Farnor

by Roger Taylor

  It was all there before her: the way to the capital, laid out for the following. Her mind raced. Fate had transformed an impetuous idea into a real dilemma for her. She could go now, this minute. She could take a horse from the inn, call at her home to gather clothes and food, and go. Go downland discreetly until she saw whether there were any guards posted or not, and then as fast as she could all the way downland and to the capital. Over the hill!

  She felt her breath tighten in her chest at the prospect and her palms began to tingle.

  What could restrain her? Fear? Perhaps. Responsibility? Suppose Jeorg were to wake suddenly and need reassurance? And what would be the reaction of Gryss if he returned to find Jeorg abandoned and her missing?

  Or her father's reaction?

  'Your father's already lost one person that he loved dearly.’ Gryss's words reproached her.

  Marna's mouth pursed. She knew all about that, she thought, but no one had ever expressed it to her so forthrightly, and it proved a winding blow now, as she contemplated flight.

  'Damn,’ she said, softly and bitterly. She couldn't do it. Not yet. Not like that; not without any warning.

  For some time she sat motionless, her hands resting on the papers and her mind drifting idly now that it had been released from the torrential rush of her wild plans.

  Slowly however, new patterns began to emerge. Calmer, more reasoned patterns. The threat still remained. The fear and the anger still remained. She must still arm herself. And, if necessary, she must be prepared to make the journey to the capital on her own. She found that she could not avoid that final conclusion, even though the prospect of such a journey was already becoming more daunting.

  But she was not a principal in this affair. She must do nothing that would jeopardize whatever efforts Gryss and the others were putting forth.

  She looked at the papers again. Then, carefully, she gathered them together in order and replaced them in the leather wallet. For a few minutes she looked at the package thoughtfully, then, reaching a decision, she set about scouring through Gryss's cottage.

  * * * *

  Nilsson had spent much of the remainder of the night consolidating the work that he had initially been obliged to leave to Saddre and Dessane, namely the quietening and assuring of his men following their mostly panic-stricken flight from the Yarrance's farm.

  It could have been worse, he mused, sitting down on an embrasure and leaning back against the sloping wall that bounded it. A lighter spirit than Nilsson's would have sung out to the warmth of the stone on his back, and the warmth of the sun on his face, and the sight of the valley, green and lush, winding away below him into the distance. But Nilsson was immune to such paralysing infections. His spirit dwelt in the future that he intended to make for himself in the wake of his new lord; the present was merely a passing irritation.

  There had been a few injuries in the crush to escape the power unleashed by Rannick, but in reality the greatest damage had been done to the men's pride, and it was this that had given rise to much of the trouble as they had returned to the castle in scattered, bewildered groups. As necessary, Saddre and Dessane had soothed injured prides, provided excuses, cracked heads and done the hard work, and subsequently, having stood by his Lord throughout, Nilsson had been able to salve most of the remaining hurts by being avuncular and forgiving:

  A friendly hand on the shoulder.

  'It's been a long time since you saw the likes of that, hasn't it?'

  'You weren't there on the palace steps when the old Lord outfaced the southland demon. That was something!'

  'Who'd have thought we'd ever have come across the likes of him again? Chances like that don't usually come once to a man, let alone twice.'

  And so on.

  Of course, the destruction of Avak had helped bring a sense of perspective to the proceedings. Pity that. He was a useful fighter, but always apt to be troublesome and, all things considered, he was no great loss.

  The recollection, however, brought with it the surging malevolence he had felt focused on him as the creature had hurled out of the darkness and leapt up the wall towards him. Momentarily he closed his eyes against the bright day, and, on the instant, he heard again the scrabbling claws and the thud of its landing.

  Now, as then, the fact that he was well above any height that the creature could possibly leap gave him no consolation. He had been powerless to move. The only thing he would have been able to do was scream.

  Despite the sunshine, Nilsson shivered. And whether he kept his eyes closed willingly or out of fear he could not have said.

  But Avak's demise had done more than focus the attention of the men. It had in some way restored the Lord Rannick.

  'Good,’ he had said, with a long-drawn-out breath that had chilled Nilsson utterly. Then he had turned slowly, looked at Nilsson and smiled a smile that was rich with the fulfilment of nameless desires. Nilsson had been grateful for the subdued lighting in the room.

  'I need rest now,’ he had said. ‘I shall sleep. You may go.'

  Nilsson had bowed. ‘I shall leave a guard outside your door, Lord.'

  'I need no guard,’ had been the faintly amused response. ‘Go, Captain. Tend your men. They will be needed soon, now.'

  Nevertheless, concerned for Rannick's safety with the men in such an uncertain humour, Nilsson had cautiously opened the door to the darkened room later to see that all was well.

  A blast of air had struck him in the face, stinging his eyes and taking his breath away. It had seemed to pour into his mouth and down his throat and as he had staggered back, retching, the door had closed with a soft, sighing hiss.

  Nilsson cleared his throat as he remembered the incident. Then, the lights dancing behind the lids of his closed eyes darkened and the warmth on his face lessened. He opened his eyes abruptly, his hand moving to his knife.

  'Sorry to disturb you, Captain,’ said the sentry, who was standing between him and the sun. ‘But there's a rider coming.'

  Nilsson grunted and stood up. The sentry pointed.

  'I think it's that kid from the farm,’ he said.

  Nilsson leaned forward and screwed up his eyes.

  It was the lad indeed. What was his name? Farnor or something, wasn't it?

  And coming at the gallop too.

  'Should I wake the Lord, Captain?’ the sentry asked. Nilsson shook his head and then smiled. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I think we can manage one tearful country brat on our own. If he gets this far without falling off that horse, that is. Throw the gate open for him. Let's give him a real welcome.'

  His smile broadened and unfurled into a low, unpleasant laugh.

  * * *

  Chapter 34

  'What d'you want, boy?’ Nilsson said, catching Farnor as he jumped down from his horse, missed his footing and stumbled. ‘Charging in like that. Someone's going to get hurt.'

  Farnor, flushed and breathless, did not hear the menace in Nilsson's voice. He yanked his arm free. ‘Where's Rannick?’ he demanded.

  Nilsson's eyes darted to the knife in Farnor's belt. ‘Lord Rannick, do you mean?’ he said.

  Farnor scowled, thrown momentarily off-balance by this unfamiliar appellation. ‘I don't know anything about any lord,’ he said, holding Nilsson's gaze. ‘Just get Rannick out here. Rannick the village labourer.’ He began to shout past Nilsson, his voice becoming shrill. ‘Rannick the village idiot! Rannick the fly trainer! Rannick the coward! Come out and face me, you murderer, Rannick!'

  The circle of men that had begun to form expectantly about the protagonists fell suddenly quiet and widened noticeably. Even Nilsson found himself casting a quick glance over his shoulder for fear that Farnor's petulant abuse might result in a violent reproach being brought down on his own head.

  Farnor misunderstood the response, taking it to be due to the strength of the passion and hatred that was so possessing him. He made to step around Nilsson but a powerful hand seized his arm and dragged him back effortlessly.

&nbs
p; 'Stay where you are, boy,’ Nilsson said, his lip curling to bare his teeth.

  Farnor took a wild swing at him, but Nilsson blocked it irritably and then dealt him an open-handed blow across the face that sent him reeling.

  Garren Yarrance had had occasion in the past to chastise his son forcefully, and through the years Farnor had had an average exposure to physical violence in his noisy games and quarrels with his peers. But he had never felt anything like the blow he had just received. Apart from the pain, the body-jarring impact and the ringing in his ears, two things conspired to reduce him instantly to a tiny frightened shadow of what he had imagined himself to be. One was the truly terrifying sensation of having someone, for the first time ever, not only totally indifferent to his true self but actually intent on physically hurting him. The other was a chilling sense of total inadequacy before the power of this man.

  Through his unfocused vision and the pounding in his head he was aware of the circle closing round him again, and of laughter urging on his assailant.

  'Go home, boy,’ he heard Nilsson saying. ‘The Lord Rannick won you your inheritance quite a time before you might have expected it. You should show some gratitude.’ There was more laughter. ‘Go round up your stock and start tending your farm. We'll be needing plenty of food soon enough.'

  Frightened child and angry man vied in Farnor. The one urged him to turn and flee. To break out of the circle, dash through the still-open gate and over the sunlit fields until he was surrounded by familiar and kindly faces; faces that knew and understood him; faces that would hold him secure and look after him in his torment. Profoundly shaken as he was by Nilsson's blow, this voice within him was almost unbearably powerful.

  Yet, too, there was a fury bubbling within him. A fury that fed on the laughter growing around him and that needed to strike out, to release the pain that he was suffering, to unleash it on anyone, anything, that stood in his way.

  And, dimly, underlying everything, there was Rannick. The scowling, surly labourer who had always been a dark stain in his mind and who was now somehow the obscene focus of all that was happening. He felt again the bloodlust of the creature, burning hot and ancient within him. He wanted to see Rannick hurled against the wall like that pathetic squealing cat so many years ago. Hurled and hurled and hurled until he too became a limp rag doll of a thing like Garren Yarrance.

  The memory of his slaughtered parents fired the fury beyond any controlling and it welled up to sweep all restraints aside. It seemed to him that his body was filled with a blood-red roaring and that he was scarcely in control of his actions. Distantly, he felt himself bending low and charging at the scornful figure that stood between him and the object of his hatred.

  Then all was confusion, cruel pain and winding impact as, strong though he was, his wild inexperience fell easily before Nilsson's greater strength, long-practised and bloody skills and clear-sighted malice.

  Pain exploded in different parts of his body, quickly suffusing and accumulating until all he knew was pain. Vague images of the courtyard, of feet and faces and walls and towers, whirled through his vision. And he could do nothing to stop any of it. No part of him seemed to be his own.

  Then there was a lull.

  The brightness that was percolating through his half-closed eyes began to darken. But it was not the darkness of a merciful unconsciousness, he knew, for he was desperately, painfully awake; it was the circle of men closing around him to finish the work that their captain had started.

  Hands seized him and dragged him to his feet. Loud advice was being shouted to someone followed by mocking laughter. The hands held him firm and an unclear silhouette positioned itself in front of him.

  'Leave him!'

  The silhouette faltered, and the hands holding Farnor eased their grip.

  The words entered Farnor's mind and spiralled through his pain and terror until they evoked recognition.

  Gryss!

  Nilsson turned to face the source of this interference. Gryss moved forward out of the shade of the gate arch. He was leaning heavily on his horse for support, but his demeanour was angry and determined.

  'Leave him,’ he said again, ‘for pity's sake. Isn't it enough that you've slaughtered his family and destroyed his home? Do you have to break him too?'

  'Old man, go back to your salves and potions,’ Nilsson said menacingly. ‘Before you receive the same. He charged in here and attacked me. He's lucky I didn't kill him out of hand. All he's getting now is a little instruction on how to behave in the presence of his betters.'

  Gryss's mouth twisted with rage as he looked from Nilsson's sneering face to Farnor's bruised and bloody one. He caught the twitch in Nilsson's eyes that responded to this and knew that, however justified his anger, he would merely prolong Farnor's beating and receive one himself if he gave vent to it injudiciously. From somewhere he dragged out a reluctant diplomacy.

  'I'm sure he understands now,’ he said, forcing the anger from his voice. ‘He was always a quick learner. Let him go, Captain. He's had enough.'

  Nilsson met his gaze. He could feel Gryss struggling to master his fear. It would be no effort to kill the old man right away and then finish Farnor but, just as Gryss had fought down his immediate response, so did Nilsson. Rannick had seized the initiative in the matter of how the villagers were to be treated: perhaps to impose his will on his chosen lieutenant, perhaps for some darker motive that he himself did not fully understand. But it did not matter. The damage had been done, and it would fall to Nilsson now to control a hostile community that would be needed to service what would be a growing number of men at the castle.

  And his relationship with Gryss would probably be crucial in this. Despite Rannick's assertion that the villagers would be easily cowed, Nilsson knew from experience that even partly willing servants were far superior to slaves.

  Two other figures appeared, hesitantly, in the archway. Nilsson nodded to the men who were holding Farnor to release him. As they did so, he staggered forward, his arms flailing as if to fend off further blows. Nilsson seized his tunic and dragged him upright and then pushed him savagely towards Gryss. He went sprawling along the ground with a cry of pain.

  'That's four people we've had trouble with, old man,’ Nilsson said as Gryss bent down to help Farnor to his feet. ‘I said you'd be left alone if you behaved, and I meant it. We've more important things to do than deal with noisy yokels. And anyone who causes problems will be dealt with summarily.'

  Emotions ran riot through Gryss as he struggled to support Farnor. Starkly he noted that Nilsson had casually admitted responsibility for the deaths of Garren and Katrin. He wanted to scream at him, ‘Why, you murderous lout? Why? What could they possibly have done to warrant that?’ but he remained silent—though whether through concern for the safety of Farnor or out of simple fear he did not know.

  'I understand,’ he said. ‘And I'll do my best to see that everyone else does.'

  'See you do,’ Nilsson said grimly.

  Gryss took refuge in the immediate needs of his charge. ‘Come on, Farnor, let's get you away,’ he said gently.

  Hesitantly, Harlen and Yakob came forward to help him. Though he was almost sobbing with pain, Farnor somehow managed to stand, supporting himself with a single hand resting on Harlen's shoulder.

  There was some raucous abuse from the watching men as the quartet began to move away.

  'What's going on?'

  Nilsson quailed inwardly at the sound of the voice. It was Rannick's. Go, run while you can, he willed the four villagers, but they stopped and turned as they heard the voice. He swore to himself, and turned to face his Lord.

  Rannick was wearing a dark brown leather tunic over a linen shirt decorated with a bewildering design of swirling lines. Stoutly woven trousers disappeared into calf-length boots, and were secured by a finely carved leather belt, secured in its turn by a round brass buckle which glinted in the sunlight. Nilsson recognized the clothes as part of the booty they had taken on the r
aid.

  So you've been rooting through the goods, have you, Lord? he thought. Picking and choosing like some old dame at a market.

  But there was a quality of both practicality and dramatic presentation in Rannick's choice that for some reason unsettled Nilsson. It betokened both confidence and intent where previously Nilsson had judged there to be mainly bewilderment and spleen.

  'Nothing important, Lord,’ he said jovially. ‘I apologize if we disturbed your rest.'

  Rannick saw Gryss and the others.

  'Ah,’ he said, smiling. ‘Coming to protest at the treatment of Jeorg and the Yarrances, I presume, eh, Gryss?'

  'We've come to take Farnor away,’ Gryss said, quickly, before anyone else could intervene.

  Rannick nodded understandingly and moved forward. There was a strangeness about him, his clothes and his hair moving as though he were walking through a wind that was blowing in some other place.

  As he approached the group, a deep silence fell in the courtyard.

  He stopped a little way in front of Gryss. Yakob and Harlen stared at him in open disbelief. Both made to speak at the same time, but Rannick gave them no opportunity.

  'What's the matter?’ he asked mockingly. ‘Can't believe your eyes? Allow me to explain.’ He bowed his head.

  A small whirlwind of dust formed at his feet. Rapidly it gathered a vicious, whining power and then, like a hunting bird, it flew directly into the faces of the two men. Both of them staggered back, closing their eyes and lifting their arms to protect themselves from the stinging impact.

  Rannick laughed humourlessly. ‘A little dust in the eyes will help you to see things much more clearly, I think,’ he said. ‘Give you a picture of the way things are now. Am I not right?'

  Gryss raised his hand to prevent Harlen and Yakob from replying. ‘We just want to leave, now ...’ He hesitated, then with an effort he managed to say, ‘... Lord Rannick. We have to tell the rest of the village ...'

  'Tell them what, Gryss?’ Rannick interrupted.

  Gryss gesticulated vaguely around the courtyard. ‘About the ... new garrison that's to be posted here. About the need ...'