away from his strangely ashen face.
Sir Tiffy pulled aside the man’s cloak, which had fallen across his front. And as he did so he realised what a fool he had been.
For Sir Erical was dead. He had been dead for at least a day, murdered and abandoned to the rats by his killer.
“It is not him” Sir Tiffy gasped as he suddenly realised what that meant. “Sir Erical is not the traitor!” He looked vacantly to Ebenezer in shock.
Then, as one, they turned. Suddenly alert to the danger.
But it was too late.
The iron gate slammed shut, and from outside dreadful laughter sounded through the strong bars that had now become their prison.
The man rode as swiftly as his horse was able, guiding it toward Sulla. In his hand he clutched a Kinshra missive from the camp, marked with Sulla’s own personal seal.
“Read it!” Sulla told the man. That it bore his personal mark enraged the Kinshra leader, for he had authorized no such thing.
But the messenger was terrified, and seemed unable to find his voice.
“What does it say, man?” Sulla demanded without attempting to conceal his anger.
Wide-eyed the messenger looked up, swallowing hard before commencing.
“It is addressed to you, Lord Sulla. It is a demand for your surrender. It says that if you turn yourself over to them as a prisoner, then the rest of us shall be spared. If not, then none of us shall end this day alive.”
“Who dares?” Sulla laughed mirthlessly. “Where is the knight of Saradomin who is foolish enough to demand our surrender in his city’s final hour? Has he nothing better to do than send impotent words against us, now that he has lost his sword?”
Sulla’s men smirked at his confidence, but a whimper from the panicked messenger drew their attention once more.
“It was no knight… my lord!” the messenger said. He gestured back to the north and the men of the Kinshra looked toward their camp.
Sulla’s single eye strained to focus. Then the faint flicker of orange flame caught his attention.
His camp was burning.
Swiftly he placed his foot in the stirrup to lift himself up into the saddle, lowering his visor in preparation for battle.
“It was a woman who surprised the camp, my lord… a girl!” The messenger cringed, as if he feared he would be struck down for uttering the words. “I was spared by her to deliver this to you, but few others were as fortunate.”
The messenger’s quivering explanation made Sulla stop.
“Is the letter signed?” he demanded, his heart quickening in anticipation.
The man’s mouth moved, but no words came out.
“
“It is, my lord” the man said. “Kara-Meir.”
The Kinshra guns roared again, tearing their way through the knights, felling dozens.
“Why has Saradomin abandoned us?”a young peon cried despairingly.
Riding a horse he had taken from a fallen knight, Sir Vyvin could offer no answer. He had hoped to charge the guns in a last-ditch effort to wreck the Kinshra advantage. Yet Sir Amik had led them into the enemy infantry instead. Now they were paying for his hasty judgement.
“Can nothing silence those guns?” he shouted in impotent rage.
Then another sound echoed across the plain-a loud explosion, far louder than even the guns of the Kinshra had been, loud enough for the men near the walls to feel the vibrations on the air itself.
To the north, above the burning Kinshra camp, sat a huge cloud of smoke-vast enough to hide the mountain peak behind it-like a squat demon, intent on devouring the city and all those who fought on the plain.
“Is it the end of time?” a peon asked fearfully. “Is it the end of the world?”
Sir Vyvin shook his head, hope welling in his chest.
“Not for us!” he said. Then he let out a cry of savage hope, pointing to the northeast with his sword. For there an army marched under a white banner-and at its centre shone a golden ring with a white flower through its middle.
“It is her!” Sir Vyvin roared. “Kara-Meir has come!”
At the mention of Kara’s name a new energy ran through the tired knights and their forces, and men who had been so near to admitting defeat rallied under the battered walls of their city, gaining fresh strength from the knowledge that their struggle and sacrifice had not been for nothing.
For the fortunes of war had shifted at last.
Kara-Meir had come.
Marius threw his whole weight against the iron gate. His efforts were rewarded by another cruel laugh as the strong barrier barely shook.
“Why?” Sir Tiffy said, his voice worn.
Sir Finistere stepped into the faint light of the lamp, making sure he was beyond arm’s length of the gate.
“And how?” Sir Tiffy continued. “How did you know about our ruse with the gold, for only Sir Erical had been informed?” He sat resignedly on one of the crooked chairs, suddenly despairing, hiding his face in his hands.
“You ask me why, old friend?” Finistere replied. “I shall tell you. When I was as young as Marius and still a squire I accompanied a knight on his travels. It was winter, fifty years ago.” His eyes were lost in reminiscence.
Suddenly he looked at Sir Tiffy.
“You would have been a peon then, a few years younger than I, yet you probably remember the uncertainty of those times. We had suffered the worst winter for a decade. Only a few years had passed since Misthalin had been invaded by the undead army from The Wilderness, and the city of Varrock was near destroyed. It was a time of fear-when old values were threatened and old securities failed. The wizards had no answer and there were rumours that they had reduced the size of their order, leaving the three human kingdoms unprepared to defend themselves. Some said they had spent their magic in the defence of Varrock. Whatever the reason, people knew they could no longer be counted upon to protect them.”
“This is common history, Finistere” the alchemist said. “The turmoil of those times forced men of enlightenment to turn to more methodical and scientific ways to guarantee humanity’s progress. That cannot be used to excuse your treachery!”
Finistere laughed bitterly. “Yes, alchemist. It signalled the growth of a new movement in science, but it did not change my views. I had become disillusioned with the knights but I was still faithful to Saradomin. It was when my knight and I fell into enemy hands that the fallacy of my belief was made clear to me. We were captured, lured into a trap by starving peasants we had helped only days before. They sold us to the Kinshra for mere alcohol they would use to further degrade themselves.
“Eventually they killed the knight but they spared me any agony,” Finistere continued. “Rather, they showed me an alternative. They knew that in my youth I had been misled, inveigled into the service of Saradomin-a god who did nothing to protect my knight from the outrages committed against him. For a full year they kept me as a prisoner but treated me like an honoured guest, lifting the veil of falsehood from my eyes.
“They showed me how a man was meant to live-by the sword, with strength and passion!” His eyes glowed fiercely.
“You cannot imagine the liberation,” he continued. “I had power to decide whether people lived or died.
“Eventually they released me, and very few of them were aware of my existence and loyalties. I found my way back to Falador and worked my way up the order over the years that followed. Never did I imagine, however, that I would be so successful in my role that I would bring about the destruction of the city and the order, living to see them in their final despairing hour.”
Ebenezer coughed gently, afraid to interrupting the rant.
