The Blacksmith
While the fight raged on in the city's center, a lone figure stood at a distance and watched, an expression of feigned fear etched upon his face.
Inside, he was amused. Somehow, defying all rules of siege warfare, an army of barbarians managed to build up enough equipment and discipline to force their way through the gate of a fortified city. By Zamorak, he knew the White Knights had grown weak, but this bordered on absurdity. If the Kinshra were here, they would have held that gate without yielding an inch. But the White Knights had grown complacent.
It was Gareth's duty to watch the fight. If, by some miracle, the barbarians prevailed, the city would be theirs to ransack. They would not take the castle, of course. They couldn't. But the undefended homes of the commoners? Those would be ripe for the picking, Gareth's own forge among them. However, it seemed increasingly likely that the Barbarians would be repelled.
Either way, the attack would do serious damage to the city's defenders, and that damage would need to be reported to Lord Daquarius. If the Barbarians could get this far into Falador when it was
supposed
to be at full strength, imagine what the Black Knights could accomplish when it was weakened.
His hand fell to the mithril blade sheathed at his hip. He was itching to use it. And it seemed he would get his wish. A lone barbarian broke away from the engagement, saw that Gareth wore only a blacksmith's garb, and assumed he would be an easy target.
The blade sang and the mithril glittered in the sunlight as it slid from the sheathe. The barbarian lunged forth with the spear, but Gareth deftly parried the point aside and in one swift motion slashed the brute's throat.
(continued)
Beneath the gold, the Bitter Steel.
04-Apr-2019 21:48:33
- Last edited on
04-Apr-2019 21:54:55
by
NotFishing
