by Roger Taylor
Even as she gazed about her, the walls of one of the buildings collapsed with a ground shaking impact, amid a triumphant roar of flames. Somehow she recovered the leading rein of the three horses before their burgeoning panic overcame whatever will it was she had inspired them with. She gazed around desperately, calling out at the top of her voice. But she could hardly hear herself above the din.
Her horse spun round and round and began to rear, almost unseating her, but she managed to cling on to both it and the rein of the others. She could feel the heat scorching her skin however, worse than anything she had ever known through working too long in the summer fields, and it came to her that she had commit-ted a folly that would probably kill her.
But despite the awful scream forming inside her, she couldn’t leave. Not yet. Surely, they couldn’t be dead. Not such people…
Then through the glaring heat she saw four figures come tumbling out of a doorway. Without any bidding from her, the horses turned towards them. Faces blackened, and clothes smouldering, the four warriors clambered on to their horses, Levrik mounting Marna’s horse and taking the reins. She offered no resistance.
As she looked at the gateway however, she saw that the flames were all around it and that it was changing shape.
She knew that Levrik’s horse was driving forward, urged on by the enigmatic soldier’s cold unhindering will and she was aware of the other three beside them, moving as one. But as they galloped towards the gate it seemed to her that it was retreating from them, so slow was their progress. Then they were leaping over the remains of the burning cart, and the air was full of the sound of the blazing stones of the great arch crashing down behind them.
The cold night, with its scents and its normality, folded itself magically about her. Many hands reached out to support her as she slithered down from the horse, but she struggled free from them.
‘Which way did Rannick go?’ she heard Levrik ask-ing.
A hand touched her shoulder. As she turned, an arm encircled her neck and she felt her hot cheek pressed against an even hotter one. It was Aaren, leaning down precariously from her horse.
‘Bravely done. Bravely done,’ she said simply, her voice hoarse with smoke and her eyes shining wet in the light of the burning castle. ‘We’re in your debt.’
Before Marna could reply, however, she had pulled away, and the four were galloping off into the darkness.
Chapter 26
Derwyn peered into the darkness at the men around him. The sound of the horns had succeeded in extricat-ing most of them from the carnage of the camp but, dimly lit by the distant glow of the campfires shining through the trees, they were milling about him in considerable disorder. Their behaviour vividly reflected the emotions that were tumbling through him: a numbing mixture of shock, fear, and choking guilt; and an urge to flee from this now terrible fringe of the Forest, back to the safety of his lodge and the ways he knew and had always known. Yet, it was combined with an equally powerful urge to charge back amongst the men who had done such harm, to work some dreadful vengeance on them.
But, despite this turmoil, the qualities that had made him the quiet leader of his people were subtly asserting themselves, calming the ancient racial frenzy in which he and his men had tried to hide from the alien strangeness of the quest that Farnor had brought on them. In its wake came a clearer, if no less troubling, knowledge. Warrior he was not, nor any of his men. But they were hunters, and their ancient ancestors had been warriors. It was surely not beyond their resources to find some way of dealing with these intruders?
It occurred to Derwyn briefly that, Farnor’s assess-ment of these men having been so fearfully accurate, his assessment of the creature was probably no less so, and that they might indeed find themselves contending with it as well as Nilsson’s men. And, of course, there was the man, Rannick, with his mysterious powers.
With an effort, he set the thoughts aside. One thing at a time. He had first to bring his men back into some semblance of order. Standing high in his stirrups he bellowed out, ‘Be quiet, all of you!’ His powerful voice rose above much of the noise, but he had to call out twice more before it was quiet enough for him to speak and be heard.
He wanted to ask who had been injured, who killed, who had gathered around the frantic horn calling, who scattered into the trees, but a panic-stricken voice nearby focused his thinking sharply. ‘This is dreadful. Let’s get away from here while we can.’ It was a young voice, but echoes of it sprang up in the darkness.
His eyes reflecting the distant lights of the camp, Derwyn turned grimly towards the speaker. He could not allow time for the leisurely niceties that normally decorated their decision making.
‘No!’ he shouted. ‘Maybe it was a madness that drew us into that reckless charge, but it would be a greater madness if we forgot our duties as Valderen. If we fly now, how can we ever look to the protection of the Forest again? And how could any of us sit at peace by our hearths knowing that we betrayed both our ancient obligations and those who’ve just fallen to these outsiders?’ He waited for no reply. ‘Like it or not, we’re warriors now, and we stay here until this evil’s been driven from the Forest.’
‘It was that black-haired devil of an outsider who brought this on us,’ someone shouted.
Derwyn pushed his horse forward in the direction of the voice. ‘That black-haired devil was chosen to visit the most ancient, I’d remind you,’ he replied furiously. ‘It was he who warned us about these people, if we’d had the wit to listen. And without him, who can say how much harm they’d have done before we knew of them?’
There was no answer. Derwyn seized back his peo-ple.
‘Melarn,’ he shouted. ‘Take a dozen men and move back towards that camp, carefully. We need to know what they’re doing.’
* * * *
Nilsson leaned forward earnestly, hoping to catch some indication of what the distant shouting meant, but it was too far away and there was too much noise about him. The blasting horn calls that had drawn the riders back into the trees had startled him. Were there reinforcements out there? Was there indeed some infantry force making its way towards them right now? And, again, who were these people?
He dashed aside the persistent question. It didn’t matter who they were. His first impression remained: whatever else they were, they weren’t fighters, and that was what mattered. But they’d still have to be dealt with, and dealt with tonight; there was little point in forming a defensive enclave and holding, as he definitely had no reinforcements to draw upon. And any delay might prove disastrous if indeed some other force were heading towards him. He must move out and attack before matters deteriorated.
Few changes were needed to the positions that his men had already taken up, and he noted with some satisfaction that many of them, anticipating a return by the riders, were hacking down long branches to use in lieu of pikes.
Within minutes of his decision, his men were mov-ing into the darkness in the direction that the riders had taken. They retained their small, tight groupings, and many were carrying burning brands.
* * * *
The news reached Derwyn almost immediately and he suddenly found himself the centre of a fear-laden silence. He knew that all eyes were turned towards him in the darkness. He watched the lights of the enemy moving towards him; a flickering, firefly tide, spreading out from the fires of the distant camp. Fighting men, Farnor had called them, and for the first time in his life Derwyn felt the peculiar terror of knowing that someone was intent upon seeking his life; his life.
Yet he must lead his men against them, or they would be scattered about the fringe of the Forest here and perhaps lost for ever, and who knew what conse-quences would flow from that? Images of Angwen and Edrien and the other women they had left at their camp came to him, chilling him.
But what did he know about fighting? Nothing.
But…
‘Do as they did,’ he shouted urgently. ‘Do as they did. Stay in small groups. Six, eight. Keep mov
ing. And keep together, whatever happens. Protect one another. Drop your lances if you’re pressed and use your machetes.’
‘And if you’re downed, then climb. They won’t be able to do that like we can.’ It was Marken who finished Derwyn’s hasty battle order. Derwyn felt his men’s spirits lift as some strained laughter greeted this.
Thus it was that the Valderen began to avenge their first fallen. Guided by the brands that Nilsson’s men were carrying, they burst out of the darkness, sharp-pointed lances and keen-edged machetes taking their toll, until they vanished as suddenly as they had appeared.
Almost all of the groups of Nilsson’s men took some losses, but while one or two broke and scattered, to be cut down or trampled underfoot, the majority closed about their injured companions and held.
Nilsson swore silently to himself, but no sign of his feelings showed on his face except his characteristic snarl. Had these people launched their initial sacrificial charge just to lure him into an ambush? Surely not. It made no sense. But the alternative held little comfort for him: they had learned from their first mistake.
‘Retreat to the camp,’ he ordered, his voice icy. ‘We’ll see how well they fight when we can see them coming.’
As the groups withdrew, the Valderen pressed on with their swift assaults, though these became increas-ingly less effective and more dangerous as they drew nearer to the bright glow of the fires illuminating the camp. Then there was silence, save for the sound of the fires and the awful cries of the wounded and dying.
Nilsson’s men retrenched, more of them hacking down branches either for use as pikes or to be driven into the ground to form defensive hedges. The Valderen walked like sinister shadows around the dark edges of the firelit circle, lance points glinting in the firelight.
The two leaders pondered fretfully, Nilsson on the identity of these mysterious attackers and the possibility of a further force arriving before dawn; Derwyn on the impossibility of attacking this increasingly entrenched group and the difficulty of maintaining the spirit of his men now that the fury of the action had ceased. And too, he was beginning to consider the possibility that there might be other groups of these outsiders nearby, ready to come to the aid of their companions. And what of the creature? And Rannick?
Neither man dared wait. Neither dared move.
Both were spared.
From the south came a sound. Everyone seemed to hear it at the same time, though none could have said how long it had been there. At first it was like the irritating buzz of some tiny trapped insect. Then it grew louder and louder, its tone tearing into its hearers like that of fingernails drawn down glass, but worse by far.
None, either in or around the camp, could do other than concentrate on it in deepening fear, and each forgot their sudden foe totally.
Even Nilsson found his mind drawn from his di-lemma. Then he heard a quality in the sound that he recognized.
‘It’s Lord Rannick,’ he shouted, though as much in fear as in anticipation at what must be their relief. It was of no consequence however, for no one heard him. He pushed his way through the front ranks of his men. Vaguely he was aware of the circling Valderen, strug-gling to control their mounts as the sound grew. ‘Their horses are panicking,’ he roared. ‘Get ready to attack.’ But though he was bellowing directly into the faces of his men he could still scarcely be heard. And too, they seemed paralysed by the sound.
Then Rannick was on them, crashing into the belea-guered camp at a speed that no normal mount could attain, and with a sound like thunder and a howling wind tumbling in the wake of his dreadful scream. The wind snatched at the watching men and made the fires roar and blaze triumphantly.
Nilsson, like his men, was now transfixed, for though the figure on the horse was indisputably Rannick, he was not the man he had chosen to follow, even thought to manipulate to his own ends. He was something that radiated a malevolence that was beyond anything Nilsson had ever known. About him ran streams of a strange fire that crackled and flared, consuming everything it touched, save Rannick. And his mount. For the thing that had been a horse was as evilly transformed as its master. Its head strained against Rannick’s fire-laced restraint, its eyes gleamed, and a steaming foam poured from its mouth and nostrils. Both rider and mount seemed unaware of the scene they had entered. They were swaying from side to side, as if scenting for something.
The sight banished all coherent thought from Nils-son, save one: the appalling wrongness of Rannick. The power that his erstwhile master had used had been greater by far than Rannick’s, but its use had been rare and sparing. The thing he saw before him now was without any semblance of restraint, and beyond all controlling. What had been Rannick was, perhaps, quite destroyed, and what was left was not merely death, it was the antithesis of life.
A sensation passed through Nilsson that he had not known in many, many years. A sensation whose birth pangs had perhaps begun with the violent jolt he had experienced when he had thought the approaching Valderen were his long pursuing countrymen come to call him to account.
Guilt.
This abomination was his fault.
It menaced everything! – everything! It could not be allowed to live.
A life in which immediate and cruel action had been the inevitable solution to most problems, took inexora-ble command of him. Aware of nothing now, save the flickering figure swaying before him, Nilsson stepped forward. The word ‘Lord’ formed in his mind as he drew his sword. Rannick’s swaying stopped abruptly as if he had heard the call, and he turned to look at Nilsson.
‘No!’ Nilsson bellowed into the thunder of Rannick’s presence, and taking his sword in both hands, he swung it up in a whistling curve for a blow that would have cut Rannick and his awful steed in half.
Had it landed.
But with the air of a regal lord casually dismissing a tiresome servant, Rannick delicately raised his hand. A terrible, unseen blow struck Nilsson, lifting him clear of the ground and sending him crashing down on to the Forest floor, a dozen paces away. His sword arced up, glittering through the firelight, twisting and turning, until it fell somewhere in the darkness beyond the camp.
For an instant, silence hung over the scene, and Rannick’s brow furrowed a little, as if a troublesome memory had just occurred to him. Then the moment was gone and, his fearful scream returning, he was riding from the camp as precipitously as he had arrived.
The camp fires swirled up as if in homage to his passing, throwing flames high into the night sky.
Some of Nilsson’s men started forward as the flick-ering light gave a semblance of movement to their downed leader.
But Nilsson’s many subtle and devious concerns had ended the instant that Rannick’s will had touched him.
He was dead.
* * * *
Farnor moved slowly up the rocky slope, carefully testing the ground ahead with Marrin’s staff. He needed no guide for the direction now, for the creature’s presence had become as sharp and as clear to him as if it had been the Dalmas sunstone. Yet it had stopped its headlong rush. It had even stopped its desperate struggle to open again that which Farnor had made whole. It was waiting. For the moment it was deprived of its terrible powers from the worlds beyond, but it had still the power of this world and its cunning and strength, and Farnor was but just another inconsequen-tial prey animal while he chose to hold the way closed and thus deny himself those same powers.
And Rannick was coming, Farnor knew. He had heard the creature’s command reaching across the valley in that last awful roar. And command it had been. Who then was master, and who servant? he wondered.
Somewhere in the distance he heard the sound of thunder. He glanced up. To the south, the sky was glowing red. He frowned uncertainly. What was happening at the village? What was happening to the Valderen? With an effort, he set both thoughts aside and turned his attention back into the darkness. Whatever was happening, he could do nothing about it except what he was doing now.
Despite his clear
intent however, fears tore at him. Even without its enhanced powers, this thing was a vicious night-time predator, quite devoid of fear. How big was it? How strong? He remembered the great pieces torn from the slaughtered sheep. Could it see in the dark? How silently could it move?
The thoughts circled and circled, until he found himself trembling again. For a moment he tried to resist it, then again, he paused and gave it free rein.
And he was quiet again.
He swung the stick forward.
It struck something soft. Then it was torn violently from his hand. He heard hard claws scrabbling on the rocks, and an awful rumbling snarl. And, as if a numbing fog had just lifted from him, he felt the creature all about him.
Without thinking, he dropped to the ground and brought his hands over his head for protection. Something caught him a glancing blow and he heard the breathy thud of the creature landing heavily behind him. His nostrils filled with the acrid smell of dank fur. Strangely, the sounds and the smell reassured him a little; anchored him in this world. Here he might live or die now, but there was no strangeness, only savagery.
A thought exploded in his mind. If you were made thus by humans, creature, and you must have been, then all your attributes will be less than human, for no man would create his superior, even if he could.
On that black, rocky mountainside, then, for all his weakness, he, the man, was the greater savage, the more terrible opponent. Farnor heard himself snarling, as if in confirmation of this revelation. His hand swept over the rocky ground and almost immediately lit upon Marrin’s staff. He seized it, rolled over and swung it in the place where he had heard the creature land. It struck nothing, but Farnor could hear the creature pacing slowly around him, suddenly hesitant. Feel it, do you? he thought. Feel the presence of one of those who made you. Be afraid, creature.
