Farnor

by Roger Taylor

  And such a gift was Rannick's.

  He closed his eyes ecstatically at the prospect of the creature's return.

  It seemed to him that with each journey beyond, his enslavement of the creature increased. The vision to see that it enslaved him also was denied him.

  Hitherto, since his meeting with the creature, Rannick's knowledge and skill in the use of the power had grown apace, unhindered by anything other than his own ignorance and inexperience. Then there had appeared that strange marring, that sealing of the ways that had thwarted his demonstration to Gryss and the others. Not that they had noticed it, he presumed, but it had struck him like a physical blow, an icy blast of retribution, and his rapturous vision of his future had faltered and trembled.

  But now that he had identified the cause, and found it wanting, all would be well. Nothing further could stand in his path. Soon all would kneel before his might.

  It was good.

  So he waited in the darkness. Waited for the faint gossamer touch that would tell him that the creature was coming near again. For when it came near, it would not merely have fed on its most desired fare, it would have destroyed the only person who could have defied him.

  * * * *

  'Didn't you talk to him?’ Gryss said, his voice a mixture of anger and hopelessness.

  Marna answered the question yet again. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ she said, heatedly. ‘Of course I talked to him, but me talking and him listening are two different things.’ Her mouth tightened into a thin line and tears of frustration shone in her eyes.

  Gryss finally gave up and sat down heavily. He rested his head on his hand. ‘I'm sorry, Marna,’ he said, quietly. ‘I shouldn't rant at you. You couldn't have done other than you did.’ He looked at Harlen, who had returned with him from the meeting along with Jeorg's wife. ‘And there's nothing we can do either except wait and see what news comes down from the castle tomorrow.

  Marna's voice shook as she said, ‘Do you think he'll be all right?'

  Gryss wanted to say, ‘Of course he will. He's a sensible lad, and who'd want to hurt him? Farnor, of all people. He's not got a hurtful bone in his body.’ But he knew that he could not. This was not some child late home for his meal on a sunny evening, or smitten with spots and belly ache. And Marna was no fretful parent.

  'No,’ he said. ‘If he goes back to the castle they'll probably kill him out of hand.'

  He heard Marna take in a sharp breath, but he did not relent his words. She did not speak for some time, and the voices of Jeorg and his wife drifted into the room; or, more correctly, the voice of the wife and the occasional submissive grunt from Jeorg.

  'Go home and rest,’ Gryss said more gently. ‘Get what sleep you can. You've done more than enough today.’ Then, despite himself, ‘I'm sure everything will come right in the end.’ He could not meet Marna's gaze as he spoke, however, and she laid a compassionate hand on his arm as she stood up.

  Gryss did not notice her unconsciously patting her belt bag as she and Harlen set off towards their home.

  * * *

  Chapter 38

  There was turmoil. Fears that had hitherto hovered at the edges of awareness like uneasy dreams rolled inexorably forward, proclaiming themselves beyond any denial. The rumbling doubts of years were focusing themselves into an indisputable and immediate certainty.

  'It is the spawn of the Great Evil.'

  'And it hunts the strange mover.'

  Yet as many doubts swirled about this enigmatic figure as fears about the manifest evil.

  'His power is unknown.'

  'He carries a darkness of his own that is beyond us.'

  But the speed of the events now unfolding demanded action.

  What was to be done?

  'To stay one darkness will be to admit another, and who can say what consequences might flow from that?'

  'And who can say what consequences will ensue should the mover fall? There has not been such a Hearer in countless generations. If the spawn of the Great Evil is abroad again, we may have need of such a one, tainted or no.'

  Silence.

  The pain and the fear were faced.

  'If it is possible, stay the known evil and admit the Hearer.'

  The conclusion was definitive.

  But the prospect was fearful.

  * * * *

  'Run, horse, run!'

  Farnor's relentless, inaudible litany had become meaningless to him as his plunging journey carried him onward through the darkness, the creature drawing ever nearer.

  He did not look behind. More for fear that he would lose his precarious hold on his terrified mount than of what he might see. For he knew how close the creature was. With almost every heartbeat he seemed for an instant to bond with it; to be possessed by its foul desires, to breathe in the heady odours of the terror of its fleeing prey, to feel his mouth slavering warm, his hair raised stark and stiff. But, worst of all, he would touch fleetingly on the ancient and malevolent will that was powering the still green muscles and sinews.

  Yet it was, perhaps, the horror of this that kept his mind focused on the reality of what was happening rather than yielding to the urge to accept this crazed flight as some nightmarish figment from which he must soon awaken to safety and security.

  For he knew that, although he was fleeing, he was also fighting a battle of some kind. Whatever unholy kinship he had with this creature, he knew that he must resist to the end.

  No.

  He must resist. There would be no true end while he did. Only if he faltered would there be an ending.

  Hatred and anger wove themselves into the twisted strands of his fear.

  He would not fall to Rannick or his creature. He would choke it and slash it even as it seized him. And he would utter not a sound whatever happened.

  'Run, horse, run!’ he willed silently.

  Then, the fear that filled him was not his own. He had the feeling of another will steeling itself for a terrible ordeal. But it was gone before he could respond and, once again, the pounding rhythm of the chase carried him, unwilling, but helpless, into the soul of his pursuer.

  There was his prey, almost alongside now; high above, and dangerous hooves flailing, but only a few paces from the kill.

  Muscles strained for the extra effort that would turn stride into leap...

  And the prey was gone!

  Ahead lay the looming darkness of a broad tree trunk!

  Farnor started violently as he was jolted back into his own consciousness, the creature's surging reflexes alive in his limbs.

  Through the din of his flight, he heard a crashing and stumbling behind him.

  'Run, horse, run!'

  The words rang in his head, but the voice was not his. Nor was the word simply ‘horse'. It was rich in many meanings, but, too, it was hung about with great fear.

  And, he realized, his awful, pulsing bond with the creature was gone. He was wholly himself again. The presence of the creature was fading. For an instant, he hesitated, but even as he did so the voices filled his mind overwhelmingly.

  'Flee, mover! It taxes us sorely to touch this thing so and we have no measure of our ability to help you. Your fate is in your own hands still. Flee!'

  * * * *

  'It is done.'

  'But the pain, the horror ...'

  'Is passed. And it is done. The spawn of the Evil has been deceived. It returns from whence it came. The mover is safe.'

  But there was an awful doubt still. Doubt that robbed this achievement of any true solace for the pain and degradation of touching that which had come in pursuit.

  'The mover carries a darkness. We may have committed a great folly.'

  'We could have done no other.'

  It did not lessen the doubt.

  There was a silence, deep and profound. The truth could not be denied. They had allowed an alien darkness to come amongst them.

  'It will be ever beyond us. We must call on those who Hear. The Valderen must j
udge where we cannot.'

  And into the night, Farnor, clinging to the neck of his exhausted horse, galloped ever northward into the land of the Great Forest. He was lost and alone, but he knew only one thing: he was no longer pursued. The creature was gone. He was free.

  * * * *

  So ends the first part of Farnor's tale.

  It continues in

  VALDEREN

  * * *

  Fantasy Books by Roger Taylor

  The Call of the Sword

  The Fall of Fyorlund

  The Waking of Orthlund

  Into Narsindal

  Dream Finder

  Farnor

  Valderen

  Whistler

  Ibryen

  Arash-Felloren

  Caddoran

  The Return of the Sword

  Further information on these titles is available from www.mushroom-ebooks.com

  * * *

  Visit www.mushroom-ebooks.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.

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  eBook Info

  Identifier:Taylor-Farnor

  Title:Farnor

  Creator:Roger Taylor

  Publisher:Mushroom eBooks

  Rights:Copyright © 1992 by Roger Taylor

  Description:Fantasy. 157569 words long. First published by Headline Book Publishing in 1992

  Language:English

  Type:Novel

  Format:text/xml

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