Farnor

by Roger Taylor

He cursed himself for a fool and sternly took control of his voice before he spoke.

  'The power!’ he said contemptuously. ‘Spare me your riddles and foolishness, Rannick. I'm no village peasant who thinks these mountains bound the entire world. I've seen countless shamans conjure up grandiose fantasies of deceit from alehouse tittle-tattle and snatches of camp-fire chatter that they've picked up. Seen them build themselves great castles of seeming power for the deception of others from what was no more than gossamer.’ He was almost spitting out his words. ‘In short, I've seen too many diviners, priests, necromancers, thaumaturgists and all the other mountebanks of your weary ilk to be other than irritated by you. Or, worse, angered.'

  Rannick inclined his head but otherwise gave no response.

  Nilsson continued, his anger mounting. ‘Your true prey are the foolish and the gullible. And while you may have deceived some of my men with your trickery, and halted my horse with’—He shrugged—‘some noxious nightweed laid across its path, don't think I don't see you for what you are. And don't imagine you'll live to boast of the deed if you don't take your leave of me, now, and look to leave the valley while you can. My men would relish hunting you.'

  Despite his anger Nilsson felt his mouth go dry, but old reflexes tightened his grip about his knife.

  Rannick came closer and rested his hand on the horse's nose. The horse trembled violently, but did not otherwise move. When Rannick spoke his voice was soft, but a terrible menace permeated it.

  'Your lack of faith disturbs me, Captain. Do not ask me for proof of what you already know. You will find my patience even less than your own.’ He paused. ‘I am your past, Captain. And your future. I am your destiny, just as you are mine.'

  The hand patted the horse's nose and, unexpectedly, Nilsson felt a dark, assured amusement leavening Rannick's manner. It was more chilling than any threat could have been. ‘I feel your old desires returning, Captain. So many desires whose fulfilment you'd thought had slipped away for ever.’ He paused again, as if listening to something.

  'So many.’ There was a hint of surprise and even admiration, albeit edged with mockery, in his voice. He breathed in audibly. ‘They are like sweet air to me, Captain.'

  Nilsson's reply was harsh. ‘Stand aside, Rannick,’ he said. ‘I told you I've seen too many such charlatans to be gulled like my men.’ He bent low towards the shadowy figure by his horse's head and his voice fell, as if what he had to say would bring a retribution upon him if it were spoken too loudly. ‘And, for your guidance, know that though the one I followed is long dead and his followers scattered far and wide, it would behove you to keep even the thought of him from your mind lest his shade alone stir and shrivel your stunted soul into dust.'

  'Sweet air, Captain,’ came the soft response, indifferent to this advice.

  Enough, Nilsson decided, and, without warning, he struck. With a speed learned from years of cruel necessity he leaned further forward and thrust his knife at Rannick's throat.

  Rannick did not seem to move, but suddenly Nilsson found himself swept from his saddle and hurled high into the air.

  He landed some way from his horse with a winding thud. But worse than the impact of the landing was the fear that swept through him. Fear such as he had not known in many years. Rannick had laid no hand on him, and yet he had been lifted from his saddle effortlessly.

  He looked up.

  Rannick's form loomed over him, a deep blackness cut into the dark, starlit sky.

  'Is it you, Lord?’ He heard himself asking, his voice tremulous.

  'No, Captain. Your erstwhile master is truly gone, but his mantle has fallen on me. I am his heir. I shall raise again the banner that he let fall, and you will be at my side leading my army.

  Despite his fear, denial rang through Nilsson.

  'No,’ he said, struggling painfully to his feet. ‘This is madness. Whatever skills chance of birth has given you, or you've gleaned in this forsaken valley, you're not he, nor could you ever be. His knowledge was ancient and his power was beyond even your imagining.'

  Rannick's form shifted in the darkness, as if some strange wind were tugging at it.

  'And he failed,’ Nilsson concluded, almost desperately. ‘There were others greater who came unheralded and unexpected and slew him. And slew his companions also. And those others live yet, and will slay you if you seek to emulate him.'

  'No,’ Rannick said coldly. ‘My power is guided by an ancient knowledge that even he was not privy to. A knowledge far beyond your understanding. He came but to prepare a path for me. Choose now, Captain. Lead my army and, in the glory of my passing, rekindle and fulfil those ambitions which were promised and which were so cruelly and unjustly torn from you.'

  Yes, part of Nilsson cried out. Yes! There was too much truth in the words for his denial to be born.

  Yet when he spoke, it was the haggler, the survivor, the soldier who gave him the words.

  'Or?’ he asked, faintly.

  Rannick seemed amused again. He opened his arms wide as if to encompass the night. ‘If you would turn from the one true light, then you must face the darkness.'

  In the silence that followed, Nilsson felt another presence sharing their discourse. A presence full of hard-sinewed power and cruel will that paced silently at some unseen distance. A presence ancient in malevolence and cunning and bloodlust but young in the strength of its rending teeth. A presence waiting with infinite patience for a command.

  It was the final confirmation.

  Yes, the whole of Nilsson cried out this time. Too long he had been hunted and harried for his past service to his lord. It must be no more. Some power had led him to this lonely valley with the shelter offered by its long-sealed castle and the sustenance offered by its foolish people. To deny its will would not merely be futile, it would be ... the word teetered at the edge of his mind ... it would be blasphemous.

  'Forgive me, my Lord,’ he said, lowering himself on to one knee in obeisance. ‘I will serve you again if you feel me worthy.'

  Rannick's voice was that of a man who had known no doubt about this conclusion. ‘Continue on your way, Captain. I shall come again to you tomorrow.'

  * * * *

  In the lonely darkness, Rannick communed. ‘This one, above all, must be ours. This one, above all, will be ours.'

  He laughed.

  'So easy, my friend. So easy.'

  * * * *

  Gryss was standing at the door of his cottage when Farnor arrived the following morning. It was a fine sunny day, but clouds were beginning to move slowly overhead and there was a slight edge in the air that betokened rain later. Gryss was staring at the yellow spring flowers growing in profusion on an embankment nearby.

  'Have you ever looked at those?’ he asked as Farnor approached.

  Farnor gave the flowers a cursory glance. ‘Sun's eyes,’ he said, off-handedly.

  'Indeed,’ Gryss acknowledged. ‘But have you ever looked at them?'

  'Of course,’ Farnor replied, puzzled. ‘Many times. You can't miss them at this time of year, can you?'

  Gryss smiled. ‘How many petals do the flowers have, Farnor? What shape are the leaves? Is there one stem or many, divided? Why do they grow there and not there?’ He pointed to a bare area. ‘What kind of insects visit them? And why some and not others?'

  Farnor waved his arms and spluttered vaguely in the face of this gentle barrage, but offered no coherent reply apart from reaffirming a few times that they were sun's eyes, weren't they?

  'Not looked at them as much as you'd thought, have you?’ Gryss said, grinning now. ‘Try it one day. You won't regret it, I promise you.'

  Farnor shuffled his feet. ‘You said you had some jobs for me,’ he said, in an attempt to forestall any further embarrassing interrogation.

  Gryss's face became serious. ‘I told you to come here because we need to talk about Rannick and this ... Captain Nilsson and his slaughtered horse, don't we?'

  Farnor turned away from Gryss's scrut
iny. ‘I suppose so,’ he muttered, almost sulkily.

  'You know so,’ Gryss said, sternly. ‘From now on, let's you and me see and say things the way they are, eh? Then we'll know where we are.'

  'Where are we, then?’ Farnor asked abruptly, somewhat to his own surprise.

  'I don't know,’ Gryss replied, ignoring the sharpness of the question. ‘But wherever it is I'm involved because, for my sins, I'm the senior elder, and you're involved because you're involved. All I know for sure at the moment is that we both need someone to talk to freely, directly; someone to trust, to speak foolishness with and not be afraid.'

  Farnor looked at him uncertainly. This was a Gryss he had never seen before. A man. An ordinary man. For an instant he felt the young man, no different from himself, bound and hedged about by the old man's body.

  'I'll trust your young judgement in this,’ Gryss continued. ‘Will you trust mine?'

  Part of Farnor wanted to turn and run. To fly across the fields and into the woods, and lie on the soft grass there, watching the sun flickering through the leaves overhead while he wove his familiar tales of heroism and glory.

  But even as the thoughts formed, they palled. A different light had been shone upon them from somewhere. Their colours had faded, their ringing resonance had become thin and weak. He found himself regretting the passing of something, but he was uncertain what.

  'Yes,’ he said after a moment.

  'Good,’ Gryss said. ‘Let's walk to Rannick's cottage and talk as we go.'

  'Why?’ Farnor asked.

  Gryss gave him a reproachful glance. ‘You'd break our agreement so soon?’ he said.

  'Sorry,’ Farnor replied. He tried to make amends. ‘Rannick's at the heart of this, isn't he?'

  Gryss laid a hand on his shoulder, and they set off towards Rannick's cottage. ‘At the heart, or near it,’ he said. ‘There's been some kind of encounter between Rannick and Nilsson's men, and it's badly disconcerted our Captain Gatherer in some way, if I'm any judge.'

  Gryss's surmise seemed reasonable, but Farnor did not know what to say, except, ‘If we don't know what's happened, what can we do? And should we bother? He did say nothing had happened that would affect us down here.'

  An unsettling thought formed. ‘You don't think that ...’ He hesitated. Gryss inclined his head but did not speak.

  They turned off the wide road that went through the village and began walking down the narrower one that led to Rannick's cottage.

  'You don't think that the tales about the caves are true?’ Farnor managed to say at last, though he could feel his face burning. ‘That there are ancient ... monsters ... asleep up there ... just waiting?'

  Gryss's brow furrowed and he did not reply for some time. He returned a friendly greeting from a passer-by. ‘Reject nothing,’ he said, eventually. ‘Examine everything.'

  Farnor looked at him. It still felt very strange, talking to the old man like this. Almost like an equal.

  'Then you think ...’ he began.

  'I don't think anything,’ Gryss said firmly, turning to him. ‘At the moment, I'm just looking. How many petals, what shape leaves, how many stems? You understand?'

  'I think so,’ Farnor answered, adding after a moment, ‘If I'm allowed to think, that is.'

  Gryss laughed loudly and aimed an affectionate blow at Farnor's head.

  Then they were once again walking along the narrow, overgrown pathway to Rannick's cottage. It seemed wider than it had the night before, constrained as it had been then by the light from Gryss's lantern. But the overgrown hedgerows on either side were more alive, full of mysterious movements and rustlings, and the brambles appeared to have taken on a new life in the sunlight.

  Stepping over the fallen gate, they halted.

  Gryss shook his head. The darkness had hidden much of the condition of the cottage. He looked at the torn and ragged thatch, and at the stained walls. All seemed worse than the night before, as did the boarded window and the rotten windows and door. ‘Such neglect,’ he said. ‘I'd no idea he'd let it get into this state, or I'd have had a word with him.'

  'He wouldn't have listened,’ Farnor said.

  'Maybe,’ Gryss said. ‘But I'd have felt better about it, and perhaps a little less guilty now.'

  'Guilty! You?’ Farnor exclaimed in surprise. ‘What for? Rannick does what he wants. Always has, as long as I've known him, anyway. How could you have done anything about this?'

  Gryss stopped him. ‘I feel what I feel, Farnor,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a word here, a word there, who knows?'

  Farnor made a disparaging noise.

  'That's a young man's privilege,’ Gryss said. ‘Unfortunately, as you get older you realize that a small change at the beginning can have a profound effect on the conclusion.'

  'The empire was lost for want of a nail?’ Farnor said, recalling one of Yonas's tales and seeing it now in a new light.

  'Exactly,’ Gryss said. ‘Let's go inside.'

  The inside of the cottage, like its outside, looked very different than on the previous night. The daylight coming through the windows heightened the gloomy corners and exposed more vividly the stained walls and floor. Though Farnor felt a wave of disgust at the general squalor of the place, he also felt unexpectedly sad at the sight of the faded furniture and the dusty ornaments with their lingering hints of homeliness and caring. He righted a small vase that had fallen over. It left its fallen image, dust free, on the shelf like a reproachful shadow.

  Gryss watched him and nodded.

  'What do you feel?’ he asked.

  Farnor shrugged. ‘Nothing much,’ he replied. ‘It's very different from last night. For one thing it doesn't have that captain hulking around in it. Perhaps it was him made the place feel strange. Him and the darkness.'

  Gryss chuckled. ‘Let's have a look round,’ he said.

  'Suppose he comes back?’ Farnor said, suddenly conscious of what they were doing. Doors were invariably open in the valley, but deliberately nosing around someone's house was another matter.

  'I'll have plenty to ask him, don't worry,’ Gryss replied tartly, as he headed for the kitchen.

  Farnor followed him about, growing progressively more uneasy.

  'There is something ... unpleasant ... about the place,’ he decided eventually as he retreated from the bedroom. ‘Apart from the general mess and decay. There's a ...'

  The front door of the cottage opened.

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  Nilsson had little or no recollection of the remainder of his journey back to the castle. It was a swirling maelstrom of fears and doubts, of re-awakened and burning ambition, of elation and black despair, the whole interwoven with long-dead memories risen anew and richly lit by the fire of the promise that had been kindled in him.

  'What did you find out, Nils?'

  The question reached out to draw him from his deep preoccupation. He looked at the speaker vacantly for a moment. It was Dessane.

  'What did you find out?’ The question came again, Dessane concerned at his leader's abstractedness. ‘About Rannick?’ he prompted. He stepped back a pace. The light of his torch illuminated both rider and horse. ‘Ye gods!’ he exclaimed. ‘What have you been doing to your horse? It's in a lather, and it's petrified.'

  Nilsson ignored the questions but swung slowly down from the horse. His face was still intensely preoccupied and he held up his hand for silence.

  Despite this unspoken injunction, however, Dessane confronted him urgently.

  'Nils,’ he hissed. ‘What's happened? Did you run into trouble in the village?'

  Nilsson's eyes focused on him eventually. ‘What's happened, Arven?’ he echoed. ‘A great deal's happened. Things that were ended are begun again. From tonight we go in a different direction.'

  Dessane scowled in bewilderment at this enigmatic reply. He was half inclined to ask his captain if he had been drinking, but apart from the intrinsic risk in such a question it was patently obvious that he had not
. Nilsson when drunk was either dangerously jovial or savagely, coldly, cruel.

  Nilsson ended his quandary for him.

  'Tomorrow, Arven,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow. He'll be here tomorrow, then your questions will be answered.'

  'Who? Who'll be here?’ Dessane asked in frustration. ‘And what questions?'

  'Tomorrow,’ Nilsson repeated. ‘Leave me now. I need to think, to sleep. I'll need a clear head when he arrives.'

  Dessane opened his mouth to ask, ‘Who?’ again, then gave up. Whatever had affected Nilsson thus, there was no indication of any immediate danger to the group in his behaviour, and it could prove as dangerous to press him in this strange mood as when he was drunk.

  'As you wish, Nils,’ he said, taking the reins from the Captain's hands and stroking the frightened horse. ‘As you wish. I'll tend your horse for you.'

  But Nilsson made no answer, he was striding purposefully away into the darkness.

  The morning did not bring Nilsson the clarity he would have preferred, however. He had spent the remainder of the night tossing and turning fitfully, unable to control the uproar in his mind and, indeed, for much of the time unable to tell whether he was awake and imagining or asleep and dreaming.

  Nevertheless he was quieter and his thoughts were to some extent more ordered when daylight struck through the narrow window and finally lured him, aching, from his bed. The leader in him rose to the fore as he dashed cold water in his face and began to repair some of the ravages to his appearance the fretful night had wrought.

  Had it been a dream?

  No. Beyond a doubt, no. Cautiously he flexed his back and felt the stiffness and bruising of his fall, an all-too-tangible confirmation of the night's event.

  Had it been some trickery by Rannick? Nilsson had told the truth when he said that he had seen many wondrous things apparently miraculously conjured into existence which transpired to be no more than base trickery by equally base fraudsters.

  Unlikely, a quiet—not to say awed—part of him declared. Apart from some subtle, familiar quality in the man's very presence, there was the vivid memory of being lifted from his horse and hurled effortlessly through the night at the very moment when his knife should have been ending Rannick's life.