Sulla spat.
He had been dreaming again, the same dream that he did not understand. It was the girl, the same girl of whom he had dreamed before.
He ran his large hand over his scarred face. It was damp with cold sweat. His mind was suddenly fearful that he might be developing one of the many dreadful illnesses that afflicted those folk who chose to live in The Wilderness. He went to the open window to look down into the darkness of the castle’s yard. Daylight was still some minutes away, for the castle stood on the lower slopes of Ice Mountain and the yard was shaded by the foreboding walls of black stone.
Suddenly the dream was pushed from his mind. A small group of chained prisoners drew his attention.
“Recruits” was his term for describing the unfortunate people-and creatures-his men enslaved in their raiding parties. Amongst the thirty or so captured this time were several goblins, stumbling clumsily in their shackles. Sulla frowned. Goblins were not very useful as slaves. In truth the only useful task they could accomplish was to mine ores from the endless miles of tunnels that honeycombed the mountain on which the fortress stood.
“Check they all have good teeth, guard!” he roared out of the window to the men below. “If they have good teeth, they can eat. If they can eat, then they have the strength to work!”
Turning, he moved back into the room.
He thought uneasily about the dream again. He had had the same dream for the third night in a row now. And he knew he needed advice. He would consult with the sybil, the old hag of a woman who lived in the depths of the castle near the dungeons, close enough that she could hear the screams of those unfortunates whom the Kinshra wished to interrogate.
He pulled a bearskin cloak about him and unlocked the stout wooden door that led to the stairwell beyond, seizing a torch to light his way. The castle moaned with the cold drafts that ran down off the mountain peaks to the west. Some of the younger men believed that the castle was haunted by the souls of their victims, but in all his years Sulla had never seen anything that resembled a ghost. He had decided long ago that such superstition was only a weakness, and had chosen not to believe in anything that was said to be as relentlessly vicious as he could be.
Those men who knew him believed he was probably right. He knew well the rumors, and they served his purpose.
Some said that Sulla had made a pact with Zamorak, back in his youth, and to uphold his end of the bargain he needed to commit an evil act every single day. No one knew what Zamorak had offered in exchange for this worship.
Others whispered that he had sealed the bargain to gain control of the Kinshra, and that he was destined to lead them to conquer all the lands of Asgarnia. But no one knew for certain.
What they did all know was that Sulla was hated by his superiors-hated by them because they feared him-and factions were emerging amongst the Kinshra as they anticipated a struggle for supremacy.
As he descended, Sulla could hear the piteous cries and moans of those creatures under interrogation in the bowels of the fortress. He pursed his lips as the smell of despair reached him, pausing outside a wooden door that seemed to have twisted itself in response to the evil inside.
“Come in, my brave soldier!” a voice hissed. Before he could raise his hand to open the door it swung inward of its own accord, creaking as if it were imitating the sounds of the dying inhabitants of the dungeons.
Sulla blinked, his one good eye not used to the artificial haze which bubbled up from the huge black cauldron that sat upon a fire. He could make out the sybil behind the cauldron, her yellow teeth catching the light of his torch as her lips peeled back in a malicious smile. Sulla hated her, partly because he needed her, but also because he didn’t understand her ways or powers.
“I have had the dream again,” he said. “About the girl.”
“Do men ever dream of anything different?” she replied, mocking him. Instinctively his powerful fists clenched.
If she were anyone else I would kill her, he thought.
“It is definitely her,” he said. “Yet I saw her as the bolt pierced her, only days ago. She pulled it out and fell down the cliff face. She must be dead!”
The sybil looked at him with her bloodshot eyes, regarding him coolly.
Without a word she hobbled to a bench and began picking through the iron pots and knives that lay scattered about. Then, having set aside a pan and a knife, she hobbled toward a set of dark drawers that stood nearby. Her head bent low to examine the plants and dead animals that lay heaped atop it.
Sulla lost patience.
“Did you not hear what I said?” he demanded. “Why do I dream of her again after killing her? I dreamed of her before I even saw her, and I continue to do so now! What does it mean? Is she dangerous to me still? Answer me!”
The hag turned from the drawer and peered at him intently. Sulla felt suddenly very weak under her vicious gaze.
“She is dangerous to you, Sulla,” she replied. “And you have only yourself to blame for that! An obsession-that is what she is. Who can this girl be who killed your men? Who fought like an animal? Who is she who knows your name when she has never even met you?
“You fear her Sulla, for her hate burns hotter than yours!’
He considered her words… and laughed. It was a sound he rarely made, and whenever he did, it sounded as if he were out of practice.
“Fear her?” he responded. “A dead girl? She ambushed my men and killed them with her hunter’s tricks, but she is no warrior. My men wounded her and I killed her myself with my crossbow. I do not fear her, witch!” He spat the words, his anger giving him the power to believe them.
“Let us see, Sulla,” the hag said quietly. “Do you have something that belonged to her? Any trinket? A piece of hair? Of torn clothing?”
Sulla knew her ways and he had come prepared. He handed the hag a dagger that the girl had hurled at his head. The witch took it reverently, eyeing it closely, and then she wrapped it in several leaves that she had taken from the drawer. She placed it in the iron pan, then picked up a dead creature, which Sulla dared not examine too closely, using her knife to expose its entrails. Swiftly she stirred them, the knife scraping the bottom of the iron pan, making an excruciating noise.
Sulla held his breath.
The sybil leaned over her foul concoction and looked at it very closely, her beady bloodshot eyes examining it in fine detail. For several minutes she remained silent.
Sulla shifted his weight from one foot to the other impatiently. Finally he could stand it no more.
“What does the augur say, witch?” he demanded.
“Only that which the gods wish us to know, Sulla!” she snapped suddenly, clearly angry that her meditation had been interrupted. Sulla thought for a second that he saw a fearful look upon her face.
“Well?” he asked, a conciliatory tone in his question.
“She lives and her spirit grows. She is still in danger, but with each passing moment she gains strength. Something is protecting her, though. Something is hiding her from my sight. But it cannot protect us from her, Sulla. Her hate and her anger are enough to burn. She has been chosen as a pawn of the gods, in the latest of their long games!”
“Is she where I left her? Where she fell from the cliff top?”
“I cannot tell you that, Sulla,” she said. The hag was clearly exhausted from reading the augur.
“Then I will send men out there to scour the area. If she is alive they will bring her back to me. I shall enjoy dowsing the fires of her hatred with my own hands!” He clenched his fists once again in savage delight as he recalled the girl’s blonde hair and pale skin.