He watched as her friend smiled, and a pang of jealousy shot through him. What did Gar’rth have that he didn’t? he wondered, looking critically at the lanky youth.
Castimir returned to his seat, giving Gar’rth a long look as he sat down next to him. He took a draught of his ale.
It was going to be one of those nights.
Theodore was certain he knew where Kara was heading. He remembered his conversations with her, about Sulla and the Kinshra she had vowed to fight. And he knew the powerful anger which drove her on.
He and Doric had left Falador several hours before, stopping briefly to question those people they met on the road.
And Kara had been seen, travelling east, toward the barbarian tribes. It made sense to Theodore. She would need to find hospitality somewhere. Indeed, one of the city guards helping in the hunt told Theodore that he had recommended to her that she stop at the barbarian village to replenish her supplies.
“The Kinshra will surely kill her if we cannot intercept her Theodore” Doric shouted as they rode swiftly on.
“Then we will ride through the night” Theodore replied. “She can be no more than three hours ahead of us.”
As strong and skilled as Kara was, fighting enemies as vicious as the Kinshra warriors was a battle that could only end in her defeat. Hadn’t she already tried to do it? Hadn’t the Ring of Life spent its power in saving her from them?
THIRTY-EIGHT
It was growing dark. It was the second night he had spent outside the city since the girl had wounded him.
A girl had done this to him. If it hadn’t hurt so much, he would have laughed at the idea.
Throughout the day, he remained in the remote hollows north of Falador, protected by thick brambles and fallen trees in the most overgrown part of the wood.
Once he was woken by the sound of baying dogs, and he had had to master his instinct to run. For a few seconds the sounds had come closer, but then they turned away westward, toward the road to Taverley.
He knew he was the hunted now. His overconfidence in dealing with the humans had led to his defeat, and he had left two fingers and half an ear behind. He had not returned to his human form just yet, for his wolf form was far stronger and he could feel his stomach wound repairing itself gradually. It would be several days before he would be able to move without pain, however. But at least the bleeding had stopped.
He knew also that it wasn’t safe to stay in this country. The population had risen against him now, and scores of heavily armed men searched the woodlands. He would have to leave.
It was on the western road, south of Taverley, that he had first encountered Theodore, who carried the scent of his quarry. Despite his failure to question him, he knew the best chance of picking up the trail that he had lost would be to head north, moving only at night, backtracking along Theodore’s route.
He stood warily, his stomach protesting from the wound. He would remember the girl with the blonde hair. Before he returned east to Morytania and his dark lord, he would find her somewhere, alone in the wild, and have his revenge.
His hatred gave him the strength he needed to ignore the pain and slowly he made his way out of the overgrown hollow.
The wind was cold on Sulla’s face, yet he could sense a change in the seasons. The daylight hours were lasting longer. It would soon be time.
Behind him stood several of his commanders, waiting.
“The monastery,” he said. “Ever since I have walked this land it has always stood there, taunting us.” Sulla pointed to the east, his arm stretched out across the cliff edge to a vista covered in dense woodland and bathed in the last embers of sunlight. A white tower was just visible, rising above the trees many miles away.
“You want us to sack the monastery?” Lord Daquarius asked uncertainly.
“They are our enemies!” Sulla spat back. “They are worshippers of Saradomin.”
“Truly they are, but they are not worthy of our attention. They are old men in robes. If we attack them we will unite our enemies. If Misthalin becomes involved, if Varrock sends an army against us…”
“They will not” Sulla insisted. “We shall test our weapons on the monastery and then turn south toward Falador. Thorbarkin, are you ready?”
A hunchbacked dwarf made his way forward.
“Yes, Lord Sulla,” the figure croaked, lowering his red cowl. His smile revealed sharp teeth that had been filed down to add to his terrifying appearance. His eyes shone eerily and were maniacally bloodshot.
“How many of our weapons do you think we will need to assault the monastery?” Sulla snarled.
He didn’t like using the non-human races in his army but the chaos dwarfs who shared his faith were industrious. And they had given him new weapons that could hammer down the strongest walls and clear a path through the boldest army.
Weapons against which the knights had no defence.
“No more than five, Lord Sulla,” came the reply. “Zamorak smiles on our cause.”
“Then we will assault the monastery within days. We will test ourselves and our weapons against the faith of the monks of Saradomin.”
“And after that, my lord?”
“After that we turn south. To Falador!”
Darkness fell over the barbarian village and several braziers were lit to keep the night at bay. From over the wooden paling that surrounded the settlement scavenging dogs could be heard, barking over the scraps of meat that some children had offered as bait to draw them unsuccessfully within range of their spears.
And it wasn’t just the children who were disappointed. Returning to his wagon to gather his bedding from under the seat, Ebenezer found that one of the front wheels had cracked. It put an end to the early start he had hoped for. He knew the monastery would not be reached the night after tomorrow, as he had initially planned.
Swiftly, he returned to Castimir and Gar’rth, who were still sitting in the crowded hall.
“My wagon is going to need fixing” he announced. “The front wheel is splintered and won’t last the journey north.”
“I do not think we can take your wagon north with us anyway, Ebenezer” Castimir said. “The roads are non- existent and the dense woods will make it all the slower.”
The alchemist sat down heavily on the bench. He hated being away from his wagon for any period of time.
The young wizard’s usually humorous face darkened.
“And if our friend’s condition is as severe as you think it is, time will not be on our side.” He cast a swift glance to Gar’rth, who sat next to him, unaware of their conversation. “We need to find a guide, Ebenezer, or else we could find ourselves lost in the heart of The Wilderness.”
Ebenezer raised his eyes and looked despairingly into Castimir’s round and clean-shaven face.
“Tell me, wizard, which guide did you have in mind?”
“Well, alchemist,” Castimir laughed, his eyes darting past the old man’s shoulder, “do you see that woman over there? The one with the big…”
“Even I’m not so old as to miss her, young man.”
“Be that as it may, it’s not her, Ebenezer.” Castimir exaggerated a sigh of despair. “It’s the dark-haired girl who is standing next to her-the one in the pale blue gown.”
“The one with the silver tiara?” the alchemist asked, glancing in the direction Castimir had indicated. “She doesn’t look like one of the barbarian peoples. Who is she?” He was peering at the girl through his thick glasses,
