Return to Canifis

Careful Castimir, Kara thought. Roavar’s hearing far surpasses our own.

Sure enough, the old werewolf turned angrily. He lowered his fists onto the table before Castimir and glowered.

“Did you say something, human?” he demanded. “Are the accommodations not to your liking?”

Kara drew her sword an inch in its scabbard. Roavar saw her and bared his teeth.

“Enough of this,” Gar’rth said. “Roavar, you mistake Castimir’s humour. It would be a shame for Malak to know it.”

Roavar sneered and returned to the kitchens.

Kara watched Castimir thoughtfully. On the walk to Canifis he had frequently grumbled about the loss of Master Segainus’s books, but now his humour seemed to have returned, although grimmer than before.

His jokes have lost their fun and now he aims to hurt. No good can come of it.

Outside it was a green-tinted morning, for the sky above the vast swamps of Morytania was polluted by the gasses of Mort Myre. It seemed to Kara that they were abiding in a sickly twilight.

“Often it is worse than this,” Roavar said grimly, causing her to jump. She hadn’t heard him as he returned with Theodore’s breakfast. “Sometimes the gasses from the swamp can kill. Last month we found a dead child who had wandered out on a hot day, when they are most pungent. The whelp’s face was turned black from the fumes.”

Lord Despaard joined them, the penultimate member of the embassy to appear.

“Is Albertus not eating?” he asked as he sat, looking out of the windows, too. Kara wasn’t sure if she saw him smile savagely.

“He is still asleep,” Arisha said. “I thought it best to let him gather his strength in preparation for any journey we might have to make.”

Gideon Gleeman, sitting next to her, frowned slightly.

“Wish I’d done the same,” he muttered as he finished his tea. “Not used to riding. Legs aching as if I had been hung upside down for a week. And I didn’t sleep well at all. Bed comfortable enough, but I just didn’t feel safe.”

Doric grunted and nodded his head.

Kara felt the same, and with the thought of sleep came memory-of a dream. Of a white-faced visitor who had come to her, and stood over her. The memory unnerved her.

Still, it wasn’t so bad as my dream of Gar’rth.

“We might be here for some time, though,” Theodore said. “Who knows how long it will be until Malak honours us with a visit.”

Roavar made an angry sound in the kitchen.

Yet all they could do was wait.

For Theodore the morning passed quickly. He busied himself with any small task he could find. Situating himself in a corner of the common room, he unpacked their saddlebags and with some alarm reviewed their diminished rations.

I will need to replenish these. I shall ask Roavar if he has anything suitable for us. For if we need to run, we won’t get far without food.

Next, he polished his armour, and then oiled his sword, making sure Roavar saw him do it.

They will judge us by how we act. Castimir is doing us all a disservice with his petulance. We cannot give them any sign that we are weak or divided.

He gave the wizard a long look as his friend stirred his tea with an angry frown on his face. Castimir caught his look, and smiled suddenly, as if thinking he’d been caught committing a minor transgression.

His sulking will pass, Theodore thought. I have seen it before. Arisha will drag him out of it, or Doric.

Midday came and went.

The sun, even at that hour, was thwarted by the fumes from the swamplands. He stood beside Roavar and Gideon with the door wide open, and could feel the heat carry in on the fitful breeze. Imre saw them standing there, and advanced, his face haggard.

“He sent word, last night,” the werewolf said. “Master Malak. He will be here soon, in Canifis.”

“Is the sunlight a problem for him?” Theodore asked steadily. I will not let myself be accused of insulting our hosts.

Imre shook his head and laughed.

“No. His kind have only one problem in this land-deciding what to do with their time. It’s a problem that has caused my race no small amount of trouble.”

“The daylight here has no power over a vampire, especially one of his age and strength,” Roavar added in a whisper. “The gases from the swamps dilute it. Others, such as the ravenous, do hate it, but I have never seen any destroyed by it.”

“What about the other legends?” Gideon asked curiously. “Does garlic ail them? Holy water and signs? Silver blades perhaps?”

Imre gritted his teeth in annoyance.

“You are an amusing fool, to dare ask such questions.” Then he turned away and went back to his guard. Even at this hour, there were women and infants standing just beyond the perimeter that had been established, staring hungrily toward them.

“You would do well not to ask such things,” Roavar told the jester. “It implies that the masters have weaknesses. They do not. Believe me, they do not. And they would not enjoy the suggestion that they do.”

The werewolf shut the door then. Gar’rth appeared behind them as they sat down at the nearest table.

“Roavar hides the truth,” he whispered. “We tell tales where the vampires have such weaknesses. No one knows for certain, though. No one’s ever tested their accuracy.”

“They do have such weaknesses,” Despaard said bitterly. “We all know that things can escape from Morytania, like water dripping through a sieve. The barrier weakens them, yet they can penetrate it. That is the reason the Society of the Owl was formed, to keep watch on such fiends.”

“Tell me of the Society,” Gar’rth urged. “Is it true you have fought my kin? Simon told me he had killed three werewolves before.” Gar’rth’s face darkened. “Though he hates me, so I don’t know if he spoke truly.”

Despaard nodded.

“He spoke truly. Simon is a man driven by hatred for your race, Gar’rth. As are many of us in the Society.” The noble’s face fell. “Many of us who cross the river have lost loved ones to Morytania. If such is the case, revenge is all we live for now.”

“Father Lawrence told me the owl represents vigiliance. It sounds to me as if the symbol should have been a sword instead,” Theodore remarked. “Revenge is driven by passion. Surely the Society should have nobler aims.” Suddenly he found Kara’s eyes upon him.

“You don’t understand revenge, Theodore,” she said grimly. “Sometimes, it is something that needs to be done.”

Despaard nodded his agreement.

“Kara-Meir speaks the truth of it. But we are more than that, Sir Theodore. We do bring hope to the people of Varrock. You may have noticed the symbol of the owl that is scrawled on doorways and walls-these are not done by us. It is the common folk of Varrock who do it, for they have heard of us through folklore and rumour. In times of strife, such power is not to be underestimated.

“If a man can reassure his neighbour, then surely that is a good thing.”

“I would rather have a strong wall and a hundred trained men at my back,” Theodore replied. “We had thousands of people in Falador during the siege, and yet many of them disappeared as the Kinshra came on. Morale isn’t a defence on its own. It needs to be backed by steel and skill.”

Despaard noddded again.

“And that is where we have failed. We couldn’t give the people of Varrock such visible demonstrations, and even the King’s word will not convince them forever.” He shook his head and drained his tea with a grimace. “No, the Society is old, stretching back hundreds of years. And it is one that has remained hidden, only spoken of in taverns amid hearsay and suspicion. Perhaps it is time for more openness in our war-”