The column made its way through the gatehouse, passing several small farm buildings that constituted a small community housed under Lord Ruthven’s protection. Pale faces gazed out of shadowed doorways and mothers grasped children as the column rode by. Some even made the sign of Saradomin as they passed.
“They offer us their blessing,” Despaard explained when they halted before the manor, with its pointed dovecote and squat church tower. “The people here know about us, and they are aware that we travel across the holy river. Lord Ruthven’s estates are on the front line in our secret war, and these people help as best they can.”
Gar’rth followed his friends through to the great hall, where a generous supper awaited them on a long table with fourteen seats. Of the dozen black-clad soldiers who escorted them under Lord Despaard’s direction, only Simon sat at the table. Roast pig turned on a spit, summer fruits and cheeses and fresh bread were offered up on wooden platters, yet despite the abundance, there was little conversation and no merriment. They were watched by the rest of Despaard’s men, for the usual servants had been dismissed for the evening.
“You don’t like bread?” Simon asked Gar’rth with an amused smile as the werewolf flicked the bun to one side of his plate. “Nor fruits?”
Gar’rth shook his head.
“Bread makes me sick.”
“A meat-eater then,” Simon replied. “I hope you can digest cooked meat, or else you will go hungry.”
“Leave Gar’rth alone,” Kara said frostily. “He is the best hope we have of succeeding in this mission. Varrock’s own efforts have been woefully lacking so far, a fact you had best remember.”
“He is guarding your friend, Kara-Meir,” Despaard said through a mouthful of honeyed bread. “By King Roald’s own command.”
Gar’rth saw how Lord William and the jester Gleeman looked uncomfortable, casting him inquisitive looks.
After a strained silence that followed, Gideon Gleeman spoke.
“I see you have a minstrels gallery, Lord Ruthven. Are we to have music tonight?”
Lord Ruthven gave the jester a cold stare.
“The gallery has not been used for many years, fool. Not since my wife perished in agony, cursed by Drakan’s servants.” He looked to the painting above the crackling fireplace, and Gar’rth saw a younger version of the lord standing behind a young woman holding a babe in her arms. “And now I am the last of my line.”
Nothing more was said.
Very soon the supper was ended, and Lord Despaard turned his eyes to Gar’rth.
“It is time,” he said. “Time you told us all of your history, so everyone here will know the truth.”
Gar’rth nodded briefly.
“Very well,” he said. “I have prepared myself on the ride here. I will speak as best as I am able.”
19
Theodore waited with intense curiosity. Castimir gave him a quick look of excited anticipation as their friend haltingly began to speak.
“Most of you know me. What I am.” Gar’rth looked to William and Gideon Gleeman. “I am a werewolf, from Morytania.”
“By Saradomin,” Drezel uttered fearfully, only to be silenced by a glare from Lord Despaard.
William raised his eyebrows and looked quickly at Theodore, who nodded his head slowly. Reldo’s face paled. Albertus lowered his goblet quickly. The jester’s hands gripped the table, but when no one else moved he relaxed.
Theodore saw Doric grin in the Gleeman’s direction.
“I escaped from Morytania months ago. You should all know that I have never taken an innocent life. That means Zamorak does not rule in here.” Gar’rth beat his chest with his clenched right hand, indicating his heart.
“I was different from others of my race. I was never trusted by them.” He paused to gather his words. “I was ten years old, I think, when I found out why. It was my parents. They were werewolves who had been sent to serve at Meiyerditch and Castle Drakan itself some years before I was born. Those who do so and survive are treated with suspicion, and not trusted.” Gar’rth took a drink of water and closed his eyes as he gathered his thoughts.
“That was no honour,” he laughed bleakly. “Many who go never return. Those who are sent are usually the losers in a game of chance, for none offer themselves up to serve such a master. Death offers no release there.
“But my parents were not chosen by chance. It is said the Lord Malak himself came to my mother in the night, ordering them both to leave the following day. Malak… may the Gods curse him!”
Gar’rth shook his head and gritted his teeth in anger.
“They say he corrupts the very earth he walks upon, that living grasses die from his passing. He is not one of my people. Malak is a vampire lord who commands the town of Canifis and the werewolf race. He is hated there, and he is feared-feared as no human lord can ever be. Legend says he is thousands of years old, that he fought in the God Wars and helped found Morytania. In Canifis, he decides who lives and who dies. He governs absolutely, and can overturn any decision made by the elders. It is even said that if you dream ill of him, he will know.”
Theodore reached to his sword and drew comfort from its cold hilt.
Gar’rth breathed deeply before continuing.
“But whatever the truth, Malak sent my parents to Castle Drakan before I was born. Several years later, only my mother returned to Canifis, with me as an infant. My father, an elder, was killed only a few months before I was born.
“It was the thought of him-murdered on a vampire’s whim- that started my path to rebellion. I was ten when I first asked my mother about Castle Drakan, for by then I had heard the stories the other children whispered about me. She refused to speak of it, and we grew apart, for the memories were painful to her.
“When I was thirteen, her brother came and took an interest in me. His name was Jerrod. He was a hunter, and would spend weeks away from Canifis trading with gypsies-” Gar’rth looked at the table suddenly and avoided their stare.
“Sometimes he brought human children and slaves to Canifis, sold by the gypsies.”
The cleric Drezel groaned and took his silver star in his hand. Reldo watched, transfixed, his eyes never leaving Gar’rth’s face. Gideon Gleeman looked once to the remains of the pig on the spit and grimaced.
“I am sorry for what happened to them. But that year everything changed for me. My friends and I were forced to witness the blooding of those a few years older than we were. Malak carried it out, and each of them had to drink innocent blood and swear to Zamorak.
“They were different after that. They were cruel and enjoyed the pain of others. Yet my friends and I were terrified by what we had seen, as was intended by Malak, to prepare us for our own blooding, to make us strong.
“That night, I took an oath. I promised to escape. My mother knew I was different from others, and it made her hate me.” Gar’rth shook his head and wiped his hand across his face.
“She hated me,” he said quietly. “On the night she died, she said I was a curse on her, and when she was gone, Jerrod hated me more, blaming me for her death. That was when he took over my care.”
“Care?” Doric growled. “That is hardly the word I would use.”
Gar’rth smiled for a moment.
