by Roger Taylor
'So late?’ Garren remarked, with undisguised surprise.
Nilsson managed a smile. ‘I'm used to city hours,’ he said.
Garren chuckled. ‘Gryss isn't,’ he said.
Nilsson gave an apologetic shrug. ‘We've a lot to do, I'm afraid.'
Farnor clambered over the gate.
'Get on behind me, boy,’ Nilsson said, anxious to avoid further conversation.
Farnor did as he was bidden, rather self-consciously putting his arms around the big man for support. Seeing his son's embarrassment Garren chuckled again, but Nilsson allowed him no time to give his amusement voice; with a wave of acknowledgement he pulled his horse's head around and urged it forward into the darkness.
The journey to Gryss's cottage passed in silence except for Farnor's occasional instructions. Not that that distressed Farnor in any way. Being seated astride this horse, which like all the gatherers’ horses was larger than any that had ever been seen in the valley, and hanging on to a King's man, more than compensated for the slight of being referred to as ‘boy'.
For a while he imagined himself galloping over the rolling valley fields on the great horse in search of bold adventures. But rather to his annoyance it soon palled, causing him to muse ruefully that his imaginings of late seemed to have less power, to hold less interest for him, since...
Since when?
Since little more than two or three weeks ago, he realized quite suddenly. Not since his encounter with Rannick had he found the old excitement in his daydreams.
He felt the patient, powerful movement of the horse beneath him carrying him relentlessly on.
I must be growing up, he thought. The notion caught him unawares and, surreptitiously, he glanced from side to side into the darkness as if concerned that some unseen eavesdropper might have mysteriously caught wind of this uncomfortable admission.
'What's the matter?’ Nilsson asked.
Farnor started. How could this man have noticed such a slight movement?
'Nothing,’ he said. ‘We're nearly there.’ He leaned to one side and pointed to a light shining through the trees. ‘That's it, over there.'
The light came from a small lantern that, like most of the valley dwellers, Gryss lit every night. The origins of the practice had long passed from memory. Certainly the lights were rarely of any value as anyone who was likely to be about at night tended to carry his own small sunstone lantern. Farnor, in fact, found the practice annoying. Living away from the village, he was used to walking about in the darkness, and the presence of bright lights destroyed his night vision. As far as he was concerned, they obscured more than they illuminated.
As Nilsson drew his horse to a halt, Farnor slithered down and walked to the door of the cottage. Nilsson dismounted and followed him. At the door Farnor tugged on the iron ring. The small bell tinkled cheerfully.
Then the ring was taken from his hand. He released it without any resistance but turned, curious. Nilsson was examining the ring intently. But his face was a mask: its heavy lines etched so deeply by the light of the lantern that it seemed as though the night itself had carved them.
A surprised and slightly indignant bark from the other side of the door forestalled any questions that Farnor might have been considering and, almost immediately, the door was opened.
'Where did you get this ring from, old man?'
Nilsson's question was asked abruptly, and none too pleasantly. Farnor looked at him sharply, shocked by this unexpected rudeness.
'Good evening, Captain, Farnor,’ Gryss said, wilfully courteous. ‘What brings you here so late? One of your men sick? Someone injured?’ He leaned forward. ‘You look a little pale yourself, actually.'
Nilsson seemed to recollect himself. He made no apology for his sudden question but he gently lowered the ring so that the bell did not sound. The dog barked again however.
'No,’ Nilsson said, a little awkwardly. ‘I ...'
'Do come in, Captain,’ Gryss said, cutting across the hesitation. Nilsson stooped unnecessarily as he stepped into the cottage. Uncertain what was expected of him, Farnor followed and quietly closed the door.
'I bought the ring many years ago from a trader when I was away over the hill,’ Gryss said with forced amiability as he shuffled down the hallway. ‘Have you seen something like it before? I'd be interested to know where it came from.'
'No, no,’ Nilsson said hastily, as he narrowly avoided tripping over the dog which was lumbering along in front of him. ‘It just ... caught my eye.'
Gryss nodded and grunted but did not pursue the matter.
He led Nilsson into the back room and offered him the wicker chair opposite his own. Nilsson, however, sat down on the bench by the long table and leaned forward on to his folded arms. Farnor hovered in the doorway, seemingly forgotten by both men.
Gryss settled himself into his chair then looked at Nilsson purposefully.
'How can I help you, Captain?’ he asked.
Nilsson was direct. ‘Do you know a man called Rannick?'
Farnor's attention sharpened.
'Yes,’ Gryss replied.
'Tell me about him,’ Nilsson said, straightening up and looking at the old man directly.
'Is he in trouble?’ Gryss asked.
'He might be.'
'What's he done?'
'Just tell me about him,’ Nilsson persisted.
Gryss shrugged. ‘There's nothing much to tell,’ he said. ‘He's a general ... labourer, I suppose you'd call him. Has a cottage just outside the village and a small piece of land, which he assiduously neglects. He earns his keep by doing odds and ends about the place. He's capable enough when the mood takes him. Very intelligent, I suspect. But he's got a surly, not to say downright unpleasant disposition. Seems to think that someone owes him a living. He's not one of the most popular people in the valley.’ He paused briefly then repeated his question. ‘What's he done?'
Nilsson again did not answer. ‘Can you show me where he lives?’ he asked instead.
'Certainly,’ Gryss replied. ‘But he's not there at the moment, nor has been for the last few weeks.'
A flicker of annoyance passed over Nilsson's face. ‘Where can I find him then?’ he asked.
Gryss leaned back in his chair. ‘I've no idea,’ he said. ‘Rannick often disappears for days, sometimes weeks, on end. No one knows where he goes, no one asks.'
'And no one cares, I gather,’ Nilsson added.
Gryss nodded. ‘If you'll tell me why you're interested in him I might be able to help in some way,’ he offered.
Nilsson thought for a moment. ‘Some of my men met him when they were exploring the valley beyond the castle,’ he said. ‘They were concerned about him.'
Gryss could not keep the surprise from his voice. ‘They met him to the north of the castle?’ he said, his eyes wide with surprise, yet oddly piercing.
'Some considerable way to the north,’ Nilsson replied, watching Gryss carefully.
The old man shook his head. ‘I can't think what he was doing up there,’ he said. ‘As far as I know, no one from the valley has been beyond the castle within living memory.’ He gave Nilsson a stern look. ‘But it's no crime to wander the countryside as far as I'm aware. Why should he be in trouble?'
Nilsson seemed to be taken unawares by this question. His answer was hesitant. ‘There's some kind of vicious animal out there,’ he said awkwardly. ‘A large dog gone wild, I imagine. Or perhaps a pack. We lost one of our horses to it.'
Standing behind him, half in the room and half in the hallway, Farnor felt his insides go cold. The memory of his contact with the creature that had been worrying the sheep had faded since the abandoning of the night watch and he had deliberately turned his thoughts away from it, though it lay in the background of his life like a storm cloud on a far horizon. Now, however, in the wake of Nilsson's words it returned in all its horror and the storm clouds were dark and ominous, and overhead. For a moment he felt nauseous and dizzy. He steadied himself ag
ainst the door jamb.
'A horse?’ Gryss gasped, lurching upright in his chair. ‘You had a horse killed?’ He was almost shouting. ‘Whatever killed our sheep was big, but ... a horse!’ He stared at Nilsson, genuinely alarmed. ‘And you think Rannick's up there, in the same area as this ... creature?'
Nilsson waved the question aside almost irritably.
'Is there something strange about Rannick?’ he asked abruptly, blurting out the question.
Farnor stood very still.
'Strange?’ Gryss queried, momentarily taken aback.
Nilsson shifted uneasily on the bench. ‘Has he any unusual ... skills? Ways with ... animals, people? Anything...?’ He left the word hanging.
Gryss's eyes narrowed. ‘Not that I've ever seen,’ he replied straightforwardly. ‘But I don't really know what you mean. Rannick's an awkward and unpopular character. The kind of man who lives in bitterness and who dies miserable and alone or on the end of someone's sword through a quarrel he's provoked. That's all I can tell you.'
Nilsson looked as if he had further questions to ask, but he remained silent.
Gryss watched him closely. ‘I did caution you that the valley to the north has an evil reputation,’ he said. ‘Maybe old women's tales, maybe not. But has anything happened up there that might bring problems to the rest of us here in the valley?'
Farnor, his unease persisting grimly, tightened his grip on the door jamb, as Nilsson stood up suddenly. His bulk dominated the room and ended any further debate.
'No,’ he said bluntly. ‘Nothing's happened that concerns you, but I do need to find this Rannick. Will you show me where he lives?'
Farnor shrank back into the hallway. What had begun as a small excitement, escorting this king's man through the night, had abruptly begun to turn into a nightmare, and his dominant wish now was to return home in the hope that the resurgent memories would once again fade away.
'He won't be there,’ Gryss said.
'Nevertheless,’ Nilsson insisted.
'Whatever you wish,’ Gryss said, standing up with a disclaiming wave of his hands. ‘I'll show you with pleasure.'
As the trio emerged from the cottage, Gryss issued his customary command, ‘stay', to his sleeping dog, and gave Farnor's arm a sustaining squeeze. Catching his eye, he flicked a glance towards Nilsson's back and raised his forefinger to his lips. Farnor nodded an acknowledgement. He had had no intention of saying anything anyway, but Gryss's silent injunction was comforting.
'It's not far,’ Gryss said, as Nilsson made to untether his horse. ‘We can walk.'
Rannick's cottage was a countryman's ‘not far’ however, and it took them some time to reach the narrow, twisting lane that led to it. The lane was bounded by overgrown hedges. Long brambles snaked out of the undergrowth to catch on clothes, and branches hung low brushing the heads of the passers-by. Gryss's lantern threw a tunnel of light through the darkness that was brought alive by the moths and night insects dancing in it. The odd small animal scuttled away in a flurry and, beyond the light, tiny bright green or red eyes occasionally shone briefly and then blinked out.
Nilsson swore softly as a large bramble tangled in his long coat.
'Rannick's neglect, I'm afraid,’ Gryss said. He looked regretful. ‘He could have done very nicely out of this little plot if he'd wanted, but ...’ He let out a small sigh and left the sentence unfinished.
Eventually they reached a gate at the end of the path. Like the path, it bore signs of long neglect and as Gryss tried to open it it slipped from his hand and fell over with a weary groan. He shook his head as he stepped over it. The small garden it led into was as overgrown as the path.
'Mind where you put your feet,’ he said. ‘I wouldn't like to hazard what might be lying about under this lot.'
He held up his lantern and the light from it illuminated the cottage. The thatched roof was battered and dishevelled, the walls were stained where rainwater had seeped through the thatch and run down them. One window was crudely boarded up while the others, and the door, were unpainted and obviously rotten.
Nilsson picked up a stick and began beating aside the straggling plants that were growing across the remains of a once ornamental path that led to the door. Reaching it, he struck it violently with the edge of his clenched fist.
The sound fell flat in the dense foliage of the garden.
There was no reply.
'He's not there,’ Gryss said with some impatience.
Nilsson tried the latch. The door swung open. He stepped back hastily as if suspecting an ambush. ‘It's not locked,’ he whispered to Gryss.
'Why should it be?’ Gryss asked, moving past him and going into the cottage. Nilsson followed.
'Rannick,’ Gryss shouted. ‘It's Gryss. There's someone wants to see you.'
Again there was no reply. ‘I told you,’ Gryss said. ‘He's not here.'
Nilsson began wandering around the cottage, casually inspecting the many odds and ends that were littered about. Farnor, who had discreetly followed the two men inside, felt an unexpected sense of outrage at this intrusion, though at the same time he felt reassured by the substantial presence of this soldier amid the unpleasant aura that pervaded Rannick's home.
And there was something unpleasant about it, he decided. Something other than the dirt and squalor. Something ... Gryss's word for Rannick's family came back to him. Something tainted.
He stayed near the door.
Abruptly Nilsson wrapped his arms about himself and shivered. He muttered something in his own language and then, without further comment, strode out of the cottage and across the garden. Gryss and Farnor followed hastily.
Nilsson did not speak as they walked back to Gryss's cottage, other than to issue a terse command to the effect that if Rannick was seen he was to be detained.
'Detained!’ Gryss exclaimed. ‘I can't do that, I haven't ...’ He flapped his arms ‘... the authority.'
'You've mine now,’ Nilsson said starkly. ‘See it's done. And send me word at once.'
Gryss did not argue, but his posture as they walked on showed that he was deeply disturbed.
'I've some work needs doing tomorrow, Farnor,’ he said as Farnor clambered up on to Nilsson's horse. ‘If your father can spare you first thing?'
There was a subtle urgency in his manner which Nilsson did not note.
'I'll ask him,’ Farnor said. ‘I'm sure it'll be all right.'
Where the journey from the farm to Gryss's cottage had been tinged with excitement, the return was leaden with a brooding darkness. Though whether this was Nilsson's manner or whether it was a result of his own revived memories of the creature and the strangeness he had felt in Rannick's cottage, Farnor could not have said. Nevertheless, he was more than a little relieved to slide down from the horse at the end of the path that led to his home.
'No point you coming further,’ he said, as cheerfully as he could. ‘It'll only disturb the dogs again.'
Nilsson may have grunted a reply, but Farnor did not care. All he wanted was to be away from the man and to be surrounded by the security of his home.
As Farnor disappeared into the darkness Nilsson urged his horse forward then let the reins hang loose, allowing the animal its head.
Faithfully it carried him, rapt in thought, through the starlit darkness along the castle road.
And then it stopped suddenly.
Nilsson started out of his reverie. He frowned. They were still some way from the castle. He spurred the horse on.
It would not move.
Nilsson's teeth showed faintly in the darkness as again he used his spurs on the animal, then:
'Captain Nilsson.'
A voice came out of the darkness.
Instinctively he reached for his knife. A plot by some of the men disgruntled by his decision that they should go north, or at his orders for them to leave the village unmolested?
Yet he knew that was not so. Such plots invariably cast their shadows forward to anyone with
eyes sharp enough to see them, and he had been nothing if not sharp-eyed for many months now. And there was a quality about this voice that resonated through and through him. Memory after memory rose like spectres out of the dust of his long and wilful forgetfulness.
He drove his spurs savagely into the horse's flanks. The animal quivered in distress, but still did not move.
A shadow, dark in the darkness, came towards him.
'Captain Nilsson,’ the voice said again.
Nilsson drew his knife.
'My name is Rannick, Captain Nilsson,’ the shadow said. ‘You and I have matters to discuss.'
* * *
Chapter 16
'Who are you, Rannick?’ Nilsson said flatly.
The shadow nodded approvingly. ‘You call my name and yet you ask who I am. I commend your perceptiveness, Captain. No false blustering about your bewildered men, or Meirach, or your slaughtered horse. Just a simple, direct question. You seek to know my true self. And yet in asking that question you affirm that you know who I am.’ His voice was leisurely and calm, as if they were old friends relaxing over a quiet noonday drink in some peaceful inn, but it seemed to Nilsson that it came in some way from another place, and the slow trickle of old memories that it had invoked at first grew and grew until it threatened to become a flood.
Rannick's voice cut through the mounting tumult. ‘Do you feel it is meet that I should stoop to tell you what you have told me you already know?'
There was a long silence.
'You have no answer, I see. At least you do not compound your folly by remonstrating with me.’ The shadow nodded again and the voice became conciliatory. ‘And there is about you the quality of a once true and stalwart servant, so I shall answer your question. I shall tell you what you know. I am a wielder of the power.'
Nilsson's eyes narrowed. This Rannick had a skill of some kind, beyond a doubt, but the power? That was a nonsense. Then he realized that his hand holding the knife was beginning to sweat.
The survivor in him tested his grip in case it should slip at some crucial moment, then his other hand moved casually over it lest the faint starlight betray its presence.
