by Roger Taylor
Over and over.
* * * *
Slowly, and in the natural way of things, the exaltation faded, leaving in its wake only golden echoes that would probably ring on for ever, and a young man alone on a mountain top aching and stiff, not untroubled, but more whole. And, though transformed, himself again.
Farnor held out his arms wide to embrace the risen sun. Then he turned and began to walk down the mountain.
Chapter 17
Uncharacteristically, Nilsson swallowed as he took the sealed note from Harlen. It needed no great perception to read the messenger’s demeanour; fear and distress radiated from him, shot through with a raging anger that was struggling against its enforced silence.
That damned girl’s run away, Nilsson diagnosed. He felt his stomach churning.
Rannick’s power and ambition he could live with and, with care, use to his own ends. It followed a simple, brutal logic. But a woman on the scene was like a crazed horse in a cavalry charge: capable of causing unknown mayhem. Who could say which way Rannick’s dark malice would strike if he’d truly become infatuated with this stupid bitch?
Harlen’s fear leaked directly into him as he fingered the letter. Whoever delivered this message was at no small risk. But equally, it was not a message that he could give to some underling. ‘When did she go?’ he demanded.
Harlen started. He had said nothing about Marna’s flight, merely confining himself to delivering the letter which had greeted him when he rose that morning, together with a note saying what she intended to do and to the general effect that he should, ‘Not worry, and please take this letter to Rannick.’
‘I… I don’t know,’ he stammered. ‘Sometime dur-ing the night. I was awake a long time myself, but I didn’t hear her go.’ Despite himself, his anger tore through. ‘What in Murrel’s name did that…?’
‘Shut up,’ Nilsson snapped savagely, but it was the look on his face that stopped Harlen. ‘Your life’s hanging on the thinnest of threads. Ask no questions, make no demands, if you value it in the slightest.’ He looked about the courtyard, his forehead furrowed and his eyes narrowed in concentration. ‘Lord Rannick’s not here,’ he said, almost offhandedly. ‘He went riding… north… after your daughter left last night. There’s no telling when he’ll be back, but it’ll be this evening at the latest, I’d imagine.’ He turned sharply back to Harlen. ‘It’s in both our interests to find your daughter and have her ready and amenable for him whenever he chooses to return.’
Harlen’s jaw tightened and his eyes blazed, but Nils-son seized the front of his shirt with a single hand and, lifting him casually up on to his toes, pushed him violently against the castle gate. ‘Spare me your fatherly wrath, weaver,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen it too often to waste my time discussing it other than with the edge of my sword. Understand this, Lord Rannick will have whatever he wants. And nothing you or any of us can do will stop him. He wants your daughter, and whether you’re alive or dead means even less to him than it does to me. The choice is yours. Stay silent and helpful, and perhaps you’ll be there for her when he’s finished. Argue the point, and you certainly won’t. Now, where’s she likely to have gone? The valley can’t have that many hiding places.’
‘She’s not in the valley, damn you,’ Harlen shouted, shaking himself free from Nilsson’s grip. ‘She’s gone over the hill. I’ve no idea where she is.’ He retrieved a crumpled paper from his pocket and thrust it under Nilsson’s face.
Nilsson took it and read it. Harlen stepped back, appalled by the emotions that surged into Nilsson’s face and by the ruthless cruelty that crushed them.
‘She’s gone to the capital?’ Nilsson asked rhetori-cally. ‘Gone to tell the king about us?’ He held up the sealed letter. ‘And she’s told Lord Rannick as well? Is this some kind of a joke?’
Harlen shook his head. ‘I doubt it,’ he replied un-necessarily. ‘She knows there’s nowhere to hide here. And she’s taken plenty of food and clothing.’
Again a range of emotions fought for control of Nilsson’s face, and again he crushed them until he was left with a vicious, humourless grimace, his lips curled to reveal his clenched teeth. He looked at Harlen. ‘I’ve seen things and faced dangers that you couldn’t begin to imagine, weaver. And I can’t begin to tell you what I feel at having my life jeopardized by some ignorant farm girl who’s so stupid she thinks she can escape from this valley, and, even stupider, leaves a note saying what she’s going to do.’ Then, menacingly, ‘I presume you’ve had no part in this?’
Harlen quailed at the restrained fury in Nilsson’s voice, and though somehow he held his ground, he could not reply except to shake his head weakly. Contrary to Marna’s instructions, he had in fact spent some time searching for her, shocked and stunned, and then he had delayed even longer before carrying her message to the castle. In the end, however, he had realized that he had been left with no alternative but to deliver the message. And, in honesty, despite his love for his daughter, and his distress at her sudden, foolish flight, he had not been without some reproach for her for leaving him in that position.
Now, however, he could do no more. He was more than relieved that Rannick was away, envisioning more accurately than his daughter what his probable response would be. And, for the rest of this day at least, he had a common interest with this foreign captain. Though he could not have admitted it, he felt the strange compan-ionship of the co-conspirator.
‘Saddre! Dessane! To me!’ Nilsson’s booming voice rose above the noise in the courtyard. Within minutes, some twenty or more riders burst through the castle gates and galloped off towards the village.
Harlen, waiting, forgotten, watched them until they were out of sight, his face unreadable. Then he turned and began to walk after them.
* * * *
Marna breathed a sigh of relief. She was through. She dropped down on to the ground heavily and leaned back against a tree. As Gryss had suspected, Marna had been quietly plotting ‘some foolishness’ for a long time. She had studied the maps and notes that she had stolen from the bottom of Jeorg’s pack and, accompanying her father on his trips downland she had reacquainted herself with the now heavily guarded terrain that had once been part of her childhood playground.
Jeorg had ventured to leave the valley in cautious openness, hoping to be able to plead his way out should he be challenged. Marna planned for complete conceal-ment. Dull, colourless clothes hid her in the palely lit night, and would help to conceal her too, in the daylight. A carefully acquired knowledge of the routines of the men who guarded the valley told her that only a few would be abroad patrolling so late. This, coupled with their not being truly prepared for anyone trying to escape, her own knowledge of the terrain, and her grim, fear-driven determination, carried her successfully along stream beds, through shrub and fern, and over rocky outcrops, until finally she had passed around the guarded line and reached the woods that fringed the valley’s sides. Now, surely, only ill-fortune, or gross carelessness on her part would see her captured.
The thought reminded her that she was still quite close to the guarded line and she allowed herself only a few minutes’ respite before she clambered to her feet and cautiously set off again.
She looked up through the trees. The sky was grey-ing a little. Soon it would be dawn, then her father would wake to find her message. She felt an uneasy twinge about the errand she had left him, but she did not dwell on it. She must do what she had to do. Someone had to reach the capital and bring some form of lawful retribution down on Rannick and these people, and she could do it, she knew. Besides, fathers were invulnerable, weren’t they?
She shook her head as the memory of Garren and Katrin Yarrance threatened to return, and strode out as quickly as the darkness and the need for silence would allow.
She pondered the journey ahead of her as she walked. There was no way of knowing how far abroad Rannick’s depredations had been carried, but if she used the night for the greater part of her journeying and the daytime f
or careful sheltering and rest, she must surely come eventually to a place that was beyond his reach, and then what could possibly prevent her from reaching the capital?
She looked up at the greying sky again. Each step she made was carrying her further away from Rannick and Nilsson and it would be a long time after daybreak before her father could deliver her letter and some form of search for her be set in train. She must make the most of this interlude.
After a while, she paused and looked back. She was far enough away from the guards not to be too con-cerned about travelling quietly. All she had to do now was walk, and listen for any kind of pursuit coming along the road below. Then, and only then, need she consider searching for somewhere to conceal herself for the day.
She strode out, through the lightening wood.
She was still striding purposefully forward when something wrapped around her ankle and brought her crashing down heavily. As she struggled desperately to regain her breath, she felt the grip on her ankle tightening.
‘Well, well. What have we here, charging through the trees and disturbing our sleep?’ said a voice.
Startled, Marna kicked out violently with her free leg. She struck something and there was an oath as she was abruptly released. Still gasping for breath, and encumbered by her pack, she scrabbled awkwardly to her feet.
At the same time, two figures rose up out of the shadowy ground. ‘You should look where you’re going, my friend,’ said one of them. The accent was strange. Whoever was speaking was not from the valley, but neither was he one of Nilsson’s men. Apart from a note of irritation in the voice, Marna took some reassurance from this.
‘First you barge into our little camp, making us think you were a bandit or suchlike. Then you nearly kick me in the face.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Marna gasped, as she flexed her ankles and legs, instinctively testing for damage after the winding fall. ‘Who are you?’
There was no immediate reply, but she could make out the two figures turning to look at one another in the gloom. ‘Who are we?’ came the mimicking, high-pitched echo, after a moment. ‘Bless me if we haven’t stumbled upon a lady, no less.’
‘No, no. She stumbled on us, don’t forget.’
‘True. True.’ There was a pause. ‘I thought that an-kle felt… interesting.’
There was a short, unpleasant laugh, then. ‘Talking about… feeling…’
‘Who are you?’ Marna asked again, sufficiently re-covered from her fall now to begin to be frightened by the tone of the conversation she was hearing.
‘Just two travellers come to join Lord Rannick’s army. We were spending a cold, lonely night in the woods until…’ The figure shrugged and came a little nearer. ‘But who are you, my dear, wandering the woods all alone?’ he asked.
‘I’m not alone,’ Marna said, increasingly alarmed. ‘And I’m one of Lord Rannick’s women.’
But on the instant, she knew that the tremor in her voice had exposed the lie in this announcement. There was another short pause in which the two men seemed to consult one another silently, then they stepped forward simultaneously. A hand was clamped across her mouth, and she felt hands grasping for her legs, seeking to destroy her balance and bring her down again.
She lashed out wildly and staggered backward. In the melee, her pack slipped off her back on to the floor and one of the men went sprawling over it. The other, however, still held her firmly and she found herself being spun around roughly. A stunning slap across the face exploded in her head and sent her reeling.
A terrible fear rose up inside her. She had never been struck before – not like that – not with malice and power and awful, focused intent. She remembered Nilsson felling the man in the courtyard, and knew now how he had felt. The strings of her adulthood began to unloose and childhood began to reassert itself.
As she floundered under the numbing impact of the blow, she was seized from behind, powerful arms pinioning hers by her sides. Ironically, the continued assault galvanized her. She began to struggle violently.
There was a grunt of effort from her captor as he tried to restrain her. ‘Whack her again, she’s strong, this one,’ he gasped to his companion.
Marna saw the figure in front of her draw back his arm. Yoked together, fear and anger screamed defiance. She wouldn’t be hit like that again! Wildly, she lashed out with her foot in the general direction of her attacker’s groin. Insofar as she had been aiming, she missed, but her stout walking boot connected solidly with his knee.
The man cried out and staggered backwards, swear-ing foully. His partner tightened his grip around Marna, making her gasp with pain. ‘You all right?’ he called out breathlessly.
A further stream of abuse greeted this inquiry as the injured man crouched low, hugging his knee. ‘I’ll teach you, you bitch,’ he concluded, straightening up slowly.
As he limped towards her, Marna saw the glint of a knife blade in the growing light. A pounding terror rose to paralyse her, like a rabbit before a stoat. In the far distance she was aware of a voice calling out, ‘No. Don’t spoil her. We can do that after.’
The man with the knife hesitated, and Marna felt waves of gratitude towards her captor mingling with her terror. Then the man took another step forward. He lurched violently as his injured knee gave way under him. His hesitation vanished and the clear intent that rang in his cry of pain and fury brought Marna back vividly and brutally to this dawn-lit woodland and what lay ahead for her.
The knife drew nearer, with wilful, taunting slow-ness.
Marna began to struggle even more frantically than before. Then, as the knife was drawn back, she made a desperate final effort, and by blind chance did what any trained fighter would have told her to do. Her heel crashed down on to the foot of the man holding her, and her head jerked back viciously, hitting him full in the face. The grip on her slackened and with fear-bred strength, she twisted away from the lunging knife. Her arms came up wildly and she collided with the advanc-ing attacker as she found herself staggering forward, suddenly free. Stumbling to her knees, she landed on her pack. In the midst of the tumbling horror of what was happening, the familiar contact was incongruously reassuring.
There was a strangled cry behind her, and as she clambered to her feet she saw the two men bending low and staring at one another. The knife-wielder turned towards her. She could see his eyes, wide and savage. His mouth gaped to form a silent scream.
Without thinking, she swung her pack at him as he lurched towards her. It did not strike him particularly hard, but it unbalanced him and he fell to the ground with a cry of rage and pain as once again his knee collapsed. The knife bounced from his hand.
Unbalanced herself by her effort, Marna tumbled almost on top of him. Arms and legs flailing, she rolled away, intent now on seizing the fallen knife. As her hand closed about it, a great weight fell across her, forcing her face into the soft, damp forest litter. She gagged as she felt twigs and clinging soil being pushed into her mouth. Powerful hands twisted her over on to her back and she looked up to see her attacker sitting astride her, in a dreadful mockery of a childhood wrestling game. His weight crushed the breath out of her.
Then, those same powerful hands closed around her throat, thumbs hard, purposeful and practised, against her windpipe. All thoughts left her as a choking blackness instantly swept over her, but a screaming reflex thrust her hands upwards in an attempt to beat off this fearful assault. There was an interminable, timeless, moment, then the awful blackness was gone. Through her trembling, painful breathing, Marna saw light. As her vision cleared, she made out her attacker. He was still astride her. But he was motionless.
And there was something else…
On her hands. Warm. Unpleasant…
Slowly her eyes moved from the figure above her to her hands. Her face contorted in horror. One of the hands that had thrust up to beat off that final, murder-ous attack had held the knife. She felt it in her hand, but she could not see it. It had passed upwards, underneath the m
an’s ribcage, killing him almost immediately. Blood was running dark down her hands.
She could not release the knife.
As she watched, the now untenanted form above her toppled very slowly to one side. With her grip still reflex-tight around the handle of the knife, Marna was drawn upwards by it, until with a blood-spurting sigh it tore free from the body, and she dropped on to one elbow. The corpse rolled away from her and lay still like a spent lover.
Marna was shaking uncontrollably. Something in her mind was crying out to warn her that this was not yet finished. She struggled to listen to it, knowing that it was important.
The other man!
She jerked her head around in sudden fear of a re-newed attack. He was there! Only a few paces away. Leaning against a tree, and staring at her.
With a strange, animal whine, Marna scrambled desperately to her feet and, retreating, levelled the shaking knife at him. But he did not move. Then she saw that he was clutching his side, and a broad stain was colouring his loose, ragged tunic. Realization dawned. He must have received the knife blow intended for her when she fought free.
They stared at one another for a long moment, then the man, grimacing with pain, and his eyes fearful, turned and staggered off into the trees on a path that would carry him down the side of the valley and towards the road.
Marna stood staring after him for a long time after he had disappeared. She was motionless, except for the trembling that was still racking her. Then, with a cry of disgust, she spat the bitter twigs and leaves from her mouth and, dropping to her knees, vomited violently.
As the retching spasms faded, so others began, and she began to sob equally violently. At intervals she gasped, ‘I’m sorry,’ to the corpse of her would-be murderer. She crawled to his side and knelt by him, the knife still in her hand; for some reason she still could not let it go.
