Farnor

by Roger Taylor

  His voice faded away as, quite suddenly, his eyes closed. Slowly, he sank back on to his pillow once again.

  Marna clutched Gryss's arm in alarm.

  'It's all right,’ Gryss said. ‘He's asleep. It's the sleeping draught catching up with him. I don't think he'll wake again tonight. Not now he's got most of that out of his system.'

  He stood up and carefully rearranged Jeorg's pillow and sheets, then he took the lamp from Marna and replaced its dimming cowl. As he hung it back on its hook by the bed he motioned Marna out of the room.

  Returning to the room at the back of the cottage, he slumped down heavily into his chair. Marna sat opposite him. Her face was full of questions, but she asked none of them.

  'It is Rannick then,’ Gryss said, after a long silence. ‘There was no doubt about it that time, was there? No misheard whispers. No delirious rambling.'

  There was a quality in Gryss's voice that made Marna want to turn away. She felt tiny and helpless as the enormity of events became increasingly clear to her. What was she but a pathetic husk of inadequacy? She could not face grown men with their formidable strength, and their swords and their willingness to use them. Nor could she face Rannick with his unbelievable and seemingly diabolical powers; powers that raised a battering wind to protect the castle yet which could be used subtly to torment a helpless, beaten man. What was she against all this?

  And even Gryss had been downed and beaten by what was happening. For all her life he had been a man who knew the answers to her questions, a man who saw through her with an eye keener than her father's but whom she could twist to her own ends almost as if he were a mere child. She had not realized before what support she had drawn from him in the past. But now she did, for the support was gone.

  Her loneliness was a grim revelation.

  She felt as she imagined Jeorg must have felt when Rannick stopped him breathing. She felt the walls and ceiling of the cottage closing in on her, crushing, menacing...

  She had to get away.

  A thunderous banging crashed into her waking nightmare, making her start violently. She leapt to her feet, drawing in a raucous, terrified breath, seeing in her mind Rannick and Nilsson and his men circling the cottage, their horses stamping in the darkness and their intent focused on her just as it had been focused on Jeorg.

  Her mouth dried and her legs began to shake. She turned to Gryss.

  The banging continued.

  And someone was shouting.

  Licking his lips, Gryss half walked and half ran down the hallway.

  Reaching the door, he threw it open.

  An inarticulate cry greeted him and a figure blundered forward, seizing Gryss in a desperate grip.

  Gryss took in the hair, wildly awry, the mud-spattered clothes, the wild, lost eyes and the deathly pale face of the third member of his conspiracy against the invaders of the valley: Farnor Yarrance.

  * * *

  Chapter 29

  As they made their way through the village, Nilsson's men remained silent and in close formation. The only sign of interest in their surroundings they had shown had been the ironic salutes that some of them had given to Gryss and the others, as they had stood, bewildered and uncertain, supporting the unconscious Jeorg, while the troop passed by.

  Even after they had left the village some way behind, the men maintained their silence and their close formation. Then Nilsson raised his face so that the rain fell directly into it, and let out a low, rumbling laugh.

  The sound was a comparative rarity, but it was familiar enough to be recognized and it ran down the column gathering momentum as it went. Soon the troop was a loose, straggling band of men shouting, laughing and jeering.

  One rider, the hood of his cape pulled well forward, pushed his horse through the mass to join Nilsson at the front. Nilsson turned to look at him and some of the laughter faded from his face.

  'A good trip, Lord?’ he asked.

  Rannick threw back his hood and ran a hand through his unkempt black hair. There was laughter in his face, too, but there was no humour in it. Not that there was much humour in the laughter that rippled to and fro along the column. It was coarse and raucous and dedicated to the amusement derived from watching the sufferings of others.

  'A beginning, Captain,’ Rannick replied. ‘A beginning. I will confess that it was ... interesting ... to watch your men ply their trade. Stimulating, even.'

  Nilsson smiled, knowingly. ‘The men were becoming restive, Lord,’ he said. ‘They needed the exercise and it was only a matter of time before they took it in the village here. Something which would have presented quite a few difficulties for us in the future.'

  No sooner had he spoken the words than he cursed himself for a fool. He braced himself for Rannick's response.

  It began with a sneer. ‘I've told you before, Captain, you concern yourself too much about these people. I know them. A little ... exercise ... as you choose to call it would avoid difficulties with them in the future, rather than cause them.'

  Nilsson bowed in acknowledgement, but offered no argument. It had been careless of him to touch on the subject of how to treat the local people, and he hoped now that his silence would allow it to fade away. It was sufficient that he had had his own way so far in keeping Rannick from inflicting some horror on them to satisfy whatever malice it was he had towards them.

  Fortunately, Rannick chose not to pursue the matter, though Nilsson sensed that it was rankling his new Lord and would surface again eventually. He sensed, too, that if it did so then almost certainly he would have to cease his opposition if he wished to survive.

  Rannick looked at him directly, and his sneer turned into a malevolent smile. ‘I noticed that you too enjoyed the exercise, Captain,’ he said.

  Nilsson inclined his head. Except for what you did to that villager who followed us, he thought, though this time he managed to remain silent. In that instance he had not had his own way. He would have preferred to let the men have their fun with him and then seen him safely dispatched. It would have been scarcely necessary even to hide the body, so deserted and little-travelled was the region. But Rannick had wanted exercise of his own and, that done, he had ordered that the man be returned to the village by way of an example to others. There had been no debate about it.

  It seemed to Nilsson at the time to be a major error, but nothing would have possessed him to even hint at disagreeing with his Lord when he saw the look on his face as he worked his fearful way with the choking villager.

  He shrugged his concerns aside. If the worst came to the worst as a result, then so be it. He and his men had dealt with worse problems than rebellious villagers in their time. He smiled to himself. It had been a good trip. They had not had one such for a long time. And apart from putting heart back into the men, it had also provided them with considerable extra supplies.

  Faintly, from the edges of his thoughts like the sound of a distant ocean, came the strains of the grim chorus of the maimed and dying that had risen in the wake of his passing over the years. It was a little louder now, but he paid it no heed. It would fade, and though it was ever there, rumbling to the surface in his quieter moments, he rarely heard it and he never listened to it.

  Yet that cry for retribution in its harmony was not easily dismissed. Suddenly a chill ran through him. It was not unfamiliar, but there was nothing he could do about it. Somewhere back there they would be following. They would never stop. Never. They would pursue him and his men wherever they went; no boundary, natural or man-made, could offer protection against them, nor the arm of any king or prince. Not even time would give any protection for they would come to his very deathbed to demand an accounting. And there would be no faltering in their resolution; that, he knew; that, they all knew. That much had been known since the first blow had been struck early that misty morning so long ago.

  He shivered and, scarcely realizing what he was doing, glanced over his shoulder. Accidentally catching the eye of Dessane, he forced himself to
grin and then passed the act off as a casual inspection of his men.

  There had always been the possibility of turning and facing the pursuers and of putting them to the sword, given a chance. But apart from the inherent danger in such a step, to do so would merely be to declare their whereabouts, and there would be others to follow in their wake; always there would be others.

  He wiped the rain from his face and turned forward again. Just reaction, he thought. It always happened after a good raid. Perhaps, ironically, it was worse this time because their circumstances were so much improved following the arrival of Rannick. Now, he reminded himself, they were aided by the power. His fear of the past was, in reality, little more than a habit. Rannick may not have the awesome talents of the Lord that he had once followed, but Nilsson could see for himself that his skills were growing, and even now no ordinary man could hope to prevail against him.

  With an effort, Nilsson set aside his fears and looked again to the future of wealth and power that could be his if he retained Rannick's good will.

  The thought brought him back to his original concern. He glanced covertly at Rannick and then allowed himself a discreet moment of satisfaction; his inadvertent rekindling of the dispute about the fate of the villagers had not been fanned into a larger blaze. He had been fortunate this time, but he must remember in whose presence he was. He must weigh his every word just as he had had to do in the past.

  And, as if in confirmation of this, the rain falling ahead of them began to twist and swirl. Nilsson watched, fascinated, as skeins of water danced hither and thither, merging and dividing, looping and spiralling, now flying high into the air, now slithering along the ground like glistening grey serpents.

  His mind filled with questions about how, and why, but he did not speak. Watch and learn were to be his watchwords. Rannick's behaviour had all the hallmarks of childish playfulness, but there was a sinister menace even in these seemingly innocent, dancing shapes, whose cause it would be best not to inquire into.

  Then the skeins merged into a single solid shape which rose into the air. It stood looming over them for a moment, like a great tree trunk supporting the grey sky above, then it trembled throughout its entire bulk as if something at its heart were trying to escape and, with a strange sigh, burst into a cloud of fine spray.

  Nilsson risked a compliment. ‘Your skill grows by the day, Lord.'

  'No particular skill is needed for such foolishness,’ Rannick said, staring at the dispersing mist. ‘But you are right. My skill and my power build upon one another. It comes to me that we will be able to pursue my intentions much sooner than I had envisaged.'

  Nilsson fought down a frown. One successful raid against a defenceless village did not form a basis for assessing the worth of the men against more prepared adversaries. It was a long time since they had done any serious fighting.

  He eased his horse closer to Rannick and lowered his voice. ‘The men can't adjust to circumstances as rapidly as you, Lord. And we must build up our strength before we become too ... adventurous. Sooner or later we'll have to face real opposition as your plans begin to take shape.'

  'We must be cautious. Take care not to over extend ourselves?'

  Nilsson looked at him, startled by this paraphrasing of the comments he had made so often in their discussions of late. Was it a genuine acknowledgement of their position or did it merely portend an impulsive punishment in response to some fault on his part?

  But not to answer could be equally provocative.

  'Yes, Lord,’ he said, as neutrally as he could manage.

  Rannick was silent. Nilsson instinctively held his breath. Then Rannick smiled unpleasantly. ‘Holding your breath will avail you nothing, Captain,’ he said. ‘I can hold it for you for hours, if you wish.’ He turned towards him. ‘I can do it for the entire troop. Or I can sweep you all into oblivion.'

  Nilsson made no effort to keep the fear from his face. ‘I'm yours to command, Lord,’ he said.

  Rannick nodded. ‘Yes, you are,’ he said simply. The menace in his presence evaporated. ‘But have no fear. I shall ask nothing of you that you are not prepared to do willingly. And, as I have agreed with you, those who are loyal and serve me well will be duly rewarded.'

  'Lord,’ Nilsson said with a bow.

  Rannick turned away from him and looked towards the castle which was now occasionally appearing through the rain. Nilsson let his horse fall back a pace so that he could discreetly recover his composure.

  Abruptly Rannick leaned forward, as if he were trying to catch a distant sound. Then he frowned. ‘Someone's been inside the castle,’ he said, his voice an odd mixture of anger and anticipation.

  Nilsson swore under his breath. In spite of Rannick's assurances, he knew that he should have left a guard. It was all very well talking about these locals as if they were timid half-wits, but to take such a risk as leaving the castle undefended was folly of a high order. They could have seized back their precious tithe, leaving the troop without supplies other than those that they had just stolen. They could have found such few documents as he had which might reveal the true nature of the troop.

  Visions of poisoned food and fouled wells hovered on the fringes of these concerns. And ambush!

  'We'll prepare for an attack, Lord,’ he said, but Rannick shook his head.

  'No,’ he said. ‘My guards have done their duty adequately. There's no one there now. Though...?’ His voice tailed off with a note in it that Nilsson had not heard before.

  Doubt, he realized. What had happened with these mysterious guards he had left behind?

  Then Rannick was himself again. ‘I am going ahead,’ he said icily. ‘Follow at the walk. There's no urgency.'

  Frightened we might come across some flaw in your schemes, Lord? Patch it up before we arrive? Nilsson thought viciously, though he kept his manner attentive and concerned.

  'As you wish, Lord,’ he said.

  He watched Rannick galloping away, stiff and ungainly, swaying awkwardly from side to side. Whatever else he might be, he was no rider, though he managed well enough on the horse he had eventually chosen. ‘Evil-minded, bad-tempered mare, that one. We should've eaten it months ago,’ Dessane had said of it. But it seemed to get on with Rannick, prompting Dessane to conclude, very softly, ‘Two of a kind.'

  'A happy sight, Nils,’ a voice said quietly by Nilsson's side. He turned to find Saddre, his restless eyes flicking significantly after Rannick.

  'Him riding away?’ Nilsson suggested.

  Saddre nodded. ‘Talk about the old days,’ he said, puffing out his cheeks. ‘It'd have been kinder to cut that poor sod of a farmer's throat than do what he did.'

  Nilsson raised his hand as an injunction to Saddre to avoid the topic.

  Saddre missed the movement and continued. ‘Do you remember Commander Gro...?'

  'Yes! Leave it,’ Nilsson snapped angrily, favouring Saddre with a look laden unmistakably with danger.

  'Sorry,’ Saddre said hastily. ‘What's the matter with him, anyway?’ he went on, gesturing after the now-vanished Rannick.

  Nilsson shrugged. ‘Doubtless he'll tell us if he wants us to know,’ he said. ‘But it looks as if something's gone wrong. Keep an eye out for his temper when he gets back.'

  It was not mere temper that Rannick was exhibiting when he returned, however. It was a deep, cold fury that he made no attempt to conceal. Even the most oafish of Nilsson's men had wit enough to feel it and stay silent.

  Nilsson, increasingly attuned to his new master's moods, sensed it long before any of the others and rode forward to meet him. ‘Lord, what's happened?’ he asked. ‘Has there been an attack? Damage done?'

  'We must find the ones responsible immediately,’ Rannick said ominously. ‘He must be found. If we have to raze every building in the valley, he must be found.'

  'He, Lord?’ Nilsson queried.

  'They, they!’ Rannick snarled.

  Nilsson's horse carried him backwards from Rannick's wrath. �
��Have you any idea who it might be, Lord?’ he asked when he finally succeeded in bringing his mount under control.

  'When I meet him,’ Rannick replied, his savagery unabated.

  Nilsson let both the vagueness of the reply and the further reference to a single individual pass.

  'It's late to organize a full-scale search, Lord, but if the matter's urgent, we can start with the nearest and see how far we get before nightfall.'

  'We search until he's found, Captain,’ Rannick said, brutally.

  'You'll have to come with us, Lord, if you're the only one who can recognize the culprits.'

  But Rannick needed no such advice, he was already off, galloping gracelessly towards Garren's farm. Nilsson spurred his horse after him and signalled the troop to follow.

  The dogs set up a noisy barking as the troop neared, and rushed out threateningly when they clattered into the yard. Rannick flicked his hand towards them and the two animals abruptly turned tail and fled yelping piteously.

  More than the sound of the barking, this brought Garren to the door of the farmhouse. Looking to see what had happened to so frighten his dogs, his gaze lit first on Nilsson.

  'What in thunder's name's going on, Captain?’ he demanded.

  Before Nilsson could reply, however, Rannick had ridden forward to confront Garren. The farmer's anger changed to confusion. ‘Rannick? What're you doing here, riding with these men?'

  'I'm not riding with them,’ Rannick replied. ‘They're riding with me. At my command.'

  Garren's confusion grew. He gave a bewildered, apologetic smile, as if he had misheard something, though there was some irritation in his voice at Rannick's manner. ‘I don't understand. What do you mean?’ he asked.