by Roger Taylor
'It's not just to do with the gatherers, Marna.’ Farnor's voice forestalled him. ‘It began before they came, and it's to do with me.'
Marna started at his voice. Not so much at the unexpected interruption but at the appeal in it. Her expression was suddenly uncertain. Gryss sat very still and watched them both intently.
Farnor went on, some inner need forcing his tale from him. ‘Something's happened ... perhaps still happening ... to me. Something to do with whatever ... creature's ... been worrying the sheep. And I think it's something to do with Rannick as well.'
Marna threw a quick glance at Gryss for confirmation but his face was impassive.
'What do you mean, happening?’ she asked.
Farnor grimaced, then told her hesitantly of his apparent contact with the creature, and of Rannick's strange behaviour.
Marna looked again at Gryss, hoping that his enigmatic expression would suddenly become a mischievous smile and the whole scene end in boisterous laughter. But there was not a vestige of lightness there.
'I've no explanation,’ Farnor concluded. ‘Neither has Gryss. All I know is that it frightens me.’ He looked flustered. His words gave no measure of what he was feeling. They seemed flat and empty; incongruous, almost. But Marna saw the look in his eyes, full of naked pain and distress; more eloquent than any number of words.
She was silent for a moment, then, ‘It's all true, isn't it?’ she said nervously, looking at Gryss.
The old man nodded. He was quietly reproaching himself for failing to notice the burgeoning maturity of these village ‘youngsters'. Marna took a deep breath, and when she spoke, her voice, though unsteady, was gentle and full of concern. ‘I can't make any sense out of any of this,’ she said. ‘And I think you must both be misunderstanding something, somewhere. But, whatever it's all about it's hurting Farnor and I'll help if I can.'
Slowly she wrapped her arms about herself, more in a protective gesture than as if she were cold. ‘All this, and the gatherers,’ she said.
'All this and the gatherers,’ Gryss echoed. He put his hand on hers and looked into her eyes. ‘Farnor's trusted you with this tale,’ he said. ‘You mustn't ...'
'I know,’ she said, before he could finish, her voice edgy. ‘I'm like a mole in a trap. I walked in of my own accord and there's no way out.'
'No,’ Gryss said anxiously. ‘Not quite. You're free to walk away. All I ... we ... ask is that you keep this to yourself. Tell no one. At least until ...’ He hesitated.
'Something else happens,’ Farnor said bleakly.
* * * *
Rannick stood up and joined Nilsson at the window as the noise from the courtyard filled the room.
'What have they decided?’ he asked.
Nilsson craned forward. ‘It looks as if there's about twenty getting ready to ride out,’ he said. ‘What will you do to them?'
The question had been a deliberate risk, and he sensed Rannick's angry reaction. Nevertheless, he turned away from the window and met his gaze squarely.
Rannick made no denial of the implicit accusation. ‘The north of the valley is a bad place,’ he said, coldly.
Nilsson knew it would be foolish, not to say dangerous, to press his presumption further, but certain things had to be said.
'Mainly sheep down there,’ he said, indicating the courtyard with a nod of his head. ‘Followers, not leaders for the most part. But they're all good fighters. Fighters with a history of fighting together. It'd be serious if we lost too many. It would wreak havoc with morale and substantially reduce our operational strength.'
The hubbub from the courtyard filled the room.
'The north of the valley is a bad place,’ Rannick repeated, his face impassive. ‘Sheep get worried all the time. If they go there, they must take the risks that lie there.'
Nilsson nodded. ‘Let's hope they get sheared rather than slaughtered,’ he said still keeping his eyes on Rannick. It was as much of a plea for his men as he dared make, and he became immediately brisk. ‘Come on, let's go down and see what the mood is.'
'You go,’ Rannick said. ‘The men are your affair, not mine. I want nothing to do with them. Just ensure that they understand the realities of their new command. I will tolerate no dissension or opposition, but those who follow me I will lead to power and wealth, to their true destinies.'
'And those who don't follow you?’ Nilsson asked.
'Should stand well aside, or look to die,’ Rannick said, simply, turning back to the window again.
* * * *
The courtyard was in noisy disarray when Nilsson reached it. Those who had decided to venture north were reloading the pack animals with reduced amounts of supplies while those who were now remaining at the castle were removing their horses from the column, helping with the reloading or just standing around watching. A few residual arguments were continuing about the rights and wrongs of the decision reached.
'Congress is finished,’ Nilsson said as he reached the more heated discussions. ‘Each man stands by his decision. No reproaches. Whatever happens, we stand or fall together.'
Spots of rain began to splatter on to the stone floor to form a muddy starscape.
To Nilsson's relief, if hardly to his surprise, he found that both Yeorson and Storran had decided to remain. It was probably their decision that had resulted in the final patrol being as small as it was. Still, he thought fretfully, we can't afford to lose this many.
But there was nothing he could do, he knew. His authority was vested in him through the congress of the men and, while he could manipulate it, to attempt to overrule it would be to undermine his own position, perhaps fatally. This group had decided freely to scout a route to the north and he could not oppose them. All he could do was hope that whatever Rannick intended would not be too disastrous.
At the head of the column he found Haral. That was both fortunate and unfortunate: unfortunate in that Haral was a good man, fierce, determined, straightforward and definitely not a man to be casually discarded. Fortunate in that he saw things for what they were and would not needlessly risk either himself or the men under his command. He was brave enough to know when to fight and when to run. It gave Nilsson some assurance.
He waited until the confusion had died down a little, then he put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. The courtyard gradually fell silent, and all attention turned towards him.
The rain became heavier and the muddy stars joined to become a pattern of shining stones.
'You've had your debate and made your decision,’ he said. ‘You might be right, you might be wrong. So might we who're staying back. But whatever, we still belong together, so I'll be sending out smaller patrols to keep your line of retreat open and, if need arises, to act as rearguard.’ He stepped back a few paces so that he could see the full column. He could not speak of his forebodings, but at least he could counsel caution.
'I don't know what there is out there,’ he went on. ‘But I want no risks taken, nor any stupid heroics. You ride equipped for action at all times. You ride in close order and you camp in close order. And you post sentries in pairs.’ There were one or two wry faces pulled at these orders. He singled them out. ‘You getting yourself killed is bad enough, but you know what'll happen if you get someone else killed because of your stupidity.’ His voice was soft, but more intimidating than any amount of raucous shouting.
Still addressing the whole column, he said. ‘Haral, do your best to get everyone back in one piece. If any of them choose to ignore the orders I've just given ...'
He drew his finger across his throat.
Haral gave him a casual salute then the column was on its way. Nilsson followed them to the gate and stood there for some time watching until they disappeared in the undulating countryside, itself slowly disappearing into grey swathes of wind-blown rain.
He became aware of a presence behind him.
'A horse, Captain.'
He turned. It seemed to him that Rannick was untouched by the
rain, and again that he was being buffeted by winds in another place. There was an eerie sensation of movement about him even though he was motionless.
'You startled me, Lord,’ he said.
'A horse,’ Rannick repeated.
'Certainly, Lord,’ Nilsson said. ‘But, with respect, they don't seem to take to you.'
'They obey me,’ Rannick replied. ‘That's sufficient.’ Nilsson signalled to Dessane. ‘Escort the Lord to the stables, Arven. Let him pick whichever horse he wishes.’ He turned back to Rannick. ‘Do you need a pack horse, Lord?'
Rannick did not reply, but motioned Dessane to lead on.
Nilsson watched as the men in the courtyard moved away as Rannick approached, forming a wide pathway for him. Stand well aside, or look to die, he thought.
* * *
Chapter 20
Haral's group made good progress. It helped, of course, that several of the men had travelled this way before, and that the trail was well marked. He kept Nilsson's injunction at the forefront of his mind however. He didn't like the smell of this so-called Lord Rannick with his claims to have the power like their old lord. That he'd doubt until he'd seen it for himself, but he had no doubts that the man was treacherous and self-seeking and was up to no good, and that he would undoubtedly have something in mind for the group as it moved further into the forest.
Inherit our master's mantle, he sneered inwardly. You'll need more than fancy words if you're looking to inherit anything other than a shroud, meddling with us. Half a chance and I, for one, will gladly cut your throat for the trouble you've already caused.
And, yet, it couldn't be denied that there was something familiar about his manner, his attitude...
And Nilsson was no man's fool. He wouldn't be taken in lightly by some market trickster. And he'd been closer than many to the Lord. And to Rannick.
Suppose this Rannick could use the power? He was obviously a healer of some skill, judging by what he'd done for Meirach, and the Lord had been a healer when it suited him. It was an intriguing thought, and, like Nilsson, Haral found it fanning a glow into embers that he had thought long dead. With someone like that in charge you could do well for yourself. He savoured again the near-forgotten feeling of riding forth, tall in the saddle and looking down at a population that knew that your every word was law and that your arm could punish faults summarily and without appeal.
Good days. It would be truly splendid to have them back again. Provided you didn't get involved with internal army politics and did as you were told, almost anything you wanted was available for the taking. Life had been good indeed.
With a snort he dismissed his daydream. They were days that were gone for ever. Rannick no more had the power than he did. That kind of thing wasn't given to ordinary folk. It was given to those who already had power and wealth. That was the way of things. All that lay ahead of him and the others now was more of what they had been doing for the past years: wandering, stealing, acting as bodyguards for some petty warlord here, fighting as mercenaries for some inconsequential lord there, never knowing where the next night's bed might be, or when they might next eat. And always looking over their shoulders for those who were pursuing them. It was a bitter prospect and one that he did not choose to dwell on whenever it came to mind.
To hell with Rannick and the disturbance he'd caused. He looked around. The rain was falling relentlessly, and cold water which had been seeping around the collar of his leather cape for some time was now beginning to seep through the seams.
It helped him turn his attention back to matters of the moment. Whatever, if anything, was amiss in this forest, it would be foolish to spend too much time in idle musing about either the past or the future.
Though they had made good progress they were still some way from the place where they had camped previously, and there was little point in forcing the pace in an attempt to reach it. He called a halt in a small clearing and within minutes tents had been pitched and fires coaxed into smoky life.
Despite Nilsson's orders, there was some resistance to the performance of sentry duty. Haral quelled it scornfully with, ‘You want this Rannick to cut your throat while you're snoring and then go back and take charge of all that loot, claiming to be the Lord returned, and the only possible protection against the curse of the ancient forest?'
The sentries took up their positions as the camp gradually fell silent.
Haral performed a brief circuit of them before he too retreated to his tent.
'I don't know what this Rannick's up to,’ he told them. ‘But it's for his good, not ours. He's playing for some big prize of his own and I don't think he'll scruple to kill a few of us if it'll help him, especially as we've defied him. He's not stupid and this is his country, so keep out of sight, keep your backs covered and keep your eyes and ears open.'
* * * *
Now!
It was released again. A wordless command had given it his unfettered will. Find, kill...
The thought released old savours into its mouth.
Good...
It followed the trail through the damp, lush, rain-perfumed darkness. A trail, faint at first and then glaringly vivid, marked by that old, familiar scent.
There was no taint of the old watchful enemy in it but reflexes, ancient in its breed even before it had been fashioned thus, made its every movement silent. Each footstep tested before being taken. Each slight noise a cause for deep stillness and waiting.
It felt lesser creatures sensing its passage and falling fearfully silent, though a few scurried away frantically, luring part of its deeper nature after them. But it could not be deflected. A special prey was to be sought tonight. The old prey. The best prey.
And it was there. Ahead. Mingling with the scent of fire and bruised foliage and trampled earth.
Good...
Caution, though. True enemies they might not be, but dangerous and subtle they were. Watch. Listen. Scent the air.
Were there, after all, tangling nets and sharp points silent all about? Was there that hint, acrid in the rich dampness, of fearful, expectant watching ... waiting?
No. All was as it had been told. All was stillness and forest, save for the silent, sleeping lairs that did not belong. And the fire...
And...
There, alone. Crouching in the shelter of a tree, head nodding, lulled by the steady drip of rainwater falling from the branches above.
Down, low. Soft and silent through the damp grasses.
Nearer.
Nearer.
Drip, drip.
Then an ancient malevolence wilfully bred into it. The need for prey to be alive.
And screaming.
Drip, drip.
It growled. Soft, but low and frightful.
The prey jerked awake at the ominous rumble, eyes bewildered. They looked around. And then forward. Slowly they focused. And widened. The mouth opened, a black void in the firelit night.
And the scream began. Drawing it forward faster and faster as its intensity grew...
Claws extended...
Jaws foam-flecked...
* * * *
Farnor jerked bolt upright in his bed, eyes wide and mouth gaping in imitation of the face that had just rushed towards him, growing larger and larger until it had filled his entire vision. His mouth ran with saliva and his skin bristled with unholy desires. He spat out the imagined contents of his mouth with desperate and disgusting urgency, then he plunged forward and buried his face in the blankets, wiping his still sodden mouth to and fro frantically until it was dry and his lips were raw and matted with hairs.
Slowly he swung upright, then crashed back down on to his pillow, his breath coming in laboured gasps. His hand shook violently as he reached out to strike the small lantern by his bed.
After two clattering attempts he succeeded, and it bloomed gently into life.
Its welcome and familiar light filled his bedroom and began to melt away the vivid horror of the last few seconds. Began to melt it awa
y until it had only the intensity of a nightmare.
A nightmare. His breathing began to ease. He hadn't had a nightmare in years.
This was a nightmare, wasn't it?
But it was only a flimsy token of resistance against the grim certainty that stood stark in his mind.
It had not been a nightmare. It had been the creature. He had been with it. He had been it. Been it as it stalked the damp forest in search of the prey it had been sent to kill. He had felt its every subtle, muscular movement, its formidable power, its every desire. He shuddered and wrapped his arms about himself at the memory.
He felt sick. He wanted to call out to his parents as he had when he had been a child. Wanted the solidity of their gentle reassurance and smiling understanding to dismiss into nothingness the tortured vapours that had risen to assail him in his defenceless sleep. Wanted them to turn his room and his bed back again into the haven that it really was.
But he could not. Despite the childish clamour rising from within him, he knew it was not possible. Whatever he was now he was no longer that child. Those old reassurances had been a part of his journey to here and they belonged to another time. Now his cry would not be that of their child, it would be that of a man. And alarm and concern would tinge any reassurance.
And questions. Questions which he would not be able to answer, or be able to answer only with more lies.
There must be no more lies. That he knew now. So there must be silence.
He gazed at the beamed ceiling with its well-mapped cracks and stains and shadows. His breathing had eased and, somewhat to his surprise, he found his quaking spirit bolstered by a resolve. An unclear resolve, admittedly, but a resolve nonetheless. One framed through the years, had he known it, by the love that had given him those parental reassurances and made his cracked and twisted ceiling—and, indeed, everything about him—into an impregnable fortress capable of withstanding all ills. Until such time as he should learn that only he could be his own fortress.
He felt suddenly alone. He had his parents and Gryss and, unexpectedly, Marna, who would be a truly staunch ally, he knew. But still he was alone. Yet even as he realized this, so his fear lessened. Somehow, this last ... contact? ... vision? ... by its very intensity had made him understand, and to some extent perhaps even accept, that he was not some inadvertent spectator of a strange and unfolding happening, but a player in it, whether he willed it or no.
