“It has been my life’s dream to become a knight, Father Lawrence,” he said. “I have fought and killed and carried out all my duties to the best of my ability. As for Kara, it was a message from our friend Arisha that actually informed me of her plan.” At that, the priest glanced in his direction.
“And you fear for her safety?”
“Who wouldn’t?” Theodore replied. “She pursues her enemies into The Wilderness, with only Gar’rth and Arisha to help her. She is a genuine warrior, Father Lawrence, but I fear for anybody who ventures north into that land.
“They say even the gods have abandoned it,” he added.
The old man shook his head as he ran his hand over his hairless cranium.
“You first came to me to confess your doubts weeks ago, Theodore,” he said, “and I have kept your confidences. I know the conflict that carrying out your duty has caused in you: you obeyed orders that endangered Kara.” Father Lawrence pointed to the fountain that stood before them, and the figures standing in the water.
“They knew their duty as well.” He indicated the nearest statue, representing a tall man of lean muscle with a grim expression carved onto his stone face. “That one there is Tenebra, who was the King’s heir at the time he went to war. He was just twenty, only slightly older than you, when he led his father’s nation against Lord Drakan. His three brothers make up the remaining statues-Bran, Hywell and Henry. None of these men returned from the battle at the River Salve, and the fifth and youngest son inherited the crown. Poor Tenebra, from what I recall, there weren’t enough of his remains to be recovered.”
Theodore regarded the statue.
“I suppose you’re suggesting that duty will lead to a short and unhappy life.” Theodore grinned. “Nevertheless, I do my duty here as a diplomat of the Knights of Falador, though I admit the role is making me feel lazy and entirely too comfortable.” He smiled wryly as he thought back over the evening’s events. “No, romance is not for me-that is a sacrifice with which I will have to live. I have made my choice Father Lawrence.”
“And what a noble sacrifice it must be Theodore!” Father Lawrence answered sarcastically. “Well, I know your friend William would welcome Lady Anne’s attention, so he at least will be pleased to know of your decision.” Then he lowered his voice, serious once again. “But to be a knight of Saradomin is to be respected by soldiers and kings far beyond Falador and the borders of Asgarnia. Here in Varrock and the realm of Misthalin, young men queue up to follow you and train for your order, to test their mettle. In your diplomatic role you have recruited and trained hundreds of candidates, and many more will follow. Indeed, so proud are the citizens of Varrock that we have even paid for their armour, white, like your own. It is-”
Suddenly the priest stopped and stared. He knelt and examined a portion of the fountain wall.
“Look here.” Father Lawrence’s voice had lost all trace of warmth. Theodore knelt at his side. At the base of one of the statues was a painted mark. What he had thought at first was an act of vandalism was evidently something more.
It was the image of an owl, with its wings spread and its head turned fully behind it.
“I have seen several of these images in my time in Varrock,” Theodore noted. “But what are they? What do they mean?”
“It is the symbol of vigilance, Theodore. We in Varrock are barely more than a day’s travel from the holy river. Being so close to such a powerful evil, we must always be watchful. Some whisper that the Society of Owls protects Varrock from Lord Drakan’s minions, that its followers venture into Morytania itself. It is a Varrock folklore, I fear, and in times of worry citizens are apt to scrawl the sign above doorways and upon walls to give one another confidence.”
“In times of worry?”
Father Lawrence stood, his face drawn.
“There is nothing to concern you, Squire Theodore,” he said. “Let us leave it at that. It is late, and you should return to the palace, while I find my way back to my church and to bed.”
The two men shook hands and made to part. As they did so, a passing black cat with a red collar arched his back and hissed aggressively.
Instinctively Theodore turned, following the cat’s gaze.
Something large flew overhead, in a westerly direction. He caught a glimpse of immense leathery wings and was reminded instantly of a bat.
“Did you see that?” he cried. “What was it?”
But Father Lawrence was already moving, running to the western side of the square.
“Follow me Theodore. We must act quickly!”
And in his hand, Theodore saw the four-pointed silver star that was the symbol of their shared god, Saradomin.
The two men arrived shortly at a street of tall grey-stone town houses that stood in neat, three-storey serried ranks which bespoke of commerce and wealth.
“There! The tailor’s house. Did you see?” Father Lawrence hissed. “It went in there. The top window.”
Theodore didn’t hesitate. He drew his sword as he ran, and by the time he reached the door he could hear the screams. It was a woman’s voice.
The door broke inward as he crashed against it. It was a stout barrier, and he winced as pain lanced through his shoulder. Quickly he cast the feeling aside and climbed the stairs. Above him, he could see weird shadows convulsing in the candlelight. A woman screamed again.
He reached the top of the stairs as the shattering of glass sounded. It was followed by a wail.
“You can’t take her!” a man shouted as Theodore burst into the topmost room. He scanned the room in a second, taking in the chaos in the nursery, the desperate tailor and his wife and the thing they both fought against.
He had faced werewolves and goblins, as well as human foes of every shape and size. Yet all his experience had not prepared him for the creature that met his eyes in that room. Huge horned wings protruded from its shoulders, each like a curved shield the height of a tall man. On their underside they looked like those of a bat, but on the outside they were covered by a thick leather skin, tough enough to fend off the tailor’s attacks. But the thing beneath the wings was what paralysed Theodore.
He had the impression of a female, lost under a dark hirsute body. The face was like a bat’s, its nose a wide snout above a long mouth tipped with fangs and revealing a thin, whip-like tongue. But it was its eyes that held him. Orange flames burned in the pupils, sweeping across them all with an unnatural hatred.
It stared, its gaze baleful.
“Give me my daughter!” the tailor demanded, wielding a broken wooden chair leg that was utterly ineffective as a weapon. He smashed it against its wing as the monster stepped back and knelt in preparation to jump, and at that moment Theodore caught sight of a baby clutched in its arms, grasped by long fingers each ending with an inch-long talon.
Its arm snapped out and raked the tailor’s face.
The man dropped his club and pressed his hand over the wound, screaming as blood ran through his fingers. His expression shifted from rage to pleading.
“Please don’t take her,” he cried. “
That released Theodore from his paralysis. He ran forward, raising his sword, but the tailor’s wife leapt into his path, forcing him to twist his weapon to one side to avoid skewering her.
“She is needed,” the creature said, its voice animalistic and unnatural. “You will not be parted for long. Soon we will all share in his darkness.”
Theodore pushed the mother aside and brought his sword arm around in a wide sweep, intending to sever the creature’s legs. But already it had jumped back, quicker than he could have believed, diving through the window and out into the night.
Shouts echoed up from the street outside, followed by the twang of crossbows and the hiss of bolts slicing through the air.
The squire caught a last glimpse of the creature, flying quickly eastward above the uneven rooftops of Varrock. On the street below he could make out the yellow tabards of the city guard, accompanied by a number of
