by Roger Taylor
Some reflex made him cry out, ‘Hold the horses!’ as he threw his reins to Bryn and began to run along the column.
But few heard the command. Panic struck the rear of the column immediately with a force greater than that of the attacker. The last horse, now untended and screaming like an echo of its erstwhile rider, galloped off into the gloom while men and horses scattered in all directions in a belated attempt to avoid the long-past attack.
Shouting, ‘Hold the horses! Hold the horses!’ Haral snatched a spear from the nearest horse and set about his panicking men with the shaft, following the established battlefield principle of ousting one terror by means of a bigger one.
‘Form up, you dogs! We’ve got to get after it,’ he roared as he laid about him. ‘Form up!’
He had some effect despite the gloom and the close-set tree trunks. One man was knocked down by a horse. He staggered to his feet, dazed, then began to run away from the column. Haral swore and, slithering on the wet leafy ground, set off after him.
He took little catching and Haral’s angry hand seiz-ing the scruff of his neck sent his feet flying into the air before he crashed down on to the ground. Haral did not wait for him to recover, but maintaining the grip on his collar prepared to start dragging him back to the column.
Then he saw darkness rushing towards him. He heard a stomach-churning rumble of a growl and heard again Bryn’s words, ‘Jaws like a mantrap’. He stood frozen with terror. Then, somehow, as blazing red eyes formed in the approaching shadow he dropped down flat, landing violently on top of his charge.
With a winding impact the creature’s foot landed between his shoulder blades as it ran over him and he rolled over in panic, flailing his arms wildly. The impetus brought him on to his belly, and as he looked up he saw the shadow strike a man as he was mounting his horse and knock both man and horse to the ground.
Haral groped for his spear then staggered to his feet and lurched forward, almost on all fours in his despera-tion to reach his men. He heard the scream as the second victim was dragged away; heard the shouts of the men, angry and fearful, and the terrified shrieking of the horses. He saw men slipping on the treacherous ground; spears launched to worse than no avail as one of them plunged into a man’s thigh. He saw two men struck by bolting horses.
He saw fear teeter into panic and rout.
He saw death for them all amid those dark, crowded, trees if he did not act.
He did not need to ponder the nature of the creature that had sought out one of their men and now returned to attack the entire group. Whatever it was, its intent, its will and its awful power defined it sufficiently. Haral knew that his only tactic now was to stem the rout and beat a fighting retreat. If he could.
If…?
* * * *
Farnor yawned and leaned his forehead against the flank of the cow. It had been hard getting up this morning and he had been walking around half asleep ever since.
It had earned him a rebuke from his father, and now the cow showed her resentment at his slothful attention by sidestepping away from him. Jerked into wakefulness he reached out to steady himself, whereupon the cow moved back and nearly knocked him off his stool. He swore at the animal as he struggled to keep his balance and also keep the milking pail upright. The cow turned and gazed at him reproachfully.
He patted it and muttered an insincere, ‘Sorry,’ then started milking again.
That done, his next duty lay in the work-shed which leaned raggedly against the barn. He had neglected quite a few of his usual tasks of late while ostensibly ‘doing odds and ends’ for Gryss, and this morning his father had detailed a long list of items to be completed, earmarking several for immediate attention. Farnor had considered protesting, citing work still to be done for Gryss, but there was a resolution underlying his father’s quiet requests that he knew of old would make any appeal pointless. And probably unwise.
Still, he reflected, it wasn’t really necessary that he tell Gryss what had happened last night immediately, despite its terrifying vividness. Whatever was happening was happening and would presumably continue to do so whether he told Gryss or not. And to continue neglect-ing his duties about the farm would be merely to aggravate and, in all conscience, burden his parents.
And in burdening them he would burden himself also, thereby adding to the worries he already had. He closed the door of the work-shed behind him, kicking it expertly until the wooden latch dropped into position. He smiled as he did so. That was another job on his list, but it was at least something that he could apply himself to, and eventually put right. All the tasks he had to perform about the farm were thus. They were clear and well defined and they had a purpose, a logic, which, if it was not evident straight away, invariably became so as the various emergencies of farm life occurred: winds damaging the ricks; lightning firing them; frantic haymaking as black storm clouds piled high in the sky, dwarfing even the mountains; damp torchlit sojourns in the hills at lambing time; and many others. But all needing other things to be prepared, to be ready and to hand.
It came to him that the many small, insignificant things his parents had taught and shown him over the years were part of the great rhythm of tending the land which, in its turn, was the culmination of countless generations of learning through trial and error, success and failure.
He glanced out of the window, noting casually that while it was sunny here, the valley to the north was shrouded in mist.
Some culmination, he thought, gazing at the famil-iar disorder of the work-shed. He picked up a sickle lying amid the confusion covering the work bench. Its edge was turned and rusty. But then, could he have known how to win the metal to make this, had it not been for his conversations with the smith? And could he have known how to beat and shape and sharpen it thus? Or learned unaided the simple, effortless swing that would enable him to use it for long hours at a time without tiring?
He looked at the other tools and pieces of equip-ment lying about. No, he could not have hazarded even the nature of such as these, let alone made and used them, had it not been for those who had gone before him.
Not too clever, after all, he said to himself, turning back to the window.
Yet even as this revelation made itself known to him, he had a powerful feeling that he too was a part of this unheard, unseen rhythm, and that it would sustain him in some way through his present trials. Its great and ancient momentum, laden with an accumulated wisdom far beyond that of any one person, would not be so easily deflected.
He must not neglect what was simple and mundane. He must let the performing of his routine everyday tasks be a fist raised in opposition to this unsought intrusion into his life. It was more important, not only for the sake of peace with his parents, but for his own peace, that he diligently attend to the ordinary rather than be for ever scuttling round to Gryss with tales of the extraordinary.
Anyway, what could Gryss do?
Precious little, he decided, though with the thought came guilt. Gryss had done everything that he could do: he had listened, and he had cared. And he thought about things.
Farnor’s mood swung from confident determination back towards uncertainty and fear again. While Gryss was there, he knew that he would not be totally alone. Gryss was important to him. The great sweep of the ages offered its continuity, but Gryss offered him more human and immediate sustenance. And he needed the one as much as he needed the other if he was to cope with the darkness that seemed to be clouding the edges of his every thought.
He would go and see him today, but only after he had attended to his tasks here; attended to them correctly and thoroughly.
He took another look at the mist-shrouded valley to the north, then he hefted the sickle and took it to the grinding bench. A rotating shaft driven by water piped down from one of the higher fields gave a protesting judder as, with a push on the foot pedal, Farnor connected the several grinding stones to it.
Sharpening the various cutting tools that were used on the farm was a
source of some enjoyment to him. ‘A blunt knife is a dangerous knife,’ his father had told him for as long as he could remember, and it always gave him pleasure to know that whenever one of his edges was used it would move effortlessly through string or rope or wood, or whatever it was being turned to. Not only did he enjoy sharpening, but he was good at it. So much so that his father had actually admitted it publicly and his mother had solemnly delegated the task of sharpening her kitchen knives to him; a responsibility more forbidding than any other on the farm.
He frowned a little as he examined the blade. What had his father been doing with it? Cutting down trees?
The fleeting sense of superiority heartened him and he smiled to himself. Let his father cut rocks with it if he wished. He could do what he wanted, and when he had finished his son would make all things well again.
The grindstones rumbled round steadily, the blade hissed in response to Farnor’s touch and small showers of sparks cascaded on to the floor, bounced hither and thither in confusion and vanished mysteriously into nothingness.
And then it was finished. Farnor turned the blade this way and that, squinted expertly along its curving edge and pronounced it… adequate. He hung it on its correct hook – his tasks included tidying the work-shed as well as sharpening everything in sight – and took down a lethal-looking machete.
He smiled as his hand closed about the grip and, crouching, he made a menacing face. Handling this always brought to him the memory of his father frantically snatching it away from him once when, fired by one of Yonas’s tales, he had chosen it as his magical sword. A sword which could cut through anything, even the anvil on which it had been forged, and which would slay all who were foolish enough to come against him, no matter how great their skill or rugged their armour.
He chuckled. Lot of problems, children, he said to himself, in imitation of his father’s remark at the time.
Now, siding understandingly with his father at this childish peccadillo, he looked at the blade seriously and then offered it to one of the stones.
The sickle, with its curving blade, was quite difficult to sharpen, but the machete was simplicity itself and the long sweeping strokes that he was able to use were particularly satisfying.
He soon became engrossed in the work again and all thoughts that were not concerned with the grinding and honing of the blade faded from his awareness. He watched his hands moving swiftly, steadily and surely; carefully testing, retouching, testing again. And gradually the deed became timeless as his whole world filled with the tuneless song he was creating.
But, it was different today. Fuller, more intense. Words could not begin to describe the feeling.
And, without realizing when it had begun, he be-came aware that beyond the rumbling and hissing of the stones and the blade he could hear – or, perhaps, more correctly sense – a sound. A sound like a distant chorus of countless voices. Yet so natural did it seem that he felt no surprise. Indeed, he knew that he had heard it before, though where and when eluded him. It was as if he were listening to a huge family debating, discussing, gossiping, and though he could hear no words he felt a sensation of surprise… inquiry?… pervading it. And directed towards him!
What do you want? he found his thoughts asking.
The debate rippled and shifted, the surprise in it now stronger by far. And he detected some element of denial; a refusal to believe.
As he listened, his eyes watched his hands moving the blade to and fro across the stones and he knew that everything was well.
Then a tiny, swirling knot of confusion came into the chorus, and the attention was no longer focused on him. The knot swelled rapidly to become alarm, then disbelief, and finally, in the merest blink of time, outright horror.
Distantly Farnor became aware of the machete be-ginning to bounce off the stone as his grip faltered.
Then, rising in pitch to a rending shriek but dimin-ishing in intensity in the same proportion, the chorus was gone, as if into an unknowable distance, and Farnor felt himself overwhelmed by pounding, primitive lusts: the taste of fresh blood in his mouth; human screams rendered inhuman by pain and terror resonating through him; the fear and panic of his prey rich in his nostrils.
Men, horses, confusion. Another victim chosen, burdened and scurrying blindly through the dark trees.
Good…
It was good to have found such release after so long. Good to have found such as him again. Good to be free to pursue the old ways again.
In a dream somewhere else, Farnor saw his hand snatching away as the bouncing blade began to move upward, its bright edge glinting in the dust-laden sunlight streaking through the work-shed window.
And, clearly, he saw the shadowy, stumbling figure glance over his shoulder and see his fate.
As the blade continued upwards, Farnor felt himself reaching into the horror that was possessing him, and denying it.
And it was gone!
There was only the work-shed and the grinding bench. With a jarring thud, the machete struck the ceiling and hung there, swaying gently.
* * * *
Haral dashed forward roaring, ‘Regroup, regroup!’
A charging horse narrowly missed him but he made no attempt to stop it. His prime concern was the men. This creature could take them one at a time if they scattered, and, though he had never known the like before in any animal, it seemed as though that could be its precise intention.
Using the butt of his spear freely and filling the forest with his thunderous vituperations, he stemmed the scattering of his men.
‘Form up! Form up! And hold those damn horses! It won’t attack a group.’
It helped, too, that those at the front of the column had been less panicked by the creature’s ferocious attacks and to some extent had restrained their terrified companions.
‘Where’s Bryn? Where in hell’s name is Bryn?’ Haral roared.
The man next to him pointed. Bryn was moving through the trees towards them. He had run after one of the fleeing men and was returning with him slung unconscious across his shoulders. Two of the men started forward to help, when out of the darkness beyond him the shadow came again, moving directly towards him, fast and purposeful.
‘He’s not going to make it,’ someone cried, fearfully. Haral made no answer, but began running forward, his spear held low before him. ‘Run, Bryn!’ he shouted desperately as he closed with him. ‘Run!’
Bryn looked at him, then glanced hastily over his shoulder. The black shape charging towards him through the trees froze all movement and thought in him and left him only terror.
Faintly he could hear Haral’s frantic urging, but he could do nothing to escape the will that was bearing down on him.
Then, abruptly, it stopped.
At the same instant Bryn felt himself released.
He turned and ran as he had never run in his life. He felt Haral’s hand seize him and drag him forward, then many hands were seizing him and bringing him to shelter. The man he had rescued was lifted from his shoulders and he was in the midst of his companions, gasping for air.
‘Tighten up! Keep close! Shoulder to shoulder!’ he heard Haral shouting breathlessly.
Then an eerie silence fell, punctuated only by heavy breathing from the men and the fretful snorting and padding of the horses. Swords and spears pointed uncertainly in the direction from which Bryn had appeared.
Haral quickly moved others to guard the sides and rear of the group.
But nothing happened.
‘Where is it?’ Bryn asked after a moment, his voice shaking. ‘It was just behind me.’
The group became unexpectedly silent. Haral peered into the gloom. ‘It’s gone,’ he said. ‘It’s given up for some reason.’
His mind filled with questions, but he ignored them. Retreat was the only thing that needed to be considered now. ‘Pick up the injured and…’
‘Something’s coming. Listen!’
The whole group turned, weapons levelled, but be-fore
anything could be made out a powerful wind came rushing through the trees, blowing leaves and forest floor detritus before it.
Haral swore and lifted his arm to his face for protec-tion.
‘Go quickly,’ came a voice through the noise of the wind. It was commanding in tone, though it was laced with urgency. Haral rubbed his eyes and looked blearily into the wind to see the speaker.
It was Rannick. He was gesticulating and pointing south. ‘Go quickly!’ he shouted again. ‘I’ll restrain it for as long as I can. But it won’t be for long. Go now. Move!’
Neither Haral nor his men needed further bidding. Regardless of their comfort or condition, the injured were quickly thrown across saddles and everyone mounted whichever horse was nearest. Several of them had to ride double because of the horses that had been lost.
Haral took the rear of the column. Struggling to control his horse in the hammering wind, he directed it towards Rannick.
It twisted and circled and flayed out its forelegs in opposition.
‘Go while you can!’ Rannick’s voice carried clearly through the noise of the wind. Haral managed to still his horse momentarily, and stared at his apparent saviour intently. His eyes were still watering, and the figure he saw was blurred and streaked.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
The figure shifted, as if it were both there and somewhere else at the same time. Haral rubbed his eyes again.
‘You know who I am,’ Rannick said. Then he pointed towards the retreating column. ‘Do you wish to go forward or do you wish to die?’
A massive gust of wind struck Haral. Leaves over-head hissed in protest while branches rattled and trunks creaked. Haral’s horse turned and galloped after the others. He made no effort to stop it.
As Haral disappeared into the distance, the wind around Rannick died away. He frowned. His plan had worked admirably. Such doubters as there were amongst Nilsson’s men had been shown the error of their ways very convincingly, and gaining complete control over the entire group would now be an easy matter. From what he had learned from Meirach and from his own observations, he knew they would form an ideal nucleus to the force that he intended to build. If ever there was to be a confirmation of his destiny, the arrival of Nilsson and his men was it. That, and his long journey into the caves.
