Betrayal at Falador (42 page)

A week passed, and each day a herald of the knights passed through the gates carrying messages to the crown prince in Burthorpe—messages that so far resulted in no promises of action.

“The crown prince wants a diplomatic solution” Sir Amik announced. The tone of his voice told the listeners how much faith he placed in the suggestion.

“If the reports are correct, then Sulla has managed to amass an army many times larger than anything we can hope to deploy,” Sir Tiffy offered. “He has recruited the goblin tribes to his cause. Our scouts think their armies will meet within two days” His long fingers were clasped to his chin as he spoke.

“But most of his army are bandits from The Wilderness, drawn to his banner by the promise of plunder,” master-at-arms Sharpe said. “The Kinshra themselves are no more numerous than us. If we can strike at the core of Sulla’s army before it attacks, then it might be enough to scatter his followers—the majority of his army is an undisciplined rabble who will not fight in the face of organised resistance.”

A murmur went up at this glimmer of hope.

“We cannot do that,” Sir Amik said immediately. “If we initiate hostilities then we will have lost our moral imperative. In a pitched battle they are more numerous than us, but if it turns into a siege of Falador, then we will have the city guard to help us fight on the walls. His advantage in numbers will be reduced, and his new cannon will be incapable of working so well in such close fighting.”

Sir Amik let his words sink in amongst the small circle of men. As doubt crept into their faces, a single voice dared to speak what they all knew. It was Bhuler’s voice.

“Your strategy will sacrifice Falador, drawing us into a siege!” he said loudly. “Do you expect every citizen to fight?” His hand slapped down upon the oak tabletop, the sound reverberating around the room.

“Remember who you are speaking to, Bhuler!” Sir Amik snapped, his anger boiling over. “We have no other choice. We shall fortify the city and gather as many provisions as we can. Shortly I will address a delegation of citizen leaders. King Vallance himself has refused to flee—even though he lacks the strength to stand, he hopes his example will inspire others. Notably his son.” Another murmur, but the comments were not kind, nor were they hopeful.

The listeners knew the meeting was over. Without a word each man stood and filed out, leaving Sir Amik to pray to Saradomin that he had made the right choice.

But peaceful prayer eluded him, for he knew something was wrong. The crown prince was being evasive and Sir Amik knew he was doing it deliberately.

He just couldn’t understand why.

The shadows were long in northern Burthorpe, for the town lay encircled by dark mountains in all directions save the south. And it was cold, due in part to the hard granite stone that had been used to build the famed citadel at its centre. It was an imposing sight, unlike the white towers of Falador in every sense, and it was a common legend that beneath the citadel there were many miles of tunnels and vast secret chambers.

But that morning a sight more imposing than the citadel had come to Burthorpe. The embassy of the Kinshra had ridden through the night, composed of nearly a hundred men, all well armed. With Lord Daquarius at their head they rode unchallenged through the dark streets.

It was only at the entrance to the citadel itself that he signalled his men to stop.

“Is the crown prince ready to receive our embassy?” he asked, aware of the disturbing dreams that had been conjured by the sybil to make sure the crown prince would bend toward his will.

A pale-faced elderly man barred the way, and he bowed discreetly. His fine black clothes were decorated with all the hallmarks of privileged birth and high rank. As the most senior advisor to the crown prince, Lord Amthyst was entrusted to ensure that the Imperial Guard kept the nation safe from the trolls in the mountains.

“The crown prince is unwell,” he said nervously. “Nonetheless, he will see you at the earliest opportunity.”

Lord Daquarius bowed in acknowledgement. Sulla’s orders came back to him:
You only have to delay him, Daquarius—even you should be capable of doing that!

“They will not hold for more than a week.”

Doric had spent every waking hour inspecting every yard of the walls. He had lost count of how many times he had walked around the entire city, as his aching feet constantly reminded him.

“They will last longer than a single week, dwarf,” Captain Ingrew of the city guard said. Doric knew the man was tired of his pessimism, and each had become increasingly hostile toward the other. “You’ve condemned the work of my engineers along every yard of the wall. I will not take it any longer. We shall go to Sir Amik with your comments.”

The dwarf turned away and looked down from the parapet in despair. He saw Ebenezer issuing directions and shouting orders. Some of his men pulled hard on a rope and a wooden contraption was raised into the sky—it was the first of the alchemist’s trebuchets.

Doric shook his head. He had expected Ebenezer to be the first to understand the power of the cannons and how hopelessly outmatched the antique weaponry of Falador would be. And yet here he was, wasting his time.

Bidding a surly farewell to the captain, he marched down the stairs from the ramparts wearing a dark scowl and, ignoring Ebenezer’s wave of greeting, he approached the enthusiastic alchemist.

“Has Sir Amik thought any more on my suggestions?” he barked.

“I do not know,” the old man replied. “He appreciates your work on the walls, true enough, but I would imagine he doubts that there will be time even for your plan to work.”

“There may be less time than we imagined.” The dwarf took the alchemist by the arm and led him away from the citizens who were constructing the trebuchet. “The walls won’t stand for more than a single week. If the Kinshra concentrate their fire, they will be breached. We need more men!”

“Or more dwarfs,” the alchemist observed.

“Is it such a stupid idea?” Doric growled. “The enemies of my people have already joined the ranks of the Kinshra—why should we not enter it on your side? I could be back in the halls of my people within three days.”

“I think it is a good idea, my friend, but you must talk to Sir Amik.” The two stared at each other. “I hope you are wrong about the walls, Doric—I most sincerely do.” Peering quickly back to the trebuchet with a sudden expression of defeat etched on his face, Ebenezer turned and left Doric alone.

“As do I, old friend. As do I,” the dwarf whispered to himself.

Every day before dawn Kara woke and made her way to the castle where she joined Theodore in constant training. On her first day there, as she had wondered nervously how difficult it would be, Marius had walked over to her and offered his hand. She noted the silence that fell over the courtyard, the expectant hush that seemed to still even the air, and without any bitterness she accepted it.

“Thank you, Kara” he said loudly so that all could hear. “You truly are a better warrior than I.”

True to her concerns, the training
was
hard. At times Gar’rth joined in. He was an awkward pupil, however, for his superior strength made him a powerful combatant and the fact that he spoke few words of the common tongue meant that his mistakes could not easily be corrected by his tutor. Still, he had taken to his detention better than Kara had hoped.

Knowing how hard it must be for the youth, Theodore had taken to sleeping in the room next to him. It was a gesture Kara appreciated.

The week passed the slowest for Castimir—of that he was certain.

The knights summoned as many wizards as they could find in Falador, even those junior apprentices who at that stage of their training always accompanied a seasoned wizard in relatively safe lands. Castimir remembered his own such experience.

It had lasted only a few months one summer and his master had insisted on sleeping under a roadside elm for long hours, listening to the babble of a brook or watching the farmers in the fields. That had been five years ago, when he was just twelve. Looking at the youngsters who were following their masters now, he knew they were too young to be of any use in a war.

“We should send them home, Master Segainus,” he told the most senior wizard present, a frail old man who could barely stand unaided.

“We will not, Castimir! They took a vow to learn and practise our ways, and I can think of no better way to teach the apprentices the true ways of magic than in battle. Look at what it has done for you.”

Castimir hung his head, aware that in an instant he had gone from being a feted hero to a youthful mage—and a mage still in training at that. With a sinking heart he listened as Master Segainus spoke with the master-at-arms, suggesting where best to focus their efforts in the coming battle.

No one asked him for any of his ideas.

“There is no time to strengthen the walls now, and I don’t think you are giving our engineers a very fair assessment,” Sir Amik said as he looked Doric in the eye and pretended not to notice when Captain Ingrew smiled victoriously at the dwarf.

“As for the other matter, we shall discuss that. Alone.” The smirk vanished from the captain’s face when he realized that Sir Amik wished for a private meeting with the dwarf.

Both waited until his footsteps had faded in the stairwell outside. Then Sir Amik spoke again.

“I will accept your offer to seek out the aid of the dwarfs” he said. “We need the help of your people in this war. I shall give you several carrier pigeons to take with you so you can keep us informed of your progress.”

“Then I shall leave tonight” Doric announced. “In another two days the goblin army and the Kinshra will meet, and the way northward will be blocked.”

“But you won’t be going alone, Doric. You must go with someone we can trust, someone who also knows the ways of the dwarfs, and their language.” Sir Amik looked intently at the dwarf, knowing that one person would immediately come to mind.

“I will take Kara,” Doric replied. “She knows our ways and is apparently famous amongst my people. Theodore, too, and Castimir and Gar’rth should come. We have endured much together and it seems right that we should try and see it through to the finish.” He shifted the helm that he held precariously under his right arm, a sudden agitation gripping him.

“And the alchemist?” Sir Amik asked. “He’s been with you since the beginning.”

“That is true, but his skills will be of more use here. We will likely have to fight our way to Ice Mountain. It will be a swift journey through enemy lines and the alchemist isn’t suited to it.” Doric lowered his eyes. “I shall speak with him first, but I think...
I hope
he will understand.”

The dwarf found Ebenezer drinking water greedily from a wooden goblet, hot and exhausted from the day’s hard work.

“It has taken people’s minds off the imminent threat. Citizens from all different backgrounds are lending a hand—they are actually hopeful, Doric!” The alchemist’s eyes smiled from above the rim of the goblet.

“There is even more good news. Sir Amik has approved my suggestion, Ebenezer. I am leaving tonight.” The dwarf stood with his feet wide apart, hands on the axe before him, willing himself to be as immovable as stone.

“And who is to go with you?” The old man gazed into the goblet.

“Kara and Theodore will both come. As will Castimir and Gar’rth.” The dwarf’s voice trailed off and Doric lowered his eyes to the ground. “It will be a hard journey, Ebenezer.”

“I understand, Doric. I am not a good rider—my bones are too old to withstand the jostling of a horse beneath me. I think I will be of more use here in Falador than battling my way through enemy lines. But I do insist that you promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” the dwarf said earnestly.

“Make sure they all come back.”

Doric took Ebenezer’s hand in a tight grip but said nothing.

For it was not a promise he could make.

Night had fallen. To the north of Falador, no more than a two-day ride from the city, Sulla sat hunched over a map. His one eye squinted in the candlelight as he read the details of his army’s deployment.

Behind him, standing silently in the dark shadows, was Jerrod.

“Our picket lines are watching every approach to the camp, whilst the goblins are securing our western flank” Sulla said. “Tomorrow they should join with us.”

“And what then?” Jerrod’s voice was even harsher than usual, for he was impatient for the war to start.

“Then we will move to within sight of Falador’s walls. The goblins will be used for the manual labour—digging trenches to secure our positions. Depending on how well they perform, we could use them as a diversionary force.

“My guns will make short work of the walls of Falador. The chaos dwarfs think that within a few days—perhaps sooner—we will have opened a fissure large enough to exploit.” Sulla leaned away from his desk, his face a macabre picture of wicked humour. “The knights have no way of countering my guns.

“For generations the people of Falador have mocked us,” he continued. “For decades we have been despised in Asgarnia.” He turned to face Jerrod, a dark glint in his eye. “Soon Falador will fall. Its streets will run with blood and its ruins will be ploughed into the earth. Let the people of Falador believe in peace, let them pray for a diplomatic resolution. But know this, Jerrod—there will not be one. Falador is in its final hour!”

“And then, Sulla?” Jerrod asked, his curiosity aroused.

“I will seize the throne of Asgarnia and the worship of Zamorak will enter a new age. We shall both have our revenge against those who have stood against us.”

Outside, under the blanket of cloud that concealed the stars, the wind whipped through the camp, taking Sulla’s dark promise toward the south.

FIFTY-SIX