MacNiven Runescape: The Fall of Hallowvale

1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-83541-105-6
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 13, 384 Seiten

Reihe: The Heroic Legends Series

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.

Robbie MacNiven is a sci-fi and fantasy author and a historian from the Scottish Highlands. Besides novels for franchises such as Warhammer 40,000 and Marvel's X-Men, he writes audio dramas, comic scripts, has worked on multiple digital games, and sometimes finds the time to pen non-fiction military history.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Macniven, Robbie

Leseproben

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...