Farnor

by Roger Taylor

  'He keeps waking up,’ Marna said. ‘I've been telling him what happened, but I don't know how much he's taken in.'

  'Was he distressed, agitated?'

  'Not particularly,’ Marna replied. ‘Not after I told him you'd heard what he said about Rannick.’ She smiled weakly. ‘He thought he might have been dreaming.’ Then she glanced at the room they had just left. ‘What's the matter with Farnor?’ she asked, softly.

  She clasped her hands tightly in front of her to prevent their trembling as Gryss told of Farnor's beating at the hands of Nilsson, but she went pale as she heard about Rannick and his strange powers. Her only question, however, was about Farnor's dark mood.

  'The beating he received was no light matter, Marna,’ Gryss replied. ‘He'll be hurting badly, and feeling humiliated, degraded. But I think he's the way he is because of his grief.'

  Marna did not understand. ‘Why doesn't he shout and scream, or cry or something?’ she said.

  'Grief takes everyone differently.’ Gryss grimaced anxiously. ‘To be honest, he'd be better if he did shout and scream. He's penning too many things up inside himself.’ He shook his head. ‘It'll do him no good. These things have to come out sooner or later, one way or another.'

  He made a hasty gesture to forestall any further questions. ‘I haven't much time, Marna. I'll have to get this meeting arranged. Just talk to Farnor if he wants to talk. Failing that, leave him alone. Just be here.'

  Thus, while Gryss was contending with the Councillors and the villagers, Marna found herself sitting opposite Farnor by Jeorg's bedside. Uncertain about the gloomy figure alone in the back room making no effort to light a lantern as darkness came on, she had asked him to help her lift Jeorg into a sitting position. Then to detain him she had forced herself to say, ‘Please stay with me, Farnor.’ She had not quite managed the plaintive tone she had intended, but Farnor was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to be sensitive to such subtleties. Indeed, despite her concern for him, the look on his face as he sat down in response to this request brought an acid comment to her mouth which took her some effort to bite back.

  The effects of Gryss's sleeping draught having gradually worn off, Jeorg, though weak and in some pain, was sufficiently awake to note the tension in the room.

  'What's the matter?’ he asked, looking first at Farnor and then Marna. ‘What's happened?'

  Farnor did not reply. Marna hesitated, uncertain what to say; she could not lie and she did not want to tell him the truth.

  'What's happened?’ Jeorg asked again, his manner both insistent and anxious.

  Finally, Marna took his bandaged hand and said, very softly, ‘Rannick and Nilsson have killed Garren and Katrin, and burned down the farm.'

  Jeorg's eyes widened in horror, then his face contorted and his free hand came up to cover it. It was some time before he lowered it, and when he did his eyes were shining with tears. He reached out and laid his hand on Farnor's shoulder, but Farnor brushed it aside. Marna squeezed Jeorg's hand and shook her head, mouthing the words, ‘Leave him.'

  Jeorg nodded. ‘This is awful,’ he said, quietly. ‘Garren and Katrin. Murdered. I can't believe it.’ He shook his head. ‘And yet I can, after what happened to me. If only I'd been more careful. I'd have been well on my way to the capital by now. Perhaps ...’ His voice tailed off.

  'I don't think it would have made any difference,’ Marna said. ‘We don't even know why it happened. Farnor came back from the fields, and ...’ Her voice fell. ‘Just found them. He went to find Rannick, but Nilsson did that to him.’ She nodded towards her silent companion.

  Jeorg turned carefully to him. ‘You're probably lucky to be alive,’ he said, simply. ‘As am I. I don't know what's happened to Rannick, but he's a mad dog.'

  'He'll be a dead one if I catch him alone,’ Farnor said, viciously, still staring fixedly ahead.

  'Don't be stupid, Farnor,’ Marna hissed. ‘Jeorg's right. You're lucky to be alive after dashing into the castle like that.'

  Farnor's lip curled. ‘It wasn't your parents he killed,’ he said, sourly. Marna bit her lip, and this time it was Jeorg who took her hand.

  'How long have I been asleep?’ Jeorg asked, to break the painful silence that ensued. Then, more anxiously, ‘Does my wife know what's happened?'

  'About a day,’ Marna replied. ‘And no, your wife doesn't know what's happened yet. Gryss was going to see her after the Council meeting.'

  Jeorg pulled a wry face, but the effort made him wince. ‘She'll be here shortly then, I expect,’ he said, ruefully. ‘And I'll be out of the fire and on to the anvil.'

  In spite of herself, Marna smiled at his manner.

  Then Farnor stood up and moved towards the door.

  'Where are you going?’ Marna asked.

  'Out,’ Farnor replied, tersely.

  'Gryss said you should stay here and rest,’ she shouted after the departing figure. There was no reply, and with an oath she ran after him.

  She caught him at the door. ‘Gryss said you should stay,’ she said again, taking his arm.

  Farnor screwed up his face as if he had just eaten something unpleasant, and wrenched open the door despite Marna's restraining hand. ‘Gryss can go to hell,’ he said, brutally. ‘And so can you, Marna. Get out of my way. I've got things to do.'

  Then he was limping out into the darkness.

  Shocked by this outburst, Marna was unable to respond. It was not until she heard the clatter of hooves as he mounted one of the horses retrieved by Gryss and the others on their return that she found her voice.

  'Farnor, where are you going?’ she called into the night. But it was to no avail. The only reply was the sound of the hooves gathering speed.

  She slammed the door shut and, turning, nearly tripped over the dog. ‘Shift, damn you,’ she snapped, as she staggered past it.

  'What's he doing?’ Jeorg asked, trying to lever himself out of the bed as she returned to his room.

  Marna's face was a mixture of rage and distress, and she was on the verge of tears. ‘I don't know, the stupid sod,’ she blurted out. ‘And you stay where you are.’ An angry finger shot out purposefully at Jeorg, and he stopped his attempted escape. ‘There'll be enough trouble with that idiot wandering the countryside trying to get himself killed without you getting up too soon. You can wait for your wife to arrive ... or Gryss.'

  Jeorg lay back, not unrelieved to be the butt of Marna's anger. He could feel the terror of his treatment by Nilsson and Rannick receding a little, but his hasty movement had heightened the weakness and pain that pervaded his body.

  'He'll be all right,’ he said, in an attempt to comfort Marna. ‘He's a sensible lad at heart.'

  Marna shook her head. ‘They killed his parents, Jeorg. For no reason. Just killed them. It's done something to him. You saw how he was. I think it's driven him crazy. I think he's probably riding back up to the castle right now.’ Her face twisted in pain. ‘They'll kill him for sure this time. I should have stopped him.'

  'Don't be silly, Marna,’ Jeorg tried again. ‘You couldn't have stopped him. And anyway, he won't be crazy enough to go back for another beating off Nilsson, believe me.’ He winced as a casual movement brought him another unexpected pain. ‘He probably needed to be alone. Perhaps he wanted to cry. Knowing Farnor, that'd be difficult for him in front of you.'

  Marna sat down heavily in the chair that she had occupied for much of the day and, leaning forward, put her head in her hands. Her mind was awash with swirling, nameless fears and with images of Farnor alone in the darkness, and of Rannick, crazed and powerful, and, most sinister of all, though she had not thought about it for some time, images of the strange, savage creature that linked both men.

  * * * *

  Farnor rode through the darkness. The moon gave some light, but the horse had sufficient sense to ignore the urgings of its rider and proceeded at a steady trot.

  Each jolting step racked Farnor's beaten frame, but for a while he was oblivious to it. His w
hole being was still consumed by a black, driving desire to confront and destroy Rannick. On his immediate return with Gryss and the others, he had been struggling with the fear and humiliation that he had suffered during his beating by Nilsson. The humiliation in particular had risen to dominate him as the immediate pain of the beating had begun to fade. Its roots seemed to go deeper even than the cringing childishness to which he had been reduced and, as Gryss had surmised, he felt degraded in a way that he would never have imagined possible.

  But, in its turn, this too had faded, or, rather, been overwhelmed as a terrible urging had arisen to seek out the source of this horror and destroy it. It, too, seemed to come from some depths beyond his awareness, if not from somewhere quite beyond him.

  Yet, as Jeorg had declared, Farnor was a sensible lad at heart and gradually the complaints of his body began to force their way through his dark passion, bringing with them shadows of the fear and humiliation once more. He allowed the horse to slow to a walk. His hand went to his belt; the knife that had killed his mother was still there. More humiliation—Nilsson had considered him too trifling an opponent even to be disarmed while he was beating him.

  Farnor bared his teeth in unconscious imitation of his tormentor, then drew out the knife. He tested its edge. It was as sharp as if he had honed it only today. But he would have expected nothing else from this. It was a fine knife; his mother's favourite.

  'And I'll split you open with it, Rannick,’ he said to the night. ‘And that obscenity you've conjured up.'

  But even as he spoke the words he knew their falseness. They were no more than the petulant swearing of a thwarted child. To go to the castle would be to die.

  And yet...

  And yet, though the words were hollow, the intention was not. That was solid and true. Rannick must be destroyed for what he had done. And destroyed by him, if he was ever to know any peace. A memory of his parents leaning on the farmyard gate suddenly surged over him; his father looking out across the fields and his mother, prompted by some wry remark, turning to slap his arm while at the same time smiling so that the young girl inside burst out through the long-married wife and mother.

  The vision was almost unbearable. Farnor clenched his teeth and twisted his fist painfully into his thigh to prevent it from overwhelming him. He must not give way, he told himself. That would be no honour to his parents. He must do what he had to do: finish the task that he had set himself.

  The horse had stopped, and he kicked it on again. The sudden, vivid memory of his parents seemed to have left him hollow and empty inside. The future had ceased to exist. Plans that he had never really known he had made were gone. Plans for gradually acquiring his father's knowledge and skills and for taking over the work of the farm as his father grew older. Plans perhaps for marrying and having children, to elevate his parents to the status of grandparents and to ensure the ancient continuity of the line. Vague though they might have been, they were gone utterly now. All that the future offered was a menacing blackness beyond which lay only further darkness.

  And it was Rannick's fault!

  The hatred began to return, filling the emptiness inside him with comforting purposefulness. He would destroy Rannick, one way or another. He closed his hand around the knife hilt. He would indeed split him from end to end for what he had done. He would come to his future again, through Rannick's blood.

  Trailing in the wake of this turmoil, and slave to its decisions, came his rational mind. If he could not kill Rannick by confronting him at the castle, then he must kill him by some act of stealth. He must come upon him when he was alone.

  Without realizing what he was doing, he turned the horse off the road and into the lane that led to the farm. He was about to jerk it back on to the road when he changed his mind and allowed the animal its head.

  Rooting through the blackened rubble of the farmhouse and through the horrific, disordered familiarity of the store-shed was grim work, but he steeled himself to it, once again fighting down those thoughts and memories that strove to unman him and divert him from his purpose. For his purpose would carry him through all things now if he so willed it.

  Thus, a while later, Farnor returned to the road with his horse carrying saddle bags filled with food and such tools and other items as he would need to survive alone in the woods.

  He could not assail the castle, but he could quietly besiege it. Watching the comings and goings of the men, learning their ways, their routines, watching and waiting until that moment when Rannick would venture out alone. For venture out alone he surely would. Sooner or later, Farnor knew, though he could not have said how he knew it, Rannick would wander to the north to commune with the creature. And when he did...

  Farnor laid his hand on the knife in his belt.

  But he was going the wrong way. This road would lead him directly to the castle. He tugged the reins gently and the horse turned obediently off the road.

  Slowly, Farnor rode over the rolling fields in a wide arc, well away from the castle. On the few occasions when it was clearly in view, he could see little or no activity; just a few slits of light along the walls and the odd torch glimmering on the battlements.

  Had their fun for the day, Farnor mused bitterly. A brief vision of the future of the valley under the heel of Rannick and these outsiders came to him, but he dismissed it. He had his own problem to deal with. And, in any event, once that had been dealt with, the head of the serpent would have been cut off and the body should not be too difficult to destroy.

  Then he was among the trees. The trees that only weeks ago had seemed as far distant from his world as the moon overhead. So much change so quickly. The thought made him feel uneasy. But then he had seen great boulders buffeted from their ancient resting places by streams suddenly swollen by a rapid thaw or a summer storm. And wasn't he himself greatly changed from the person he had been but those few weeks ago?

  Change was the way of things. Usually slow, imperceptible even, but sometimes shatteringly fast. It could not be disputed.

  He debated which way to turn. Apart from being dark, this terrain was quite unfamiliar to him. Still, woods were woods; these could not be vastly different from those further down the valley. Hiding places would abound, as would food and shelter when need arose. He would have to find something tonight and then explore in the morning.

  A night bird flew noisily out of a nearby tree, startling him. His horse whinnied. Calming it, he clicked it forward into the darkness.

  Gradually his eyes adjusted to the ill-lit gloom amongst the trees, though he could distinguish little more than shadows within shadows. All around him was silence, except for the tread of his horse and the occasional scuffle of some hunting night creature. He dismounted and led the horse.

  He had not walked very far however, when he felt suddenly exhausted. He was still stiff and sore from the beating he had received, and the emotional upheavals of the day had drained him utterly. Without further consideration, he tethered the horse, took a blanket from his bag and lay down between the jutting roots of a large tree. He fell asleep in the middle of a vague, muttered instruction to his horse.

  * * * *

  Rannick and his companion moved among the shifting realms that lay between the worlds among which could be found the great sources of power. They were searching, though for what or who they did not know. The creature was fretful and angry, its natural malevolence bubbling uncontrollably into Rannick's mind from time to time so that he felt both its fear and its fury at this ancient enemy which had returned to mar their progress.

  Rannick, however, kept his mind above this primeval anger, kept it alert for some sign that he could recognize. Tonight would be the hunt, tomorrow would be the kill ... if the prey could be identified. His journeying tonight would be along the screaming highways of nightmare but his journeying tomorrow would be simple and prosaic, and with cutting steel in his hand. He could not risk using his power against this offender, with his unknown skills, nor, for the same reas
on, could he risk sending Nilsson's men to do the deed. It would be a task of smiling surprise and vicious suddenness and one that he alone must do.

  So they searched, an unholy duo bound inexorably together by desire and driven now by a fear of the shadow that had threatened their pursuit of that desire.

  * * * *

  Farnor slept, too tired to dream. His young body, older in wisdom by far than its occupant, held him still and silent while it worked to repair the ravages of the day. From time to time the tiny rodents and other mammals that owned the night forest would investigate him, twitching noses cautiously testing his scent and advising hasty departure. An occasional insect clambered painstakingly over him on its own regular nightly rounds. His horse stood motionless nearby.

  The moon moved slowly across the sky.

  The castle lay quiet, as did the village, though there were many troubled dreams there.

  Then, abruptly, Farnor was awake. Pain echoed through him as he moved, but some instinct kept him from crying out. He looked around into the darkness. He could just make out the dim form of his horse, silent and undisturbed.

  What, then, had woken him? Distantly he seemed to hear voices, though perhaps they were no more than the memory of a fading dream mingling with the soft rustle of the leaves about him.

  Yet, faint though it was, it was clear.

  'Flee, mover, you are hunted.'

  Farnor grunted questioningly, his throat dry. The coarseness of the sound shattered the delicate texture of the dwindling words, if words they were, and they were gone, leaving only the familiar night sounds of the forest.

  Farnor considered lying down again, but he was far from comfortable and, besides, he was now wide awake. Cautiously, he levered himself into a sitting position and peered into the darkness again. Nothing was untoward: no sudden silence had fallen; his horse was not restive. He frowned. ‘Mover,’ he whispered softly, trying to recapture the subtle meanings that he had felt hidden within the sound of the word.

  But it meant nothing. His voice was as far from what he had heard as children's pictures in the dust were from the finely etched figures on the ring that hung outside Gryss's door.