Farnor

by Roger Taylor

  He looked at the other tools and pieces of equipment lying about. No, he could not have hazarded even the nature of such as these, let alone made and used them, had it not been for those who had gone before him.

  Not too clever, after all, he said to himself, turning back to the window.

  Yet even as this revelation made itself known to him, he had a powerful feeling that he too was a part of this unheard, unseen rhythm, and that it would sustain him in some way through his present trials. Its great and ancient momentum, laden with an accumulated wisdom far beyond that of any one person, would not be so easily deflected.

  He must not neglect what was simple and mundane. He must let the performing of his routine everyday tasks be a fist raised in opposition to this unsought intrusion into his life. It was more important, not only for the sake of peace with his parents, but for his own peace, that he diligently attend to the ordinary rather than be for ever scuttling round to Gryss with tales of the extraordinary.

  Anyway, what could Gryss do?

  Precious little, he decided, though with the thought came guilt. Gryss had done everything that he could do: he had listened, and he had cared. And he thought about things.

  Farnor's mood swung from confident determination back towards uncertainty and fear again. While Gryss was there, he knew that he would not be totally alone. Gryss was important to him. The great sweep of the ages offered its continuity, but Gryss offered him more human and immediate sustenance. And he needed the one as much as he needed the other if he was to cope with the darkness that seemed to be clouding the edges of his every thought.

  He would go and see him today, but only after he had attended to his tasks here; attended to them correctly and thoroughly.

  He took another look at the mist-shrouded valley to the north, then he hefted the sickle and took it to the grinding bench. A rotating shaft driven by water piped down from one of the higher fields gave a protesting judder as, with a push on the foot pedal, Farnor connected the several grinding stones to it.

  He watched the circular stones gather speed. I couldn't have invented that either, he mused, as he brought the blade of the sickle delicately into contact with one of the stones.

  Sharpening the various cutting tools that were used on the farm was a source of some enjoyment to him. ‘A blunt knife is a dangerous knife,’ his father had told him for as long as he could remember, and it always gave him pleasure to know that whenever one of his edges was used it would move effortlessly through string or rope or wood, or whatever it was being turned to. Not only did he enjoy sharpening, but he was good at it. So much so that his father had actually admitted it publicly and his mother had solemnly delegated the task of sharpening her kitchen knives to him; a responsibility more forbidding than any other on the farm.

  He frowned a little as he examined the blade. What had his father been doing with it? Cutting down trees?

  The fleeting sense of superiority heartened him and he smiled to himself. Let his father cut rocks with it if he wished. He could do what he wanted, and when he had finished his son would make all things well again.

  The grindstones rumbled round steadily, the blade hissed in response to Farnor's touch and small showers of sparks cascaded on to the floor, bounced hither and thither in confusion and vanished mysteriously into nothingness.

  And then it was finished. Farnor turned the blade this way and that, squinted expertly along its curving edge and pronounced it ... adequate. He hung it on its correct hook—his tasks included tidying the work-shed as well as sharpening everything in sight—and took down a lethal-looking machete.

  He smiled as his hand closed about the grip and, crouching, he made a menacing face. Handling this always brought to him the memory of his father frantically snatching it away from him once when, fired by one of Yonas's tales, he had chosen it as his magical sword. A sword which could cut through anything, even the anvil on which it had been forged, and which would slay all who were foolish enough to come against him, no matter how great their skill or rugged their armour.

  He chuckled. Lot of problems, children, he said to himself, in imitation of his father's remark at the time.

  Now, siding understandingly with his father at this childish peccadillo, he looked at the blade seriously and then offered it to one of the stones.

  The sickle, with its curving blade, was quite difficult to sharpen, but the machete was simplicity itself and the long sweeping strokes that he was able to use were particularly satisfying.

  He soon became engrossed in the work again and all thoughts that were not concerned with the grinding and honing of the blade faded from his awareness. He watched his hands moving swiftly, steadily and surely; carefully testing, retouching, testing again. And gradually the deed became timeless as his whole world filled with the tuneless song he was creating.

  But, it was different today. Fuller, more intense. Words could not begin to describe the feeling.

  And, without realizing when it had begun, he became aware that beyond the rumbling and hissing of the stones and the blade he could hear—or, perhaps, more correctly sense—a sound. A sound like a distant chorus of countless voices. Yet so natural did it seem that he felt no surprise. Indeed, he knew that he had heard it before, though where and when eluded him. It was as if he were listening to a huge family debating, discussing, gossiping, and though he could hear no words he felt a sensation of surprise ... inquiry? ... pervading it. And directed towards him!

  What do you want? he found his thoughts asking.

  The debate rippled and shifted, the surprise in it now stronger by far. And he detected some element of denial; a refusal to believe.

  As he listened, his eyes watched his hands moving the blade to and fro across the stones and he knew that everything was well.

  Then a tiny, swirling knot of confusion came into the chorus, and the attention was no longer focused on him. The knot swelled rapidly to become alarm, then disbelief, and finally, in the merest blink of time, outright horror.

  Distantly Farnor became aware of the machete beginning to bounce off the stone as his grip faltered.

  Then, rising in pitch to a rending shriek but diminishing in intensity in the same proportion, the chorus was gone, as if into an unknowable distance, and Farnor felt himself overwhelmed by pounding, primitive lusts: the taste of fresh blood in his mouth; human screams rendered inhuman by pain and terror resonating through him; the fear and panic of his prey rich in his nostrils.

  Men, horses, confusion. Another victim chosen, burdened and scurrying blindly through the dark trees.

  Good...

  It was good to have found such release after so long. Good to have found such as him again. Good to be free to pursue the old ways again.

  In a dream somewhere else, Farnor saw his hand snatching away as the bouncing blade began to move upward, its bright edge glinting in the dust-laden sunlight streaking through the work-shed window.

  And, clearly, he saw the shadowy, stumbling figure glance over his shoulder and see his fate.

  As the blade continued upwards, Farnor felt himself reaching into the horror that was possessing him, and denying it.

  And it was gone!

  There was only the work-shed and the grinding bench. With a jarring thud, the machete struck the ceiling and hung there, swaying gently.

  * * * *

  Haral dashed forward roaring, ‘Regroup, regroup!'

  A charging horse narrowly missed him but he made no attempt to stop it. His prime concern was the men. This creature could take them one at a time if they scattered, and, though he had never known the like before in any animal, it seemed as though that could be its precise intention.

  Using the butt of his spear freely and filling the forest with his thunderous vituperations, he stemmed the scattering of his men.

  'Form up! Form up! And hold those damn horses! It won't attack a group.'

  It helped, too, that those at the front of the column had been less panicked by the creatu
re's ferocious attacks and to some extent had restrained their terrified companions.

  'Where's Bryn? Where in hell's name is Bryn?’ Haral roared.

  The man next to him pointed. Bryn was moving through the trees towards them. He had run after one of the fleeing men and was returning with him slung unconscious across his shoulders. Two of the men started forward to help, when out of the darkness beyond him the shadow came again, moving directly towards him, fast and purposeful.

  'He's not going to make it,’ someone cried, fearfully. Haral made no answer, but began running forward, his spear held low before him. ‘Run, Bryn!’ he shouted desperately as he closed with him. ‘Run!'

  Bryn looked at him, then glanced hastily over his shoulder. The black shape charging towards him through the trees froze all movement and thought in him and left him only terror.

  Faintly he could hear Haral's frantic urging, but he could do nothing to escape the will that was bearing down on him.

  Then, abruptly, it stopped.

  At the same instant Bryn felt himself released.

  He turned and ran as he had never run in his life. He felt Haral's hand seize him and drag him forward, then many hands were seizing him and bringing him to shelter. The man he had rescued was lifted from his shoulders and he was in the midst of his companions, gasping for air.

  'Tighten up! Keep close! Shoulder to shoulder!’ he heard Haral shouting breathlessly.

  Then an eerie silence fell, punctuated only by heavy breathing from the men and the fretful snorting and padding of the horses. Swords and spears pointed uncertainly in the direction from which Bryn had appeared.

  Haral quickly moved others to guard the sides and rear of the group.

  But nothing happened.

  'Where is it?’ Bryn asked after a moment, his voice shaking. ‘It was just behind me.'

  The group became unexpectedly silent. Haral peered into the gloom. ‘It's gone,’ he said. ‘It's given up for some reason.'

  His mind filled with questions, but he ignored them. Retreat was the only thing that needed to be considered now. ‘Pick up the injured and ...'

  'Something's coming. Listen!'

  The whole group turned, weapons levelled, but before anything could be made out a powerful wind came rushing through the trees, blowing leaves and forest floor detritus before it.

  Haral swore and lifted his arm to his face for protection.

  'Go quickly,’ came a voice through the noise of the wind. It was commanding in tone, though it was laced with urgency. Haral rubbed his eyes and looked blearily into the wind to see the speaker.

  It was Rannick. He was gesticulating and pointing south. ‘Go quickly!’ he shouted again. ‘I'll restrain it for as long as I can. But it won't be for long. Go now. Move!'

  Neither Haral nor his men needed further bidding. Regardless of their comfort or condition, the injured were quickly thrown across saddles and everyone mounted whichever horse was nearest. Several of them had to ride double because of the horses that had been lost.

  Haral took the rear of the column. Struggling to control his horse in the hammering wind, he directed it towards Rannick.

  It twisted and circled and flayed out its forelegs in opposition.

  'Go while you can!’ Rannick's voice carried clearly through the noise of the wind. Haral managed to still his horse momentarily, and stared at his apparent saviour intently. His eyes were still watering, and the figure he saw was blurred and streaked.

  'Who are you?’ he demanded.

  The figure shifted, as if it were both there and somewhere else at the same time. Haral rubbed his eyes again.

  'You know who I am,’ Rannick said. Then he pointed towards the retreating column. ‘Do you wish to go forward or do you wish to die?'

  A massive gust of wind struck Haral. Leaves overhead hissed in protest while branches rattled and trunks creaked. Haral's horse turned and galloped after the others. He made no effort to stop it.

  As Haral disappeared into the distance, the wind around Rannick died away. He frowned. His plan had worked admirably. Such doubters as there were amongst Nilsson's men had been shown the error of their ways very convincingly, and gaining complete control over the entire group would now be an easy matter. From what he had learned from Meirach and from his own observations, he knew they would form an ideal nucleus to the force that he intended to build. If ever there was to be a confirmation of his destiny, the arrival of Nilsson and his men was it. That, and his long journey into the caves.

  It was a time for exhilaration. Indeed he was exhilarated.

  And yet something had gone amiss. Albeit briefly, something had ... drained? ... no ... rather strangled, restrained ... the new power he had discovered.

  Perhaps he had not yet the skills he imagined? But no skill had been needed here that he had not had for many years.

  He reached out and felt the presence of the creature. It had the stillness of a shadowed and silent lake, deep beyond imagining and wending into the far, unknowable distance. And it had the timeless immovability of a towering mountain whose ancient roots held it fast in the depths below. But above all it had desires. Desires that knew no bounds. And a will that knew no restraint. Yet it bent to his will. It was a richness greater than any he had ever imagined. And there would be more. Much more.

  The creature stirred and Rannick basked in its contentment.

  * * * *

  Farnor's hand was shaking as he yanked the machete out of the wooden ceiling. Not because of the accident he had narrowly avoided, though he was acutely aware of that, but because of the terrible contact with the creature that he had again been drawn into.

  And what had been that other contact immediately before? Vast and whispering. Watching and listening. Surprised. Not malevolent, certainly, but every bit as mysterious as the creature.

  He had to grit his teeth at the effort he found he needed to stop himself abandoning his tasks and running to Gryss with news of this latest happening. His resolve held and a down-to-earth common sense came to his aid. Whatever had happened it had done him no hurt, save to alarm him. He must regain the balance of his life. He must remember that he was Garren Yarrance's son, and heir to the substantial lands at this end of the valley. Paper and documents gravely averred that they belonged to the family Yarrance, but, like all the valley dwellers, he knew that the reality was that he belonged to the land. His was a stewardship for the lands that fed and clothed far more than just his family; had done for countless generations in the past, and would do so for countless generations in the future. He had a duty to his parents, to those that had gone before and to those that would come and, indeed, to himself, to continue learning the skills he would need to fulfil that stewardship well.

  Other things must yield before this need.

  He gazed around the work-shed. He would finish what he had been set to do here, and the other tasks he had been given. He would quieten his mind. He looked down at the machete, turning it this way and that. The sun bounced off its glistening edge sending slivers of light skittering about the untidy room.

  And in placing these unnerving happenings against the weight of his true life, he would temper and sharpen himself to face whatever the future held for him.

  * * *

  Chapter 22

  The wind thrashed the tops of the trees and sent twigs and leaves and sometimes whole branches chasing after Haral's fleeing group. The men were oblivious to such urgings however, as the terror of the last few minutes drove them relentlessly forward.

  Galloping up and down the column, Haral managed to prevent the retreat from turning into complete disorder, but it was not easy. Independent of the wills of their riders, the horses had clear intentions of their own and many were soon not only lathered, but bleeding about the mouth as restraints were applied by those same riders, fearful of being recklessly dashed into low branches or crushed against trunks.

  As they drew further from the scene of the assault, however, the wind began to ease
and the headlong flight gradually became a more controlled gallop and then a steady canter.

  Haral, riding at the rear, began to count the cost and the probable consequences. Two men dead, plus Mirek taken earlier. At least four others injured by panicking horses, including the man Bryn had brought back; and one man with a spear still sticking in his leg. All this, plus half a dozen horses lost, and who knew how many other lesser injuries to both men and horses incurred during the melee. He was reminded of these by a sharp pain between his shoulder blades. Carefully, he flexed them and tried to assess the extent of the damage that the creature had done when it had trodden on him. With some relief he diagnosed it as probably only bruising; he had had enough injuries in the past to know when one was merely an inconvenience and one was a problem requiring attention.

  He grimaced. What a disaster! He issued up a small prayer of thanks that he had not, after all, sent that frivolous message to Nilsson, ‘Expect a trophy.’ At least he would not have the galling humiliation of that on top of the reproaches that would soon be coming his way.

  But what else could he have done? he pondered. The damned thing was an animal. He had hunted animals before, as had they all. Fierce animals at that: boars, bears, even wild bulls. And while they would turn and fight, this was usually only at the last extremity when all other avenues of escape had been denied them. Certainly they didn't think like men: didn't know that they were stronger, faster and better armed by far than their flimsy pursuers; didn't know to turn from hunted into hunter by laying ambushes.

  But this one had known. Despite himself, Haral found himself thinking of the whole incident as being like some kind of trap, with its bait and its lure and its final assault.

  'There's nothing for you there but terrible danger and the Great Forest,’ Rannick had said.

  And you knew that because, somehow, you were at the heart of it, you piece of horse dung, Haral thought viciously, though he glanced about him as he cursed for fear that, in some way, he might be overheard. Any doubts he might have had about Rannick's involvement in the attack had been dispelled by his seemingly fortuitous appearance and his promise of help.