Betrayal at Falador

“We do not stop until Falador!” Theodore cried to the dwarf as they looked anxiously at the nearby trees, both unable to shake off that horrible feeling-the sensation of being stalked.

“What if we meet any travellers? We must warn them!” the dwarf replied.

We will deal with that when we come to it, Theodore told himself. He whispered a quiet prayer to Saradomin to ensure that the road ahead would be empty, and that there would be nothing to slow them down.

He caught the scent on the morning wind, brought to him by the northern breeze. The smell excited him. It was more poignant than it had been in a long time, sweeter and more recent.

He had woken from his half-sleep salivating, the wet jewels of his hunger dampening the robe that he wore to conceal himself. As he raised his head to the early light, his bed still shaded amongst the warm pine needles that carpeted the forest floor, he noted that the birds had fallen silent. He cursed them. They were too quick for him to catch. The best he could do was to make them afraid, but their silence would alert others.

The scent grew as he left his bed, chasing it through the forest toward the west, toward the road a mile away. Once, he lost it as the wind changed and he stood absolutely still, distending his feral nostrils and breathing in deeply. Within seconds he picked it up again, continuing his journey at a lope.

He heard them before he saw them, and he recognised the scent of the dwarf. He could hear them talking in the hollow where he had stood only hours before, the sweet smell of human blood still dominant over all others.

It only made him salivate more, his long red tongue lolling from his mouth, curling itself in anticipation. He had gorged himself on the body of the guard he had slain, but it was not a meal he had enjoyed. Adult men were too sinewy for his taste. Maidens and fat children were more his appetite.

He watched as they mounted the horse, observing as the fair-haired man cast his eyes woefully about the carnage, looking sorry to leave the dead untended. It was on him that the scent was strongest, and yet his quarry was not present.

For months he had trailed the scent of his prey and only now-as he had indulged himself to dangerous levels that would surely attract the attention of armed hunters-had he come so near his goal.

Patience, he told himself as the mare left the clearing. You will find him. He is near.

His red eyes glinted in the morning light. Knowledge was what he needed now. Who was this young squire who carried the scent of his prey? He would follow them wherever they were headed and keep hidden.

TWELVE

It always snowed in the dream and in her bed the girl shivered, her mind far away.

Outside the window the day was dawning, the low sun not yet high enough to warm the white towers. There was not even enough of a breeze to make the proud flags stir and they hung limply, as if they were no more than sodden rags put out to dry by one of the city’s washerwomen.

The girl’s brow wrinkled and she breathed sharply. Somewhere in her mind she told herself that she need not be afraid, that she had experienced the dream hundreds of times before. But it would not be enough, she knew.

She opened her eyes as small flecks of snow chilled her bare skin, her face raw in the winter afternoon. It was already dark, and the bright stars that shone through the wispy clouds were the first sights that made her realise she was still alive.

She sat up, knowing instinctively that she would have to move if she was to survive. Her father’s pack was still tied to her back, its heavy weight causing her to struggle as she crouched low, peering intently from her hidden vantage point.

For several minutes she watched the still scene, her senses alert for any sign that some of the men might have remained.

The world was absolutely silent.

She crept quietly to the trunk that now lay partially submerged, the ice once more covering the black water, hiding any indication of her struggle with the savage dogs.

Tentatively she tested the ice with her foot, her weight pressed against the trunk. She hardly dared to breathe but the ice seemed thick enough to support her weight. She took a single step. Then, emboldened, she took another.

With a crack the ice broke, plunging her into the freezing water. The shock of the terrible cold made her cry out.

Overwhelmed with utter isolation and despair, she pulled herself out onto the frosted shore. For long moments she could do nothing but hold herself and weep, cursing the unfairness of the world and the men who had taken everything from her-and most of all her parents, who had so suddenly left her alone.

Anger replaced despair, and then she ran. She ran west, toward the mountain that loomed ominously above her, blocking out the clouds with its high summit and treacherous crags. All her life she had gazed at it, wondering what lay beyond.

But now she knew only that she had to keep running.

After several hours the forest grew less dense and the trees sparser. With each step the snow swallowed her to her knees and tested the very limits of her strength. Only then did the fatigue quench her burning rage. Only then did she fall.

It was the howls that forced her to her feet again. She was so tired that she imagined that the fleeting glimpses of the wolves might be an illusion. But they were not. They were real. Their yellow eyes glowed at her from the growing shadows on the white landscape, their predatory growls gathering in intensity as more of the pack added their voices to their terrible chorus.

Let them come, she thought to herself. I have done everything I possibly can, and the world has gone against me. She loosened her grip on the dagger that hung from her leather belt.

She took deep breaths, forcing the fear from her mind, intent on making peace with the world in her last few minutes.

Darkness gathered, and close behind her she could hear the soft tread of padded feet digging into the snow, a low growl emanating from a lupine throat.

She was ready to die, to submit herself to Saradomin.

And then she caught sight of stars that twinkled in the dark haze. It was the constellation of Saradomin himself, made up of four brilliant stars that stood out in the heavens. Her father had made certain she would recognise it.

The growl sounded again, closer this time, but now she knew what she had to do. Her hand tightened on the hilt of her dagger.

The wolf leapt and she turned, crouching low and swinging inward with the blade. She felt it bite deep into the creature’s flesh, her hands turning warm from the hot liquid that spilled out from the mortal wound.

The wolf rolled onto its back as it tried in vain to reach the deadly injury in its throat. The howling had ceased and the bright eyes that had looked at her hungrily withdrew into the night, suddenly aware of the savagery in this eight-year-old girl.

She watched as the wolf gave a final yelp and died, and she knew that she needed warmth to survive. She lay atop the animal’s body, gripping its fur tightly in her bloodied, clenched fists. The sweet scent from the wound sickened her as she embraced the warm corpse.

The matron noted a slight smile on the face of the girl as she slept. It was the first sign of any happiness that she had seen, and she prayed it heralded a recovery.

“Run and inform Sir Amik, Elise!” she barked. “I think she might be waking.”

The warmth of the wolf made her sleep. She was exhausted and hungry, but she knew she was safe.

“Wolf Cub” was what they called her when they found her some hours later-“Kara-Meir” in their language. A