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  The mercenaries nodded as one, and Jerrod looked to Sulla again.

  “Very well, then,” Sulla said. “Jerrod will lead us in.”

  The werewolf moved in absolute silence, guiding them west. They passed through a hole in the low wooden stockade that surrounded the lumberyard, and sprinted quickly across the open ground. The rest followed.

  “Is everyone ready?” Sulla hissed as they entered the building through a rotted door. In the shadows, the mercenaries nodded, and he was just able to make out their movements.

  A fitting place for a winged-ghoul to live, he noted. And me with two stumps instead of hands, completely unarmed. Strange that I don’t feel afraid.

  “I can hear her,” Jerrod whispered. “She in the eastern end of the building.”

  “Then we must spread out,” Sulla ordered, and he turned to the dwarf. “Go forward to draw her out, then we can come in to support you.”

  The dwarf faced Sulla in the darkness, but he couldn’t make out his expression.

  No doubt it is an ugly one, though.

  “I will go,” he replied grimly, “if Jerrod comes with me. We can both see in the dark better than the rest of you.”

  For a moment Jerrod didn’t reply. Then, when he did, Sulla knew he had made the change into his wolf form.

  “Very well,” he growled.

  Then they were gone, merging into the shadows ahead, impossible for Sulla to see with his single functioning eye.

  “We should go forward, to close the gap,” Behemoth advised. Without waiting for an answer, the big man followed, and was swallowed by the shadows.

  Dividing us nicely. Idiot!

  He started forward himself, aware of Mergil and Turine beside him. His foot banged a crate, loud in the darkness, and his heart jumped. He felt the sweat erupt on his brow.

  Scared of a jiggling crate! How Kara-Meir would laugh.

  The fear had him now. He was afraid of the dark. He wore no armour and he carried no weapon, and not for the first time that vulnerability haunted him without mercy.

  Yet I had to come in with them. To make sure it goes right.

  He took another deep breath when the Mad Axe screamed from ahead of them. He heard Jerrod howl, and then something inhuman gave a loud wail, sapping his will and making him stagger. His legs were close to buckling when he heard Jerrod roar.

  Turine ran forward, followed by Mergil. The poisoner flicked the thick cover off his lantern and the shadows gave way to a sickly light.

  Behemoth lay on the ground, unmoving. Sulla saw his face covered in blood and then, as Mergil moved and the light swayed, the face vanished in shadow. Now the lantern swung upward, to illuminate the combat.

  Jerrod was fastened upon the thing’s back, crushing her wings to her sides with his powerful arms, his jaws biting at her shoulder and head, ripping and tearing. As she staggered, Sulla caught sight of her for the first time, the shining orange eyes and her wide nose above the long mouth tipped with fangs.

  She leapt backward and Jerrod’s grip broke.

  Quickly she turned and scraped her talons across his face.

  “Your runes, Turine! Now!” Sulla shouted as the Mad Axe charged in. The dwarf screamed in his native tongue and his axe arced forward. In the light Sulla saw the Wyrd’s right hand fly clear of her wrist, black blood spraying the yellow sawdust at her feet.

  Turine held out her hand as the Wyrd screamed. Sulla felt the air at his side compact as the sound of a dense and invisible object flew past him. The Wyrd doubled over suddenly as the magic wind slammed into her stomach, forcing her to her knees.

  “Snare her!” Mergil shouted as the lantern moved and the scene was briefly lost in shadow. It returned when Mergil placed it on the floor, and Sulla saw that Behemoth had moved his arm.

  So he’s alive then. That’s a shame. He’s the most troublesome of them all.

  Perhaps I can stamp on his throat and crush the life out of him.

  Before he could move, Mergil entered the fray, hefting his green fogged bottle. The Mad Axe thrust his weapon forward again, and Sulla saw that he meant to distract their target while the poisoner readied himself.

  But then Turine stepped sideways. The light was blocked off, and when it returned Behemoth was standing.

  The Wyrd can’t win now. Not with Jerrod at her back and these three before her.

  He dared a smile.

  But then his smile vanished.

  The hulking form of Behemoth seized Mergil by the throat. Turine screamed in anger, shouting at him to move, but instead Mergil’s body went limp and he dropped the bottle at the Mad Axe’s feet.

  It broke and the green fog spread out. The Mad Axe gave a gasp as his weapon fell from his hands. He staggered and then dropped to his knees before collapsing face down into the sawdust.

  Then Behemoth turned to face him. Behind, Jerrod leapt once more upon the Wyrd and Sulla saw them fall to the ground.

  “Oh no. Oh no.” Turine whimpered as Sulla looked back to Behemoth again. His eyes were glassy and featureless, glowing with a faint blue pallor. His head shook slowly from side to side, his flesh unnaturally pale. The wound on his forehead had stopped bleeding, and a vicious black scab covered it.

  He’s one of them now.

  “Behemoth?” Turine whispered. “Can you hear me?”

  “He’s dead you stup-”

  Sulla didn’t have time to finish as Behemoth lurched forward with surprising speed, his arms outstretched, his golden teeth bared in a bestial frenzy. He heard Turine scream as she was pushed aside and then the lantern was kicked over and the darkness returned.

  Sulla ran.

  He heard Turine scream again, and he turned once to see the two pale blue orbs that had once been Behemoth’s eyes, close behind.

  It’s after me!

  He staggered over a crate and crashed to his knees.

  Hands grabbed his neck and squeezed.

  Sulla pushed backward, forcing his attacker off his feet for the briefest moment before falling down on top of him. He heard something break under his back, a dull wet sound and a crunch of bone.

  Not mine. I’m unhurt. But is it enough?

  He leapt up and away from Behemoth. All was darkness, and there was no sign of motion.

  He grinned madly.

  “I’m Sulla. Sulla! I brought Falador to her knees! Do you think one of your horde is going to be-”

  Two blue orbs shot open at his feet. He heard the figure snarl.

  He bolted again, but now he was closer to the perforated wall of the building. Now dull daylight gave him a chance to see.

  The thing came on, limping now. Sulla could see a nail protruding from the back of Behemoth’s head, and a splinter of wood dug into its calf.

  Think. Slow it down. Then kill it… again.

  He reached the wall as it drew near, its eyes fixed on him. Its mouth was bloody now, its tongue bitten off at the end. Sulla dodged to one side and threw his weight into three crates that stood one atop the other. They shook violently, tottered, and then collapsed onto his pursuer.

  But still it pushed upward through the wreckage, now with a dozen sharp splinters protruding from its front. Still it came on.

  He ran again, reaching the door. Then outside, to the horses. Desperation drove him on, his heart pounding as he mounted his steed in a clumsy sprawl, so hastily as to nearly fall from the saddle the very second he had gained it, his arms about the beast’s neck. The animal gave a neigh of fear, for Behemoth was out now, in the open, staggering forward.

  Right into my path.

  Sulla knew this was his only chance.

  He balanced himself precariously, his feet in the stirrups, the rein in his mouth, his handless wrists upon his horse’s neck.

  He drove his heels into the horse’s flanks and they bolted forward.

  The giant made no attempt to avoid the charge. The horse struck him with all its speed and weight, smashing the creature aside. Sulla cheered as the rein slipped from his
mouth.

  Yet still, impossibly, it clawed at the earth, dragging its broken body toward him.

  “Persistent to the point of folly,” Sulla snarled, dismounting.

  He looked to the building, which was now silent.

  Do I dare go back in? Did Jerrod win? Or has the Wyrd made more of these things?

  Suddenly the horse at his side staggered. For the first time Sulla saw the claw marks on its chest and shoulders that Behemoth must have made when he had been run down.

  He has passed the poison on. Will the horse become like him?

  The thought made his mind up for him. He gave a last look at Behemoth, crawling desperately toward him still, and then he turned and approached the building.

  A sound came from within. It was the sound of a cleaver severing sinew and bone. It was followed by a grim laugh.

  Jerrod.

  Sulla entered cautiously, vulnerable in the darkness.

  But I saw her scratch Jerrod. What if he’s like Behemoth now, too? There would be no chance to avoid such a creature.

  The grim laugh sounded again.

  But such creatures don’t laugh. Do they?

  He found Jerrod in the darkness. The faintest scattering of afternoon light was just enough for him to see the outline of the werewolf before him. There was no sign of the Wyrd, but he could tell there was no small tangle of limbs upon the floor, too obscure to make out in detail.

  Jerrod turned at his approach.

  “We did it, Sulla,” he said. “Or I did. And just look at what we’ve done.” Jerrod laughed again.

  “What do you mean?”

  Jerrod rarely laughs so much. And it is not a sound I like.

  “I mean I’ve been played for a fool. From the very start. My master has appeared to me, and I am cursed now. If I ever return to Morytania I will be tortured for years beyond reckoning for interfering with his plans.”

  “But you were asked to do this,” Sulla said.

  “Yes, but by another,” he growled. “I am sure now of two things, Sulla. The first is that it was not Lord Drakan who sent me, as I mistakenly believed. The second is that there is division in Morytania. Regardless, I can never return to my homeland.” Sulla saw Jerrod move to the side of the building. Suddenly he swung an object in the darkness, and Sulla saw that it was the dwarf’s axe. It smashed its way through two planks and let in a ray of daylight.

  “I can never go home now,” Jerrod said again, his red eyes narrowing as he looked behind him. “Look Sulla.”

  Sulla followed his gaze and he saw why.

  The Wyrd’s severed head stood propped upon a crate, her eyes open but now without their orange flame. Sulla turned to face his one true ally.

  “Then let us make a new home for you this side of the river, my friend,” he said. “Thanks to the Wyrd, we will have asylum, and with it wealth and influence. And perhaps-if Kara-Meir should ever return-our revenge.”

  The Mad Axe groaned from the shadows. Mergil, too, moved slightly. Sulla looked back to where he had left Turine. She was on her knees, her hand pressed against her head where a clot of blood stained her face. Red blood. She looked at him in a daze.

  She is not one of them.

  “Let’s get the survivors to the cart and make our return to Varrock,” he said. And then, whispering, he spoke again. “We’ll have to burn Behemoth. He’s still crawling around outside.”

  Jerrod nodded and left with the dwarf’s axe, to carry out his dreadful task.

  Sulla saw Turine’s eyes follow the werewolf through the building. He sensed the fear in her, and smiled as he saw her discomfort.

  “So what do I do with you, Turine?” he said airily. “I could feed you to Jerrod. That way all the glory would be mine.” He smiled. “No, I think not. Not today.”

  “You… you won’t kill us?” Turine asked.

  So there is still power to my reputation, he observed. But there is a time and a place for mindless violence.

  Sulla shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “Behemoth was poisoned by the Wyrd. He went mad, but he is our only casualty.” There is no need for her to know the whole truth about the Wyrd’s contagion. It might be very valuable later on, when I am a prisoner of King Roald’s. Anything extra for me to bargain with will be necessary. “We, however, are going to be greeted as heroes in Varrock, where I will present myself to the King. In the days and weeks to come, I will need people who I know can be trusted. I have spared your lives, Turine. You know my reputation. And you know what Jerrod is.

  “You know how very, very easily that decision could have been different,” he added. “All I expect is loyalty. If ever I have need of you in the future, I expect my mercy to be repaid. Do I have your word?”

  The smell of burning reached him from outside.

  “You have it,” she replied, “…Lord Sulla.”

  Lord Sulla? How long has it been since anyone called me that name with such respect?

  “Good,” he said. “Now get up. I need your help in getting our comrades onto the cart.”

  26

  The smell of cooking evoked mixed feelings in Kara’s mind. She had finished her first plate of bacon and eggs with toast provided by Roavar, yet now-as the werewolf host prepared food for Theodore and Doric-she shook her head and looked to the window again.

  It isn’t right. They are not enemies of mine. And even if they were, would I let their children suffer so?

  For through the window, barely visible through the murk upon the glass, Kara could still see the crowd. They had been there when she first came down for breakfast, just as they had been the night before, and possibly all through the night itself.

  Women and children only now. No men among them.

  The women held their silent children in their arms, naked babies thin and obviously very ill. And yet not one of them said a word.

  And that makes it more painful still. I would rather that they howl and charge the door and try to take the food from us rather than stand there in silence and wait.

  “I had no idea things were so bad for your people, Gar’rth,” she said as he followed her gaze. “I feel very sorry for them.”

  Roavar grunted as he set places for those who hadn’t yet eaten.

  “They don’t want your pity, woman,” he said. “They want meat. They want food for their babes who haven’t strength enough to cry. If you really want to help them, then all you have to do is to walk through that door and offer yourself up.”

  “That’s not what I was thinking,” Kara said angrily.

  Castimir, sitting nearby, screwed his face up as he sipped nettle tea.

  “I’m not surprised you ran away, Gar’rth,” he murmured grimly as he lowered his mug. “With tea like this, and such amiable hosts, it’s a wonder this inn isn’t favoured by more travellers.”

  Careful Castimir, Kara thought. Roavar’s hearing far surpasses our own.

  Sure enough, the old werewolf turned angrily. He lowered his fists onto the table before Castimir and glowered.

  “Did you say something, human?” he demanded. “Are the accommodations not to your liking?”

  Kara drew her sword an inch in its scabbard. Roavar saw her and bared his teeth.

  “Enough of this,” Gar’rth said. “Roavar, you mistake Castimir’s humour. It would be a shame for Malak to know it.”

  Roavar sneered and returned to the kitchens.

  Kara watched Castimir thoughtfully. On the walk to Canifis he had frequently grumbled about the loss of Master Segainus’s books, but now his humour seemed to have returned, although grimmer than before.

  His jokes have lost their fun and now he aims to hurt. No good can come of it.

  Outside it was a green-tinted morning, for the sky above the vast swamps of Morytania was polluted by the gasses of Mort Myre. It seemed to Kara that they were abiding in a sickly twilight.

  “Often it is worse than this,” Roavar said grimly, causing her to jump. She hadn’t heard him as he returned w
ith Theodore’s breakfast. “Sometimes the gasses from the swamp can kill. Last month we found a dead child who had wandered out on a hot day, when they are most pungent. The whelp’s face was turned black from the fumes.”

  Lord Despaard joined them, the penultimate member of the embassy to appear.

  “Is Albertus not eating?” he asked as he sat, looking out of the windows, too. Kara wasn’t sure if she saw him smile savagely.

  “He is still asleep,” Arisha said. “I thought it best to let him gather his strength in preparation for any journey we might have to make.”

  Gideon Gleeman, sitting next to her, frowned slightly.

  “Wish I’d done the same,” he muttered as he finished his tea. “Not used to riding. Legs aching as if I had been hung upside down for a week. And I didn’t sleep well at all. Bed comfortable enough, but I just didn’t feel safe.”

  Doric grunted and nodded his head.

  Kara felt the same, and with the thought of sleep came memory-of a dream. Of a white-faced visitor who had come to her, and stood over her. The memory unnerved her.

  Still, it wasn’t so bad as my dream of Gar’rth.

  “We might be here for some time, though,” Theodore said. “Who knows how long it will be until Malak honours us with a visit.”

  Roavar made an angry sound in the kitchen.

  Yet all they could do was wait.

  For Theodore the morning passed quickly. He busied himself with any small task he could find. Situating himself in a corner of the common room, he unpacked their saddlebags and with some alarm reviewed their diminished rations.

  I will need to replenish these. I shall ask Roavar if he has anything suitable for us. For if we need to run, we won’t get far without food.

  Next, he polished his armour, and then oiled his sword, making sure Roavar saw him do it.

  They will judge us by how we act. Castimir is doing us all a disservice with his petulance. We cannot give them any sign that we are weak or divided.

  He gave the wizard a long look as his friend stirred his tea with an angry frown on his face. Castimir caught his look, and smiled suddenly, as if thinking he’d been caught committing a minor transgression.