Runescape: The Fall of Hallowvale

by Robbie MacNiven

Genres: Fantasy; Epic Fantasy; Military Fantasy; Media Tie-In; Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

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.

The vampyres are coming.

As the God Wars grind towards their brutal conclusion, the armies of darkness descend upon the city of Hallowvale - vampyres, werewolves, and legions of cruel mortal warriors, led by 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 stand strong, the glow of the Everlight will stave off the vyre and, if all else fails, the Queen has a secret weapon.

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.

Release date: November 5, 2024

Publisher: Titan Books

Print pages: 384

Sample

CHAPTER 1

 

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.” 

 

CHAPTER 2

 

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. ...