“When we get to Lord Ruthven’s manor tonight, I want you to tell the embassy your history in Canifis. It will be useful for us to know before we cross. I tell you now so you will have time to compose your thoughts.”
With that he was gone, galloping back to the head of the column, his going attracting the attentive gaze of their companions.
At his side, Simon gave a narrow grin.
And Gar’rth noted how even now, his hand still rested on the hilt of his wolfbane dagger in its curious bark sheath.
Darkness fell an hour before they neared Lord Ruthven’s manor, but the absence of light meant little to Gar’rth. As they approached the manor house, set on a small hill and surrounded first by a circle of dense thorn and hazel, and then by a shallow moat that had turned the ground to a black marshland, he couldn’t fail to detect the rotting stench that the combination of a hot summer and stagnant water produced.
It is not unlike Morytania, he thought at first, before reconsidering. No. Only superficially, as a painting resembles life. Here, the dead remain still.
They rode up through the gatehouse, where a single man stood beneath a burning torch that illuminated Lord Ruthven’s symbol upon a banner that hung nearby. Gar’rth caught sight of the sun at its centre, standing behind two pale moons and underlined by a silver sword.
“Lord Ruthven’s family’s banner,” Reldo commented at Gar’rth’s side. “Symbolizing his role as a guardian of the Salve, standing between life and death. His family have had that for centuries.”
“My lord,” the gatehouse keeper said to Ruthven. “We received word of your passage a few hours ago via a King’s pigeon. The great hall has been prepared, as per your instructions, and the servants have been asked to leave the manor for you and your guests tonight.”
“Thank you, Ralph. We will go to the great hall now and take our supper.”
“But there is something you should know, my lord. Several men arrived a few hours ago, among them the master of hounds from King Roald’s own household. They tracked a fugitive and her brother east, to the river.” The man lowered his voice, but Gar’rth heard what he had to say. “The fugitives crossed the river my lord, the girl Pia and her brother.”
Ruthven spared Kara a glance, and saw that she had heard.
“Then they are likely already dead. I am sorry Kara-Meir. Your servants have erred most dangerously.”
“There is a chance they might live,” Gar’rth said. “If they find their way to one of the human villages hidden in the swamp.”
“It will be a hard life, and one without luxury if they have,” Despaard observed.
But better than no life at all. Or a hanging death, for that matter.
Kara said nothing, but her dark thoughts were visible on her face.
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.
Their fear is palpable. Living within a half-day’s travel of the river, it is no small wonder.
“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.
I wonder if they suspect?
Never mind, soon enough they will know.
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
At last. We will finally learn of Gar’rth’s history.
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.”