“What are your names, strangers? The spirit woman told us you would come and that we had to rescue you from Canifis,” Karnac said. “She often guides us with her gift. Without her none of us would be alive now.”
“I am Lord Despaard, of Misthalin. Advisor to King Roald the Third. These are my companions, Doric the dwarf, and Arisha, priestess of the barbarian peoples. Tell me, do you have word of two other of our embassy, one a tall thin man and the other an old man?”
Karnac shook his head.
“No, they have not been seen by our spies.”
Lord Despaard pursed his lips.
“Then I think it safe to assume that they are gone.”
Arisha nodded as Doric gripped his axe tightly, fire in his eyes.
“But we are not free of Canifis just yet,” Karnac warned. “My men have planted many false trails in all directions from the town. If there is pursuit, it will most likely be led astray. Still, I would like to be sure. We will remain here for a few moments more.”
Pia sunk down at Arisha’s side. As she did, others of the group moved to distribute the foul-smelling paste among the newcomers. Even Lord Despaard accepted it, though with a look of disgust, and as he applied it he talked quietly with Vanstrom and Karnac, the two asking the nobleman one question after another.
“Will Kara be all right?” Pia asked hesitatingly.
Arisha smiled slightly.
“I don’t know, Pia,” she replied. “I just don’t know.”
Something in her tone told Pia that the woman did not wish to speak of her friends, so she decided to hold her tongue.
She offered me kind words when I needed them most. Yet I can’t find the words to offer her. Pia lay down next to Arisha, and she must have slept for a time because she was woken suddenly by urgent whispers.
“Something is coming!”
“It’s one of them!”
“Ready… we must be ready.”
Something stepped onto the island, something inhuman and powerful. Pia caught sight of the broad shoulders and matted hair that covered its body.
It was a werewolf.
Karnac’s men leapt from their places. Two arrows whistled forward as the creature leapt to one side.
“Ready!” Karnac’s voice called out of the shadows. Three men jumped forward, forming a rough line before their one enemy. Arisha stood, her hand on her dagger.
“I can smell your fear,” the monster taunted. “How many of you are there?”
The werewolf’s eyes found Arisha. He laughed again.
“How fitting. So the embassy’s barbarian hides in the swamps,” he snarled. “Your friends are captured. You, however, will be mine now that you have broken the conditions of the blood mark. I will tell the wizard how you suffered so…”
Doric jumped up from nearby, his mouth widening in a smile.
“Imre?” he said with a strange delight. “It is you. Good.”
The werewolf laughed even louder now as Doric walked to the front of Karnac’s three men. Casually, the dwarf readied himself.
“If you fellas would give me some room to swing my axe, then Imre and I will be about our business.”
The men looked at each other curiously before stepping backward, still maintaining their line. Despaard moved behind the dwarf, his hand on the hilt of his dagger. Doric spat on his hands.
He’s insane, Pia thought uncomprehendingly. He’s utterly mad. Then the dwarf spoke again.
“Well, Imre? Do you feel up to it?”
“I told you before that I have never eaten dwarf, so this will be a new experience. I will keep you alive as I devour you, one limb at a time, so before you die I can tell you how you compare with a human child-”
Imre coughed suddenly. He swayed unsteadily and put his hand to his head.
Doric took his opportunity. The dwarf ran in without a sound, and thrust the flat head of his axe into Imre’s stomach. Pia had expected the werewolf to avoid it, yet she found herself gasp in delight as he doubled over with a pain-filled grunt.
“That ought to stop your boasting, I think,” Doric remarked.
The werewolf growled in real anger now, his right hand flailing out with deadly speed. His claws rattled across the dwarf’s helm, but Doric stepped in close again, his axe swinging inward.
This time, the haft crunched against the inside of Imre’s left knee. As the werewolf howled in pain, the dwarf pulled his axe toward him, the lower edge of his blades tripping his opponent in a neat move.
“Reckon I could have broken your kneecap there,” Doric said. “No doubt painful. Take a minute if you like. Get your breath back.”
“You… you taunt me!”
“Aye. I suppose I do.”
The werewolf came to his feet and jumped forward, but Pia saw how clumsy he was, how ill-timed and even she, without any experience in combat, saw how easy it would have been for the dwarf to take advantage of it.
And Doric did so. His axe darted forward, a short stab that smashed Imre’s fingers into twisted shapes. The werewolf howled and kept moving. But Doric side-stepped, bringing the flat of his weapon against the same kneecap he had damaged a moment before. This time the crunch of bone was unmistakable.
Imre collapsed in a heap.
Doric held his axe over the werewolf’s head.
“And I once told you I wanted a new coat, Imre.”
The axe went up.
“Wait!” It was Arisha. She advanced quickly, although Pia noted that she stopped a good distance from the wounded werewolf. She stared directly at him.
“I will ask Doric to spare your life, if you swear to do something for us.”
“Arisha, what are you-” Doric began, but she held up a hand to cut him off.
“If you promise us, on the very name of your god, to help our friends in any way you can, then you will leave here alive.”
Imre spat at the dwarf and tried to move away. Doric gave a wicked chuckle and rammed his booted foot down upon the werewolf’s chest.
“I don’t know, Arisha,” he said doubtfully. “I really want that fur coat. The swamp’s a cold place at night.”
“What is to be, Imre?” the priestess asked. “Death, or your promise upon the name of Zamorak that you will do all you can to help our friends, with the aim of returning them to safety. I warn you, he will know of your word, just as he will know of your deeds if you dishonour your promise. And you will promise not to tell any of your kind-or even Malak himself-of our presence here.”
“Come on, Imre, you cur. I grow cold waiting.” Doric lifted the axe menacingly.
“Very well,” the creature gritted. “You have my promise. I swear on Zamorak himself that I will do all in my power to aid your friends, with the aim of returning them to safety. And I will keep silent about your presence here.”
Doric removed his foot.
Imre sat up and scowled.
Finally, he stood and limped from the island. He gave a last look back at Doric before vanishing into the swamp.
“How did you do that, Doric?” Karnac asked. “I thought he was going to kill us all but you bested him by yourself, and with ease. How?”
Doric shared a look with Lord Despaard and Arisha. The nobleman nodded and Doric revealed a familiar two-pronged dagger. He explained its origins, then sheathed it quietly.
The onlookers gazed at the three strangers in wonder.
“Well, I am glad of it,” Karnac said, and he looked longingly at the weapon. “But it is time we were moving. We must reach Hope Rock before midnight. Come.”
And with that, Pia forced herself to stand, her caked boots an unwelcome reminder of the journey ahead.
Pia lost count of the miles and the hours. She lost count of how many times she stumbled and fell, of how many times Jack staggered behind her, or of how many times Arisha pulled them up and encouraged them to walk ahead of her.
The land was against them, too.
From the island they set off through another swamp where what seemed to be an old road, long since broken into stepping stones, made their way less treacherous. Once, they had to wade across a foul-smelling river, their belongings held over their heads. The water had risen to Pia’s chin, and although told not to drink anything she was sure she had swallowed a mouthful or more.