Runescape: Return to Canifis Page 31

  Doric drew his wolfbane dagger, and Castimir saw Gar’rth wince at its proximity. Arisha’s pale face was suddenly blanched with fear.

  “Why?” she said. “Why now? Why here would they betray us?”

  I will protect her, even if I have to make the same sacrifice Thomas made for Despaard.

  The horses neighed in terror and strained at their tethers. Horrified, Castimir watched as the sapling was uprooted and the horses bolted past him. Behind him he heard Albertus scream, and Gar’rth shouted a warning. He turned to see the nearest werewolf, only a single stride away.

  No time! The horses distracted me!

  Gods just make it quick for her.

  But the werewolf leapt past him, ignoring him entirely as it pursued the fleeing animals.

  Castimir turned back to where they had sat just a moment ago. Gar’rth restrained Albertus’s horse as it fought desperately to be free of him. A short distance away, Albertus Black himself lay unmoving. Arisha and Kara were crouched above him and his head rested in Gideon Gleeman’s lap.

  The werewolves were chasing after their steeds, yet already the animals were through the perimeter, his yak and Albertus’s mule among them.

  My books! he thought frantically. The knowledge of Master Segainus is in those saddle packs.

  “Help me!” Gar’rth roared. “We are under attack.”

  Castimir looked at the horse that fought to free itself from Gar’rth. Above it the very air seemed to shimmer, as if a wave of heat rose from the ground.

  But there is something there. Something moving with a purpose.

  The air condensed as a vague figure grabbed at their packs. Theodore ran toward it with a shout. He struck out and his sword seemed to pierce the form. The blade slowed slightly, as if it had penetrated something, but a second later it was repelled.

  “Castimir, your magic!” Gar’rth yelled.

  The runes were already in his hand. He saw Despaard seize Theodore and drag his friend aside as the pebbles melted into the familiar viscous fluid before their inevitable evaporation. His hand burst into flame as he directed the fire to strike their attacker.

  The ball of fire burst above the horse as something shrieked horribly. The air shimmered and the man-like image floated away, to the north, following the stream.

  For a moment, the horse fought on, but Gar’rth was resolute.

  At least we still have one steed.

  A glance at Albertus and he knew they would need it. He lay still, Arisha praying at his side, Gideon shaking his head grimly.

  “A horse ran him down,” Kara explained as Castimir approached. “That is what the werewolves were doing. They were trying to stop the horses from escaping.” She looked down the road to the west. Only two of the animals had been caught. Imre, standing nearby, turned toward them.

  “My yak is gone then,” Castimir said. “Blasted, thrice-cursed animal!” he snapped. “And with it my fire staff and my books.” His heart beat furiously in his chest. His stomach felt tight and icy cold.

  “I’m sorry, lad,” Doric growled from his side. “But you still have your runes?”

  “I... Yes, I have them on me. But the books! If the yak doesn’t come back, they will be lost.”

  “It won’t come back,” Imre said flatly. “If you are lucky the animals might make it back to Paterdomus.”

  Castimir noticed then that Doric had mud all over his front.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I only just got out of the way of the horses,” he explained. “Tried to get to Albertus...”

  “How is he?” Theodore asked as he came up with Gar’rth, the horse led by the werewolf’s strong arm.

  Arisha shook her head as she opened her eyes.

  “I doubt your prayers will work here, priestess,” Imre snarled. “This is Morytania, where Saradomin will find it hard to hear your plea.”

  “You are wrong, Imre,” she replied. “I serve a power greater than Saradomin and greater, too, than Zamorak, for I follow Guthix.”

  Imre sneered but held his tongue, and Castimir noticed how Theodore also remained silent.

  You have learned diplomacy indeed, friend knight. A year ago you would have argued.

  “He has more faith than Ebenezer,” Arisha told Theodore. “But not a great deal more. Still, Guthix has granted him some small succour. Be careful Gideon, make sure you don’t move his neck.”

  The jester nodded and remained still. Albertus gave a slight groan and opened his eyes.

  “Gleeman?” he rasped. “What are you doing?”

  “Keeping your head still while Arisha works out how badly injured you are,” the jester replied.

  “You were run down by a horse,” Arisha said. “Now, can you move?”

  The old man gave a nod and raised his arm. Slowly, stiffly, he sat up.

  Thank the gods. He seems to be in one piece at least.

  “I can stand, I think,” Albertus said, and Gideon gently helped him to his feet.

  “Then you will ride on one of the remaining horses,” Theodore told him. “Come, we should get him ready.”

  “Where is my mule? It carried most of my equipment.”

  “It has bolted with the others,” Theodore explained.

  “Oh. Oh, that is a shame. Still, I have one or two surprises in my horse’s packs.”

  Despaard helped the knight as they led the old man to his beast, the horse that Gar’rth still held. Two others had been recovered by the werewolves—the ones that had been ridden by Gar’rth and Kara.

  Castimir watched their efforts with a growing sense of worry.

  Three horses left. Not much in the way of rations or weapons on them. Most of our packs are gone, and I am left with just my runes, and of course my new wand. How Morytania will quiver against that!

  He sighed bitterly and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he saw Arisha beside him. She put her hand on his shoulder, and for an instant he wanted to shrug it off, to tell her that his loss could not so easily be lifted.

  But it was only for an instant.

  “What are you thinking Castimir?” she asked.

  “I was just wondering about my yak,” he said grimly. “And whether it would be tasty. One day I hope to find out.” He smiled manically. “One day very soon.”

  Arisha squeezed his shoulder and smiled, and suddenly everything did seem slightly better.

  “You shouldn’t joke about food,” Gar’rth warned. “Our rations are near gone now.” The werewolf wrinkled his nose in disgust as he turned back to the horse’s flank. Doric, standing in front of him, looked up in sudden alarm.

  “What’s that smell?” Gar’rth asked, looking at the dwarf with suspicion.

  “It’s not me!” the mud-caked Doric fumed.

  But it was among them now. Strong, pungent, rotting. Castimir swallowed and stepped back in disgust.

  “It’s coming from the saddlebags,” Gar’rth said. He lifted the flap and at once the smell strengthened. Gar’rth turned away as Doric drew out a wrapped parcel which contained their rations. The wrapping was withered and black with mould, as if it were weeks old. As Doric tore it open to examine the contents, a cry of disgust went up from his friends.

  Imre laughed.

  “That is what the ghast wanted,” he said. “They are the spirits of those who have starved to death in the swamps. They rot whatever food they find. You are fortunate that not all your rations have gone to waste. I sensed it before it appeared, as did your beasts, no doubt. That is what made them run.”

  “Throw it away!” Kara shouted, retching from the smell. “Or give it to Castimir to burn.”

  Doric ran a short distance from the road and hurled it into the stream.

  “We don’t have much food left,” Theodore said after a quick examination.

  “And now you have lost your horses we cannot afford the time to rest!” Imre snarled. “Our arrival in Canifis will be later than expected, and Malak does not like to be kept waiting. We mus
t go on.”

  “How far?” Doric asked.

  “Several hours now, on foot,” Imre replied. “So we had best make haste.”

  “Then we will ride in shifts on the remaining horses,” Despaard said. “Kara and Arisha first. We will swap after two hours.”

  I’m already aching and tired from the journey so far. And now we must walk. What an ignominious entry to Canifis for our proud embassy.

  Looking down, Castimir placed his right foot in front of his left, and then his left foot in front of his right. It was, he knew, a sight he would become used to.

  23

  “Blast the horses, blast the ravenous, and blast but my legs hurt,” Doric grumbled.

  It’s strange, Gar’rth thought. He takes a hard blow to the head without complaint, but force him to walk and he ends up in a foul mood.

  The werewolf looked at his companions. They had been walking for eight hours since the ghast had attacked, and all of them were tired. Castimir’s face was red with effort, his robes drenched in sweat. Theodore, wearing his armour, was worse off still. Yet the knight refused to abandon it, as Imre had suggested. He gazed out at the world through glazed eyes, his breath a continuous pant.

  Lord Despaard and Gideon Gleeman kept the pace without a grumble, and Kara and Arisha still looked fresh.

  They are used to it. In The Wilderness such walking was a regular occurrence.

  The worst by far was Albertus. He seemed to have deteriorated since Arisha’s prayer, and was always on the verge of unconsciousness. Several times he tottered in his saddle, threatening to fall, so Theodore walked alongside his horse, ready to steady him.

  It was a mistake bringing him. He won’t be leaving Morytania.

  Gar’rth’s gloomy thoughts were interrupted by a cry from Imre. To the east, a plume of smoke rose into the green-tinted sky, the smell of fire growing as they neared. It was the first sign they were nearing Canifis.

  It looks and smells exactly as it did when I left it. Unchanged, the way the vampires keep their realm.

  “Are those cooking fires?” Castimir asked.

  Imre shook his head.

  “We rarely cook any food. Sometimes we may heat a soup or a drink, but meat is our staple diet.”

  “What meat is it?” Arisha asked hesitantly. “What animals live here?”

  “Our meat comes from Meiyerditch. It is one of the ways the vampires control Canifis. Often we add to our rations by our own hunts.” Imre pulled aside his cowl to reveal his human face, his needle-like teeth glinting in the gloom of Morytania’s evening.

  Gar’rth felt his nervousness grow as they crossed a small footbridge that spanned a green mire. Imre’s escort surrounded him, like bodyguards.

  Will I have need of them? Did my old friends pay for my flight? Did the brothers Fyodor and Dmitri suffer for it?

  He shook his head. They hadn’t been his friends—not in any real capacity. Not like Kara and Theodore and Castimir.

  Still, if anything happened to them, then I am to blame.

  Lanterns supported on poles thrust into the marshy ground illuminated the wooden town in an eerie light. Many of the buildings were erected on stilts, suggesting the settlement suffered from regular flooding, and unnaturally large green mushrooms grew by the side of many buildings. As the embassy entered Canifis, Imre directed them to the town’s centre, where a field of trampled yellow grass acted as the central meeting point for the inhabitants.

  “Why would you live here?” Gideon Gleeman murmured.

  “It is as safe a place as you will find in Morytania, from our point of view,” Imre replied angrily. “There are only two entrances, for Canifis is an island in the swamp. One way is the road on which we came, and there is another road to the northeast, that leads farther into Morytania.”

  There are other ways, Imre. Jerrod taught me those secret paths on our hunts.

  Still, Gar’rth stayed silent, unsure of whether Imre—as one of Canifis’s hunters—knew of places in the mire where a crossing could be made.

  “Why do you need lanterns?” Doric asked curiously. “Werewolves can see perfectly well in the dark.”

  “We spend most of our time in our human form,” Imre answered. “It is more practical, for it allows us to master our passions, which would otherwise make civilized society impossible. In such form we cannot see as well in the dark. Likewise, the children of my kin have abilities no different from a normal human child, so the lamps are mostly for their benefit.”

  You are not telling them everything, Imre. There are things we fear in Morytania, the darkness not least.

  Gar’rth lowered his voice and told them what Imre hadn’t.

  “The most powerful vampires can manipulate the darkness itself. The lamps are present to keep the shadows at bay, for fear that the rulers of Morytania might decide to amuse themselves at our expense. It has been done before.”

  Imre only snarled in response.

  As they approached, a crowd gathered in the town centre.

  They are still as I remember. Ragged and hungry, a people enslaved. If only King Roald could see them like this. Then he might actually pity us.

  The onlookers peered at the embassy with hatred. Some advanced toward Gar’rth, their intention violent, only to be sent fearfully away by Imre’s words.

  “They are under Master Malak’s protection,” he warned. But for one woman that was not enough.

  “You,” she cried, pointing directly at Gar’rth. “Traitor! Your cowardice cost me my sons, Dmitri and Fyodor. They had been your friends. Malak took them, both of my boys! He took them because of you.”

  I didn’t know! That was not my wish!

  She made to run at Gar’rth, her human face changing in a single second into that of a wolf, her eyes blood-red and vengeance-filled.

  “Back!” Imre yelled, and his guards restrained her. “It will mean your death if you continue. Or worse. At least your sons died quickly, and now find rest in the Great Forest.” He fixed his eyes on Gar’rth. “The inn is near. Roavar has orders to feed and keep you. Go now. Lead your friends. I will follow shortly.”

  Gar’rth nodded, unable to take his eyes from the wailing woman who had sunk to her knees, still in wolfish form. He remembered her sons—two strong youths who had been his friends, until their blooding had forced them into Zamorak’s arms.

  Silently, and suddenly remorseful, he led his companions to the inn, the crowd following at a distance. As he went, he heard the coil of a thick leather strap, followed by Imre’s words.

  “You have insulted the embassy of Misthalin.” The woman begged, her pleas an agony to Gar’rth. “Silence!” Imre shouted. “You know it is better this way, that we punish you. If Malak wished to do so...”

  “We would all suffer for it,” one of his guards finished.

  Imre’s words provoked a fresh weeping, and as the embassy hastened on, none of them looking back, they heard the leather strap smack across the woman’s flesh. Gar’rth shuddered, and he saw at once that he wasn’t alone.

  “It is not our business Kara, Arisha,” Theodore said. “We cannot interfere.”

  Thank you, Theodore. I didn’t have the strength to say that, for am I not responsible?

  The woman’s cries were silenced as the horrific sound was repeated.

  Again, and again, and again.

  Gar’rth ran ahead of the embassy, the sounds of her suffering a terror to him. He reached the door of the two-storey building and fled inside, his hands pressed over his ears, the scent of the woman’s blood taunting him.

  “So you’ve come back then?”

  A large man with a prominent moustache spoke in the werewolf language from behind a long table that served as a barrier between the inn’s kitchen and the dining area. They were alone, and Gar’rth’s confusion must have been visible on his face.

  “Master Malak has ordered the inn to be put at your disposal while you remain in Canifis. No one else will be allowed in. Your friends will be safe h
ere, and treated well. Master Malak has even sent cattle for them.”

  “Will I be safe, Roavar?” Gar’rth asked the innkeeper.

  The man shrugged.

  “That will be up to Master Malak,” he replied. “And Him.”

  Him. The lord of Morytania. What does Lord Drakan want of me?

  Of all the people he knew, only Gar’rth’s mother had ever seen Drakan. But to her dying day she had refused to talk about her time in Meiyerditch.

  “Why was Jerrod sent across the river after me?” he asked the innkeeper. “As a town elder you, if anyone, will know.”

  Roavar shook his head.

  “I don’t know,” the man replied. “Master Malak told Jerrod to go, and he did so. Even you with your soft heart should know that we don’t ask when told.”

  The door opened behind Gar’rth and Theodore entered, followed by the rest of the embassy, Albertus supported between Gideon and Castimir. They set him down on the nearest stool where he slumped forward onto the table. Roaver greeted them without a hint of welcome.

  “There are rooms upstairs,” he said. “The inn has been reserved for you. No harm will come to you here.” He peered at Albertus intently. “Strange,” he muttered. “It is rare to see one so old in Canifis.”

  “I noticed that,” Kara said. “There are children and infants out there in the crowd, but there are no old people. Where are they all?”

  You shouldn’t ask so many questions, Kara!

  “I am as old a wolf as you are like to see,” Roavar answered as he filled a jug of beer from a barrel. He set it on a tray and carried it across to the largest table, about which the embassy gathered. “When a man or woman is too old to be of any use to the town, then they are killed. Our race is not a wealthy one. We don’t make tools, we don’t manipulate metals, we don’t create art or literature. We just exist to serve, and we cannot afford to waste resources.”

  “You kill your old people?” Gleeman said as Imre entered the inn. Gar’rth noticed that his cuffs were damp with black blood.

  “Aye. Either that or they willingly go to Castle Drakan for the blood tithes,” Roavar explained. “Our race is extremely long-lived. It’s not unusual for us to live for several generations of men, as I myself have already surpassed. Yet our young are rare.”