Runescape: Return to Canifis Page 35

  “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 with 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.

  His sulking will pass, Theodore thought. I have seen it before. Arisha will drag him out of it, or Doric.

  Midday came and went.

  The sun, even at that hour, was thwarted by the fumes from the swamplands. He stood beside Roavar and Gideon with the door wide open, and could feel the heat carry in on the fitful breeze. Imre saw them standing there, and advanced, his face haggard.

  “He sent word, last night,” the werewolf said. “Master Malak. He will be here soon, in Canifis.”

  “Is the sunlight a problem for him?” Theodore asked steadily. I will not let myself be accused of insulting our hosts.

  Imre shook his head and laughed.

  “No. His kind have only one problem in this land—deciding what to do with their time. It’s a problem that has caused my race no small amount of trouble.”

  “The daylight here has no power over a vampire, especially one of his age and strength,” Roavar added in a whisper. “The gases from the swamps dilute it. Others, such as the ravenous, do hate it, but I have never seen any destroyed by it.”

  “What about the other legends?” Gideon asked curiously. “Does garlic ail them? Holy water and signs? Silver blades perhaps?”

  Imre gritted his teeth in annoyance.

  “You are an amusing fool, to dare ask such questions.” Then he turned away and went back to his guard. Even at this hour, there were women and infants standing just beyond the perimeter that had been established, staring hungrily toward them.

  “You would do well not to ask such things,” Roavar told the jester. “It implies that the masters have weaknesses. They do not. Believe me, they do not. And they would not enjoy the suggestion that they do.”

  The werewolf shut the door then. Gar’rth appeared behind them as they sat down at the nearest table.

  “Roavar hides the truth,” he whispered. “We tell tales where the vampires have such weaknesses. No one knows for certain, though. No one’s ever tested their accuracy.”

  “They do have such weaknesses,” Despaard said bitterly. “We all know that things can escape from Morytania, like water dripping through a sieve. The barrier weakens them, yet they can penetrate it. That is the reason the Society of the Owl was formed, to keep watch on such fiends.”

  “Tell me of the Society,” Gar’rth urged. “Is it true you have fought my kin? Simon told me he had killed three werewolves before.” Gar’rth’s face darkened. “Though he hates me, so I don’t know if he spoke truly.”

  Despaard nodded.

  “He spoke truly. Simon is a man driven by hatred for your race, Gar’rth. As are many of us in the Society.” The noble’s face fell. “Many of us who cross the river have lost loved ones to Morytania. If such is the case, revenge is all we live for now.”

  “Father Lawrence told me the owl represents vigiliance. It sounds to me as if the symbol should have been a sword instead,” Theodore remarked. “Revenge is driven by passion. Surely the Society should have nobler aims.” Suddenly he found Kara’s eyes upon him.

  “You don’t understand revenge, Theodore,” she said grimly. “Sometimes, it is something that needs to be done.”

  Despaard nodded his agreement.

  “Kara-Meir speaks the truth of it. But we are more than that, Sir Theodore. We do bring hope to the people of Varrock. You may have noticed the symbol of the owl that is scrawled on doorways and walls—these are not done by us. It is the common folk of Varrock who do it, for they have heard of us through folklore and rumour. In times of strife, such power is not to be underestimated.

  “If a man can reassure his neighbour, then surely that is a good thing.”

  “I would rather have a strong wall and a hundred trained men at my back,” Theodore replied. “We had thousands of people in Falador during the siege, and yet many of them disappeared as the Kinshra came on. Morale isn’t a defence on its own. It needs to be backed by steel and skill.”

  Despaard noddded again.

  “And that is where we have failed. We couldn’t give the people of Varrock such visible demonstrations, and even the King’s word will not convince them forever.” He shook his head and drained his tea with a grimace. “No, the Society is old, stretching back hundreds of years. And it is one that has remained hidden, only spoken of in taverns amid
hearsay and suspicion. Perhaps it is time for more openness in our war—”

  A great uproar erupted outside. Theodore and Kara stood quickly, their swords drawn in an instant. Castimir’s face went white in fear.

  “Do they come for us?” Doric asked, readying his axe.

  “No. Not for us,” Gar’rth uttered. “We have no cause to fear. Wait here!”

  The werewolf ran toward the door, pulling it open before vanishing into the sickly fog.

  As Theodore followed, he heard Roavar roar from the kitchen:

  “You cannot interfere,” he shouted. “You must not!”

  Gar’rth heard Roavar’s words as he leapt forward into the mist, but he knew what the uproar meant. It was cheering.

  He heard a girl’s scream from his right, where a large square-metal cage stood, out of view of the inn. He had seen it before in Canifis, many times before he had fled, and the sight of it—large enough for twenty men to be crammed inside—made him shiver. He heard Imre laugh maliciously from nearby, and he saw at once that the discipline of their guard had vanished, that they now ran as wolves alongside their neighbours.

  We do not need their protection any more, Gar’rth knew. He is here. I can feel it. Malak!

  The werewolves parted as he approached, allowing him to see the cage and its contents. As he did so, he slowed to a stop, taking in the scents of the prisoners to be certain his eyes had not deceived him.

  It can’t be. Not here!

  But it was. Their scents were familiar to him.

  Kara appeared alongside him, her hand on her sword, glancing from right to left.

  “Don’t look, Kara,” he hissed. “You must return to the inn. There is nothing we can do for them.”

  Kara gave a gasp as one of the occupants turned to face them. Behind her, Theodore gaped in disbelief and Castimir uttered a curse. Despaard pursed his lips and angrily shook his head while

  Gideon Gleeman looked on in silence.

  Doric, coming last, gave a groan.

  “There is nothing we can do for them, Kara. You must realise that,” Gar’rth repeated, insisting.

  He looked back to the cage, and one of the three occupants recognised them. She gave a stifled cry as she rushed to the bars, her young face white and terrified.

  “Please, Kara! Please. You must help us. You promised you would never abandon us...”

  Pia collapsed to her knees alongside Jack. Her brother stared outward, his eyes glassy and unseeing. The man behind them, the only other prisoner, pulled them back, away from the bars.

  “Stay back, Pia. Do not go near the sides,” he pleaded. “The werewolves might not be able to resist you. Keep away!”

  “How Pia? How?” Kara rasped.

  Gar’rth placed his hand on her shoulder and attempted to turn her away.

  She shrugged him off angrily.

  “No!” she cried. “I gave you my word I would help if I could. I mean to do it,” she spat, her rage manifesting itself in angry tears.

  “You can do nothing...” the man inside said. He was tall, his black hair dishevelled and grown long, his beard unkempt. Wild and angry in appearance but his voice suggested something more noble beneath. “Pia and Jack were captured in Morytania, after crossing over from the blessed realm. She has told me a story of a King in Varrock, and of great armies and nations across the river. That tale has confirmed what my people have always dreamed of, of a realm beyond the power of the vampires, free of the tyranny of the tithes.

  “That is why you must on no account intervene on our behalf. You must not endanger yourselves. Your very existence is enough to raise the spirits of my oppressed brethren, once they find out you are here. That is a joy that will help them resist for a hundred years.” The man’s darting eyes fixed on Kara. “Promise me you won’t attempt to help us. Please. Our lives are finished now.”

  Pia wailed and hid her face in her hands. Jack stared dumbly out at them.

  The boy is terrified beyond reason.

  “I will not!” Kara yelled. “I gave them my promise before they entered this land. I am of an embassy sent here by the highest authority. My word will count for something.”

  Do not deceive yourself, Kara.

  “This man is right, Kara,” Despaard said. “We can do nothing, and we must not attempt to try. If we do, then our protection becomes forfeit and we will be lost. And if the embassy fails, how many more lives in Misthalin will follow?”

  “Listen to him, Kara,” Theodore said softly. “I don’t like it either, but he’s right.”

  She stared at Gar’rth.

  “Please Gar’rth...” she whispered. “There must be a way.”

  She wants me to say otherwise. But I cannot.

  “I’m sorry, Kara. Lord Despaard and Theodore are right.”

  Behind them, Imre laughed scornfully, his joy echoed by others who perceived Kara’s tearful face.

  “But at least we may stay here for a while, at their side,” Doric suggested. “It may be some small comfort in this dark place.”

  “Thank you, my friends,” the prisoner said, “but you must not. The werewolves are too dangerous now their blood is up and their hunger stirred. I doubt even if your protection would keep you safe.”

  “What is your name?” Despaard asked warily. “You speak bravely my friend. Tell me, are you one of them? Are you one of the Myreque?”

  The man smiled suddenly and leaned as close to the bars as he dared.

  “I am one of those you speak of, my friend. One of the few,” he said, his voice low. “It is apparent that you are no stranger to this cursed land.” He looked quickly at the werewolves and thrust his right hand through the bars. Despaard took it firmly.

  “As to my name, it is Vanstrom. Vanstrom Klause.”

  Castimir watched as Vanstrom Klause stood back from the bars and breathed deeply. The wizard clutched his hand about his runes, taking a small measure of comfort from their presence. But he did not seek to use them.

  His own worries were forgotten now as he gazed at the three condemned souls, and no possible witticism could in any way alter his black mood. A quick look at Doric told him the dwarf was of the same mind.

  “Then we should go,” Theodore said grimly. “Vanstrom is right. It is no longer safe for us out here, and there is nothing we can do if we stay.”

  A moment Theodore, Castimir thought. Just a single moment for Kara. Give her that!

  But Kara just shook her head. Her hand gripped one of the bars as if she wished to rip it away, her blonde hair hid her face from the wizard’s view.

  No one moved, and Theodore looked about him in concern. The furor around them was growing more chaotic.

  “Did you not hear me?” the knight asked. “We have to leave here. Now.”

  “You go, Theodore,” Kara said coldly. “I will remain for a while.”

  Gar’rth gritted his teeth at her side. Castimir saw how his eyes were unnaturally black.

  “Theodore is right, Kara. We should go.” Gar’rth’s voice was a growl.

  Castimir looked over his shoulder as a cry went up from one of the spectators. The pack had edged closer, their proximity unnerving him, but now they leaped back and some even turned and vanished into the green mist.

  “Gar’rth, what is going on?” he asked, surprised to see his friend’s face pale and his lips curled back in a snarl.

  Is he changing?

  Why?

  “Gar’rth?”

  “He is here,” the werewolf growled. His inhuman face made Castimir shiver.

  I can’t forget the dream, Gar’rth. The one we all shared. Nor what you did in it, to me, to Arisha, especially to Kara.

  But then all such thoughts were cast aside. A pale mist drifted toward them. It formed into a tall column and deposited quickly into a solid form of a cloaked man.

  Kara gave a gasp as she turned to see.

  Gar’rth fell to his knees.

  Castimir sensed the man’s power as a wave of coldness th
at chilled his bare skin. The newcomer’s face was an unblemished white, reminding Castimir of a polished alabaster sculpture. It was topped with silky black hair that narrowed to a point on his forehead. His eyes were an animal yellow, like the Wyrd’s but even more calculating and malicious.

  Unwillingly, he felt himself begin to kneel.

  “Malak,” Despaard murmured from behind him. Castimir shook his head and straightened his back, fighting the urge to kneel or flee.

  So this is a Lord of Morytania.

  “You have returned, Gar’rth,” Malak said, his voice clear and powerful. “And of your own free will, bringing with you enemies of our lord. People have been executed for crimes a thousand times less severe than yours, wolf. Yet you will be spared, for I have given my word to your embassy.”

  Malak made a single sweeping gesture with his hands and from around him the very shadows moved, abandoning their positions and racing to merge behind him. Very quickly they grew in shape and volume, forming a throne of blackness upon which he sat.

  How did he do that?

  Malak looked at Castimir with obvious amusement.

  “You are a wizard. I have always thought it very arrogant of humans, to label themselves as such, for your command over nature has never been more than rudimentary at best. So dependent on your runes. It is quite... pitiful.”

  “Master Malak,” Kara said firmly. “I speak with the voice of the King of Misthalin. These two youngsters are under my protection. I demand their instant release.”

  How can you dare to make demands of such a being, Kara?

  Casimir shook his head, his sudden anger at Kara’s impertinence fading. Why he should have felt that way, he had no idea.

  Malak was unmoved.

  “The werewolves are starving,” he said. “Your chattels entered Morytania unbidden, of their own accord. They will die tonight.”

  “But my lord Malak, is there nothing we can offer in their place?” Gideon Gleeman spoke quickly, and with reverence. “May we not offer a trade, perhaps?”

  Clever jester. But what would you offer?

  “The fool speaks with a surprising tongue,” Malak smiled, his lengthened teeth dropping down over his lower lip. “But really, look about you. Does it appear as if these creatures can afford to give their food away?”