Betrayal at Falador (4 page)

The master-at-arms passed a silver tray around the company, the white flower resting at its centre.

“Do we not have books in the library that can help us?” Sir Vyvin asked as he too gave a resigned shake of the head and passed the tray back to the start, thus completing the circle.

“We do not,” Sharpe replied. “I have spent the night checking for both the flower and this ring that the girl possessed. It, too, might tell us who she is.” The broken ring began its round on a second tray, and each knight carefully scrutinised it.

“Do you think it a family heirloom, perhaps?” a voice said from the entrance, and each man looked to the newcomer. He was older than Sir Amik by nearly ten years, and his clear grey eyes shone with a penetrating intelligence. Nature had favoured his mind over his body, however, for he walked stiffly in his armour, as if he had worn it for so long that taking it off was beyond him. The knights stood as he entered the room, two of the nearest rushing to help him to his chair.

He glared at both of them, and they stopped before they could reach him.

“I am not that old,” he said gruffly. “The almshouse may be where I hang my cloak, but I am not yet a permanent fixture.”

He read their thoughts with a glance,
Sir Amik thought, and the idea amused him.
For he has spent his life reading men and divining their intentions, and he was very good at his job.
Then he spoke aloud:

“Come in, Sir Tiffy. I am glad you came. You have been apprised of the situation?” he asked.

Sir Tiffy moved slowly toward his chair, sitting himself down with dignified care. He ran a hand through his white beard.

“The peon who fetched me was eager to tell me everything, doing his best to be indiscreet. You should tell the youngsters to keep their tongues from wagging, Sir Amik. Loose talk costs lives!”

Several of the knights glanced at one another. Sir Tiffy ran the knights’ intelligence network, mostly from the quiet confines of the park close to the pond, where he could happily feed the ducks that lived in its reeds. He had developed an eccentric reputation amongst the citizens of Falador, and enjoyed a degree of fame as a harmless old man who was enjoying his retirement. Yet the reputation was a ruse, a shield to put his enemies off guard and to gain the confidence of others. Inside the castle, with his peers, he removed his mask, ever eager to bring his burning intellect to the problem at hand.

The three items were brought before him: the sword, the flower and finally the broken ring.

“Neither the sword nor the flower mean anything to me,” he said, considering each in turn. “But the ring! I have seen one like it before... though not recently. Indeed, not for a long time.”

“Do you remember where that was, Sir Tiffy?” Sharpe asked, an unusual intensity in his gaze.

“I do not immediately recall—but give me time.” He looked up at the master-at-arms, a slight glimmer in his eyes. “Please, tell me your suspicions.”

The company of men turned in anticipation to Sharpe, who swallowed before he began.

“I was hoping one of you might confirm my suspicions,” he said slowly. “I spent the night in the library, after Squire Theodore and I catalogued the items. I found nothing conclusive, but I strongly suspect that this is a Ring of Life.”

His eyes passed briefly over the men assembled. No one spoke, so he continued.

“It must have been what brought her here. It is broken now— most likely it was broken the minute she arrived. Is that not in keeping with the Rings of Life? That they offer a last chance to teleport a dying individual to a place of safety?”

“But are these Rings of Life powerful enough to breach the barrier?” Sir Vyvin spoke quietly. “This in itself was thought to be impossible.”

Before Sharpe could reply, Sir Tiffy spoke.

“If it was a normal ring, then that might be so, but I see what Sharpe is getting at.” His face was drawn as he spoke. “If this is one of the few Rings of Life that was issued to our very own agents, many years ago, then it would possess the ability to pierce the barrier, would it not?”

Suddenly someone laughed.

“What is so funny, Sir Ferentse?” Sir Amik demanded.

The knight rose.

“Those rings were given out decades ago,” he said scornfully. “The man who crafted them has been dead for ten years. Only a few were unaccounted for, and surely you cannot expect one of those to have fallen into the hands of a simple girl, and after all this time?”

“Stranger things have happened, Kuam. It is a possibility.” Sir Amik scolded the man lightly.

“It raises an important question.” Sir Tiffy looked intently at the ring again. “It could be, Sir Amik, that the girl you are harbouring upstairs, unguarded and unrestrained, is a murderer.”

A murmur arose. The Rings of Life were near-legendary artefacts the knights had created with the help of a sorcerer sympathetic to their goals. They had been issued to those who undertook the most dangerous missions, men who would spend years living amongst the enemy and learning their intentions. From nearly fifty Rings of Life issued over a decade-long period, only eight were yet unaccounted for.

“Speculation, Sir Tiffy,” Sir Amik stated, remembering the results of his bedside prayers. “We need facts, and I shall send Squire Theodore to Taverley to find out about the white flower.”

The meeting ended and the men rose from their chairs. All save Sir Tiffy, who politely refused the offers of assistance.

He’s certain that he’s right,
Sir Amik realised. A Ring of Life had been used to teleport the wearer out of danger and away from certain death. But the question remained.

Just how did this girl come to possess such a precious object?

FOUR

The cold air of winter stung Theodore’s face.

He travelled northwest, driving his mare hard in his eagerness to reach Taverley. He had been on the road since morning and had stopped only once, to bow his head in respect to the graven statue of Saradomin that stood several miles to the north of Falador, its hand pointing to the city as a guide for travellers.

He had not been alone, for several others were preparing a fire on which to cook some game. They sat a respectful distance from the squire, eyeing him with distrust, as if expecting him to accuse them of poaching. The Knights of Falador were known not only for their honour and their dedication to truth but also for their zealousness. Many perceived them as self-proclaimed lawmen, and a few even called them a militant judiciary, too eager to ensure that the law was upheld to the letter.

After a long silence, an elderly man spoke.

“Have you heard the news from the south?” he asked nervously of one of his fellows, who warmed his hands before the fire.

“Aye,” the younger man replied. “I was there a week ago when we found her. Not far from Old Farm on the Draynor Road. It was a young woman. She’d been dragged from the road shortly after darkness.” There was bitterness in his voice.

“So it’s true then? Did you see her?”

“What was left of her. There’s something south of Falador that lives amongst the woods and hills, something wicked that preys upon the local people.” As he spoke the hood slipped back from his face and his eyes settled on Theodore, who listened quietly.

He had heard of nothing amiss in the south, and yet as a simple squire there was no reason why he should have. It was the knights themselves who would attend to such business, or the Imperial Guard.

“What will you do about it, knight?” the man called over to him in anger. “Two people seized and devoured in the last month!” He stood and walked over, striding aggressively, confident that some code would prevent Theodore from retaliating against an unarmed traveller.

“Or do you go elsewhere in the service of your God?” the man continued. “Attending to matters of greater urgency. Are we peasants not important enough to warrant your attention?”

“That is not true,” Theodore replied calmly. “I knew nothing of this monster that plagues you, but when I have finished my journey I shall see that action is taken. You have my word.”

The man stopped and turned his head aside, unable to meet Theodore’s clear gaze. When he spoke again, some of the anger had left his voice.

“You knights have to do something,” he said, returning to the fire to join his companions. He faced the squire again, looking him straight in the eye.

“There have been strange men in purple robes—hunters they call themselves—stirring up anger, telling the people there is a monster in their midst. The men in robes have even started questioning folk about it. They will lynch some poor fool if they can, and it will be the wrong man.”

Theodore knew of the men in purple robes. They were an organisation from neighbouring Misthalin, a group of individuals who preached human superiority and were intent on driving out non-human populations, stirring up anger and violence in the villages. Their most common target was the goblins that wandered Asgarnia.

He had encountered goblins on several occasions, and felt a certain sympathy for the creatures. As a tribe they posed no threat to the human cities. They were incapable of organising any standing army and as individuals they were to be found wandering the roads where they were akin to beggars. He had fought only one goblin, the year before, when he was sixteen. It had been stealing from a farmer, and he had killed it with a deft thrust through its neck. But he had taken no pride in the act. He had even lost sleep over it, for goblins were not worthy enemies.

After allowing his mare an hour’s rest, Theodore continued north. The men’s hostility had ceased after they vented their anger at the slayings, and they seemed satisfied with his promise to investigate.

Night fell, and yielded a full moon. He planned to sleep by the roadside, and when the winter darkness deepened so that there wasn’t enough moonlight for him to continue, he led the mare off to the west. He found a hollow, sheltered from the wind by a briar. It was well back from the road, invisible to other travellers. There was no way in which any man-sized foe could approach him other than entering the hollow the same way he had.

He tethered his mare, ensuring that she was comfortable. She was a horse of the knights, a companion to Theodore from when she was very young, and since her days as a foal she had become accustomed to the long days of riding and the hard nights of unsheltered sleep. Without complaint she dipped her head, her eyes carefully fixed on her master.

Then he stretched out beneath the shelter of the briar, drew his sword and laid it by his side, ready for immediate use. Wrapped in his cloak, he was soon asleep.

The night was still. The northern winds that had rent the land had finally exhausted themselves, and the darkness was ideal for the hunt.

He had gone many miles out of his way, fearful of the large city of men with its white walls and armed guards, and it had cost him a week before he had picked up the scent of his quarry. He had feared that it had been lost, that he would have to continue onward until chance favoured him. But he had come upon the scent close to the road, and it was strong enough for him to follow.

And he had decided to celebrate.

He watched some gypsies at the roadside, the lights of their caravan luminescent in the blackness. The land of his youth had had gypsies, as well, hardier folk than these travellers, accustomed to the land they were living in and its unforgiving way of life. Those people knew their place, but here the people were soft, well-nourished, peace-loving, and unsuspecting.

He knew he shouldn’t attempt it. But the risk that such an adventure suggested, here in these fatted lands, served to spur on his appetite.

A plump child wandered to the edge of the darkness, and he drooled. He heard the sharp cry of a young woman’s voice, calling to her son, and recalled the week before when he had dragged another woman from the roadside, excited by her fear.

I am spoiling myself,
he thought, his red eyes glowing under the still trees.

It was still dark when the sound awoke Theodore, a noise that instantly set him on edge, his hand grasping his sword instinctively.

Something was moving nearby, something big was forcing its way through the briar circle that sheltered him. He breathed out slowly, silently, waiting for the intruder to come closer. Yet with each second his fear grew.

I am a squire of Falador,
Theodore told himself.
Fear is paralysis. Fear is a greater enemy than any mortal foe.

He moved swiftly, his cumbersome armour giving him away as he stood, his sword drawn back in readiness. As he summoned his breath to give a yell of challenge, the briar parted and an animal’s wizened head appeared through the thicket. The moment it saw him, the creature’s dark eyes widened in fear.

“A badger!” he breathed as the intruder scurried off, loping swiftly into the darkness. He glanced at his mare, noting that she hadn’t moved—indeed, she seemed barely awake—and he was reminded of an old maxim of the knights.
Evil to he who thinks evil.
It was the talk of the travellers that had set him on edge, putting thoughts of vicious beasts in his mind. Meanwhile his mare displayed the wisdom of all animal kind, dreaming in an untroubled sleep, oblivious to the fears of humanity.