Runescape: The Fall of Hallowvale E-Book

Robbie MacNiven

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 452

Beschreibung

A thrilling epic of duty, magic and vampyres set in the Third Age that looks at why Lord Drakan invaded Hallowvale. Sure to delight RuneScape fans old and new, this stunning tale shows how and why Hallowvale was taken over. "I owe you a battle-debt," Rhea admitted, inclining her head and making the sign of the star. "Something tells me you will have ample opportunity to return it soon enough, Wolf," the icyene replied. The city of Hallowvale has stood for centuries, a realm of light safeguarded by winged protectors and the Everlight. But all that will soon change. As the millennia-spanning God Wars grind towards their brutal conclusion, the armies of darkness descend upon the shining city - vampyres, werewolves, and legions of cruel mortal warriors, led by the cunning and malicious Lord Drakan. The streets are filled with panic, but Queen Efaritay remains confident. Surely Saradomin, Lord of the Light, will save them? Their military will delay the foe until He arrives, the Queen has a secret weapon at her disposal and, if all else fails, the glow of the Everlight will stave off the blood-drinking vyre? Can the knightly warriors defending Hallowvale stand firm, or will they be undone not by the wicked efforts of their foe, but by the faltering reign of their queen, Efaritay? And why has Drakan become obsessed with claiming Hallowvale for himself? Faced with desperate choices, the queen adopts a risky strategy to turn the tide. Her choices will echo for eternity as the fate of Hallowvale teeters on the brink.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Also Available from Titan Books

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Part One

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Part Two

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Part Three

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

RuneScape: The Gift of Guthix

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN COMICS

RuneScape: Untold Tales of the God Wars

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RUNESCAPE: THE FALL OF HALLOWVALEPrint edition ISBN: 9781803366050E-book edition ISBN: 9781835411056

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UPwww.titanbooks.com

First edition: November 202410 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 Jagex Ltd.

Robbie MacNiven asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Published by Titan Books under licence from Jagex Ltd. © Jagex Ltd. JAGEX®, the “X” logo, RuneScape®, Old School RuneScape® and Guthix are registered and/or unregistered trade marks of Jagex Ltd in the United Kingdom, European Union, United States and other countries.

Cover illustration: Mark Montague

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Dedicated to the fans of RuneScape – I hope I’ve done the setting proud.

PART ONE

ONE

The eighth bell was tolling. Luken was late. He needed to reach the Hallowed Church and its great Sepulchre before Delen Akeron, archpriest of the unicorn, got himself killed.

The junior illuminator dodged around a series of street stalls and found himself fighting through a crowd of squabbling traders. A cart had thrown a wheel in the middle of the roadway, spilling several sacks full of turnips and radishes in the process. The driver was blaming one of the stall sellers for causing his donkey to shy, while the stall seller was cursing at the driver for blocking access to his wares.

He doubled back to bypass the gathering crowd and tried to work his way along the far end of the street. A duo of icyene psiloi, warriors clad in their bright silver armour, were watching the squabbling humans dispassionately, and most of the crowd didn’t want to get too close to the tall, winged beings. Luken dared thread the gap, avoiding eye contact with the icyene and clutching his purchase – a sack full of joop powder – to his chest. The Hallowed Church’s stocks of incense had been running low, and joop was a necessary ingredient for making more. Akeron had sent Luken to Hallowvale’s marketplace to collect supplies before the evening service.

Luken had accepted the task grudgingly, not because he didn’t fancy a trip into the heart of the great city that gave its name to the surrounding region – it felt like weeks since he had been out of the grounds of the Church and its Sepulchre – but because he worried about Akeron. Blessings of Saradomin or not, the archpriest had been growing ever frailer of late. Luken feared for the day when he was no longer able to fulfil his duties, and a new archpriest was elected from the other three Saradominist orders, one that would not have the patience Akeron had shown to him as his junior illuminator.

He successfully negotiated the edge of the crowd and pressed on, hitching the blue robes of his woollen himation so they did not trail in the muck and manure of the roadway. He darted in front of another cart on Agaristis Street and cut left across Candlemaker Row, into the church district that comprised much of the north-eastern quarter of Hallowvale.

The buildings here were among the oldest in the city, icyene-built, all stone arches, domes and columns. The streets were paved with proper cobbles, not rutted dirt, and every corner was overseen by graven statues and fluttering blue and gold standards bearing the star of Saradomin.

Luken forced himself to slow his pace, knowing Akeron would not approve of other clergymen seeing his junior illuminator sprinting through the sacred streets. He caught his breath and tried to tell himself he was being irrational. What terrible fate could possibly befall Akeron while he was absent? He’d barely been gone two bell-tolls. But he had promised to be back before eighth bell, and now he felt guilty. He was letting the archpriest down. Akeron needed him, even if he was too cantankerous to admit it.

He rounded the Temple of Enlightenment and began to cross the square beyond it. The Hallowed Church loomed before him, the heart of Saradominist worship in the city. It was a vast, domed structure, the tallest after the Everlight, the citadel and the acropolis, bigger even than the royal palace. Its façade supported by great pillars and its gilt doors flanked by towering statues of Saradomin, the bearded visage of the Father of Light and Wisdom carved with flawless perfection from blue azurenite by icyene craftsmen. Though Luken had lived in its shadow for as long as he could remember, the sight of it still made him slow his pace.

Something hit him from the right, almost knocking him over and making him scrabble at his joop bag. He had collided with a priest cutting across the square. The man growled something most unbecoming of a servant of Saradomin as Luken stammered an apology and hastened on.

Rather than enter through the main doors – they were locked at this time of day – he skirted along the pillars at the Church’s front, feeling the eyes of the hypaspists on him every step of the way. Warriors from the four holy ordos – the wolf, owl, lion and unicorn – guarded the Hallowed Church night and day. Luken was afraid of them, of their great spears and swords and gleaming steel armour and equally hard silences. In all his years he had barely spoken to one, but thankfully being the archpriest’s junior illuminator meant he went unchallenged. Still, he felt them watching him as he reached the alleyway that led down the Church’s eastern flank.

He passed in through the building’s arched side entrance, pausing briefly to scrape his shoes on the outer edge of the door so he didn’t track mud into the holiest of spaces.

The exterior of the Hallowed Church was grand and imposing, but it was nothing compared to the interior. Its above-ground structure combined with the bulk of the Hallowed Sepulchre that lay beneath it, five lower levels forming sprawling catacombs of stone corridors and arches, pillars and statues and, of course, the tombs of the Hallowed Dead. Though lit by the radiant shards of Saradomin, Luken did not much like the under-levels, especially the ones reserved for the icyene.

He took the stairs that lay at the end of the entrance corridor, his every step watched by the statues of justiciars, priests and scholars that crowded along the walls. Familiar though he was with the place, he still felt as though they were all glaring at him.

As he climbed, he heard a rattle, echoing through the stone passages. He bit back a curse, and broke once more into an ungainly run.

He reached the upper hall in time to see Delen Akeron tottering at the top of an unfeasibly tall ladder, a hook-pole in one hand. He had just finished opening the last of the hall’s dozen ceiling shutters, allowing the glorious brilliance of the Everlight to spill down into the chamber, illuminating the motes of dust drifting through the air.

“Archpriest!” Luken exclaimed, discarding the joop at the foot of the statue of Justiciar Phosani and charging to Akeron’s rescue. The ladder swayed dangerously, Akeron snapping at him to calm down even as the archpriest clutched reflexively at the upper rungs.

Luken grabbed the ladder and steadied it, ignoring the diatribe from on high. Akeron began to descend unsteadily, the hook-pole in one hand combining with his long blue-and-white Saradominist robes to make his motions dangerously clumsy. Luken held his breath until he was able to help him down the last few rungs.

“You should not be opening the shutters alone, archpriest,” Luken admonished. “What if you fell?”

“Then at least I’ll finally be rid of your fussing, boy,” Akeron growled, handing him the pole and adjusting his robes. No one seemed to know his age – nor dared to ask him – but the fact that the upper hall had borne a statue of him for as long as Luken could remember made him feel like the archpriest of the unicorn had been lambasting his junior illuminators and delivering uncompromising sermons since the Hallowed Church had been built, centuries before. Though increasingly gaunt, he was still tall and upright, with a full, white beard and bushy eyebrows framing eyes that were keen, quick and blue as azurenite.

When Luken thought of Saradomin in his prayers, he pictured Delen Akeron.

“Did you find the joop?” Akeron asked.

“Yes, archpriest.”

“The good stuff? From Maken’s stall?”

“Yes, archpriest.”

Akeron held out one gnarled hand, and Luken obediently fished into the pocket of his himation and drew out the coinage left over from the purchase.

“You didn’t buy yourself anything at the market?” Akeron demanded as he received back the money.

“No, archpriest.”

Akeron grunted, looked down at the coins, then pressed them back into Luken’s palm.

“Well, next time you can,” he said, cutting off Luken’s protests about it being money for the Church’s upkeep. “Enough chit-chat. The floor needs swept and then that joop needs mixed, or it’ll go up like a Day of Light bonfire instead of smouldering. Come on, boy, move yourself.”

Luken nodded obediently and retrieved the broom he stored behind the statue of Justiciar Ekos Lysander. He began to sweep the bare flagstones of the upper hall, starting beneath the altar and working his way out in an arc. It was a process he had performed countless times, since he had been big enough to hold the broom.

As a baby, Luken had been abandoned on the steps of the Church and taken in by the Saradominist priesthood. There had been other orphans too, but almost all had decided to leave when they were old enough. Luken had stayed. He felt duty-bound to Akeron, who had always looked out for him when he had been younger, ensuring he was properly fed and ameliorating the punishments set by other priests.

In truth, the thought of leaving and abandoning the certainties and routines of life in the Church scared Luken.

So he swept, as he had swept so many times before, and lost himself in the peace of the cold, bright chamber.

The scrape of armour disturbed his labours. He looked up and froze. One of the hypaspists, a lion’s pelt worn about his shoulders, was standing in the doorway to the upper hall.

“Word from the front doors, archpriest,” he said. “A messenger, from the citadel. You are called to attend Her-Winged-Majesty on a matter of absolute urgency. He refuses to elaborate.”

Luken cast an uncertain look at Akeron. Word from the citadel was a rare thing, even more so if it came directly from Queen Efaritay. Surely, she knew it was the Day of Light, and that the Church had to be prepared ahead of the service that would soon be filling its upper floors?

“Have the messenger take word that I will attend with all haste,” Akeron said. Luken stared at him, wondering if he was missing something. As the hypaspist departed, he spoke up.

“What about the preparations for the service, archpriest?”

Akeron said nothing, looking instead towards the statue of Queen Efaritay, that stood to the right of the altar. Luken tried to change tack.

“I can finish the preparations while you are absent, archpriest. I’m sure I’ll have it all set by the time you return.”

To Luken’s surprise, Akeron shook his head.

“No. You’ll accompany me, boy.”

“To the citadel?” Luken asked disbelievingly, feeling a sudden rush of equal parts anticipation and concern.

“We have been summoned to the citadel, so to the citadel we shall go,” Akeron said, looking from the statue to Luken, his gaze fierce. “Now, get changed into something more befitting a faithful servant of Saradomin. Your robe hems are all mucky. It’s not every day you get to meet the queen.”

TWO

The crash of steel meeting steel rang through the cold air, echoing back from stone vaults built by the hands of Saradomin’s greatest servants.

Rhea pressed the attack. Phosani had turned aside her initial lunge – the justiciar of the wolf was fast, but Rhea could match her. She brought her spatha back in before Phosani could launch a riposte, jarring her opponent’s sword aside and giving Rhea the angle she needed to stamp forward.

It was all in the footwork. It took her inside Phosani’s guard and turned the block into a lunge. The tip of her sword hit Phosani’s breastplate just to the lower-left of the bright gold of the star emblazoned across it, jarring off to the right.

Phosani swung a haymaker with her own spatha, crude but enough to keep Rhea at bay while the justiciar disengaged. She put a trio of paces between them, regaining a low guard, shoulders squared, feet spread.

Rhea quelled the urge to follow up immediately, instead taking a high guard and beginning to circle off to the left, slowly. She watched the justiciar intently as she moved, focusing on the tip of her blade, looking for the first hint that she was going to switch from defence to offence.

Phosani’s face was inscrutable behind the bright steel of her spike-crowned helm, but Rhea could imagine it well enough, her noble features pursed, pale eyes glaring. She was being tested more than she was used to, but that was why she had chosen Rhea for this bout.

Phosani took a step forward and Rhea ceased her circling, trading a step back in response. Dry straw crackled underfoot. The vaulted, circular chamber around them had once been an icyene oratory, a Saradomin place of worship for the beings that had built Hallowvale. Echoes of that still persisted, in the slender, high stained-glass windows and the old icyene statues on their plinths, wings furled, hands folded and heads bowed.

But the oratory had been used as a drill chamber for centuries now, ever since the construction of the Hallowed Church had brought together all of Hallowvale’s worshipers. The icyene had agreed to give this space over to the human ordos whose barracks shared its street, and now it was part sparring chamber, part armoury, its flagstones spread with straw and its edges crammed with training boards, dummies and racks bearing the arms and armour of the four ordos of human hypaspists that called the city home.

Phosani took another step, testing to see if Rhea would give more ground. She would not. The first, small retreat had been designed to build an assumption, and as soon as Phosani moved forward again Rhea shifted to meet her, high guard becoming a feint that disguised a two-handed stab, and aimed at the target of the star of Saradomin on her chest.

It was Phosani’s turn to parry, matching Rhea for speed now – she had anticipated her subordinate’s aggression. Rhea welcomed it, and they exchanged blows at close range, a swift cacophony of steel that made ugly echoes through the old chamber.

Phosani found the edge, scraping her blade along Rhea’s and locking crossguards. The spatha they were using were crude swords, old and heavy and dull, good now only for training bouts. Phosani was a master of many weapons, and she used that weight to her advantage, driving aside Rhea’s defence.

It was Rhea’s turn to break off. Phosani tried to follow, but a slight misstep meant her lunge fell just short of connecting.

“Watch your footwork,” Rhea advised as they circled again, catching their breath.

“Noted,” Phosani responded, terse but measured. “Watch your recovery. These weapons make everything slower.”

“Noted,” Rhea said.

The two had been sparring in their full panoply for almost half an hour now, and neither had yet gained a true advantage. Rhea felt no pride matching the White Wolf. It was her duty to keep Phosani sharp. Rhea was the justiciar’s longest serving hypaspist, the most battle-hardened of her Wolves, the whetstone to her blade. They pushed each other hard so that, when they entered combat again, it would be no greater challenge than when they fought across the old hall.

They met once more, Rhea leading as the dance of swords took them to the edge of the sparring area. Phosani succeeded in again locking their weapons, but rather than open Rhea’s guard, she twisted the pommel up and cracked it against the cheek of Rhea’s crested helm. She countered by snatching at Phosani’s throat and kicked at her ankle, knocking her feet out from under her.

No rules here. When they met the Zamorakians again, there would be none then either.

The two went down together with a clatter of armour. Phosani was taller, but Rhea had been dragged down on top, and she knew she was stronger. She pinned Phosani’s sword-wrist and dragged her own heavy blade, in a reverse grip, up beneath the edge of her opponent’s helm, threatening to open her throat.

“Commander.”

The words were not quite an exclamation, but they were not far off it. Rhea froze and grimaced, then rose up. She proffered Phosani her hand, and the justiciar of the wolf took it without hesitation, allowing herself to be dragged to her feet. They both turned to face the interloper.

Insela stood atop the steps leading down into the oratory. Like Rhea, she was one of Phosani’s Wolves, though younger and less experienced. She was dressed in white chiton and a blue chlamys cloak, edged with silver. Strapped across her back was the crossbow she favoured in combat. Her dark hair was bound up, and her seemingly ever-watchful grey eyes darted between the two hypaspists.

Phosani paused to drag off her helmet and shake her hair free, a long cascade of silver that seemed to shine white in the cold, autumnal light spearing through the high windows.

“Speak,” she instructed. The word sounded harsh, given an edge by the flush of combat that still gripped the pair, but the justiciar ameliorated it. “We were just finishing.”

“A messenger has arrived at the barracks,” Insela reported. “He came straight from the citadel, seeking you. Apparently, you are to report to Her-Winged-Majesty with all haste.”

“Did he offer any elaboration?”

“No, commander, but he is waiting outside.”

Rhea watched Phosani as she pondered the news. For a moment the tall warrior did not look so dissimilar to the statues of the winged beings watching over them. Rhea could see why there were the rumours of icyene ancestry in the justiciar’s bloodline.

“Bring him in,” Phosani instructed Insela eventually. As the crossbow-woman left, Phosani spoke to Rhea.

“If we are to go before the queen, you will accompany me.”

“Of course, commander,” Rhea said, noting the bitter look Insela gave her as she departed. “Should I help you out of your armour?”

“No,” Phosani said. “Something tells me there won’t be time for that.”

* * *

The citadel dominated the west of Hallowvale, a bristling crown of towers, battlements and buttresses that shone white in the Everlight’s glory as Rhea and Phosani approached.

The main gate was flanked by icyene statues, towering mirrors of the armoured icyene warriors who stood guard outside the metal-sheathed doors. They were closed and barred, a fact that Rhea immediately noted as unusual. Though permanently defended, they usually stood open to allow the uninterrupted flow of dignitaries, officials and soldiery between the castle and the city. The fact that someone, presumably the queen, had ordered them shut suggested there was an immediate threat to Hallowvale.

Rhea resisted the urge to speculate with Phosani as they waited for the gate to open before passing into the citadel’s main courtyard. The cobbled space was surrounded by towering fortifications, the walls hung with the standards of Hallowvale and the queen, the justiciar ordos, the icyene nobility and the Saradominist faith. An early twilight seemed to have gripped the space, the height of the surrounding defensive structures meaning even the Everlight had been driven out.

The place was bustling. The icyene garrison had been stood to, several ranks under inspection along the left side of the courtyard. Messengers were dashing back and forth, and as Rhea entered, she saw a flock of icyene psiloi take wing from the battlements above. They were heading north-west, skirting the lowering autumnal sun.

“We should have roused the Wolves before coming here,” Phosani commented as they crossed the courtyard, barked icyene orders ringing out around them.

“I can return and muster them, commander,” Rhea suggested.

“No. The messenger carried no instructions about that. Let us discover the cause of all this first.”

They mounted the stone stairs leading to the citadel’s keep, icyene royal guards resplendent in their silver-edged panoply admitting them. One led them inside.

The throne room of the citadel was a long chamber in the ancient style of New Domina, high, with tall, slender window arches and pillars carved with star constellations no human in the city would recognise. The throne itself sat atop a dais at the far end, its back fashioned like two icyene wings, spreading out and upwards and perfectly framed by a circular glass window bearing the star of Saradomin behind it. A lesser throne sat alongside – wingless, human craftwork, designed for Queen Efaritay’s husband, Ascertes.

The chamber itself, while grand, was a lesser version of the throne room within the royal palace that lay to the south-east, but business was still often conducted in the citadel, close as it was to the city’s main entrances and its centre. Rhea suspected the audience being held in the citadel also pointed to the threat the city was currently under – it was certainly a more secure location than the palace.

Both the queen and her human consort were present and seated. Before them was a circle of dignitaries, icyene and humans, standing separate from one another.

It seemed all the great and the good of the city had been summoned. The head of the Hallowvale icyene military, Strategos Archon Babel, was there with his senior subordinates, on the immediate right of the dais. The high priests of the lion, owl and wolf had also taken their places in the circle, as had a gaggle of minor nobles and the senior merchants, the emporoi.

Most notably, as far as Rhea was concerned, the leaders of the other hypaspist ordos had been called upon too. There was the ageing justiciar of the unicorn, Ekos Lysander, dressed for the time being in his Saradominist robes rather than armour. Beside him was the justiciar of the lion, Aliya, tall and imposing in her golden pelts, grasping the runic staff that marked her as the most potent arcane caster in the city. The only absence was Zachariah of the owl, who had been dispatched months ago by Saradomin himself on some secret task. His subordinate, a grizzled hypaspist by the name of Dorien, stood in his place. Phosani occupied the gap between them, nodding a greeting, while Rhea hung back, just outside the circle along with the other retainers.

The council was almost complete. Rhea half turned to see the last arrivals entering – the archpriest of the unicorn, old Delen Akeron, trailed by his fresh-faced, nervous-looking junior illuminator. They were both garbed in their formal robes, and the archpriest was clutching a staff topped with the star of Saradomin, a design echoed by the crown that gleamed on his brow.

They took their place, and an expectant hush settled. Efaritay rose gracefully from her throne, Ascertes following her. The entire assembly bowed.

“Sons and daughters of Hallowvale,” the queen began, the light cascading through the star window making the perfect white feathers of her wings gleam. “My thanks for attending with such alacrity. Know that I would not have summoned with such abruptness, but a matter of gravest importance has arisen, and there is no time to delay.”

None of the assembly made any comment, and Efaritay continued.

“I will be clear from the start, for the very survival of our city will likely depend on what we choose to do here today. Word has come from the north-western frontier. A Zamorakian legion, bearing the standards of the vyrelord Drakan, has broken through the defences. Just as their ancestors did, they are marching upon us.”

* * *

Shocked murmurs swept through the throne room. Luken simply stared. He had never seen Queen Efaritay this close, and was in awe of her pale, aquiline beauty, her grace, the calm precision of her voice, the way her feathers ruffled slightly when she spoke.

Her words were enough to break the spell. He blinked, looked at Akeron. Unlike almost everyone else in the circle, the archpriest’s expression remained stoic.

Drakan. Luken had heard that name in stories, tales whispered during long winter nights in the Saradominist orphanage or written down in the musty old tomes he had studied as a child. He was the lord of all vampyres, nightmare creatures that feasted on the flesh and blood of mortals. Like the icyene, they were said to have come from beyond Gielinor, but they were different in every way – bat-winged, blood-drinking night-stalkers, hunters of the dark, servants of foul gods and killers of men. Luken hadn’t believed in their existence, yet here he was, witnessing his queen speaking of them with utmost gravity. The reaction of the rest of the chamber left him in no doubt – the stories were true.

Justiciar Lysander, standing next to Akeron, was the first to speak.

“Are we certain of this? There have been rumours of disruption beyond the borders for weeks now, but a vampyre host?”

“It has been confirmed by Strategos Babel’s prodromoi,” the queen said, an elegant sweep of her arm indicating that Babel should speak. The icyene commander took a half-step into the circle – unnecessarily, Luken thought – and addressed the assembly.

“Three separate outfliers have come from the north, all eyewitnesses of the approaching host. The sky turns dark above them and the ground is black with their numbers. They bear icons of Zamorak and the heraldry of Lowerniel Drakan.”

“And they have already broken through the border defences?” one of the emporoi merchants asked. “How can that be?”

“The border garrisons have been successively weakened to reinforce the armies besieging the Infernal Source,” Babel said. “There was little intelligence of a Zamorakian legion mustering near Viggora’s Folly. The tetrarchs were of the combined opinion that the city would not be threatened.”

“Then the tetrarchs were mistaken,” Zephiklos, priest of the owl, declared, referring to the senior military council that served Saradomin in his ongoing campaigns against Zamorak. “We have been left defenceless!”

“We are far from defenceless,” Efaritay said before the council could descend into chaos. “Let us show the calmness and wisdom that are the tenets of our god. We have the garrison tagma, and we are blessed with the hypaspists of the ordos. The walls are strong and the Everlight is bright. Neither will be breached.”

“But we must prepare to resist,” Tarshen, the priest of the lion, said. “If it is true that the Zamorakians are led by vyre, there can be no negotiations. They will spare none of us if they are victorious! We must fight to the end!”

“And we shall,” Efaritay said. “But we must choose our strategies carefully. Our first recourse should be to send for aid, from Forinthry and from Saradomin himself. Messengers stand atop the ramparts, waiting to take flight, but I would have the assent of this council before I order them on their way.”

There were murmurs of agreement from both the human and icyene wings of the council. Luken found it amazing that the queen hadn’t already sent her messengers, but he supposed he was being naïve – though Efaritay’s lineage had ruled over Hallowvale since her mother and father had founded the city, she did so at Saradomin’s command, and under the expectation that she would adhere to the guidance of Hallowvale’s council.

“Do you think Saradomin can spare us aid?” another of the emporoi asked. “And even if he did, would it arrive in time?”

Phosani was the first to respond, her tone firm.

“Of course Saradomin will come to our aid. The only point of uncertainty is whether we can defend the land beyond the walls until he arrives. If it is true, and a whole Zamorakian legion marches against us, it is likely we will have to yield most of what lies outside the city to offset our numerical disadvantage.”

There were more murmurs at that, but Lysander swiftly added his voice to Phosani’s.

“I agree. As unpalatable as it may be, everything between the western gate and the Salve may have to be surrendered.”

“What exactly does ‘surrendered’ entail?” another of the merchants asked. “Surely the people living there can be evacuated into the city?”

Lysander nodded, though Luken noted that Phosani gave no word or gesture.

He did his best to keep up with the conversation as it unfolded, but much of it was beyond him. He wasn’t sure why Akeron had brought him.

For his own part, the archpriest listened silently, keeping his own counsel. Luken was waiting for some incisive comment, for Akeron to bring clarity not only to him, but to the whole assembly. But it never came.

A vote was held on a message to be sent to Saradomin, reporting the invasion and requesting relief be sent to Hallowvale. It passed unanimously.

“The hour grows late,” Efaritay said afterwards. Luken realised she was correct. The throne room faced west, so didn’t receive the Everlight’s illumination directly. As the council had debated, lamp pillars had ignited of their own accord, keeping the chamber bathed in a warm glow as the last golden daylight glimmering through the Saradominist window behind the thrones had blinked out.

“I will adjourn this meeting for the night,” the queen said. “We shall reconvene tomorrow morning, on the second bell, and finalise our strategy.”

There was muttered assent. Luken looked at Akeron, who gave the slightest nod.

“Say nothing of what has transpired here today,” Efaritay went on. “The news will be known in the streets soon enough, but we must control it for as long as possible. Panic will only undermine our efforts.”

“May the light of Saradomin shine ahead of us, and light our way,” Akeron said. They were the first words he had uttered.

“Will you lead us in prayer before we adjourn, hallowed archpriest?” the queen asked.

“As it pleases Your-Winged-Majesty,” Akeron said, making the sign of the star and raising his staff. Like the rest of the assembly, Luken bowed his head quickly, and listened as the archpriest intoned the Third Prayer of Order and Wisdom, calling Saradomin’s grace and good counsel down on them all. There, at last, was something Luken recognised, something he was familiar with. He took comfort from the words he had heard so often echoing around the Hallowed Church, and was briefly able to forget the tumultuous news and the great, imposing figures he was caught up amidst.

When it was ended, Efaritay dismissed the council. Akeron spoke briefly with the justiciar of the unicorn, Lysander, as they walked from the chamber, Luken keeping close behind the pair. They were old friends, and Lysander’s duties in defending the Saradominist quarter meant he was a regular visitor to the Hallowed Church.

“Even if the message is delivered swiftly, how long will it take to muster a response?” Luken heard Lysander ask.

“All we can do is pray, my friend,” Akeron responded. “That will be our best weapon, until we draw steel. That, and the light. Against the vyre, it is our only hope.”

“Saradomin will come,” Phosani said, interrupting the pair. The justiciar of the wolf had been about to leave the throne room ahead of them, but paused to speak to Lysander and Akeron. Her long silver hair matched the armour she wore. At her back was her retainer, a scarred, hard-faced hypaspist called Rhea. Her eyes were as cold and unyielding as the steel that sheathed her – he did his best not to quail behind Akeron as her gaze fell briefly on him.

“I would have expected greater faith from the archpriest of Hallowvale,” Phosani went on.

“And I would have expected greater military practicality from a justiciar,” Akeron replied. “I will include you in my prayers tonight, if it will ease your concerns.”

Phosani said nothing more, but turned and left, her retainer in tow.

“Sometimes I think the White Wolf should have been the justiciar of the unicorn, and not I,” Lysander said. “Truly, she loves the Lord of Light.”

“One of her few redeeming qualities,” Akeron said, dangerously loudly.

They passed out through the citadel, Luken finding himself craning his neck to stare up at the high walls and turrets surrounding them. More icyene were taking off, flying into the darkness that loomed to the west, beyond the radius cast by the Everlight. The night sky there was clouded, starless, a void that left Luken feeling cold and empty.

Akeron bade farewell to Lysander outside the gates, and they passed back into the constant glow of the Everlight, walking through the streets towards the Hallowed Church. There were few people abroad, and those they passed gave hasty bows to the archpriest before getting out of his way.

“Why did you stay silent throughout the council?” Luken dared ask as they went.

“I had nothing worthwhile to add,” Akeron said. “At least, nothing that anyone would yet take heed of. You would do well to emulate me, boy.”

“But surely they need Saradomin’s guiding wisdom, the wisdom that only you can provide,” Luken said, forging on despite Akeron’s tone. “I mean, I didn’t even know vampyres were real. I thought they were just monsters from the old stories, the kind the icyene tell about the things that haunt the night beyond the Everlight.”

Akeron stopped, so abruptly that Luken bumped into him. As he started to apologise the archpriest gripped his wrist, the glow of the Everlight shining upon his fierce expression.

“Say nothing of vampyres, not out here,” he said under his breath. “I fear many mistakes were made this evening, but Her-Winged-Majesty was right about one thing. We cannot afford to scare the people.”

Luken swallowed and nodded hastily, Akeron released him, and they carried on. He said nothing more until they reached the church district.

As they emerged into the square before the Hallowed Church, Luken realised that, despite the lateness of the hour, it was busy with people milling about. He was hit by a sudden rush of realisation. The evening service. Amidst everything that had happened, he had completely forgotten that Akeron had been set to lead the sunset prayers at the close of the Day of Light.

“Shall I send them away, archpriest?” he asked as they passed through the crowd, people bowing and genuflecting on either side.

“No,” Akeron said, before raising his voice, addressing the people as he went. “The doors will be opened. A late service is better than none. Let us call on the Lord of Light, and look to the coming dawn.”

THREE

Ranis Drakan was forced to pause at the door of the watchtower. He had met the wicked tip of a spear, pressed to his throat.

“Let me past, you cretinous dolt,” he snarled at the vyreguard standing just inside the entranceway, baring his fangs. His brother’s elite warriors loved to impede him at every opportunity – he was becoming fairly certain it was a running joke among them.

“His-Dark-Self is feeding,” the vyreguard replied, the spear not moving. “He is not to be disturbed.”

“Is that so… Morgast,” Ranis said in his most dangerous tone. The vyreguard’s faceplate, crafted into a snarling, fanged grotesque, hid his identity, but Ranis took a stab at who this one was in an attempt at intimidation. “You’ll regret delaying me when he finds out what I have to tell him.”

“Well, I won’t be held responsible for what happens to you in there, my lord,” the vyreguard said, his tone bordering on insolence. “And it’s Vengen, not Morgast. He’s guarding the other door.”

Ranis hissed with impatience and smacked aside the spear before striding past the armoured imbecile.

The tower lay north-east of where the River Salve lost its way amidst the marshlands of Westmire, south of Viggora’s Folly. It was one of dozens of similar defences that demarcated the frontier between Hallowvale and the Zamorakian-controlled lands further north. This part of the front line in the millennia-old war between Zamorak and Saradomin hadn’t shifted for centuries. Until tonight.

There was a body lying in the doorway, a Saradominist soldier, ripped apart. Ranis paused to gaze longingly at the blood glistening across the stonework underfoot, then made himself carry on, stepping over the corpse and beginning to ascend the tower.

The blood could wait. He had to deliver this news before his sister did.

The vanguard of the Zamorakian legion had overrun the tower and pressed on south-east several hours before, at the onset of early night yet His-Dark-Self had chosen to linger, gripped by one of the unknowable fancies Ranis had long ago stopped trying to predict or interpret. Ranis had carried on with the main force, eager, like most other vampyres of note, to claim the honour of being the first to plant a foot on Hallowvale’s soil.

It shouldn’t have been this simple. The border defences had held the Zamorakians at bay for hundreds of years. Yet Saradomin was now committing his all to what he thought would be a final battle against Zamorak at the Infernal Source. That had weakened his flank. It had fallen to the vyre to exploit that weakness, and so it had proven. This tower, and several others like it, had been left with only a skeleton garrison.

Now, it was a garrison of torn and bloodied corpses.

The lower chambers were deserted, already ransacked. Ranis stalked through them, until he heard a thump from above, something impacting against the wooden floorboards on the tower’s highest level.

He climbed, his light step eliciting only the faintest creak from the timber underfoot.

It seemed a number of the garrison had made their last stand on the top floor. Ranis got a view of one man’s legs as he entered the uppermost level, lying still, the rest of his body obscured by the figure crouched on top.

Most of the being’s muscular upper torso was bare, and obscured by a great set of furled, bat-like wings. The pinions were etched with red markings and sigils, daubed in blood in the ancient language of Vampyrium. They recounted mighty and terrible deeds, litanies of horror and death the likes of which Ranis could only dream of. The markings met in the centre of the figure’s upper back, arrows and circles forming the sigil borne on so many of fourteenth legion’s banners.

The figure shifted slightly as Ranis crept in, still stooped over, making a faint, wet suckling noise. Despite his urgency, Ranis found himself pausing, mustering the courage to speak. He found his tongue eventually, and breathed a single word.

“Brother—”

What happened next was too fast for Ranis to follow. The figure moved, a blur of speed, the next thing he knew he was in the air, then pinned against the stone wall, his feet kicking uselessly, one armoured gauntlet clamping around his throat and nailing him in place like an insect on a specimen board.

He choked, hands instinctively going up to try to prise open the murder-grip, but it was utterly unyielding.

He found himself gazing into the red eyes of Lowerniel Drakan. There was nothing but bloodlust and hunger, and he was convinced his brother was about to rip his head off.

Just as suddenly as Ranis had been pinned, he was released. He dropped unceremoniously to the floorboards, though his reflexes allowed him to land lithely on his feet. He gasped, clutching his throat, trying to recover as Drakan spoke.

“Why do you disturb me?”

Ranis took a moment, finding his words as he forced himself to look up at his brother. Drakan had adopted the bestial aspect vampyres usually succumbed to when feeding, his high-boned, haughty features twisted into an animal countenance akin to that of a fanged bat. His lower jaw and broad chest were glistening with fresh blood. The scent of it made Ranis shiver with a sudden and potent hunger, but he suppressed it.

“I would not interrupt you if it wasn’t urgent,” he said, managing to meet his brother’s gaze.

“Then speak.”

“We have prisoners. Members of one of the garrisons further south were fool enough to allow themselves to be taken alive.”

“Is that so?” Drakan demanded. “And who took them?”

“Legionaries,” Ranis said evasively, not wanting to mention that it had specifically been legionaries from the cohort that their sister, Vanescula, commanded. “But they are now in the care of my own brood. I have instructed none to touch them while they await your pleasure.”

Drakan grunted. He turned aside, seemingly about to depart, but paused before leaving the room. Despite his best efforts, Ranis found himself staring at the bloody carcasses littering the floor. A terrible need churned inside him, a void that demanded to be filled.

“Go on, little brother,” Drakan said, with something that might have been a smile. “Feed. You have earned it tonight.”

* * *

Lowerniel Drakan passed through his host. At its core was the fourteenth legion, a force of veteran Zamorakian soldiers who had long been bonded to his service. They came to attention as the phalanx of vyreguard that had closed in around him moved through their ranks, beating their swords against their shields in salute.

The common vyre surrounded Drakan’s elite. Thralls, fang-masters and brood-warriors, a pallid swarm forged into a loyal and disciplined host by his iron will. There were lesser creatures too, undead wights and shambling corpses, and half-feral werewolves that prowled along the flanks of the host, hunting for scraps. Their snarls and growls silenced as Drakan passed by.

This was the army he had created, unleashed now with the blessings of Zamorak. The only being Drakan would even consider kneeling before had paid back his decision to betray the Stranger from Afar by promising him Hallowvale. And now, finally, the time had come to claim that reward. The gleaming city, with all its teeming, warm-blooded inhabitants, would be his. It would be the start of an empire on Gielinor, one that would cover the land in night and render Drakan lord of both the living and the dead.

At least, that was what Zamorak believed. That was why the dark god had agreed to Drakan’s suggestion that a second front be opened in the east. He believed it would force Saradomin to abandon his siege of the Infernal Source and march back, to protect the city founded in his honour. Drakan did not care if he did or didn’t. What mattered was not the city, but what lay beneath it, hidden in the dark, a secret that would allow him to found more than just another petty kingdom.

He discovered his sister, Vanescula, along with her brood, close to where the vanguard had halted. Their fangs were bared and talons out, facing off against Ranis’s thralls, who had gathered around a small gaggle of prisoners, warding off the others of their kind.

The vyre quietened as Drakan moved among them, their aggressive hissing reduced to a low susurration. Vampyres respected power above all else, and none were more powerful than Drakan.

“Forgive us for disturbing you, brother,” Vanescula said, doubtless noting the blood that had dried across his lower face and chest. “Ranis is being his usual, petulant self. My cohort were the ones who took these prisoners, but his thralls have seized them.”

Drakan did not deign to respond, walking past her. He experienced brief disappointment in Vanescula. His sister was the only one who ever impressed him. She was measured where their younger brother, Ranis, was arrogant, watchful where he was aggressive, intelligent whilst he relied on a kind of low cunning. Drakan hoped the day would come when she would be like him – too powerful to be concerned about the opinions of others. Still, he had expected her to take the sting out of a situation like this, not worsen it with confrontation.

Ranis’s brood had the good sense to part and admit him. Besides the vyre, the three prisoners were being guarded by their old comrades. A practitioner of the dark arts – possibly one of the necromancers that accompanied the legion, or Ranis himself, though he had little talent for it – had resurrected the slaughtered border guards, and now a dozen of them stood in close array around the three kneeling captives, their eyes smouldering with corpse-light, their bodies so fresh, blood still dripped from their wounds.

Drakan caused them to shuffle clumsily to one side with a single word. He stood, gazing down on the prize Ranis had stolen.

All three of the mortals were shivering and pale. None daring to look up. Drakan could smell their fear and hear the rapid beating of their hearts, driving warm, sweet blood through their soft bodies. It was intoxicating.

He reached down and snatched the hair of one, forcing the man to gaze upon him. Little more than a youth, fresh cheeks streaked with tears. His armour was simple leather, and he still had a pouch at his side bearing stones for a sling he had presumably abandoned. A prodromoi, a skirmisher in the Saradominist armies. This one, like the other two, had been considered unfit for the ferocious battles happening further west. They had been left behind, and had proven too cowardly or too foolish to end their own lives before they were taken.

Drakan stooped, and gazed deep into the youth’s terrified eyes. They were wide, brown, devoid of anything but fear. Dumb, like cattle, Drakan thought.

He spoke words of power, hissed phrases taught to his kind long ago. There was a cadence to them, a lilting beat that matched the prisoner’s heart, battering like a drum in Drakan’s ears.

He watched the mortal slowly stop shivering, watched the fear leach out of his gaze, replaced by slack-jawed dullness. The hypnotic incantation finished, he spoke in the crude, grunting language the humans that followed Saradomin favoured.

“Where are the rest of the border forces?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“West. Reinforcements.”

Drakan already knew that, but he wished to test his level of control. The hypnotic arts had their uses, occasionally – humans were susceptible, though the strong-willed could resist. This one was so broken he was barely coherent.

“Hallowvale’s garrison – is it weak too?”

“No.”

“How strong is the tagma?”

“Strong. The ordos are in the city.”

That answer surprised Drakan. The human ordos were among the best of the Saradominist warriors. He had hoped most would be engaged at the Infernal Source.

“Which ones?”

“The Wolves. We saw them pass by a month ago.”

“Is the city ready for a siege?”

“No.”

“Were you expecting an attack from the north?”

“No.”

“Are you ready to die?”

“No.”

Drakan grunted, vaguely amused, and pressed a talon against the youth’s brow, drawing the slightest bead of blood. The sudden pain broke the hypnosis. He began to shake again, and moaned with fear.

There was a thump from behind Drakan, and the hiss of a vyre’s wings folding.

“Are they of any use, brother?” Ranis asked as he rejoined him, still wiping blood from his mouth.

“Matters are progressing,” he told the lesser vampyre. “Continue the advance. And the next time you wish to steal your sister’s glory, do not lie to me about it. I thought you would have learned that lesson by now.”

A flash of anger crossed Ranis’s face, but he wisely controlled it.

“As long as I have been of some assistance,” he said, and offered a short bow. Drakan ignored him.

He had learned all he needed to. He unfurled his wings, and Ranis spoke again as he realised his brother was about to depart.

“You have no more use for them?”

Greedy, Drakan thought.

“Do with them what you wish,” he said before taking flight, the screams of the prisoners following him as he returned to the watchtower.

Drakan alighted on the watchtower’s parapets, perching on their edge. He looked to the south-east, towards the light glowing on the horizon, that sickening, aching, eternal false dawn that he knew belonged to the Everlight, the beacon tower that stood in the bay beyond the city of Hallowvale. It was the brilliance of Saradomin made manifest, anathema to all his kind.

To take the city would be one thing. To snuff out that beacon would be the greatest success Lowerniel Drakan had known since he had united the clans of Vampyrium. Yet all would be a means to an end. The prize he sought was far greater than breaking the Everlight, or even claiming the city. It was what lay beneath its streets, hidden and half-forgotten in the dark – true power, and the chance to remake all of Gielinor in his image.

FOUR

Word of the approaching darkness broke among the people of Hallowvale the day after Queen Efaritay called her council. Perhaps one of the merchant emporoi let slip what had been discussed, or maybe the stories of the first refugees to arrive outside the gates began to reach the masses. Either way, the streets were soon in something close to turmoil.

Luken arose as he always did, washing and dressing in his dorm room before helping Akeron with his own ablutions. He did so in an exhausted fog, performing his duties by rote. The service had lasted well past middle-night, and he had lain awake for the remaining hours, the shutters of his chamber window slightly ajar to admit some of the Everlight’s glow, keeping the deepest shadows at bay. The whole night, his mind had raced with thoughts of pale, red-eyed killers and armies of approaching nightmares.

He resisted the urge to ask Akeron more questions. The archpriest seemed as tired as he was, and liable to snap at him. As he finished tying his sandals, there was a knock at the door to the bedchamber. Luken answered and found himself confronted by one of the justiciar of the unicorn’s hypaspists.

“Apologies for the disturbance, hallowed archpriest,” the woman said, speaking to Akeron over Luken’s head, “but there are large numbers of people gathering outside the main doors of the Church, and in the square beyond.”

Akeron grunted, waving at Luken to bring him his star staff.

“Word must have gotten out,” he said. “Even sooner than I feared.”

“We are expected at the citadel for the reconvened council,” Luken pointed out.

“Should I assemble an escort, hallowed archpriest?” the hypaspist asked.

“No,” Akeron said. “Open the doors. Allow the people into the upper hall.”

“But, archpriest, there is no sermon scheduled for today,” Luken exclaimed, unable to avoid thinking about how he had finished sweeping the hall following Akeron’s late service mere hours before.

“I am not archpriest of the unicorn only during the hours of my sermons,” Akeron said sternly, a glare banishing his tired expression. “I am Saradomin’s chief representative in this city. What would the Lord of Light think if the doors of his greatest temple remained barred while his children, scared and confused, are left outside?”

“But the council,” Luken said in a half-hearted attempt at changing Akeron’s mind.

“The council will convene again with or without us,” Akeron continued. “And I heard quite enough of what they all had to say yesterday. Us being there will not make one blind bit of difference. But you know what will?”

Luken shook his head, nonplussed.

“Giving the people hope, reassurance and clarity. Light and wisdom, the blessings of our god.”

“You’re going to tell them what’s coming?”

“They already know, some of them at least. But lying to them won’t make it any easier when the Zamorakian hordes arrive outside the walls.”

Luken felt a surge of mixed emotions, at once relieved and disappointed at being denied another visit to the citadel. He bowed his head in acquiescence.

“I will bring the star crown for you then, archpriest,” he said.