Farnor ft-1

by Roger Taylor

  It was a time for exhilaration. Indeed he was exhila-rated.

  And yet something had gone amiss. Albeit briefly, something had… drained?… no… rather strangled, restrained… the new power he had discovered.

  Perhaps he had not yet the skills he imagined? But no skill had been needed here that he had not had for many years.

  He reached out and felt the presence of the creature. It had the stillness of a shadowed and silent lake, deep beyond imagining and wending into the far, unknow-able distance. And it had the timeless immovability of a towering mountain whose ancient roots held it fast in the depths below. But above all it had desires. Desires that knew no bounds. And a will that knew no restraint. Yet it bent to his will. It was a richness greater than any he had ever imagined. And there would be more. Much more.

  The creature stirred and Rannick basked in its con-tentment.

  * * * *

  Farnor’s hand was shaking as he yanked the machete out of the wooden ceiling. Not because of the accident he had narrowly avoided, though he was acutely aware of that, but because of the terrible contact with the creature that he had again been drawn into.

  And what had been that other contact immediately before? Vast and whispering. Watching and listening. Surprised. Not malevolent, certainly, but every bit as mysterious as the creature.

  He had to grit his teeth at the effort he found he needed to stop himself abandoning his tasks and running to Gryss with news of this latest happening. His resolve held and a down-to-earth common sense came to his aid. Whatever had happened it had done him no hurt, save to alarm him. He must regain the balance of his life. He must remember that he was Garren Yar-rance’s son, and heir to the substantial lands at this end of the valley. Paper and documents gravely averred that they belonged to the family Yarrance, but, like all the valley dwellers, he knew that the reality was that he belonged to the land. His was a stewardship for the lands that fed and clothed far more than just his family; had done for countless generations in the past, and would do so for countless generations in the future. He had a duty to his parents, to those that had gone before and to those that would come and, indeed, to himself, to continue learning the skills he would need to fulfil that stewardship well.

  Other things must yield before this need.

  He gazed around the work-shed. He would finish what he had been set to do here, and the other tasks he had been given. He would quieten his mind. He looked down at the machete, turning it this way and that. The sun bounced off its glistening edge sending slivers of light skittering about the untidy room.

  And in placing these unnerving happenings against the weight of his true life, he would temper and sharpen himself to face whatever the future held for him.

  Chapter 22

  The wind thrashed the tops of the trees and sent twigs and leaves and sometimes whole branches chasing after Haral’s fleeing group. The men were oblivious to such urgings however, as the terror of the last few minutes drove them relentlessly forward.

  Galloping up and down the column, Haral managed to prevent the retreat from turning into complete disorder, but it was not easy. Independent of the wills of their riders, the horses had clear intentions of their own and many were soon not only lathered, but bleeding about the mouth as restraints were applied by those same riders, fearful of being recklessly dashed into low branches or crushed against trunks.

  As they drew further from the scene of the assault, however, the wind began to ease and the headlong flight gradually became a more controlled gallop and then a steady canter.

  Haral, riding at the rear, began to count the cost and the probable consequences. Two men dead, plus Mirek taken earlier. At least four others injured by panicking horses, including the man Bryn had brought back; and one man with a spear still sticking in his leg. All this, plus half a dozen horses lost, and who knew how many other lesser injuries to both men and horses incurred during the melee. He was reminded of these by a sharp pain between his shoulder blades. Carefully, he flexed them and tried to assess the extent of the damage that the creature had done when it had trodden on him. With some relief he diagnosed it as probably only bruising; he had had enough injuries in the past to know when one was merely an inconvenience and one was a problem requiring attention.

  He grimaced. What a disaster! He issued up a small prayer of thanks that he had not, after all, sent that frivolous message to Nilsson, ‘Expect a trophy.’ At least he would not have the galling humiliation of that on top of the reproaches that would soon be coming his way.

  But what else could he have done? he pondered. The damned thing was an animal. He had hunted animals before, as had they all. Fierce animals at that: boars, bears, even wild bulls. And while they would turn and fight, this was usually only at the last extremity when all other avenues of escape had been denied them. Certainly they didn’t think like men: didn’t know that they were stronger, faster and better armed by far than their flimsy pursuers; didn’t know to turn from hunted into hunter by laying ambushes.

  But this one had known. Despite himself, Haral found himself thinking of the whole incident as being like some kind of trap, with its bait and its lure and its final assault.

  ‘There’s nothing for you there but terrible danger and the Great Forest,’ Rannick had said.

  And you knew that because, somehow, you were at the heart of it, you piece of horse dung, Haral thought viciously, though he glanced about him as he cursed for fear that, in some way, he might be overheard. Any doubts he might have had about Rannick’s involvement in the attack had been dispelled by his seemingly fortuitous appearance and his promise of help.

  Such as he, did nothing unless it served his own end. Such as he, Haral mused, struck by the turn of his thoughts. He no longer saw Rannick as a petty village trickster, and though he found it hard to imagine that the man had the power of his former lord, he neverthe-less had a great deal. And he had the will to use it. He was, beyond debate, someone to be either obeyed or fled from.

  Of course, there was always the alternative of killing him, but Haral had seen the fate of others who had thought similarly in the past, and he had no desire to share any part of it. He shuddered at the memory.

  Wholly pragmatic, Haral shifted his stance without any qualms. He had followed and obeyed someone all his life: his Lord, Nilsson, Rannick, it did not really matter. Let them have their grandiose plans; just so he knew where he stood. He had only modest ambitions, and so long as he got what he wanted he didn’t really give a damn who he followed. And getting what he wanted was generally not too difficult once he had a measure of his leaders.

  And the clear measure he had of Rannick now was that he wanted the group to remain at the castle instead of heading north. Wanted it to the extent that he was prepared to kill some of them for it. Further, he had some control over the fearful animal that had attacked them. Haral had no measure of that thing except that it was to be avoided at all costs.

  Perhaps the reasons for Rannick’s wish that they remain at the castle would become apparent in time but, for now, Haral knew enough. ‘You go north and you die,’ Rannick had said, meaning, ‘You go north and I will kill you.’ And having had that demonstrated, Haral needed to know nothing further. All he had to do now was give a good account of today’s happenings, suitably praising Lord Rannick for his timely intervention, then he would do what was expected of him and confirm that the valley was too dangerous to risk any more ventures. After that he would stand back and await events.

  A noise from the head of the column interrupted his planning.

  For a moment his insides turned to ice. Had Ran-nick decided to make a real example of them by sending the animal after them to destroy them all? He laid his hand on his sword hilt in readiness for action.

  But soon the noise identified itself as other riders, sent by Nilsson to act as rearguard to the group. Haral spurred his horse forward to greet them.

  The journey back to the castle was uneventful, though it was dark when th
ey arrived and, gallopers having been sent ahead with the news, the courtyard was crowded with men and ablaze with flickering torches.

  Nilsson cursorily examined the seriously injured. ‘Send someone for that leech, Gryss,’ he said. ‘Tell him… ask him… to come and look at these men.’

  He turned to Haral, his face grim and questioning. Haral told his tale as he had determined, laying suitable emphasis on the role played by Rannick and duly declaring that the passage to the north was too danger-ous.

  The telling was received in silence by the encircling men. Despite the losses, there were fewer reproaches than Haral had anticipated. A congress had been held and each man had made his own decision freely. Those who had stayed, for the most part, considered them-selves fortunate rather than wise in their choice, and those of Haral’s men who had survived considered themselves both wiser now and fortunate.

  Nilsson and others shrewd enough read Haral’s true message: ‘Do as Rannick says, or he’ll kill you. And he can do it.’

  It was no great surprise. They had all known the power in the past and, whatever questions they had about how Rannick came to wield it, they knew its force. There was some resentment about being held in thrall by this new leader, but it found little or no voice, and indeed, most were beginning to look to the future for the first time in many years, reflecting into it the lives they had led under their former master.

  There were some questions about the creature but they petered out as it became apparent that neither Haral nor any of the others could give any indication as to what it might be.

  ‘What about Mirek and the others?’ Dessane asked.

  ‘Dead, beyond a doubt.’ Haral’s face wrinkled in distaste. ‘And probably eaten by now.’

  Nilsson looked round to see if there was any enthu-siasm for a search and found none. Loyalty was loyalty, but this wasn’t worth the risk.

  He nodded. ‘Now we wait,’ he said.

  * * * *

  Gryss was in no sweet mood when he arrived. He had been preparing to go to bed when Nilsson’s messenger had filled the house with his noisy banging; and the journey to the castle had been too fast for his taste.

  ‘I’m too old for this rattling round,’ he complained as Nilsson greeted him.

  ‘Why’s the boy here?’ Nilsson asked brusquely, indi-cating Farnor, hastily collected by Gryss as he had passed the farm.

  ‘He helps me,’ Gryss lied, equally irritably, handing a large leather bag to Farnor.

  Nilsson said nothing, though he looked as if he wished to object to Farnor’s presence. After a moment, however, he gave a curt nod, then pointed to the building in which the injured were being housed.

  ‘I hope you’ve managed to find somewhere more wholesome than the last place,’ Gryss said in an attempt at conversation as Nilsson led them into a long, arched corridor.

  The martial tattoo of the Captain’s heels on the stone floor was the only reply.

  Eventually they stopped outside a heavy wooden door which Nilsson threw open. He motioned Gryss inside. As the old man went into the room he grimaced. It was clean enough, but it needed no physician’s eye to see the pain racking the men lying there. They made little sound, though the subdued hiss of tightly con-trolled breathing was more distressing to Gryss than any amount of groaning.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, turning to Nilsson.

  ‘Just tend them,’ Nilsson replied coldly.

  Gryss began to protest. ‘I’ll need to know if…’

  ‘Just tend them,’ Nilsson replied, before he could finish.

  The two men held each other’s gazes for a moment, then Gryss nodded.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll do what I can.’ He took his bag from Farnor. ‘There’s no point you staying, Captain. This is going to take some time. I’ll see you before I leave and tell you what I’ve done.’

  ‘His tune’s changed,’ Gryss murmured to Farnor when Nilsson had left.

  Farnor had other concerns on his mind. ‘I can’t help you,’ he whispered in some alarm. ‘I don’t know anything about sick people.’

  ‘Just do as I say, and look confident,’ Gryss said, rooting through his bag. ‘It’s the confidence that does most of the healing anyway.’ Despite the grim surround-ings, a brief twinkle of amusement shone in his eyes as he looked at Farnor’s anxious face. ‘This’ll be interesting for you.’

  ‘What’ve you brought me here for, anyway?’ Farnor went on.

  ‘I want another pair of eyes and ears about this place,’ Gryss answered. ‘We need to learn as much as we can about these men, in case…’ He stopped.

  ‘In case what?’

  ‘Just in case,’ Gryss said shortly.

  A groan from one of the injured men ended this subdued conversation, and Gryss turned his attention to their needs.

  Farnor did not enjoy what followed, but he obeyed Gryss’s instructions scrupulously and tried to appear confident as the old man poked and prodded, moved limbs, issued instructions to breathe in, breathe out, move your toes, move your fingers, look this way, look that.

  When it came to manipulating bones however, Far-nor gave up all attempt at confidence, and simply clenched his teeth and concentrated on doing as he was told. This consisted mainly of mopping brows and giving the patients a thick leather thong to bite on as Gryss heaved and tugged at reluctant limbs. Some of the clicks and cracks that ensued made his entire skin crawl, but it was the eye contact that distressed him most: seeing the fear, the young boys within, risen anew, being grimly, angrily, fought back by the men.

  ‘What happened?’ Gryss asked each man in turn.

  ‘A horse kicked me,’ came the standard, and truthful reply.

  Gryss wanted to raise a disbelieving eyebrow, but the nature of the injuries forbade it.

  ‘And I suppose a horse kicked you as well,’ he said, pulling back the sheet from the last bed. Farnor caught his breath and turned away. The man’s hand, clutching a bloodstained rag, fell away from a deep, raw wound in his thigh.

  Visions of the slaughtered sheep returned to Farnor at the sight of the torn flesh, and he felt his gorge rising.

  ‘Slow, deep breaths,’ he heard Gryss whispering urgently in his ear, as a surprisingly powerful hand gripped his arm. ‘Slow deep breaths. Start throwing up when the wound’s in your leg. You’ll be surprised how much pain in other people a good healer can take.’

  The sternness and the dark, cynical humour in Gryss’s voice jolted Farnor into self-control and he returned to his role as healer’s assistant.

  The old man pursed his lips as he viewed the dam-aged leg, then he burrowed in his bag again. He emerged with a small bottle, the contents of which he emptied on to a pad. Farnor’s nose twitched uncertainly as a heavy, sweet, smell struck it. Then, unhurriedly, but very quickly, Gryss placed the pad over the man’s mouth and nose. The man struggled a little then went limp.

  ‘What’s that?’ Farnor asked in amazement.

  ‘Just something to put him to sleep for a few min-utes,’ Gryss replied. ‘Here, tie him down.’

  A length of stout rope appeared from the bag.

  ‘Tie him down?’ Farnor gaped.

  ‘Tie him down,’ Gryss confirmed insistently. ‘I’ve got to probe this wound, and if he wakes up before I’ve finished he’s not going to enjoy it. And neither am I when he tries to take my head off.’

  Unhappily, Farnor did as he was told, trussing the man to the bed as expertly as if he were tying a cover over a wagon. Even as he was doing so Gryss was delving into the wound.

  ‘Look,’ he said, beckoning Farnor down. He had struck a small sunstone lantern and its bright light brought out every stark detail of the wound. Farnor clenched his teeth and somehow managed to bring his face next to Gryss’s. Rather to his surprise, his unease began to pass as Gryss, using two thin metal probes, confidently lifted back layers of damaged tissue, explaining to the best of his knowledge what each one was: muscle, sinew, blood vessels and the different layers of skin.


  The man stirred and mumbled something unintelli-gible. Farnor glanced at him anxiously but Gryss shook his head reassuringly.

  He nudged Farnor. ‘Bone,’ he said, tapping a white streak at the bottom of the wound. Farnor rubbed his own thigh feelingly. Then Gryss was peering intently into the wound and, tongue protruding, probing further.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Farnor whispered.

  Gryss shushed him.

  The man stirred again, and then Gryss was busy cleaning and sewing, all the time humming softly to himself. Farnor had seen Gryss stitching wounds before and was able to watch this a little more calmly.

  At last Gryss stood up.

  ‘Why haven’t you sewn it all up?’ Farnor asked.

  ‘Too deep,’ Gryss replied. ‘It’ll have to heal from the inside out.’

  Farnor shook his head in some wonder. ‘How do you know all this?’ he asked.

  Gryss turned his head from side to side and wrig-gled his shoulders to ease the stiffness out of them. He smiled broadly. ‘Horses, mainly,’ he said. ‘And some cows.’

  He intercepted Farnor’s growing look of horror. ‘We’re not all that much different,’ he said, chuckling darkly. ‘Why do you think I don’t eat much meat?’ Then he became serious. ‘But I’ve done similar for people as well. You can get a nasty wound off a scythe or a sickle.’ He paused. ‘But I’d like to know what’s happened here.’

  Farnor started. He had been so preoccupied with watching Gryss that only now did he realize that he knew the answer to this. But it could not be told here. He would have to wait until they had left the castle.