by Roger Taylor
It was like going to Gryss with the toothache, he supposed. Thinking about it was worse than being there ... usually. The ‘usually’ made him frown mockingly to himself; toothache was perhaps a bad analogy.
He sat up, needlessly wiped his mouth again and then took a drink from the beaker of water that stood next to the lantern. The pool of saliva glistening on his blanket caught his eye. He grimaced. It was disgusting. He shuddered as he remembered the sensation almost of drowning as he had woken to find his mouth so gorged.
Then more prosaic considerations intervened and, without thinking what he was doing, he threw some water on the viscous mass. It was like a purifying blessing. Then he folded the blanket around it and rubbed it vigorously until it became just a damp patch. It would soon dry. He felt cleaner.
He doused the lantern and lay back. Plans formed in his mind. He would seek out Gryss tomorrow and tell him what had happened. He would suggest that Gryss and he visit the castle on some pretext—perhaps to look at the sick, perhaps to see if they needed supplies—and there they would look and listen.
And Marna? Should she be told?
Yes, he decided. Marna must know. Marna had somehow become a part of this.
As he drifted into sleep, he reviewed the events of his contact with the creature so he could order his telling for Gryss in the morning. He went over it several times, though each time it became more fragmented as intervals of sleep intervened.
Then, at the end, a faint voice inside him whispered softly to him that one day he would have to face this creature. And that he would have to kill it, or be killed by it.
It was a fearful thought, but it was faint and distant and had no power to disturb the ponderous, rolling momentum of his need for rest.
Farnor slept.
* * * *
There was uproar in the camp.
'What the devil's going on?’ Haral thundered as he emerged from his tent, a torch in one hand and a sword in the other. He kicked a nearby figure. ‘Get that fire built up, and fast.’ There was no protest at the blow.
Other figures were tumbling from the circled tents.
'Guard the perimeter!’ Haral bellowed.
A sentry ran over to him. He was wide-eyed and trembling, and his voice was almost hysterical. ‘It grabbed him. Just appeared and grabbed him. I've never seen anything like it ...'
Haral threw his torch to someone and, seizing the front of the sentry's coat, pulled the man up on to his toes. ‘Get a hold of yourself, Bryn. What grabbed who?’ he demanded angrily.
'Over there,’ the man gasped. ‘Mirek. It grabbed Mirek. Dragged him off. Into the trees there. He was screaming.'
Haral's face darkened and he pushed the man urgently in the direction he was pointing. They ran across the small clearing.
'He was here,’ Bryn said. ‘Leaning against this tree. Then this ... thing ... appeared.’ His hands reached up as if to cover his ears. ‘He started screaming. And this thing picked him up like he was some kid's toy and dragged him off ... over there.
There were several men with them now, some with torches, some with swords and axes. They were all talking at once.
'Shut up!’ Haral shouted as he moved in the direction that Bryn had indicated. The sentry caught his arm. ‘No, Haral,’ he said. ‘It's no use. He's finished.’ He began to stammer. ‘He didn't scream long after it'd taken him into the trees.'
Haral looked at him, his face a mixture of anger and alarm.
'And it was big. Very big,’ Bryn went on, still gripping his arm. ‘You can't go after it. Not at night.'
Haral stared into the darkness and then back at Bryn. The man was frightened, but he was no coward and he would not have stood idly by while a friend was killed. He glanced around at the growing crowd around him. ‘I told you to secure the perimeter,’ he said menacingly.
'Against what?’ someone said.
Haral sent him staggering backwards with a single blow. The bulk of the crowd scattered to do Haral's bidding.
Some of his anger thus released, Haral's thoughts began to quieten. ‘What the devil was it, Bryn?’ he asked, tugging his arm free. ‘And what happened?'
The man gesticulated vaguely. ‘I don't know,’ he said. ‘We'd set up so we could see one another. But I didn't see ... it ... coming. It must have come low through that undergrowth there, stalking on its belly ... until ...’ His voice faded.
'Until?’ Haral prompted.
'Until Mirek saw it,’ Bryn went on, licking his lips. ‘Then he screamed and ...’ His arms shot forward. ‘It seemed to rise up for ever out of the ground.’ He made a grabbing movement with his clawed hands. ‘It was so fast.’ His hands twitched towards his ears again as if to cover them. ‘And he was screaming. Screaming when it grabbed him. Screaming when it dragged him off into the trees. Then it went quiet.’ He looked at Haral, his face drawn, and asked him his own question. ‘What in hell's name was it?’ he said hoarsely.
Haral put a steadying hand on his shoulder. ‘You saw it,’ he said, bleakly. ‘How big was it? What did it look like? A dog? A bear? A boar, maybe? What?'
Bryn shook his head and held out his hand at waist height. ‘Like a big dog ... probably,’ he said after a moment. He hesitated, frowning. ‘But like a cat, too, the way it moved. And it was strong. Very strong. It didn't even falter when it picked Mirek up. Just like he was no weight at all. And he wasn't little, was he?'
'Is that all you saw?'
'It was over too quickly, Haral. I only got a fleeting glimpse. A movement, then the screaming, then ...’ Bryn grimaced. ‘I saw its teeth, though. Jaws like a mantrap.'
Haral peered into the darkness again as if still contemplating pursuing the creature. Bryn shook his head.
'No,’ he said. ‘Believe me. Even if you manage to find it, it'll be long too late for Mirek and it'll kill you before you can raise your sword arm.'
'What the devil kind of a creature could have done that?’ Haral muttered, half to himself.
'The same as killed that horse,’ Bryn replied. ‘If anyone still wants to sleep, I think the rest of us had best double our guard and close in so we're all visible.'
But no one wanted anything but vengeance and the recovery of Mirek when the initial turmoil and alarm had died down.
Haral struggled to beat down the anger that was rapidly gathering momentum. ‘No,’ he shouted. ‘Not in the dark. Whatever this thing is, it's big, it's strong, it hunts at night, it's on its own territory and it's not frightened of people. You want to go against it, you go on your own.'
There was some argument but, in the end, by a combination of reason and force of personality, Haral had his way.
'As soon as the light breaks we'll go, but not before,’ he said.
The rest of the night was eerie and fretful with the sound of restless sleepers and muttered debates as a double guard prowled the clearing.
Haral sat by the camp fire, his mood growing darker and more ominous as if in opposition to the approaching light of the dawn. One of the men snatched like a sparrow by a hawk. Battle chance was bad enough: a stray arrow, an unlucky sword stroke, a missed footing; but this was peculiarly unsupportable. His men as prey for some animal!
Something would die for it. Unafraid of people this creature might well be. But that was now. Tomorrow it would be a wiser animal by far before they killed it. And kill it they would, no matter how strong and fast it was.
* * *
Chapter 21
Daylight came reluctantly the following day, shouldering its way through a grey, rain-filled sky. The camp, however, needed little rousing and the men emerged into the morning dampness grim-faced and purposeful as if the spirit of Haral's vigil by the fire had passed to all of them.
Haral sent three riders back to the castle with the news of what had happened and of the intended hunt. ‘Keep together,’ was his sole injunction. He was going to say, ‘Tell Nilsson to expect this creature's head for a trophy,’ but a frisson of superstition bubbled up to stop
him.
The remainder of the group set off along the trail left by the creature. It was wide and conspicuous for some considerable distance, marked by crushed grass and broken branches, and then also by splashes of blood.
Soon the rain began again, steady and vertical at first and then whirling hither and thither as a strong breeze began to blow. Untypically, though, grumbling was minimal and the line of men, quietly leading their horses, moved on in almost complete silence.
The trail led them steadily upwards for quite a way, but it levelled off eventually, keeping well away from the edge of the forest. The wind grew stronger and such conversation as the men wished to have became almost impossible in the din of the waving branches above them.
Bryn moved forward alongside Haral. ‘Where do you think this thing could live?’ he shouted.
Haral shrugged. ‘If it's as big as you say, it probably lives in a cave somewhere,’ he replied off-handedly. Then he frowned and stopped.
'What's the matter?’ Bryn asked.
'Something's wrong,’ Haral answered after a moment, wiping the rain from his face. ‘This trail's like a city road. A blind man could follow it. It hasn't stopped once to ...’ He hesitated. ‘To eat. In fact it doesn't seem to have stopped anywhere, either to adjust its ... load ... or even to recover its breath.'
'I told you it was strong,’ Bryn said. ‘Perhaps it's female. Taking food back to its young.'
Haral's frown deepened. It was not a happy thought. A female with young would be really dangerous. Still, however dangerous it was there were enough well-armed men here to deal with it. He let Bryn's suggestion blow away in the noisy wind.
Then the trees began to close in on them, reducing the grey light to an eerie gloaming. With the wind angrily buffeting the canopy overhead but little or nothing blowing along the forest floor, Haral began to feel as if he were moving into some strange underground vault. The steady rain above reached them spasmodically, in large-dropped cascades which chilled and soaked whoever they struck.
The change made Haral uneasy.
He glanced back at his men. They were reflecting his own concern, peering intently into the surrounding gloom and instinctively closing ranks. He said nothing, but kept moving forward. There was very little undergrowth here, but the leaf litter was thick and still showed quite clearly the careless passage of the animal.
The trees closed in further and became taller, heightening Haral's impression that they were walking through the cellar of a great castle which soared high above them. The sound of the wind rattling the tops of the trees echoed down, but around them was only stillness.
Then the wind stopped. It did not quietly fade away, so that like the moment of sleep its passing went unnoticed. It stopped abruptly, as if a great hand had seized it. And with it the rain, too, stopped. The damp silence gradually filled with the sound of innumerable raindrops falling from weary, weighted leaves on to the sodden ground below.
Without command, the column stopped also. The men gazed upwards as if expecting to see some cause for this sudden silence.
Haral did the same, then he looked around at the closely spaced trees fading into the distant gloom. His unease grew. Probably because it was a good place for an ambush by men who knew how to use such terrain, he decided. He tried to reassure himself further. It was no hunting ground for a large animal: too little game, too little cover.
His horse whinnied, making him start slightly. As he reached up to comfort it, a movement caught his eye. His head jerked round. Even as he was turning, he saw that Bryn's description had been accurate. Moving so swiftly that he could make out little of its appearance, a black shadow emerged from the darkness and launched itself at the last man in the column.
Haral had scarcely taken a step forward, and his cry was still forming in his throat, as he saw the man tossed effortlessly into the air and dragged off into the trees. The man's nerve-tearing scream struck him like an axe blow.
Some reflex made him cry out, ‘Hold the horses!’ as he threw his reins to Bryn and began to run along the column.
But few heard the command. Panic struck the rear of the column immediately with a force greater than that of the attacker. The last horse, now untended and screaming like an echo of its erstwhile rider, galloped off into the gloom while men and horses scattered in all directions in a belated attempt to avoid the long-past attack.
Shouting, ‘Hold the horses! Hold the horses!’ Haral snatched a spear from the nearest horse and set about his panicking men with the shaft, following the established battlefield principle of ousting one terror by means of a bigger one.
'Form up, you dogs! We've got to get after it,’ he roared as he laid about him. ‘Form up!'
He had some effect despite the gloom and the close-set tree trunks. One man was knocked down by a horse. He staggered to his feet, dazed, then began to run away from the column. Haral swore and, slithering on the wet leafy ground, set off after him.
He took little catching and Haral's angry hand seizing the scruff of his neck sent his feet flying into the air before he crashed down on to the ground. Haral did not wait for him to recover, but maintaining the grip on his collar prepared to start dragging him back to the column.
Then he saw darkness rushing towards him. He heard a stomach-churning rumble of a growl and heard again Bryn's words, ‘Jaws like a mantrap'. He stood frozen with terror. Then, somehow, as blazing red eyes formed in the approaching shadow he dropped down flat, landing violently on top of his charge.
With a winding impact the creature's foot landed between his shoulder blades as it ran over him and he rolled over in panic, flailing his arms wildly. The impetus brought him on to his belly, and as he looked up he saw the shadow strike a man as he was mounting his horse and knock both man and horse to the ground.
Haral groped for his spear then staggered to his feet and lurched forward, almost on all fours in his desperation to reach his men. He heard the scream as the second victim was dragged away; heard the shouts of the men, angry and fearful, and the terrified shrieking of the horses. He saw men slipping on the treacherous ground; spears launched to worse than no avail as one of them plunged into a man's thigh. He saw two men struck by bolting horses.
He saw fear teeter into panic and rout.
He saw death for them all amid those dark, crowded, trees if he did not act.
He did not need to ponder the nature of the creature that had sought out one of their men and now returned to attack the entire group. Whatever it was, its intent, its will and its awful power defined it sufficiently. Haral knew that his only tactic now was to stem the rout and beat a fighting retreat. If he could.
If...?
* * * *
Farnor yawned and leaned his forehead against the flank of the cow. It had been hard getting up this morning and he had been walking around half asleep ever since.
It had earned him a rebuke from his father, and now the cow showed her resentment at his slothful attention by sidestepping away from him. Jerked into wakefulness he reached out to steady himself, whereupon the cow moved back and nearly knocked him off his stool. He swore at the animal as he struggled to keep his balance and also keep the milking pail upright. The cow turned and gazed at him reproachfully.
He patted it and muttered an insincere, ‘Sorry,’ then started milking again.
That done, his next duty lay in the work-shed which leaned raggedly against the barn. He had neglected quite a few of his usual tasks of late while ostensibly ‘doing odds and ends’ for Gryss, and this morning his father had detailed a long list of items to be completed, earmarking several for immediate attention. Farnor had considered protesting, citing work still to be done for Gryss, but there was a resolution underlying his father's quiet requests that he knew of old would make any appeal pointless. And probably unwise.
Still, he reflected, it wasn't really necessary that he tell Gryss what had happened last night immediately, despite its terrifying vividness. Whatever was happening was happ
ening and would presumably continue to do so whether he told Gryss or not. And to continue neglecting his duties about the farm would be merely to aggravate and, in all conscience, burden his parents.
And in burdening them he would burden himself also, thereby adding to the worries he already had. He closed the door of the work-shed behind him, kicking it expertly until the wooden latch dropped into position. He smiled as he did so. That was another job on his list, but it was at least something that he could apply himself to, and eventually put right. All the tasks he had to perform about the farm were thus. They were clear and well defined and they had a purpose, a logic, which, if it was not evident straight away, invariably became so as the various emergencies of farm life occurred: winds damaging the ricks; lightning firing them; frantic haymaking as black storm clouds piled high in the sky, dwarfing even the mountains; damp torchlit sojourns in the hills at lambing time; and many others. But all needing other things to be prepared, to be ready and to hand.
It came to him that the many small, insignificant things his parents had taught and shown him over the years were part of the great rhythm of tending the land which, in its turn, was the culmination of countless generations of learning through trial and error, success and failure.
He glanced out of the window, noting casually that while it was sunny here, the valley to the north was shrouded in mist.
Some culmination, he thought, gazing at the familiar disorder of the work-shed. He picked up a sickle lying amid the confusion covering the work bench. Its edge was turned and rusty. But then, could he have known how to win the metal to make this, had it not been for his conversations with the smith? And could he have known how to beat and shape and sharpen it thus? Or learned unaided the simple, effortless swing that would enable him to use it for long hours at a time without tiring?
