Betrayal at Falador

know that you do not agree.” The wizard looked at Theodore warily, knowing that he would not approve of Ebenezer listening in the darkness.

And still the squire kept his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“I have a number of different theories about them,” the old man replied. “Though I have yet to decide which one best suits the facts as I know them. But nothing is forever-not people, not places, not worlds and not stars. Everything is subject to change.”

“Must you question everything, alchemist?” Theodore asked, unwilling to be drawn into another argument in his final moments with Castimir.

“Absolutely!” the old man replied proudly. “If you do not ask, you do not learn-a favourite maxim of many mothers, that too few children bother to practise. It is a philosophy of mine that everything must be questioned. To leave the natural world in the hands of the gods is to give even them too much credit.”

With that, Ebenezer lit his clay pipe and stood close to the two young men, pointing out the constellations to both squire and wizard. As they observed the heavens on that cold, cloudless night, a shooting star sped across the horizon and vanished behind the glistening peaks of White Wolf Mountain to the northwest.

Not a hundred yards away, Gar’rth lay in a pool of cold sweat.

Curled beneath some blankets they had laid down in the hall, he had watched as Ebenezer, finished with his chemicals, decided to stroll out for his evening smoke. The alchemist had paused at the door before opening it, looking down at Gar’rth’s shadowy outline.

“Are you all right, Gar’rth?” he asked the motionless youth. Although he did not understand any of the words save his name, Gar’rth was familiar with the manner in which they were spoken. Soft words, comforting words, the words of someone who cared. It had been long years since Gar’rth had heard any words like that.

“Thank you,” he had responded. The only words that Gar’rth had so far been able to learn, he said them with a sincerity that would make the most practised dissembler feel envious.

Gar’rth had struggled to keep himself from shaking as Ebenezer spoke to him, but when the old man shut the door he stopped trying to fight it. He lay in utter silence, his body shivering so much that even the glowing embers of the fire offered him no comfort.

Shortly afterward he began to sweat, a cold sweat that erupted from his pores and drenched the bedclothes. He was familiar with his ailment, and despite the potions that the druid had brewed for him, he knew he could not expect his condition to improve. He doubted that he would ever be rid of it.

Lying there, he recalled the taunts that his blood-brothers had heaped on him those many months ago, before he had escaped.

You can’t change what you are, Gar’rth. You’re one of us. You can’t change the way you’re born!

He had escaped, crossing rivers and borders, living off charity where he could before accepting the fact that he had to steal to survive. The one thing he never did was to harm an innocent person-that was a rule he would not break. He could never do that, for if he did then he knew he would be lost.

After the sweating came the spasms, which wracked his body as if there were something inside that hungered to be released. As he tasted his own blood in his mouth, he sniffed the mixture of crushed herbs that Ebenezer had prepared for him. Usually they soothed him, but now they affected him little.

It was the most violent attack his ailment had ever made against him, and he knew it would be worse the next time.

Crying was rare where he came from. It showed weakness, and a youth of Gar’rth’s age crying would have incurred a harsh punishment. But he was far away from that place. Covering himself entirely with the sweat- drenched blanket that was now cold against his skin, he wept, his black eyes pools of anguish.

EIGHT

The furnace bathed the room in a red glow of warmth, enough to heat the entire log cabin in winter, when the ground was frozen and the trees had shivered off their leaves.

But something had awakened him.

Living in isolation had given him a sense for trouble, and he could feel in his old bones that something was amiss. Something was coming-something dangerous.

The old dwarf’s hand shot out and grasped the heavy battle-axe that he never let out of his sight. The weapon was a comfort in his hands, yet as he stood he became aware of a sensation that he had rarely felt before. Cold fear knotted his stomach.

There was something outside the cabin, something truly terrible, something that exerted a fearsome presence through the stout wooden doors that he knew would not offer him any protection should the source of his fear decide to enter.

His mouth was dry and the words he had been preparing to shout died on his lips. Never in all his many decades of life had he felt such a presence.

Something sniffed at the door and the hardy dwarf stood back, whispering a half-remembered prayer to his most favoured deity, Guthix.

Let it come, he thought. It’ll find me ready to defend my home.

He did not feel the cold when he was hunting, and the only danger the snows presented was the possibility of leaving tracks for hunters to follow.

Only chance had put the gypsy caravan in his way. His mother had told him, years ago, that it was wrong to waste an opportunity. Ever since he had feasted on the family, he had watched warily as armed men searched the frozen woods and questioned travellers on the road.

His treats were becoming more of a risk.

This made the bloodlust stronger.

So strong had it become that the thought of taking an unprotected maiden or errant child no longer excited him. His dark thoughts had turned their attention to the isolated farmhouses and log cabins that populated the forested land between Falador and Taverley. How the residents would fear when he devoured a family in their own home!

The log cabin that he had decided upon was a squat building more isolated than any other. For two nights he had watched it from his vantage point on a steep rise. Tonight he had ventured closer.

But when he sniffed the door frame the scent was different. The occupant was not human, he realized, and he was unfamiliar with the smell.

No matter, he thought. Variety is what makes life interesting.

He jumped away from the cabin, gathering his strength in readiness to throw himself into the oakwood door.

The dwarf had fought worse than goblins in the dark caverns of his race’s mines, but something here was very wrong.

He heard the creature sniff the ground outside, just a few yards from him, and he heard it back slowly away from the door, most likely readying itself for an assault.

It’s intelligent, he thought to himself as the cold fear once more wound his stomach in a knot. It knows I am alone.

I have lived a hundred years, he told himself firmly, and if I am to die this night, then it shall be in the way in which I have lived my life-with my axe in my hands, facing my foe.

He took a deep breath and summoned his courage. Then he stepped toward the door to open it.

He stopped at the last second, his head turning in the night air. He could hear people-many people-stomping over the frozen earth and shouting.

Too many, he thought, and likely armed.

Through the trees he could see at least a dozen burning brands held aloft, and as the wind changed direction