Return to Canifis

and traders who visit.”

“How do we make the blood mark?” King Roald asked.

Gar’rth felt his brow crease as he recollected the tales of his youth.

“In our stories it is simply a cut on the hand to make you bleed. That tells Morytania you are an outsider. Then the wound must be bathed in water from the Salve.”

Papelford nodded.

“That is similar to the descriptions offered in the texts I have,” he remarked sagely. “Although a priest of Saradomin or Guthix must bless the wound.”

“But would the blood mark work, Gar’rth?” Despaard asked. “Would it be respected?”

“Yes. It is death to break it. More than death.”

“Would it protect you, Gar’rth?” Kara said. “If you had to return.”

So that is it! he thought as understanding dawned. Am I to be sent home, to save them from the bother of executing me? Is that all the clemency I am offered, after near capturing the Wyrd for them? He pushed back his mounting anger.

“I don’t know,” he said. “In Canifis it would, but… not against Him.”

“Who?” King Roald asked, angrily now.

“Lord Drakan, my King.”

Gar’rth’s reply chilled the air. No one spoke for some time. Lord Despaard shared a concerned look with Lord Ruthven, and the King rubbed his hand across his face in uncertainty.

“We believe it is Lord Drakan who wants Gar’rth returned,” Kara explained finally. “He sent the werewolf Jerrod to bring Gar’rth back, just a few months before the unrest in Asgarnia. No one knows why Gar’rth is of such interest, but to send him back, and force him to face such an enemy, would be inhuman, my King.”

“She is right,” Captain Rovin said. “Better to offer him a clean death now.”

“And yet we are plagued by this Wyrd,” the King said, still stroking his chin. “We need answers, Gar’rth, and the most sensible suggestion so far has been to send an embassy across the river to at least open a dialogue with Drakan’s regime. In your opinion, can this be done?”

Gar’rth nodded.

“The vampires rule Morytania. In Canifis, our lord is Malak, a powerful vampire, maybe even a relative of Lord Drakan’s. He would respect an embassy.”

“Then I must ask you simply-will you go?” King Roald spoke cautiously. “Will you lead an embassy from Misthalin into Morytania, to act as their guide?”

“That is suicide!” Kara protested angrily.

“It is death if he stays,” King Roald replied. “A quick, clean death to be sure but death nonetheless-I have no alternative.” The King stood briskly. “What say you werewolf? Will you go, or is today to be your last day?”

What choice is that?

“You don’t know what you ask,” he said aloud.

“Or maybe you don’t know what you fear,” Papelford interjected. “If Lord Drakan was really so obsessed with you, then how was it you were able to escape at all?”

Gar’rth could give no answer. The librarian continued.

“And do you know that he is after you?” the old man probed. “Why do you believe so?”

“Jerrod told me,” Gar’rth said, suddenly uncertain. “He was sent to bring me back.”

“But why?” Papelford asked. “Why would he go to that length, if you were just to be killed? Surely Lord Drakan could have arranged that far sooner, if that was his true purpose? It might be that you won’t be harmed at all. Have you thought of that?”

Not in Morytania, old man. There is magic and darkness there that make death just a whispered dream to many.

But Gar’rth shook his head and said nothing in reply.

“You have told us the blood mark will protect you, Gar’rth. That is enough for me.” King Roald said. “You either go, and take your chances in your homeland, or you die here.”

“That is murder,” Kara hissed.

“And I would do it again and again, a thousand times over, if it meant my realm was kept safe,” King Roald said icily. “Your choice, Gar’rth. I will have your answer. Now.”

Gar’rth lowered his head.

There is no choice. None. I escaped Morytania before, so perhaps I can do so again.

“What if I come back?” Gar’rth said, looking King Roald in the eye. “What if I go into Morytania and succeed? Will you let me live in your kingdom?”

King Roald looked to Lord Ruthven. The pale-faced noble nodded and spoke.

“If His Majesty permits it, Gar’rth, you shall live within the borders of my estate, to the east of Varrock. It is a sparsely populated land, being so near the river, and there you can remain for the rest of your natural life.”

“But you must remain there only,” the King added. “You will not be allowed into any towns or villages, and I forbid you to take a wife. I cannot have your curse passed down to plague my people in the future. And you should know that your presence will be tolerated, but not welcomed.”

Gar’rth stared at Kara, who looked away uneasily. He noted how Theodore shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other.

Then that is it.

When Gar’rth spoke, he did so slowly, his voice unwavering.

“Very well, my King,” he said. “I shall guide your embassy.”

“Good. Now there remains one last task. You must swear fealty to me and all my descendants. I would have your oath, Gar’rth.”

Gar’rth gritted his teeth and nodded again.

First I am forced into helping them, now I must pledge my allegiance to him. Truly I am trapped.

“Repeat the words after me,” Lord Ruthven said to him, and Gar’rth complied.

“I swear by Saradomin that I will never bear arms against the rightful King of Misthalin or his descendants. That I will give my blood and my life to ensure the throne is safe from usurpers and assassins. That I will do all in my power to safeguard the King’s heirs…”

“…and uphold the King’s will,” he concluded with grim finality.

“Very good,” King Roald said. Then he turned to the leader of the guards. “Unchain him, and prepare to call in the representatives of the people.”

Gar’rth’s shackles were removed from his wrists and ankles. The King dismissed Simon, though Gar’rth was certain he would wait nearby. When he stood, no longer a prisoner, the doors were opened and several people entered.

At their head Gar’rth recognised the white-haired old figure of Albertus Black, Ebenezer’s friend whom he had met only very briefly on the day of the Midsummer Festival. Walking at the tiny man’s side, and towering over him as if she was a queen, was Ellamaria. He opened his mouth in surprise.

She will see me. She will guess that something is amiss.

Her eyes paused on him and he saw her frown slightly, then she gave a sudden smile and turned to curtsey the King.

I can smell her now. With a stone wall between me and the wretched wolfbane, my powers are returning.

He took the opportunity to explore his olfactory environment, feeling at once far less vulnerable than he had before. Such was his concentration that he ignored what the speakers were debating, focusing on their scents instead.

Lord Despaard, leather, metal and sweat. Ellamaria, flowers and subtle perfume, the same as that used by Lady Anne. Papelford with his smell of books and mustiness. Doric, always with the scent of the earth.

Finally he turned his attention to the discussion.