by Roger Taylor
'Do as you wish,’ he said, pushing past the three men and going out into the yard.
'Find a cart and harness it up,’ Gryss said to Harlen and Yakob. ‘Get them to Nath's. I'll see if I can settle Farnor down a bit.'
Farnor was standing in the doorway of the farmhouse when Gryss emerged into the yard. He had withdrawn the knife that Nilsson had hurled away and that had stuck in the door frame. He was looking at it idly.
'It's one of my mother's favourite kitchen knives,’ he said as Gryss approached him. He appeared to be his normal self again, but there was still a distant note in his voice as if his mind were elsewhere. ‘Strong blade, good steel, kept its edge for a long time. I wonder who stuck it in the door.'
Gryss briefly considered a shrug of ignorance, then he told the truth. ‘It was probably used to kill your mother,’ he said, as gently as such a statement would allow. ‘She died very quickly. As did your father.'
Farnor hefted the knife. ‘I sharpened it only a week or two ago,’ he said.
Kicking some charred debris to one side, he went into the remains of the house. Gryss followed him, picking his way carefully. Inside he looked round at the smoke-stained walls of the familiar rooms. Equally familiar furniture lay crushed and broken under the blackened remains of the collapsed roof and floors. Gryss grimaced. It was the very familiarity that heightened his appalling sense of desolation. He wanted to say something, but no great words of solace came to him.
'The walls are sound,’ he said weakly after a while. ‘It can be rebuilt, Farnor.'
'The cows will need milking,’ Farnor said absently.
'We'll get someone along to round up the stock and tend it,’ Gryss said, suddenly glad to be practical. ‘There'll be no shortage of willing hands, you know that.'
And no shortage of wild speculation and rage and anger, came the thought at the same time. He dismissed it. That would break about his head all too soon. His immediate task was to take care of Farnor. The rest of the village could remain safe and secure in its ignorance for a little while yet.
Farnor put the knife into his belt, then bent down and picked up something. It was a small model cart, neatly carved, and still intact. ‘My father made this for me when I was a child,’ he said. ‘A solstice gift. I played with it for hours on end.’ He looked around as if momentarily lost. ‘It ended up as an ornament on that shelf there.'
He pointed to a clean line on the wall running between two split and charred brackets.
Gryss watched him carefully.
'How did my father die?’ he asked, in the same absent tone.
Once again Gryss considered an easy lie, but again such of the truth as he could divine came out almost unbidden.
'A great blow, Farnor,’ he said. ‘As far as I can tell. Probably several. The only time I've seen anything like it was years ago when someone fell off the crags up east.'
For an instant he had the impression that he was at the centre of a powerful force as he seemed to feel Farnor's scattered attention suddenly draw together into a single hard-knotted whole.
'I don't understand,’ Farnor said. ‘Do you mean he was beaten, like Jeorg?'
'No,’ Gryss replied. ‘I'm certain he wasn't beaten like that. The external damage would have been worse and the internal damage less.’ He gave a helpless shrug. ‘The only way I can describe it is as I have done. He seemed to have been killed by a massive impact, as if he'd fallen from a great height.'
Farnor's brow knitted as he struggled with Gryss's explanation. An image came into his mind from his early childhood. An image of Rannick teasing a cat with increasing roughness until finally it lashed out and scratched him. Rannick had sworn, then with one sweeping action he had snatched up the cat and hurled it into a nearby wall, killing it instantly.
The sound of the impact lingered in Farnor's mind yet, though he had not thought about the incident in many years.
'Or as though he'd been thrown against a wall?’ he said, partly to himself.
Gryss stuttered, caught unawares by the attention given to his answer. ‘I ... I suppose so,’ he said. ‘Yes. But I can't think of how a thing like that could've been done.'
Farnor looked at him coldly. ‘Well, he couldn't have fallen off a cliff around here, could he?’ he said.
Before Gryss could answer, Farnor had turned around and walked out of the house. Gryss hurried after him, thoughts of Farnor's parting words at the cottage rising to the surface.
But Farnor was standing just outside the door, gazing round the yard. Harlen and Yakob were backing a horse awkwardly between the shafts of a high-sided cart. They stopped when they saw Farnor emerge from the house, but Gryss motioned them to continue.
'What's the matter?’ he asked Farnor.
'Hurled against a wall,’ Farnor said quietly, as if turning the words over for inspection. Then he pointed and said, ‘There's been a great wind here. Look at the damage to those roofs over there. Lines of slates torn off.’ He swung his arm round to encompass the yard. ‘And look at the mess. Walls damaged, everything scattered everywhere.’ He turned to Gryss, his eyes unnaturally bright. ‘That wind at the castle snatched you off your feet and pinned you to the gate like a dried leaf, didn't it?’ he said. His hand went to his injured arm. ‘Whoever set that ... trap ... for us there killed my father.’ He shivered. ‘And that creature had something to do with it as well. I felt it, out there in the woods. I thought it was on top of me, it felt so close. But it was after something else, and it was in full cry.’ He bent towards Gryss, confidentially. ‘Wherever it is, it draws a power from somewhere else. I could feel that too,’ he said. ‘Some place that's both here and beyond here. There was a great flood of energy pouring through. Like something alive.’ He paused. ‘And the creature is a channel for it.'
Gryss gazed at him wildly, understanding nothing, but caught up by the force in his words.
'Now what I have to do is find out who it is who uses this power and controls this creature,’ Farnor went on.
Gryss pulled himself together. ‘And?’ he said.
'And kill him,’ Farnor answered, without hesitation. When Farnor had made this threat at his cottage, Gryss had taken it for no more than an angry, frightened outburst. But here there was such resolve in it that he went cold with fear. He wished he could have laughed and cried out, ‘You couldn't hurt anyone, Farnor, it's not in your nature.’ But the words would not come, because they were only half true. True in that Farnor would not willingly hurt anything, but not true that he would not kill. He had slaughtered animals in the past as a matter of routine. Slaughtered them quickly and efficiently under the tutelage of his father. The skills were in his hands. All that was needed to bring them to bear on people was the will.
'Is it Nilsson, do you think?'
The question burst in upon Gryss, catching him completely unawares in the middle of his dark reverie. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It's Rannick.'
Even as he spoke the words, his mind sped after them as though it could seize them before they reached their destination.
Farnor spun round and his gaze fixed Gryss just as surely as would one of his long-bladed knives. ‘Rannick?’ he said, his voice filled with changing shades and nuances: disbelief, doubt, realization.
Every encounter that he had ever had with Rannick seemed to pass through Farnor's mind, culminating in that irritated flick of the hand and the angry buzzing of a cloud of flies restrained by some power beyond their knowing. And with those memories came memories too of subtle familiarities in the contacts he had had with the creature. Familiarities that now fell into place around the name of Rannick, as crystals would form about a single seeding grain. It was sufficient. He needed no further interrogation of his informant to confirm this knowledge.
And, as if Farnor's sudden realization were contagious, Gryss found himself back in that dim castle room with Nilsson telling him about the intention to turn the castle into a permanent garrison. The vaguely familiar figure silhouetted
against the window ... it had been Rannick! Of course. How could he have failed to recognize him at the time? Too tired? Too shocked by Nilsson's news?
But it didn't matter now. It was as if a cold wind had blasted away a cloying mist that had been clinging about his thoughts.
Then welling up into this new-found clarity came a terrible, murderous urge.
Though with that same clarity he knew that they were not his thoughts. They were Farnor's. Gryss could feel the young man's swirling, complex pain and anger. Somehow, through his torment, Farnor's strange gift had reached out to him. He felt no wonder at this revelation, however, only fearful concern for the terrible, purposeful intensity of Farnor's emotions.
He put his hand on Farnor's shoulder.
'No,’ he said. ‘No. You mustn't do it. Rannick will kill you. Whatever's happened to him, it's given the evil side of his nature full rein.'
Farnor jumped as if he had been struck. He looked at Gryss, his face full of questions. ‘You heard me?’ he asked, lifting his hands to his head.
Gryss attempted no explanations. ‘Come away from here,’ he said. ‘Give yourself time to rest and think. Your mind is too full of horrors and your body's half drugged by my sleeping draught. You're not fully yourself. Let's attend to the burying of your parents properly, then ...'
Without speaking, Farnor pushed his hand aside and began walking across the yard towards the gate.
'Farnor!’ Gryss cried.
Harlen and Yakob turned as the call echoed emptily around the walls of the battered buildings, but made no move to stop the youth's departure.
Then Farnor had swung up on to his horse and was gone.
'What happened?’ Yakob shouted as Gryss, his face anguished, hurried over to his own horse.
'He's going to the castle to confront Rannick,’ Gryss shouted back. ‘I'll have to go after him. You take Garren and Katrin down to Nath's, then see how Jeorg's getting on.'
'You told him about Rannick?’ Yakob said disbelievingly.
Gryss turned on him angrily. ‘It just ... slipped out,’ he said. ‘Please. This isn't the time for arguing. Rannick'll kill him. Help me mount then do as I asked.'
They did, but as he galloped away Yakob said, ‘This is madness. I can't believe this Rannick business. I think this has all been too much for Gryss. But they're both riding into serious trouble if they go up to the castle, that's for sure.'
Harlen nodded unhappily. He was looking at the cart bearing the bodies of Katrin and Garren. Then he made up his mind.
'You're right,’ he said. ‘And I'm going after them.’ He pointed at the cart. ‘They'd expect us to look after their son.'
With an effort he clambered on to his horse. ‘Are you coming?’ he said to Yakob, urging the horse forward.
Yakob frowned and looked about indecisively for a moment, then he nodded.
The two rode off together.
* * * *
'Sit with Jeorg,’ Gryss had yelled as he had scuttled out of the cottage in pursuit of Farnor. ‘He shouldn't wake up for a while yet, but if he does try to keep him quiet. Let him have a little to drink, but don't let him eat anything yet.'
As she closed the cottage door, for the first time in her life Marna had an urge to bolt it.
She left it unlocked, though, and returned to Jeorg's room. As she sat down, Gryss's old dog padded in grumpily and flopped at her feet. She bent down and patted it. ‘You've no idea what's going on, have you, old thing?’ she said. ‘All this coming and going.’ The dog gave a heartfelt sigh and rested its chin on her foot.
Now, in contrast to wanting to lock the door, she felt trapped by the room. She hunched her shoulders unhappily. Inevitably, her thoughts returned to the fate of Garren and Katrin, and she began to shake. She had slept only fitfully through what had been left of the night and, as she had told Gryss, she had wept for most of the time that she was awake. Wept for the memory of Garren and Katrin, wept for Farnor and his loss, wept for herself and for fear of what was happening to the valley. Wept for things she could put no name to, because weeping was all she could do.
And the fears were still there. ‘They'll do much worse to you,’ Gryss had said. She knew that, for pity's sake. But it did not seem to have occurred to Gryss that they would probably do that anyway if they took control of the valley. That was why she was shaking. These were bandits, not soldiers with perhaps some semblance of honour or discipline. When they wanted women they would come and take them, and no one would be able to stop them.
And with Rannick leading them there would be no restraint. At the thought of Rannick her trembling became worse. Of all people. There would be no doubt about which way his attention would drift when the urge for female company came over him.
She clenched her teeth violently then clasped her hands together in an attempt to still their shaking.
Ironically, Marna was one of the few people in the valley who had had any time for Rannick. She had always felt a sympathy for him, sensing in him something lost and helpless. But that had been before her ready smile and her pleasant inquiries about his well-being and his activities had been misconstrued for a more ardent concern. Rannick, considerably her senior, had taken the consequent rebuff badly and had been caustically formal with her ever since, though his eyes told a different tale. That she still felt some remnant of that earlier sympathy did little but confuse her now.
She remembered powerful hands holding her as she had never been held before. There had been a faint, unexpected flickering of desire at the contact, but the fear had been the greater and had expunged it; the hands had held her helpless.
'There's no harder thing in life than standing by helpless.’ Gryss's words came back to her vividly as she recalled the incident. He had not meant them in that context, but they were nonetheless true.
And here, looking to the future, there was an element of choice.
Marna opened her hands. The trembling had stopped, but the spirit that drove it seemed to have suffused through her entire body, its centre resting solid and cold in the pit of her stomach. And it had changed in character. What had been fear was now anger and determination. She would never be helpless like that again. Frozen like a rabbit before a stoat.
Never!
She looked at Jeorg again. His battered features were an object lesson to her. She could not fight that way, trading blow for blow. She would have to use flight and stealth. But the conclusion was unsatisfactory. The memory of Rannick's grip on her arms returned and her hands started to tremble again. This time she willed them to stop. Sooner or later, flight and stealth would not be open to her and she would encounter such power again. She must be prepared to deal with it.
Her eyes narrowed as she pondered, the fear-driven anger in her giving her a strange creativity. She had teeth and nails which could be used to great effect, but she would need more. She would need a weapon, she realized; something that would do greater damage than teeth and nails and futile fists. Much greater damage.
Swords, spears, clubs she dismissed even as they came to her. They would need strength and skill to use and, anyway, she couldn't possibly carry something like that around all day.
A knife! Or, better still, knives. That was it. She drove a blade into Rannick's arm and felt his grip vanish. Excellent.
And there were plenty about her father's house. She began to run through an inventory of them, at the same time debating where about her person she could carry them.
Unexpectedly, her fear returned, springing upon her like some childish prankster. What about now? Wasn't she defenceless? As before, she had a sudden vision of horsemen circling the house, of an urgent hammering on the door, of Rannick standing in the doorway come to take what he wanted.
Almost in spite of herself, she stood up and went to the window. Cautiously she drew the curtain a little. The sunlit lane stood reassuringly empty. She felt a little embarrassed, but the sense of urgency remained.
She let the curtain fall back and returned to her
chair. A restlessness pervaded her and her eyes wandered about the room, though she could not have said what she was looking for.
Then she lit on Jeorg's pack, dropped casually in a corner of the room in the flurry of attending to him.
She went over and picked it up. It was heavy. Quite unscrupulously she took it back to her chair, undid the clasps and began to rifle through it. Jeorg would have a spare knife in here, surely? The contents, however, were uninspiring; clothes, some fruit and dried meat, a few small sunstones, a tin of bandages and salves. Her nose wrinkled unhappily at the sight of these and she glanced again at the massive damage that had been done to her unconscious charge.
Even as she did so, her hand encountered a package. She felt around it carefully, testing its shape and size. Thoughts of a knife vanished in a surge of curiosity and, tongue protruding between her teeth, she gently withdrew the package. Rough string bound a waxed paper parcel.
Untying the string, she opened the paper to reveal a soft leather wallet. She examined it for a moment and then began to open it. It was a cunningly designed and well-made article, with tightly sewn seams and folds and flaps so arranged that, even without the waxed paper wrapping, it was effectively waterproof.
Inside were papers. She looked at them briefly and then, curiosity well aroused, she took them through into the back room where the light was better.
Although her search had been prompted by a need for a weapon with which she could defend herself, for some time Marna would have been oblivious to an army laying noisy siege to the cottage, as she became increasingly engrossed in the papers.
They were the details of the route to the capital that Gryss had prepared for Jeorg. Some of the notes and maps were obviously very old, having perhaps been prepared by Gryss during his own travelling days. Others were much newer.
For the most part, they were written in a neat, curling script that Marna presumed was Gryss's, though there were some more coarsely lettered notes here and there. And they were presented in a clear, logical manner that could only have been Gryss's.
