RuneScape: Return to Canifis (34 page)

“Pia,” Jack cried, wriggling in her lap and turning to peer up at her. “Do something!”

Finally Jack’s voice broke her fear, and she kicked the horse into action. The horse bolted forward suddenly, as if it had been similarly frozen in fear. She looked behind, and on it came—for now she knew it wasn’t human—and it was gaining, its arms outstretched. She looked forward again, panic rising inside her.

When she looked back again, the skeleton creature was so close. She faced forward again and closed her eyes. But the tears came, and she couldn’t stop them.

No, no, no no no nononono...

She felt something hard grab her thigh and out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of white as the thing’s hand slipped off her body. Her skin felt frozen where it had been touched.

Jack cried out in terror.

Pia leaned forward, ignoring the sound.

The horse reared suddenly and kicked backward. Pia heard a sound like a breaking twig, and she dared to turn to look.

The thing was there. Right behind her, its hand gripped around the horse’s rear leg. It pressed its face forward, into the horse, its mouth biting...

The horse bucked again as a torrent of blood gushed into the thing’s face. This time Pia lost her balance.

She fell from the horse.

Jack screamed as the horse bucked again. As she fell, Pia saw its hoof smash against the attacker’s temple. It was a blow that would surely have felled a giant. And it was enough to send the creature sprawling back, into the mire.

Pia gasped as her heart pounded. She watched in a daze as the thing vanished beneath the surface of the swamp, and the horse
bolted with Jack holding on desperately, his arms wrapped around the frantic animal’s neck. And then he was lost from sight in the swirling green mists.

She tried to rise, but again her limbs refused to obey her commands. Minutes passed—or were they hours? Somewhere far away she heard Jack scream again and the horse whinny loudly. Then both sounds were cut short.

No!
But still she remained frozen.

There was the sound of movement—of something being dragged. A form was thrust down to the earth at her side, so that she could see it without needing to turn her head. It was Jack, his face ash grey, his eyes unseeing.

Above her stood a figure wrapped in a black cloak. Behind him stood another.

She tried to speak, but no words came.

“You have trespassed into our realm, human,” the thing said, but still she couldn’t see his face, obscured in darkness and mist. “You were lucky to escape the ravenous, but that is as far as your fortune goes. Your horse is dead. It’s flesh food for Canifis. As you will soon be.”

Canifis! It’s a werewolf
, she thought, her mind racing.
The dagger...

The figure pushed its cowl back, and its eyes gleamed with malice and hunger. There was no wolf-like snout. No fur covered its face.

But within its horribly distended jaw, the unnatural light of the swamp glinted off two sharp and pointed fangs.

Gar’rth was miserable as they rode from the bailey and across the palace’s courtyard.

There the column turned south and rode down the tree-lined avenue to the palace’s outer wall. Once through the gate came the great square, with its four statues watching over the frothing pool, where a line of yellow-tabarded guards kept the way clear for Lord Despaard’s embassy.

And as they rode out, the people cheered. Some shouted out to Kara, others blessed King Roald, while other, bolder voices offered helpful suggestions as to what to do to Lord Drakan by applying sharp-edged weapons to various parts of the dark lord’s anatomy.

“I’m not even sure if Drakan has one of those,” Lord William said thoughtfully, raising a brief smile from those who heard.

As they rode east through Varrock and finally out of the city itself onto the King’s Road, Simon never left Gar’rth’s side.

This is worse than the dungeons. At least there we were separated by bars.

Shortly before the crossroads, when the city of Varrock was more than a mile behind and hidden from view by an army of
willows and oaks, Gar’rth breathed deeply.

At least I am away from the city now, with its foul smells. Out here, I can take full advantage of the wild aromas.

He did so, and then he stopped suddenly, coughing.

Kara saw his distress.

“What is it, Gar’rth?”

“Something nearby. A familiar scent. A man. A dead one.” He gave another sniff. “Not long dead, either.”

The column stopped to hear him.

“It’s probably just Theodore, in need of a bath,” Lord William said, but no one laughed. Nor did they question Gar’rth’s observation, causing the young noble to frown in puzzlement. Reldo did likewise.

They don’t all know about me
, Gar’rth realised.
I should take more care in future.

Suddenly the silence was broken as Lord Ruthven laughed from the head of the column.

“The boy plays tricks upon us, Lord Despaard,” the hawk-like man said loudly. “He knows that we approach the crossroads. Come. Let us hasten on, and the answer to this riddle will no longer be left ... hanging.”

The column continued, and as they journeyed to the northeast the scent grew.

I am right. A man has been killed here, and very recently.
And it was at the crossroads that he was proved right.

A hanged man’s body dangled from the branch of a sprawling oak tree. It twisted in the afternoon breeze as a crow, perched in the branches above, cawed at the embassy, staking its claim. The man’s hands were bound behind his back and as the body twisted to face them. Kara gasped.

It’s Velko!
Gar’rth realised.

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.”