Betrayal at Falador (36 page)

Sulla watched the battle from the saddle of his horse.

“My friend, your enemies are before you. Do you wish to avenge yourself upon them?”

He lowered his gaze to the werewolf who stood beside him and noted how haggard the monster looked. Perhaps the strain of forcing his way over the holy barrier had been too great an effort.

“Very well.” The werewolf spoke slowly, pulling the cowl farther across his face and striding forward.

The heat from the fires radiated down into the courtyard, warming Theodore uncomfortably. He noticed with alarm how the roaring flames had swept dangerously close to the archives.

“Kara?” he called out, his voice unable to overcome the blistering cries of the wooden beams or the crackle of burning thatch.

It shouldn’t have taken Kara and Gar’rth so long to rescue the archives. He was tempted to run in after her, but Doric’s warning cry held him back.

“It’s him! He’s here!” The dwarf cried. His companions looked to the lone figure who was striding toward them—the one who had inspired the dwarf’s terror.

“The werewolf!” Doric shouted.

The figure stopped several yards in front of them, standing absolutely still.

“You were lucky to survive last time, creature” Doric shouted, readying his two hand-axes.

“As were you, dwarf,” came the guttural reply. “Only the intervention of the girl saved you. Tell me, where is she? And where is Gar’rth?”

No one spoke, and the werewolf reached up with his hands, pulling back the cowl to expose his face to the onlookers.

“You cannot win” the werewolf said. “If you give me Gar’rth and the girl, then the rest of you may leave here. Sulla has given his word.”

“You would ask us to give up our friends?” Theodore spoke with disdain. “The reputation of the Kinshra is well-known to us. Sulla will not honour his word!”

“Very well” the creature said flatly. With deliberate slowness he pushed up his sleeves.

Theodore knew only Kara’s blade had been sharp enough to pierce the unearthly hide, but now they had Castimir at their side. The squire was certain that the werewolf was not impervious to magic, yet he had seen how weak Castimir had become from his previous exertions.

He needed to buy the wizard time to recover his strength.

“Wait!” he uttered as the creature stepped forward. “If you intend to fight us, then you can grant me a moment to answer a question. Who is Gar’rth? Why is he so important to you?”

The werewolf halted, his eyes glowing in thought.

“You cannot understand the customs of my people, human,” he growled. “Gar’rth has disgraced his family by his cowardice. He has refused to accept our way of life, refusing to be blooded when he came of age. The lords of our land wish him returned so he can be forced to embrace our ways and become one of us.”

Theodore frowned, but did not respond. Nor did he back down.

“He is not royalty, human, but he is of minor nobility,” Jerrod continued. “Even if he were not, if he were born the lowliest of birth, I would still pursue him. For amongst our race children are rare.” His maw broadened into a twisted smile. “Our race is not as... prolific as your own, and every newborn is valuable.

“My offer still stands. I want the girl and I want Gar’rth. The rest of you are of no consequence.”

“We have given you our answer,” Doric stated, his voice barely audible over the angry fire that roared through the eastern side of the monastery, its black smoke drifting across the courtyard.

As if the smoke were a signal, Jerrod gave an eerie howl and ran forward, crouching low, ready to launch himself at the nearest of his enemies.

He had identified the wizard as the only threat in the battle, and sought to remove him first. He seized the dwarf and threw him toward the magician, knowing that the young man would not risk harming his friend with his magic, forcing him to jump aside to avoid colliding with his dwarf ally.

In doing so, the wizard forfeited his chance to use his magic effectively. He frantically hurled a ball of fire that only singed Jerrod’s thigh.

The werewolf was upon him before he could ready a second spell. Jerrod hit him before deftly running his long claws across the young human’s throat, intending to kill him outright. At the last moment he hesitated, however, thinking that it would be more amusing to keep the unconscious wizard alive for later, once he was defenceless.

With a swift strike from his dagger-like claws he tore the man’s belt from his waist and hurled it into the burning monastery. Even if the wizard did regain consciousness, he would have no runes with which to wield his magic.

Casting his victim aside, Jerrod then occupied himself with the fun of revenging himself upon the dwarf and the squire. He took his time, dodging their attacks and pushing them away as a tutor might disdainfully parry a hot-headed pupil.

But then the wind changed. He caught their scent in the air, carried on the burning embers.

It was the girl and Gar’rth.

Kara knew she had made a mistake. Her eyes ran with stinging tears. Her lungs burned as she coughed feebly in an effort to breathe clean air.

“Come on, Gar’rth,” she called weakly, the strength fading from her legs as the smoke threatened to overwhelm her. She had made it through to the archives with Gar’rth close behind her, but as they had entered, the roof in the passageway behind had come crashing down, cutting off their exit.

Kara seized the four books that she had put aside for later inspection and quickly they made their way out onto a narrow stone staircase that had thus far avoided the flames.

Yet when they reached the next floor, Kara’s gut twisted itself in fear, for the only way out was back into the burning part of the monastery.

She knew her luck had run out.

The flames were engulfing the passage ahead, and the wooden floor had already collapsed in several places. There was no way they could cross.

But if they could not escape that way, she could at least divest herself of the cumbersome books. She smashed the stained-glass window with the hilt of her sword and prepared to push the weighty volumes through the small gap. But as she looked down she hesitated.

Her friends were losing the battle. She instantly recognised the werewolf as he lifted Doric straight off his feet with one hand while simultaneously fending off a thrust from Theodore. Then her eyes fell on Castimir in his blue robes, and she uttered a silent prayer, for the young sorcerer lay on the ground, his hand held to his throat, his face deathly pale.

“Get up, Castimir! They need you” she shouted, but her voice could not carry over the roaring of the flames.

There was only one thing she could do. Without hesitation, she hurled the books out into the courtyard, unsheathing her adamant sword as they fell. As Theodore was beaten to the ground and disarmed by his vicious opponent, she hurled her sword toward him and attempted to shout his name.

But she couldn’t muster the strength to do so.

A wave of dizziness and despair overwhelmed her, and she knew they were trapped. Her arrogance and selfishness had killed them both—perhaps all of them.

Kara gave a despairing moan as her knees gave way beneath her, the smoke too much for her.

“Saradomin forgive me,” she muttered as her eyes closed. “May my friends forgive me.”

She felt Gar’rth’s strong arms slip under her back as he heaved her across his shoulder. She felt weightless as he turned back toward the archive and the stairwell that they had just climbed, away from the burning passageway that was filled with black smoke.

Then all consciousness fled.

Jerrod’s acute hearing picked out her cry, and he turned to look at her briefly as she threw the sword.

Instantly he knew—it was the sword that had harmed him in Falador.

The squire managed to grab the hilt of it before the werewolf delivered a vicious kick to his side. Theodore staggered, attempting a desperate lunge which the werewolf dodged easily.

He smashed a heavy fist into the squire’s skull and took the adamant sword from his grasp. As Theodore knelt, dazed, Jerrod hurled the green-tinted blade toward the Kinshra soldiers.

At a distance, he saw Sulla nod in approval of his strategy.

“You won’t need that” he laughed as he lifted Theodore from the ground only to dump him at the wizard’s side. The squire felt limp in his arms, and Jerrod knew the human possessed barely enough strength to stand. He would enjoy taking his revenge on his enemies, a slow revenge that would last long hours. There was only one enemy left now who dared to fight him.

Jerrod turned his attention once more to Doric, who stood wearily.

The dwarf is strong, to still stand after so much punishment.

“Let’s be having you,” Doric growled, his voice quieter than usual, as if resigned to a fate he knew no mortal being could ever avoid.

Jerrod laughed. It had been so easy once he had removed the wizard and the girl’s sword, for his two enemies had nothing else left with which to hurt him.

“Castimir,” Theodore muttered, his jaw swollen from the crushing blows of his enemy’s huge fists. “We need you, Castimir!”

The wizard gave a low groan and opened his eyes.

“There is nothing I can do, Theo” he wheezed. “He has taken away my runes.”

“Not all of them, Castimir. Look, on the ground next to you. He must have torn through your pouches when he ripped your belt.”

The wizard’s eyes lit up in sudden hope and he struggled to his knees.

“Gather them up, old friend,” he said. “Let us see what we can muster for our final moment.”

Quickly and as discreetly as he could, Theodore hid Castimir from the werewolf’s view, his hands working quickly in the damp earth. Within seconds he had thrown at least a dozen of the small stones back to the wizard.

“Can you do anything with them, my friend? Do you have enough?”

Castimir’s voice sounded strong as he breathed deeply.

“I have enough, Theo. When I cast my spell we shall have one chance and only for a few seconds. Now listen very carefully.”

Theodore listened silently to Castimir as Doric was once again beaten to the ground by a savage blow.

“I understand,” the squire said meekly. Very slowly, as if he had no more to give, he rose, drawing the werewolf’s attention.

Ebenezer returned his knife to his pocket. He had finished what he had set out to do. It had taken him a few minutes, sitting behind the fence near the stables, and all the time he had watched the battle unfold.

Carefully he slid lumps of the powdery cake-like element into several oil-soaked leather pouches, in which it would be protected from the air.

“What are you doing?” Brother Althric whispered urgently. For some minutes now the monks had been ready to ride out, to risk a charge past the waiting Kinshra and an escape out into the open country.

“I am nearly ready, young man,” the alchemist insisted. “If you will prepare yourselves, then I will arrange our exit.”

He gathered the small pouches in his arms as a hungry man would gather food. He knew that to get by the Kinshra they would need a distraction, and he was holding that in his hands.

“Come on, Gar’rth,” he muttered to himself, his eyes pausing on the burning building above him. The fire had engulfed the window where Gar’rth and Kara had been seen, and the archives were now alight.

But in a malign twist of fate the flames swept up, engulfing the roof of the eastern wing and spitting hot tongues of fire from the windows. As Ebenezer stood, the last of the thatched roofing collapsed, crashing down into the library and the dry books inside. The wall of the building tottered dangerously.

“Kara!” Theodore yelled as he witnessed the destruction, certain that neither Kara nor Gar’rth would survive if they were inside.

“Theodore!” Castimir shouted suddenly. “Move!” The wizard leapt to his friend’s side to confront the werewolf, who stood scant yards in front of him. He wore a look of determination that bordered on madness.

The werewolf reached forward to seize him by the throat, but it was not to be. His massive hand slowed, his long claws stopping a bare inch from Castimir’s pale skin. As he snarled impotently, the wizard waved his empty hands in the air, ending his complex spell. For it had been cast and the werewolf could barely move.

“Quickly! The werewolf will only remain snared for a few seconds. Where is the adamant sword?” Castimir shouted to his friends with renewed energy. He followed Theodore’s frustrated gaze toward the Kinshra, and immediately saw the green-tinted blade lying at Sulla’s feet.

They would not be allowed to use that in their battle.

“Throw him into the fires then” Castimir shouted, aware that with each second the spell waned. “Drag him toward the wall.” The squire bent low and rushed at the werewolf’s knees. With a loud cry he lifted the massive figure onto his shoulder and stumbled forward. The wizard joined him, and Doric put his strength into helping them as well.

“What... are... you... doing?” the werewolf growled, his mouth and tongue bound by the spell, making speech near impossible.

It would only last a few more seconds.

The companions dropped the ensnared creature at the foot of the wall of the archives—a wall that shook unsteadily.

It tottered above the werewolf. The magic was fading, it would last only seconds longer, Castimir knew. But not long enough for the wall to fall first. He had one chance to make that a certainty.

Castimir stepped closer, conjuring a ball of flame with the last of his runes. With all his concentration the young wizard hurled a single ball of fire into the final support.

The whole wall crashed down on top of the monster, burying him in dust and brick.

Sulla sighed inwardly. From the start the werewolf had performed exactly as he had hoped against such a diverse group of enemies, but the wizard had proved his undoing.

He had debated going to his ally’s rescue, but the speed with which their opponents had acted had surprised even him. Besides, he told himself, if he had been defeated so easily, then the werewolf was of limited value to the Kinshra ranks.