Return to Canifis

swords half-drawn.

“There is no smell,” Lord William muttered at his side. The young man had readied a handkerchief to ward off the odour. “Surely, if there are dead bodies, the smell would be awful.”

Papelford smiled grimly.

“Go in, and you will see why. But be careful not to touch the corpses.”

They advanced carefully. The torches lit up the vast crypt and Ebenezer could see that dozens of extra tables had been pushed into whatever space was available among the stone sarcophagi of previous generations. Each had a white cloth thrown over it, hiding the bodies that lay beneath.

“There,” Papelford said, pointing to one that had been placed slightly apart from the rest. “That one is the first. It is the body of the King’s beloved, slain several months ago.”

Ebenezer followed Papelford slowly across the crypt.

With one swift move he pulled the cloth back.

By the gods!

He was staring at Ellamaria, or so it seemed at a quick glance. The face was pale, dead, the skin still smooth. She was dressed in white, and around her neck was a scarf that he could see hid a wound. Aside from that, she looked as if she was sleeping.

There was no sign of decomposition.

“You see now why Lord Despaard could not release the bodies to their loved ones,” Papelford explained. “Had you been at the Parliament you would have seen the disquiet that caused.”

“I don’t understand,” he muttered.

“Try another,” Papelford said, victory in his voice. “This one.” He pulled aside the cloth, and Ebenezer saw a man’s body with its throat torn out and its stomach slashed. Beside the wounds, the man looked as if he, too, was asleep. “He’s been here a few months.”

A few months? But that’s impossible.

“I see by your expression, alchemist, that you are already as baffled as the rest of us. That’s right-many of these persons have been dead for months.” Papelford looked Ebezener in the eye. Lord William gagged in sudden revulsion. Reldo whispered under his breath, his face the very picture of fear. Ebenezer shook his head.

“But they… they haven’t even begun to-”

“That’s right,” Papelford cut him off. “They have been dead for months, and yet they are not rotting. Not a one of them. When they are first attacked by the Wyrd the skin around the wound erupts black and hideous but in all these cases, after a few hours, the rot recedes and they are left like this.

“Explain that, if you can.”

25

Sulla watched the small group approach, and gave a satisfied sigh.

He had spent four days hiding outside Varrock, just within sight of the gallows tree and its decaying corpse, waiting for Straven’s men. He strained to see. There were four of them in total, with several horses and a cart. On the back of the wagon was a red flag, confirming their identity.

“That’s the signal I told Straven to use,” he said.

“Are you sure we can trust them, Sulla?” Jerrod asked. “They are a day late. Won’t they as likely hand you in as help us?”

That remains to be seen, my friend. But the reward for the Wyrd easily outweighs any reward for my capture. Of course, if the men were greedy, Sulla mused, they might attempt both, and he might find himself hanging from the tree after all.

“We stick with the plan for now,” he said. “Once the Wyrd is in our power, then you will return to Varrock and contact Barbec. I will use your existence to stave off any execution, for if I will be the only person who knows where you are, so the King will be unlikely to dispose of me.”

It is the only insurance I have.

“And what if the mercenaries decide to hand you over?”

“Then you will have to intervene, my friend. I have sent a message to Captain Rovin of the King’s Guard. He is expecting me to turn myself in within a week. I have only hinted that I will bring a gift for Varrock, yet he won’t dare dream that it is the corpse of the Wyrd.” He shifted his position and glanced at Jerrod. “You can still hear her can’t you? Her song?”

Jerrod nodded.

“She is close. In the lumberyard or nearby.”

Sulla nodded, and turned again to look at the four newcomers.

The group had neared now. He could see them clearly. A huge man rode up front, a warrior bigger than Sulla had been at his peak, before Kara-Meir had left him the wreck of a man he now was. Behind him rode a dwarf, an axe strapped across his wide back.

But it was the other two who made Sulla curse.

One was a clean-shaven young man in a black surcoat. He rode delicately, with a fine short sword about his waist. His black-gloved hands stemmed from thin wrists and weak-looking arms.

He’s of no use to us. The boy looks like a dandy. What was Straven thinking sending him?

And as for the last, Sulla could only gape.

It was a woman, in her mid-thirties. He recognised her as a mage by her black tunic, and he was instantly distrustful.

“Straven sends me a fop and a rogue wizard,” he mused to Jerrod. I wonder if she can magic me a new pair of hands. Is there any magic in the world that can do that?

“That is not so stupid, Sulla,” the werewolf cautioned. “Creatures from Morytania are often more vulnerable to magic than steel.”

“Huh. The Wyrd is vulnerable to a strong arm. We know that, if what your master said is true about her injuries. And I distrust wizards. I don’t understand them.”

Jerrod grinned.

“Nothing to understand Sulla. Take their runes and they are as powerless as children.” He turned to leave. “I will scout around, to make sure that they haven’t brought anyone else with them.”

“A sensible plan. We have waited longer than we planned for them, so they can wait a little longer before I reveal my presence.”

The werewolf vanished into the undergrowth. Sulla watched the party wait for more than an hour. He saw the black-clad dandy produce a pocket watch and look at it in frustration, then speak to his companions, but the words were lost over the distance.

Once, he took a drink from his flask, carefully using his wrists to guide it to his mouth. Even so, it was a messy affair, with water escaping the seal of his lips and pouring down his neck and back into his pack. Quickly, he checked the select documents he had taken with him from his box, to make certain they were not soaked. They weren’t-they were still useful to him.

Barbec can guard the box in Varrock. Even if he runs with it, he won’t be able to understand the code, and he fears Jerrod too much to betray us.

Even so, the cream of the papers are here, with me.

He gave a cautious grin at his own paranoia. So far, it had never let him down.

Jerrod emerged behind him.

“There is no one following,” he said. “So far it seems as if Straven has kept his word.”

“Then you hide here while I call them over. Anything goes wrong, you come running.”

As he broke from his cover the body of the hanged man turned in the wind.

It is as if he is beckoning me to join him.

Close up, the mercenaries were more impressive. The big man at the front wore a leather jerkin that left his