Return to Canifis

men in black-leather armour. Curious citizens were being herded into doorways and instructed to return to their homes and draw their curtains.

“My daughter. She’s gone, gone.” The tailor’s wife wept upon the bed as Father Lawrence appeared in the door frame. “Why do you not speak? My husband…” She reached in his direction, but seemed rooted to the spot.

Theodore sheathed his sword and approached the tailor. The man had fallen backward, and his hand still covered his face.

“Don’t touch him!” Father Lawrence commanded. “There is more here than you know.”

The priest advanced and pulled the man’s hand away. The tailor said nothing, and didn’t resist.

Very quickly Theodore saw why.

“Gods!” He shook his head and stepped back instinctively, for the man’s face had turned black around the wound the creature had inflicted. As they watched, the tailor uttered an agonized rattle of breath, convulsed, and lay still.

The tailor’s wife let out a howl of utter anguish and ran to the dead man.

“Theodore, don’t let her touch his wounds!” Father Lawrence shouted.

Quickly the squire grabbed her and held her, ignoring her blasphemies, threats and pleas as he sought to keep her away from her husband’s body.

“Saradomin will care for him,” he said, trying to sound reassuring and knowing that he failed utterly. “I promise you.”

“And what of my daughter?” she demanded, choking back sobs of anger. “Where’s your god now? The city is doomed. We are all doomed. The time of the prophecy is upon us and there is nothing anyone can do.”

Theodore could not think of a suitable reply. As he restrained her he heard a host of feet trampling up the stairs. A body of the black-clad men he had seen in the street crowded into the room, a tall man, also in black, at their head. Theodore thought he had seen him before, at the palace.

The squire felt the man’s eyes fall on him, his gaze was cold. Then he addressed his men.

“Get the woman downstairs and into the cart,” he barked, his eyes still on Theodore. “You know where to take her. Handle the body of her husband with extreme caution,” he looked at the dead man, “and respect. Then board up the windows and doors and leave the mark of the plague upon the lintel.”

His men carried out his orders quickly and efficiently. One of them unwound a black silk sheet which they used to wrap the tailor’s corpse. It was bound at both ends and he was carried swiftly from the room.

“What’s going on?” Theodore demanded. “I know you-I’ve seen you around the court. Who are you?”

“Theodore, this is the Lord Despaard,” Father Lawrence said. The man in black offered the squire no greeting. Instead, he took off his gloves and adjusted the cloak that was secured about his neck by a silver chain.

Finally, Lord Despaard spoke.

“I know you too, Theodore Kassel,” he said grimly. “I know of the famed knights and I know well your own reputation. They say you are a god-fearing man.”

Theodore nodded. He was conscious of Lord Despaard’s soldiers, who had returned to the room in number. Two of them went to the window, which they began to board up, while the others surrounded him in a loose circle.

“My Lord Despaard,” Father Lawrence said earnestly, “Squire Theodore can be relied upon to keep the peace. He need not be imprisoned like the rest.”

Like the rest?

Theodore’s hand found his sword hilt.

“Imprisoned? What’s going on here?” he demanded.

“I know that as a hero of the war and a respected ambassador of the knights you have the ear of many nobles in Varrock,” Lord Despaard said coldly. “But these are matters in which you have no power, and none will aid you, should it come to that.”

Father Lawrence’s hand fell onto Theodore’s shoulder.

“Heed his words, my young friend. You must do as he says.”

Despaard spoke again.

“I command you to keep silent about what occurred here tonight,” he said. “If you do not then you will be… detained, as others have, to prevent panic from spreading.”

“What is happening, Lord Despaard?” the squire asked, making little effort to hide the anger in his voice.

“This is not a question of fighting an enemy armed with a sword, as you are used to,” the man replied. “These are the doings of Morytania, which we must fight as best we can.”

Theodore’s eyes narrowed.

“I have fought enemies from that land, as well, Lord Despaard.”

The nobleman gave a quick look of surprise.

“Then you should know that we fight for a greater good,” he said. This time his voice carried a hint of respect. “I haven’t just fought invaders from Morytania, I have been to Morytania. That land leaves its mark on those who walk there.”

Despaard walked to the window, and as he passed his men stood aside. One of the shutters had yet to be boarded up. He opened it to look out across the rooftops.

“Can you feel her, Theodore? Can you hear her?” He stared, as if his eyes could pierce the darkness. “I can, sometimes, when she is near, when she comes to Varrock to feed.”

“I have felt a presence similar to hers before,” Theodore answered, looking into the faces of the men nearby. They were hard men, he saw, soldiers who existed only for their secret war. “Last year in Asgarnia a werewolf named Jerrod crossed the River Salve and killed several people.”

But I will not tell you any more.

“Then you and I may have more in common than you think, squire of Asgarnia.” Despaard turned from the window, which was quickly nailed shut. “But for now, take your hand off your sword and return to the palace. If you refuse, then I shall have my men escort you.” He raised his right hand to reveal a ring on his finger. Theodore saw it bore the insignia of a black owl, resting on a ruby background, with its wings spread and its head turned around. He breathed out deeply to conceal his surprise, and looked furtively to Father Lawrence, who was standing too far away to see it for himself.

“This ring of office grants me whatever power I need to fulfil my obligations,” Despaard said in a tone that once again had become coldly matter-of-fact. “Now go.”

Theodore pursed his lips.

“I shall do as you bid,” he responded, “but covering up this evil will not make it go away.” At that he left the room hastily, aware of Father Lawrence following closely behind him.

They made their way back to the main square. Theodore said nothing at first, for the priest obviously knew far more about the creature than he had let on.

Finally, he could keep quiet no longer.

“How many others have there been, Father Lawrence?” he demanded through gritted teeth. “How long has this been going on?”

The old man bowed his head and remained silent for a long moment as they walked briskly.

“There is no other way, Theodore,” he said. “You do not understand.”

“Then explain it to me.” The squire’s back ached horribly after his exertion. He groaned slightly as he stretched as best he could in his armour. The priest glanced at him with concern.

“Do you wish to sit down perhaps? You are clearly in pain.”

“It’s a war wound, Father,” Theodore replied quickly. “A Kinshra knight bested me in single combat in the final hours of the siege. He would have killed me if Castimir hadn’t intervened with his magic.” He winced again. “My back has never been right since, but now I am more concerned with what is happening here. A baby was kidnapped tonight.” The memory of it caused him to shudder.

Father Lawrence ran his hand over his tonsured head before he spoke.

“There have been kidnappings, and there have been killings. This creature-what we call the Wyrd-has been