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 arms bare. He looked down at Sulla with distaste. He snarled once, showing gold-capped teeth. He rode toward Sulla, stopping when he was within ten yards of him and dismounting in one easy move.
Even so, he stood as high as his horse.
“My name is Greagor, but I’m known as Behemoth,” he spat, his hand on the coiled whip at his belt. The weapon was made of silver and had black bands along its length. “You are Sulla?”
“I am,” Sulla said. “I am your employer, and might I remind you, you are a day late.” He shook his head angrily. “Who are the rest of you? I am happy with you and the dwarf, but the dandy and the mage less so.”
“We are a company,” the dwarf replied as he rode up. “It’s all or none. We are famed in The Wilderness, employed by His Majesty on tasks that carry us far from civilised lands, and we use less than civilised means to survive and do the job. And that is why we are a day late, we were detained in that pitiless place. You will have no cause to doubt us.”
That remains to be seen.
“My name is Axanamander,” he continued. “They call me the Mad Axe.”
“I have heard of the Mad Axe,” Sulla replied. “Your name and deeds have been known to the Kinshra for many years. You have served our lord well.” He bowed his head in deference, and as he looked up he saw the dwarf awkwardly do the same.
“My name is Mergil,” the dandy said, riding forward. “And you are right to assume that I do not possess the gift of strength or steel, nor of magic and fell sorcery. My humble skills are more earthly.” He reached into the saddlebag of the horse he led behind him, producing a yellow liquid in a vial. “I am an expert with potions and plants. I am a botanist, in truth, and originally I employed my three esteemed colleagues to travel with me through The Wilderness while I harvested the flora there. In time, my talents were proved beyond debate, and I joined their number.”
“There are none better than him at what he does,” the giant growled. “He can brew potions to speed or slow your heart, to flush your muscles with energy, or to make you sleep. More than once he has saved each of our lives from rotting wounds. And when he’s not travelling with us, he’s marrying rich widows who all seem to die within a year, quite naturally.” The man gave a golden grin to Mergil, who bowed his head to one side and smiled slyly. “What is it now Mergil, number three?”
“It is,” the dandy admitted. “A rich young widow who drank something that made her love me. In a few months she will drink something else, alas, poor sweet girl, and I will inherit everything.”
So, a self-confessed poisoner.
The raven-haired woman in the cart shot Sulla an angry glare.
“You told Straven you wanted someone who could get the job done. That is us. Don’t complain.”
“And who are you then, mage?”
“My name is Turine. I practise my art with the full knowledge of King Roald’s government, and by extension the Wizards’ Tower itself.”
“Then you aren’t a rogue mage?”
Turine laughed scornfully. Sulla felt his anger grow.
“I am,” she said haughtily. “Yet Misthalin needs those like me. The Wizards’ Tower does little or nothing these days. When something needs doing, Varrock calls on us renegades. Of them I am the most feared. I am surprised you haven’t heard of me?”
Oh Turine, I have heard of you. They say you walk the abyss, and converse with devils, enjoying the favours of its foul denizens while godly men fear what you have offered them in return. You are reputed to converse with animals and conjure creatures to do your bidding. I have heard all your tales, and little do I believe them.
Still, you might be useful.
“Mages are of little importance to me,” Sulla said, “unless you can give me two new hands.” He knew the answer she would give and she didn’t let him down. It was a non-committal shake of her head, as if she might be able to do as he asked, but thought it too troublesome.
It is like the tales she spins about herself. Impossible to disprove.
“Huh,” he responded. “Not unexpected. But we have more pressing-and more profitable-matters at hand, for the Wyrd is nearby, toward the lumberyard. My associate can track her as no other can. That is what gives us our advantage.”
“Your associate?” Mad Axe muttered. “You mean your werewolf.”