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-”
A great uproar erupted outside. Theodore and Kara stood quickly, their swords drawn in an instant. Castimir’s face went white in fear.
“Do they come for us?” Doric asked, readying his axe.
“No. Not for us,” Gar’rth uttered. “We have no cause to fear. Wait here!”
The werewolf ran toward the door, pulling it open before vanishing into the sickly fog.
As Theodore followed, he heard Roavar roar from the kitchen:
“You cannot interfere,” he shouted. “You must not!”
Gar’rth heard Roavar’s words as he leapt forward into the mist, but he knew what the uproar meant. It was cheering.
He heard a girl’s scream from his right, where a large square-metal cage stood, out of view of the inn. He had seen it before in Canifis, many times before he had fled, and the sight of it-large enough for twenty men to be crammed inside-made him shiver. He heard Imre laugh maliciously from nearby, and he saw at once that the discipline of their guard had vanished, that they now ran as wolves alongside their neighbours.
We do not need their protection any more, Gar’rth knew. He is here. I can feel it. Malak!
The werewolves parted as he approached, allowing him to see the cage and its contents. As he did so, he slowed to a stop, taking in the scents of the prisoners to be certain his eyes had not deceived him.
It can’t be. Not here!
But it was. Their scents were familiar to him.
Kara appeared alongside him, her hand on her sword, glancing from right to left.
“Don’t look, Kara,” he hissed. “You must return to the inn. There is nothing we can do for them.”
Kara gave a gasp as one of the occupants turned to face them. Behind her, Theodore gaped in disbelief and Castimir uttered a curse. Despaard pursed his lips and angrily shook his head while
Gideon Gleeman looked on in silence.
Doric, coming last, gave a groan.
“There is nothing we can do for them, Kara. You must realise that,” Gar’rth repeated, insisting.
He looked back to the cage, and one of the three occupants recognised them. She gave a stifled cry as she rushed to the bars, her young face white and terrified.
“Please, Kara! Please. You must help us. You promised you would never abandon us…”
Pia collapsed to her knees alongside Jack. Her brother stared outward, his eyes glassy and unseeing. The man behind them, the only other prisoner, pulled them back, away from the bars.
“Stay back, Pia. Do not go near the sides,” he pleaded. “The werewolves might not be able to resist you. Keep away!”
“How Pia? How?” Kara rasped.
Gar’rth placed his hand on her shoulder and attempted to turn her away.
She shrugged him off angrily.
“No!” she cried. “I gave you my word I would help if I could. I mean to do it,” she spat, her rage manifesting itself in angry tears.
“You can do nothing…” the man inside said. He was tall, his black hair dishevelled and grown long, his beard unkempt. Wild and angry in appearance but his voice suggested something more noble beneath. “Pia and Jack were captured in Morytania, after crossing over from the blessed realm. She has told me a story of a King in Varrock, and of great armies and nations across the river. That tale has confirmed what my people have always dreamed of, of a realm beyond the power of the vampires, free of the tyranny of the tithes.
“That is why you must on no account intervene on our behalf. You must not endanger yourselves. Your very existence is enough to raise the spirits of my oppressed brethren, once they find out you are here. That is a joy that will help them resist for a hundred years.” The man’s darting eyes fixed on Kara. “Promise me you won’t attempt to help us. Please. Our lives are finished now.”
Pia wailed and hid her face in her hands. Jack stared dumbly out at them.
The boy is terrified beyond reason.
“I will not!” Kara yelled. “I gave them my promise before they entered this land. I am of an embassy sent here by the highest authority. My word will count for something.”
Do not deceive yourself, Kara.
“This man is right, Kara,” Despaard said. “We can do nothing, and we must not attempt to try. If we do, then our protection becomes forfeit and we will be lost. And if the embassy fails, how many more lives in Misthalin will follow?”
“Listen to him, Kara,” Theodore said softly. “I don’t like it either, but he’s right.”
She stared at Gar’rth.
“Please Gar’rth…” she whispered. “There must be a way.”
She wants me to say otherwise. But I cannot.
“I’m sorry, Kara. Lord Despaard and Theodore are right.”
Behind them, Imre laughed scornfully, his joy echoed by others who perceived Kara’s tearful face.
“But at least we may stay here for a while, at their side,” Doric suggested. “It may be some small comfort in this dark place.”
“Thank you, my friends,” the prisoner said, “but you must not. The werewolves are too dangerous now their blood is up and their hunger stirred. I doubt even if your protection would keep you safe.”
“What is your name?” Despaard asked warily. “You speak bravely my friend. Tell me, are you one of them? Are you one of the Myreque?”
The man smiled suddenly and leaned as close to the bars as he dared.
“I am one of those you speak of, my friend. One of the few,” he said, his voice low. “It is apparent that you are no stranger to this cursed land.” He looked quickly at the werewolves and thrust his right hand through the bars. Despaard took it firmly.
“As to my name, it is Vanstrom. Vanstrom Klause.”
Castimir watched as Vanstrom Klause stood back from the bars and breathed deeply. The wizard clutched his hand about his runes, taking a small measure of comfort from their presence. But he did not seek to use them.