Sulla watched the small group approach, and gave a satisfied sigh.
He had spent four days hiding outside Varrock, just within sight of the gallows tree and its decaying corpse, waiting for Straven’s men. He strained to see. There were four of them in total, with several horses and a cart. On the back of the wagon was a red flag, confirming their identity.
“That’s the signal I told Straven to use,” he said.
“Are you sure we can trust them, Sulla?” Jerrod asked. “They are a day late. Won’t they as likely hand you in as help us?”
That remains to be seen, my friend. But the reward for the Wyrd easily outweighs any reward for my capture. Of course, if the men were greedy, Sulla mused, they might attempt both, and he might find himself hanging from the tree after all.
“We stick with the plan for now,” he said. “Once the Wyrd is in our power, then you will return to Varrock and contact Barbec. I will use your existence to stave off any execution, for if I will be the only person who knows where you are, so the King will be unlikely to dispose of me.”
It is the only insurance I have.
“And what if the mercenaries decide to hand you over?”
“Then you will have to intervene, my friend. I have sent a message to Captain Rovin of the King’s Guard. He is expecting me to turn myself in within a week. I have only hinted that I will bring a gift for Varrock, yet he won’t dare dream that it is the corpse of the Wyrd.” He shifted his position and glanced at Jerrod. “You can still hear her can’t you? Her song?”
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.”
It is good they know, and good that they are unafraid. Although a bit of fear would have been helpful.
“Indeed so,” he replied. “He is with us now, watching. Jerrod!”
The werewolf appeared from the undergrowth only a few yards to Turine’s left. Sulla saw with satisfaction the fear grow on her face as she fumbled with her runes. Behind him, Behemoth’s horse neighed.
If he had been in earnest, she would be dead by now.
“No surprises, Sulla,” Behemoth shouted. “We haven’t any for you. Straven thinks you are too valued a customer to lose, so he isn’t playing you false.”
Sulla laughed.
“I would be a fool to trust his word wouldn’t I?” He turned serious. “And would any of you really follow a fool?”
Their silence gave him his answer.
“Very well,” he said, “let us begin while we still have the daylight.”
* * *
Jerrod had scouted the lumberyard for a second time. When he came back, Sulla breathed in relief.
I am vulnerable without him. And they fear him, even though they hide it well.
“She is there, Sulla,” Jerrod said. “Hiding in the eastern end of the warehouse”
“It’s a fitting place for her to make her lair,” Behemoth said. “This place is rarely used, for rumours say it’s haunted.”
“It is,” the Mad Axe grinned. “By her.”
The wooden building was large and silent. It looked close to ruin, and the fading afternoon sun contrasted the deep shadows eerily. Gaping holes appeared among its slatted sides, big enough for a man to squeeze through. The roof was little better.
“What if she chooses to run, rather than fight?” Turine asked. “Can we catch her?”
“Can you fly mage?” Sulla spat back. “Now, let’s get ourselves ready.”
Mergil stripped off his surcoat and fastened a leather-studded jacket across his chest. He made certain his sword drew freely in his scabbard, and then he picked several potions from his saddlebags, slotting them into custom-made leather rings in his belt. Both the Mad Axe and Behemoth downed a small vial each of yellow potion, chinking their glasses together as if in celebration and grimacing from the taste. The Mad Axe, Sulla noted, had two weighted bolos on his belt that held his chain mail against his bulging stomach.
Behemoth loosened his whip.
“Surely we want to take her alive?” Mergil suggested, his hand holding a glass bottle in which a green fog swirled. “If I break this near her, it should be enough to put her to sleep.”
Sulla saw Jerrod curl his lip and shake his head.
“Too much of a risk,” he said.
“Hmm. I’ll try it anyhow. The reward for a living prisoner is far greater.”
Turine nodded and examined her runes.
“If we try to take her alive, then I will snare her with my magic. That should give you time, Mergil. You know how we do it.”
The mercenaries nodded as one, and Jerrod looked to Sulla again.
“Very well, then,” Sulla said. “Jerrod will lead us in.”
The werewolf moved in absolute silence, guiding them west. They passed through a hole in the low wooden stockade that surrounded the lumberyard, and sprinted quickly across the open ground. The rest followed.
“Is everyone ready?” Sulla hissed as they entered the building through a rotted door. In the shadows, the mercenaries nodded, and he was just able to make out their movements.
A fitting place for a winged-ghoul to live, he noted. And me with two stumps instead of hands, completely unarmed. Strange that I don’t feel afraid.
“I can hear her,” Jerrod whispered. “She in the eastern end of the building.”
“Then we must spread out,” Sulla ordered, and he turned to the dwarf. “Go forward to draw her out, then we can come in to support you.”
The dwarf faced Sulla in the darkness, but he couldn’t make out his expression.
No doubt it is an ugly one, though.
“I will go,” he replied grimly, “if Jerrod comes with me. We can both see in the dark better than the rest of you.”
For a moment Jerrod didn’t reply. Then, when he did, Sulla knew he had made the change into his wolf form.
“Very well,” he growled.
Then they were gone, merging into the shadows ahead, impossible for Sulla to see with his single functioning eye.
“We should go forward, to close the gap,” Behemoth advised. Without waiting for an answer, the big man followed, and was swallowed by the shadows.
Dividing us nicely. Idiot!
He started forward himself, aware of Mergil and Turine beside him. His foot banged a crate, loud in the darkness, and his heart jumped. He felt the sweat erupt on his brow.
Scared of a jiggling crate! How Kara-Meir would laugh.
The fear had him now. He was afraid of the dark. He wore no armour and he carried no weapon, and not for the first time that vulnerability haunted him without mercy.
Yet I had to come in with them. To make sure it goes right.
He took another deep breath when the Mad Axe screamed from ahead of them. He heard Jerrod howl, and then something inhuman gave a loud wail, sapping his will and making him stagger. His legs were close to buckling when he heard Jerrod roar.
Turine ran forward, followed by Mergil. The poisoner flicked the thick cover off his lantern and the shadows gave way to a sickly light.
Behemoth lay on the ground, unmoving. Sulla saw his face covered in blood and then, as Mergil moved and the light swayed, the face vanished in shadow. Now the lantern swung upward, to illuminate the combat.
Jerrod was fastened upon the thing’s back, crushing her wings to her sides with his powerful arms, his jaws biting at her shoulder and head, ripping and tearing. As she staggered, Sulla caught sight of her for the first time, the shining orange eyes and her wide nose above the long mouth tipped with fangs.
She leapt backward and Jerrod’s grip broke.
Quickly she turned and scraped her talons across his face.
“Your runes, Turine! Now!” Sulla shouted as the Mad Axe charged in. The dwarf screamed in his native tongue and his axe arced forward. In the light Sulla saw the Wyrd’s right hand fly clear of her wrist, black blood spraying the yellow sawdust at her feet.
Turine held out her hand as the Wyrd screamed. Sulla felt the air at his side compact as the sound of a dense and invisible object flew past him. The Wyrd doubled over suddenly as the magic wind slammed into her stomach, forcing her to her knees.
“Snare her!” Mergil shouted as the lantern moved and the scene was briefly lost in shadow. It returned when Mergil placed it on the floor, and Sulla saw that Behemoth had moved his arm.
So he’s alive then. That’s a shame. He’s the most troublesome of them all.
Perhaps I can stamp on his throat and crush the life out of him.
Before he could move, Mergil entered the fray, hefting his green fogged bottle. The Mad Axe thrust his weapon forward again, and Sulla saw that he meant to distract their target while the poisoner readied himself.
But then Turine stepped sideways. The light was blocked off, and when it returned Behemoth was standing.
The Wyrd can’t win now. Not with Jerrod at her back and these three before her.
He dared a smile.
But then his smile vanished.
The hulking form of Behemoth seized Mergil by the throat. Turine screamed in anger, shouting at him to move, but instead Mergil’s body went limp and he dropped the bottle at the Mad Axe’s feet.
It broke and the green fog spread out. The Mad Axe gave a gasp as his weapon fell from his hands. He staggered and then dropped to his knees before collapsing face down into the sawdust.
Then Behemoth turned to face him. Behind, Jerrod leapt once more upon the Wyrd and Sulla saw them fall to the ground.
“Oh no. Oh no.” Turine whimpered as Sulla looked back to Behemoth again. His eyes were glassy and featureless, glowing with a faint blue pallor. His head shook slowly from side to side, his flesh unnaturally pale. The wound on his forehead had stopped bleeding, and a vicious black scab covered it.
He’s one of them now.
“Behemoth?” Turine whispered. “Can you hear me?”
“He’s dead you stup-”
Sulla didn’t have time to finish as Behemoth lurched forward with surprising speed, his arms outstretched, his golden teeth bared in a bestial frenzy. He heard Turine scream as she was pushed aside and then the lantern was kicked over and the darkness returned.
Sulla ran.
He heard Turine scream again, and he turned once to see the two pale blue orbs that had once been Behemoth’s eyes, close behind.
It’s after me!
He staggered over a crate and crashed to his knees.
Hands grabbed his neck and squeezed.
Sulla pushed backward, forcing his attacker off his feet for the briefest moment before falling down on top of him. He heard something break under his back, a dull wet sound and a crunch of bone.
Not mine. I’m unhurt. But is it enough?
He leapt up and away from Behemoth. All was darkness, and there was no sign of motion.
He grinned madly.
“I’m Sulla. Sulla! I brought Falador to her knees! Do you think one of your horde is going to be-”
Two blue orbs shot open at his feet. He heard the figure snarl.
He bolted again, but now he was closer to the perforated wall of the building. Now dull daylight gave him a chance to see.
The thing came on, limping now. Sulla could see a nail protruding from the back of Behemoth’s head, and a splinter of wood dug into its calf.
Think. Slow it down. Then kill it… again.
He reached the wall as it drew near, its eyes fixed on him. Its mouth was bloody now, its tongue bitten off at the end. Sulla dodged to one side and threw his weight into three crates that stood one atop the other. They shook violently, tottered, and then collapsed onto his pursuer.
But still it pushed upward through the wreckage, now with a dozen sharp splinters protruding from its front. Still it came on.
He ran again, reaching the door. Then outside, to the horses. Desperation drove him on, his heart pounding as he mounted his steed in a clumsy sprawl, so hastily as to nearly fall from the saddle the very second he had gained it, his arms about the beast’s neck. The animal gave a neigh of fear, for Behemoth was out now, in the open, staggering forward.
Right into my path.
Sulla knew this was his only chance.
He balanced himself precariously, his feet in the stirrups, the rein in his mouth, his handless wrists upon his horse’s neck.
He drove his heels into the horse’s flanks and they bolted forward.
The giant made no attempt to avoid the charge. The horse struck him with all its speed and weight, smashing the creature aside. Sulla cheered as the rein slipped from his mouth.
Yet still, impossibly, it clawed at the earth, dragging its broken body toward him.
“Persistent to the point of folly,” Sulla snarled, dismounting.
He looked to the building, which was now silent.
Do I dare go back in? Did Jerrod win? Or has the Wyrd made more of these things?
Suddenly the horse at his side staggered. For the first time Sulla saw the claw marks on its chest and shoulders that Behemoth must have made when he had been run down.
He has passed the poison on. Will the horse become like him?
The thought made his mind up for him. He gave a last look at Behemoth, crawling desperately toward him still, and then he turned and approached the building.
A sound came from within. It was the sound of a cleaver severing sinew and bone. It was followed by a grim laugh.
Jerrod.
Sulla entered cautiously, vulnerable in the darkness.
But I saw her scratch Jerrod. What if he’s like Behemoth now, too? There would be no chance to avoid such a creature.
The grim laugh sounded again.
But such creatures don’t laugh. Do they?
He found Jerrod in the darkness. The faintest scattering of afternoon light was just enough for him to see the outline of the werewolf before him. There was no sign of the Wyrd, but he could tell there was no small tangle of limbs upon the floor, too obscure to make out in detail.
Jerrod turned at his approach.
“We did it, Sulla,” he said. “Or I did. And just look at what we’ve done.” Jerrod laughed again.
“What do you mean?”
Jerrod rarely laughs so much. And it is not a sound I like.
“I mean I’ve been played for a fool. From the very start. My master has appeared to me, and I am cursed now. If I ever return to Morytania I will be tortured for years beyond reckoning for interfering with his plans.”
“But you were asked to do this,” Sulla said.
“Yes, but by another,” he growled. “I am sure now of two things, Sulla. The first is that it was not Lord Drakan who sent me, as I mistakenly believed. The second is that there is division in Morytania. Regardless, I can never return to my homeland.” Sulla saw Jerrod move to the side of the building. Suddenly he swung an object in the darkness, and Sulla saw that it was the dwarf’s axe. It smashed its way through two planks and let in a ray of daylight.
“I can never go home now,” Jerrod said again, his red eyes narrowing as he looked behind him. “Look Sulla.”
Sulla followed his gaze and he saw why.
The Wyrd’s severed head stood propped upon a crate, her eyes open but now without their orange flame. Sulla turned to face his one true ally.
“Then let us make a new home for you this side of the river, my friend,” he said. “Thanks to the Wyrd, we will have asylum, and with it wealth and influence. And perhaps-if Kara-Meir should ever return-our revenge.”
The Mad Axe groaned from the shadows. Mergil, too, moved slightly. Sulla looked back to where he had left Turine. She was on her knees, her hand pressed against her head where a clot of blood stained her face. Red blood. She looked at him in a daze.
She is not one of them.
“Let’s get the survivors to the cart and make our return to Varrock,” he said. And then, whispering, he spoke again. “We’ll have to burn Behemoth. He’s still crawling around outside.”
Jerrod nodded and left with the dwarf’s axe, to carry out his dreadful task.
Sulla saw Turine’s eyes follow the werewolf through the building. He sensed the fear in her, and smiled as he saw her discomfort.
“So what do I do with you, Turine?” he said airily. “I could feed you to Jerrod. That way all the glory would be mine.” He smiled. “No, I think not. Not today.”
“You… you won’t kill us?” Turine asked.
So there is still power to my reputation, he observed. But there is a time and a place for mindless violence.
Sulla shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Behemoth was poisoned by the Wyrd. He went mad, but he is our only casualty.” There is no need for her to know the whole truth about the Wyrd’s contagion. It might be very valuable later on, when I am a prisoner of King Roald’s. Anything extra for me to bargain with will be necessary. “We, however, are going to be greeted as heroes in Varrock, where I will present myself to the King. In the days and weeks to come, I will need people who I know can be trusted. I have spared your lives, Turine. You know my reputation. And you know what Jerrod is.
“You know how very, very easily that decision could have been different,” he added. “All I expect is loyalty. If ever I have need of you in the future, I expect my mercy to be repaid. Do I have your word?”
The smell of burning reached him from outside.
“You have it,” she replied, “…Lord Sulla.”
Lord Sulla? How long has it been since anyone called me that name with such respect?
“Good,” he said. “Now get up. I need your help in getting our comrades onto the cart.”