Every day brought new heartache and sorrow, for the dead were many. The families of the missing prayed hourly that news would come of their safe return and rescue, but it rarely did. Before the end of the second day, when hearing that someone was still missing and unaccounted for, men and women would shake their heads in sorrow, knowing that only a corpse would be found.
Sir Amik took command of the clean-up efforts. The knights were deployed with the city guard to keep a watch over the dead, to ensure their bodies were not dishonoured by the carrion birds and animals or by human thieves.
On the third day it was decided to burn the dead. Burial parties were recruited from the men of the city, and slowly the corpses of both sides were lowered into the trench that the goblins had dug to guard Sulla’s encampment. In their midst, dry straw packets were laid amongst the enemies who now slept side by side. When the trench was full, the pyre was lit. For three days and nights it burned, kept alight by the men of Falador who wished to purge their city of the dead and leave no trace for any beast to devour.
Only a few dozen bodies were retrieved from the field. Several of them were high-ranking knights who were interred in the chapel, stripped and washed before being laid to rest in the most hallowed chambers of the castle. Amongst these men were Sir Erical and Sir Pallas, retrieved by a dozen peons led by Sir Tiffy and Sir Vyvin.
A special place was reserved for the man who had sacrificed everything for the city he had cherished so much. Bhuler’s funeral was attended by thousands, and his grave was not in the castle of the knights. Rather, in memory of his sacrifice, he was laid to rest at the foot of the newest part of the wall that was being rebuilt and strengthened through the skill of the dwarfs. His body a symbol to inspire future generations. He was wrapped in Kara-Meir’s banner, and his horse was buried beneath him.
Kara was tempted to place her sword at his side, but her friends persuaded her to keep it, despite a change in her character since Sulla’s defeat.
“Those touched by the gods aren’t let off so easily, Kara,” Theodore warned her. “And the sword was given to you by Master Phyllis. You should keep it as an heirloom of the family that adopted you.”
Theodore was right, but she didn’t want to fight again, not ever again. She recalled Bhuler’s words to her as he had died. You cannot be angry all your life. And she wasn’t angry any more. She was just tired.
The day after Bhuler’s funeral, word reached Falador that Burthorpe had been liberated without a battle. Lord Radebaugh and the Imperial Guard had presented Lord Daquarius with Sulla’s severed hands and his ring of office, which Kara had sent so that the Kinshra would realize it would be futile to fight. Within a day they had left the citadel.
Lord Radebaugh wrote to them of his discovery of the crown prince’s secret shrine to Zamorak. He had destroyed it and the crown prince was confined for his own safety, raving like a madman. He finished his letter by informing Sir Amik that he would consult the druid Kaqemeex for help in curing the prince of his hallucinations.
It was a week of exhaustion for all, but by the end of it the traders could be seen at their stands again, the washerwomen at their laundry and the city guards-under their new chief, Colonel Ingrew-patrolling the streets.
Slowly, things returned to normal.
In the foothills of Ice Mountain a man drew a black dagger.
“I am tired of your whimpering! No one will miss you, Sulla. After the disaster you led us into, this dagger is going to be a swifter end than the one you deserve.” The Kinshra soldier of the lowliest rank strode forward. None of his friends moved to stop him. None even spoke in protest.
The soldier placed the dagger to Sulla’s throat.
Sulla pleaded weakly for his life.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice growled from the shadows of the fir trees. From under their low boughs a tall figure appeared, wearing a ragged red robe, his hand pressed against his wounded shoulder.
The Kinshra warrior stepped away.
“That is Sulla’s demon” one of the men remarked, recognising Jerrod.
“I need one man” Jerrod said slowly, “for only a short service.” His burning eyes fixed on the soldier who had planned to kill Sulla. “Will you aid me?”
The man glanced at his friends and shrugged. They all knew the werewolf had fought at their side in the battle. With a confident step, he approached. It was the last thing he ever did. Jerrod seized him by the throat and squeezed with such strength that the man didn’t have time to scream.
“I told him it would be for a short service,” Jerrod growled as he removed the man’s fur cloak, wrapping it around Sulla.
The Kinshra soldiers fled into the woods, not daring to face him. He had expected nothing else of them.
“Why are you helping me?” Sulla muttered, his teeth chattering from the cold.
“I was going to kill you,” the werewolf admitted. “But as I slept after the battle, an emissary of Zamorak himself spoke to me. He wants us working together, Sulla. Whatever game the gods are playing, it is not yet concluded. The first chapter only, but there is always a second.”
Sulla lowered his head, cushioned by the warm cloak.
“I need food,” he said.
Jerrod nodded.
“And you shall have it, my friend. I shall make a fire, for you would not like your meat raw. Sleep now, whilst I work.”
The werewolf’s eyes focused on the dead man. With a skill perfected by years of practice he began his dreadful work. In only a few minutes, under the boughs of the low trees, a fire crackled and a grim cut of meat cooked on a stick above the flames.
Jerrod smiled to himself, wondering what Sulla would say if he knew.
In the bowels of the Kinshra fortress an officer opened a wooden door without knocking.
“Who dares to enter my chamber?” the sybil cried.
“I have orders from Lord Daquarius, the new lord of the Kinshra. Your meddling led us into disaster. He has decided it would be best if you are no longer associated with our cause.”
The officer nodded to the two men behind him. They strode forward and seized the old woman. The officer removed the lid of the huge cauldron that stood on an unlit fire at the centre of the room. A greenish liquid stirred inside and with a grimace the man nodded toward it. The two men heaved the sybil into the sickly potion. Before she could clamber out, the heavy lid was replaced, the men fastening it so that only a small gap remained.
A withered old hand, responsible for so much evil, forced its way through, trying in vain to lift the lid.
“Light the fire” the officer said flatly. “Call me when the water begins to boil.”
The two soldiers grinned, kneeling to begin their grisly work. They ignored the sybil’s threats of revenge as well as her pleas for mercy.
Soon the fire began to rage. The waters began to bubble. And the sybil began to scream.