RuneScape: Return to Canifis (36 page)

“It’s my horse,” he said angrily as the eastern horizon was drenched in a shade of pink which grew lighter by the moment. “There’s something wrong with him.”

The column halted as the man dismounted. Theodore rode near to see for himself.

“His breathing is irregular,” Simon muttered as the animal gave an excited neigh. “That is unlike him,” he commented, stepping back to avoid a kick from a rear leg. They waited several minutes, Despaard becoming increasingly impatient, as the man
tried to persuade his steed to rejoin the column.

“We have a long ride today,” Drezel observed. “We cannot afford delays. We are still not far from Lord Ruthven’s manor, but there are few places along the road ahead where we will find shelter and aid. If the animal can’t go on, you should turn back.”

“He
will
come,” Simon shouted grimly. He mounted once more and glared at Gar’rth. “You’ll not lose me that easily, wolf.”

They continued on until midday, by which time it was obvious that something was wrong. And not solely with Simon’s horse. Four other animals that belonged to Lord Despaard’s men slowed and then stopped altogether.

“They are unwell,” one of the men observed. “My lord, these animals won’t make it to Paterdomus tonight.” He gave them a careful look. “Maybe not anywhere else, either.”

Ruthven cursed.

“We don’t have spare steeds for the men. They will have to turn back and take the animals with them.”

“You would reduce our escort by half?” Despaard asked.

“Is that safe?” Gideon Gleeman stammered.

“My lords,” Drezel intervened, “I have travelled this route many a time. The road from here—through the Mountain Pass of Silvarea—is rarely plagued by bandits, or anything else. Many pilgrims travel this route without a guard, so I think we shall be safe so long as the daylight holds. It is the darkness on the mountain road that is more dangerous, and no escort will alleviate that.”

“Very well,” Despaard said. “We will stop for lunch now. Then those with the failing horses will have to return home.” The column dismounted while three of the escort kept a loose lookout from a hillock at the road’s eastern edge. Theodore noted instantly how exhausted Albertus Black was, and knew he wasn’t alone in thinking so.

“You should rest Albertus,” Arisha told him as she helped him find his seat on a tree-stump.

“It’s my old bones is all, Sally,” he said wearily.

Theodore saw the amused smile on Arisha’s face.

“Sally isn’t here, Albertus. She is in Varrock. With Ebenezer.”

The old man made a gruff apology as he leaned his head back against the tree. Within a short moment he was asleep.

“He is not well,” Arisha confided to her friends a short while later. “Sally told me so before we left. That is one reason why he insisted upon coming.”

“A last adventure?” Kara sighed angrily. “We can’t protect him, though. If things go wrong in Morytania, then our swords—”

“Will be next to useless anyhow,” Doric interrupted. “It is Castimir’s magic in which we should have more faith against the forces of Lord Drakan. Besides, we go to parley, not to fight.”

Castimir nodded.

“Doric’s right, Kara. With luck we shouldn’t have to fight at all. Although thanks to a canny suggestion by Arisha, no longer will I make the mistake of keeping my runes in one place, where they can easily be taken from me the way Jerrod did at the monastery. Watch.”

Theodore saw him flick his wrist and a weighted paper, twisted at both ends, slipped from the inside of his voluminous sleeve, directly into his right hand. He pulled the paper apart and revealed three of the pebble-like runes inside.

“Arisha stitched pockets into my sleeves and at the top of my boots,” the wizard explained. “This way it will be highly unlikely that I will be disarmed as easily as last time. If we meet Jerrod again, then I will make certain of him.”

After lunch, Ruthven addressed the seven men whose horses showed the worst signs of illness. Among them was Simon, who cast the werewolf an angry look.

“Have my steward check their bedding and feed,” he instructed the men as they parted. “It might be that some poisonous plant has got into their food.” With that, the column continued onward.

“If it happens to our animals, then we will be left alone in the Pass of Silvarea.” Gideon Gleeman said as they rode on.

“Troll country is it?” Doric asked eagerly.

“No,” Drezel informed him sharply. “There are no trolls there, as you will see shortly.”

Theodore found himself riding alongside Lord William. The young man looked uncomfortable, and his face was pale.

Is he afraid even here?

The noble must have seen Theodore’s concerned look, for he responded with a wan smile.

“I am not used to riding for so long. Hurts the thighs,” he said, and sighed.

“Perhaps you should have gone back with the escort,” Theodore suggested. “You could be in Varrock shortly, back with Lady Caroline.”

William grinned, and when Kara rode alongside them she gave the nobleman a knowing look.

“She is a nice lady, William,” Kara said. “It will be a lucky man who wins her. And I would like to offer her my thanks, for she saved me some embarrassment at the dance by sending her maid to help me dress. Although I saw her on the day we left, on the terrace, I didn’t have time to stop.” She flashed her smile. “She looked very happy on that terrace, Lord William.”

Kara urged her horse on and rode to join Gar’rth near the front of the column. William gulped.

I have missed something there.

They rode on as William gazed elsewhere.

“So you and Lady Caroline...” Theodore said.

William lowered his face, and Theodore saw how he had gone red.

So it’s true!

“Say no more, William,” he said with a smile. “I can guess the rest.”

Up ahead, Ruthven was urging them to quicken their pace. It was afternoon, and the land had changed. The verdant green of the woods had given way to harder ground, and before them— rising like two gateposts set for giants—stood the entrance to the Mountain Pass of Silvarea. It was a daunting place, devoid of colour and life.

“Hard to think anyone would fight a war over this, isn’t it?” William said at Theodore’s side as they entered the pass. The pinnacles of the mountain tops were so high that the valley floor was near-permanently in shadow, save at midday when the sun was directly overhead, and that had passed some hours since. So they rode in a grey twilight, the cool air and the echoes of their voices upon the rock faces made Theodore think they were in an otherworldly realm.

“This is the Pass of Silvarea,” Drezel explained, his voice heard by all in the stifling quiet. “Legend tells that a battle was fought here between Morytania and Misthalin in a war that lasted a hundred years. Nothing lives here now, save one old man who scavenges bones for a living. He has been doing that since before I ever came here, the poor mad fool.”

Suddenly Doric gave a shriek. Theodore turned in his saddle to see the dwarf lean precariously to one side as a black shape vanished into the shadows. Castimir was by him in an instant, steadying him before he fell.

“What was that?” Ruthven shouted angrily.

“It was a bat!” Doric replied defensively. “A huge one. Came right for me.”

“For the love of Saradomin,” Ruthven cursed. “If you shout like that in Morytania, then the embassy will be short-lived indeed.”

“Not all creatures are what they seem,” Gar’rth warned. “Especially here, so close to the river.”

Drezel nodded.

“You are correct. And bats perhaps more so than others. Is it not true, Gar’rth, that the more powerful of the vampire race can turn themselves into a bat or a wolf?”

Gar’rth shook his head.

“I do not know. But they are powerful.”

“If they are that powerful, then how come they haven’t crossed the Salve in such a guise?” Doric asked. “Why not fly over?”

“The holy barrier that separates our world from theirs is best viewed as a sphere,” Reldo said. “The river is just one side of it, so you could imagine it towering into the sky and maybe deep beneath the earth.” The young librarian smiled sourly, and looked at Gar’rth. “I have been reading up on all things to do with Morytania. That is my job—to read histories and accounts of your land and try and see if they are true. There is much in the library in Varrock that isn’t, however. Such as that accursed prophecy,” he finished bitterly.

“Papelford believes it,” Ruthven told him. “And the Wyrd seems to, as well.”

Reldo lowered his gaze sullenly and whispered under his breath so quietly that only Theodore, nearby, heard him.

“Papelford’s a selfish old fool.”

Then Kara spoke.

“Tell us of the vampires, Gar’rth. What are they really like?”

“Time is nothing to them,” he replied. “Their plans span human lifetimes, but they become bored...”

“They have no ambitions,” Despaard added when Gar’rth
hesitated. “They do not age, so if any were to study magic, for example, and possessed the will to persevere for centuries, then they would, inevitably, become as great as any sorcerer who has ever dwelt on this world. But, in truth, it must be a miserable existence, and they would likely forget all of their education after a century or two.”

“Oh, no. No, I disagree,” Albertus Black said. “Think what I could do, or what Ebenezer could do, if we had centuries to practise and perfect our science, to experiment and theorise and experiment again? Every field of discovery would be laid bare for the good of all peoples.”

“You would lose your ambition my friend,” Ruthven warned bitterly. “It is our mortality that defines us—it gives our human lives meaning and impetus. Not so if centuries become mere weeks or hours. What joy would you take in a summer afternoon or the simple blossoming of a flower? To you, these would pass by without notice. It would be but a pale shadow of your current existence, albeit a far longer one.”

Albertus made to reply, but the look on Ruthven’s face, suddenly angry, seemed to persuade him otherwise. After a moment, Theodore turned to Reldo and Lord William, and when he spoke he did so in an undertone.

“Tell me about Lord Ruthven,” he said. “He mentioned last night that his wife died in agony at the hands of Lord Drakan’s servants. Is that true?”

William nodded quickly.

“It is. The Gaunt Herald, many believe,” he said grimly.

“The Gaunt Herald?” Theodore asked.

“There is a legend,” Reldo continued, “going back centuries, of how a herald of a King of Misthalin displeased his monarch. The man was executed in an offering to Morytania. He was sent
across the river to appease Drakan and his ilk. It is said that he appears to offer you your heart’s deSire, in exchange for something monstrous. In many tales that is the child of the victim, or the murder of an innocent...” He looked over his shoulder furtively. “Did you see that painting in the great hall above the fireplace? The one with the woman and child?”

Theodore nodded.

“That was his wife, before her illness, and the baby was Lord Ruthven’s daughter,” Reldo continued. “I have heard some whisper that one winter, many years gone, when Lady Ruthven lay ill,
something
came to visit him. People say it was the Gaunt Herald, on his horse of bones. He is supposed to be a hairless man of immense height, dressed in a black robe, his skin stretched so tightly he wears a permanent horrible lear. Others say that to see him is death—”

“Hardly very practical for a herald,” William mocked gently.

Reldo ignored him.

“No one knows what he offered Lord Ruthven. Some say it was the crown of Misthalin, or wealth to restore his family’s respect and influence, while others say it was his wife’s life, and no one knows what was asked in exchange. But whatever the truth of it, his wife did die. She died horribly.”

William and Theodore exchanged a look.

“Well?” the nobleman prompted.

“I have read an account of her last day, given by her Ladyship’s maid before she died. She dictated it to Papelford some years ago. Of course, he believed it to be the ravings of a mind strained by age. But nonetheless... the wife’s illness worsened. The account says it was a terrible affliction, and that at the end of it black maggots burst from her body to consume her, as punishment for her husband’s refusal to deal with the Gaunt Herald.”

“And what happened to the child?” Theodore asked.

Reldo gave a mirthless grin.

“I don’t know. Lord Ruthven has no children now. It might be she was the price asked for by the Gaunt Herald, and that the lord refused. You have to understand, Sir Theodore, that every man in the Society of the Owl has lost someone they loved to the lord beyond the river, or that is what palace whispers say. I am not yet a member myself.”

“Do you hope to be, if you have to lose those you love?” the knight asked.

“In my position as librarian and archivist, Sir Theodore, I should be exempt from that entry requirement. I believe Papelford was, years ago, and though we don’t get along he can’t doubt my ability. I can remember every book I have ever read, chapter and verse. It is Saradomin’s blessing.”

“We all have the blessing of the gods upon us, one way or the other,” William said darkly.

“And who has Lord Despaard lost that has turned him into such a man?” Theodore asked. Reldo shook his head.

“He has been doing his job since before I was born, Sir Theodore. I do not know his story.”

A cry went up from the head of the column as they rounded a bend in the pass. It was Drezel’s voice, raised in a cheer.

“There is Paterdomus,” the cleric said, pointing to the east. In the distance, framed on both sides by the valley walls, a land of trees and bare low hills drenched in evening sunlight extended all the way to a great black cathedral on the river’s western bank, its single tower taller than any Theodore had seen. Beyond that lay a realm in shadow, without feature, as if an artist had first painted the horizon and then smudged it to obscure any sense of detail.

“Paterdomus. I can feel its power,” Arisha said in awe. “This is what protects the Salve. This is Saradomin’s great work for our age.”