at Paterdomus if necessary. It would good for Ebenezer to know what we have heard from Gar’rth’s own account, and William can take it back to the city when he returns.”

  Doric nodded and remained silent.

  “Are you afraid Doric?” Theodore spoke quickly, fearing he would falter unless he rushed the words. “I am, of what we will find in Morytania.”

  Doric took the pipe from his mouth and beat it gently against his palm.

  “Me, too. I think we all are. Especially Gar’rth himself. Lord Despaard’s man sticks to him like a second shadow. Perhaps they suspect he will run.”