Farnor ft-1

by Roger Taylor

  Taken aback by this forthrightness, Yakob was composing himself for a further reproach when Gryss swung up into his saddle with unexpected vigour. ‘Come on, Yakob,’ he said. ‘We’ve had our kin murdered. Whatever doubts and hesitations I’ve had about all this will have to be resolved tonight, along with such questions as you want to ask.’

  Outfaced by this sudden purposefulness, Yakob began to withdraw into his normal cautious dignity. ‘Where are we going now, then?’ he asked.

  ‘To my cottage,’ Gryss replied. ‘Then Marna can fetch her father. And for the rest of this night we talk and we cling to one another and we try to look into the darkness that’s come amongst us.’

  Chapter 31

  Footsteps clattered along the stone corridors of the castle, some running, some walking, some firm and determined, others hesitant and fearful. They beat a random, shifting tattoo which threaded its way through the other sounds that filled the castle that night – the sounds that marked a disorder that was teetering perilously near to outright panic. Orders were shouted and disputed, voices were raised in angry quarrels and, too, in laughter, though it was brittle and hard-edged; voices cried out in pain and distress, some pleading, some agonized. Doors creaked and slammed, furniture was overturned, horses whinnied and screamed and pounded their stable walls with violent hooves.

  Nilsson sat motionless at the heart of this din, hear-ing it all, but scarcely heeding. The task of gathering together and calming the men he had curtly delegated to Saddre and Dessane as he had swept the collapsing Rannick on to his horse and dashed with him at full gallop back to the castle.

  It had been no easy task for his two lieutenants, not least because they themselves had been badly shaken by the events at the Yarrance farm; not the slaying of Garren and Katrin, which meant little to them, but the unnerving and explosive destruction of the house.

  ‘Do it!’ he had thundered at them, bringing to bear the full power of his dark personality in an attempt to replace the terror of the immediate past with terror of the immediate present. ‘Do it. Round them up. Crack whatever heads need cracking, but do it or we lose everything. I’ll tend to the Lord.’

  He had crushed ruthlessly any signs he felt rising to the surface of his own inner quaking at what had happened. He had seen worse, albeit many years ago, and his constant solace when standing near the heart of such events remained with him: it was happening to someone else!

  But now this eerie yokel had spent himself in some way. Nilsson cursed to himself inwardly as he stared fixedly at Rannick, lying silent on the bed. His only consolation lay in the steady up and down movement of Rannick’s chest. Whatever else he had done, he hadn’t killed himself.

  Which was good and bad fortune, he found himself thinking. Still a part of him urged him to take a knife and end this monster now, before his overweening ambition took him too high too fast, and invoked some other mysterious power in opposition that might bring them all down like proud oaks blasted by lightning. One stroke could end him now, and he and his men could flee to the north as had been his original intention.

  But the greater part of him was well fortified against such urgings. What if this ‘illness’ were merely feigned as part of a testing on Rannick’s part? Or if his flesh were in some way protected and would turn the point of any lunging blade? Both such things he had known. And, too, what of the creature that Rannick seemed to control? Would it flee, howling and lost, back to whatever pit it had emerged from at the death of its master, or would it come crashing amongst them lusting for bloody vengeance?

  Nilsson had many and strong defences ever ready to protect him from his wiser self.

  He watched Rannick’s steady breathing and sought other consolations like a nervous parent. Perhaps in fact Rannick was only in a deep sleep. All of them had been tired after the last few days’ activity: the long, hard riding, the rough sleeping, the raid on the village in the adjacent valley, then the business with that oaf of a villager and finally all this.

  His hopes waxed and waned. This was no ordinary sleep. He had shaken him as roughly as he dared, and called his name. But there had been no response. Hesitantly, he had lifted the eyelids, but that had told him nothing. Nothing except that though his body seemed to be asleep, Rannick’s eyes were terrifyingly alert in their fixed gaze.

  Out of habit, Nilsson composed his face into an expression of anxious concern to avoid the possibility of his true feelings being visible.

  Loud voices in the passage outside roused him from his reverie. Angrily he stood up and went to the door. The source of the noise were two men remonstrating with Dessane. One of them was Bryn, the man who had had such a narrow escape from the creature when he had ridden with Haral’s ill-fated group. The other was Avak. That meant trouble.

  ‘We’re off,’ Avak was saying as Nilsson emerged from Rannick’s room. ‘This… Lord’s a lunatic. It’ll go the same way it went before. Next thing you know there’ll be a sodding great army marching along the valley looking for us.’ His manner became contemptu-ous. ‘And our precious Lord, by the way, won’t be able to do anything about them, but he’ll save his own neck. Gallop off somewhere, just like…’

  ‘Enough!’ Nilsson kept his voice low, as if, paradoxi-cally, he wished to avoid disturbing Rannick, but its power stopped Avak in full flow.

  ‘Nobody’s leaving,’ Nilsson went on, still quietly. ‘We stick together. We make our decisions in congress. That’s the way we’ve survived this far, and that’s the way we’re going to continue. If you or anyone else wants to leave, then the congress will decide.’

  His tone was full of a calmness that should have warned the two men, but they were too preoccupied with their own fears to notice.

  ‘To hell with that…’ Avak began, but his protest was cut short as Nilsson’s fist swung up and struck him squarely on the jaw. So swift, direct and unannounced was the blow that Avak had an incongruously surprised expression on his face as he fell to the floor.

  Bryn swore, and moved around the fallen body as if to confront Nilsson.

  This time it was Nilsson who was surprised. Avak he could always expect problems from – he was too clever by half. But not Bryn. And, normally, the administration of a little summary justice on the leader of any distur-bance had a salutary effect on his followers. That this did not appear to be the case here he noted as being potentially very serious.

  This consideration, however, did not hinder him as he moved to deal with the continuing opposition. He raised his clenched fist as if to strike Bryn in the face. Automatically, Bryn raised his hands to protect himself, at which point Nilsson’s foot shot out and delivered a jarring kick to his shin. Bryn doubled up immediately with a loud cry of pain. As he did so, Nilsson’s raised hand came down and seized him by the scruff of the neck. Then, twisting to one side, Nilsson drove Bryn’s head into the wall.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nils,’ Dessane said, hastily, as Bryn slith-ered to join Avak on the floor. ‘I tried to stop them coming here, but you know Avak. I don’t know what…’

  Nilsson ignored his excuses. ‘How many more?’ he demanded.

  ‘Not many,’ Dessane managed, after a little hesita-tion. ‘And most of them will listen to reason.’

  Nilsson held up his hand for silence and inclined his head to catch the sounds drifting along the passage. He frowned, then cast an anxious glance at the door of Rannick’s room.

  ‘They’re just shouting the odds, Nils, that’s all. Get-ting it out of their systems,’ Dessane said. His voice fell. ‘That panic in the yard frightened the hell out of me, I’ll admit.’

  Torn between his vigil by his stricken Lord and the need to be amongst his men, keeping this incipient rebellion under control, Nilsson bared his teeth like a trapped animal preparing for a final charge. Dessane discreetly took a short pace backwards ready to flee.

  ‘Frightened,’ Nilsson muttered with a snarl. ‘I’ll frighten them. Too long without proper action, that’s the trouble. They’ve all ridden in battle
and most of them have seen the power used worse than that, haven’t they?’ He kicked the fallen Avak. It eased his mood. ‘Get these two old women out of here, Arven. And remind the rest of them who the Lord’s anger was directed at. The time to be frightened is when it’s directed at them. And if any more of them are thinking about leaving, remind them of our rules and the punishment for disobeying them. We stay together until we have a congress that says otherwise.’

  Before Dessane could reply, a figure came running along the passage. Nilsson turned, ready for further confrontation. It was Haral and, uncharacteristically, he seemed worried and uncertain.

  ‘Captain,’ he said urgently. ‘Come quickly. There’s something you need to see.’

  Nilsson looked at him narrowly, mindful of the two men lying at his feet and half concerned that this appeal might be to lead him into a trap. Then he dismissed the idea. Whatever else he was, Haral was no conspirator. Indeed, he was direct to the point of folly.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  ‘I think you’d better come and see for yourself, Cap-tain,’ Haral said. ‘It’s…’ His voice faded away and he gave an awkward shrug.

  Nilsson frowned irritably. ‘Stay here and guard the Lord’s door,’ he said to Dessane. ‘No one is allowed inside, and if the Lord wants me, I’ll be…’ He looked at Haral inquiringly.

  ‘On the wall by the main gate, Captain,’ Haral said. Despite his basic trust in Haral, Nilsson kept his hands loose and near to his knives as he followed him through the castle. In fact the brief walk reassured him. Such of the men as they passed acknowledged him openly enough, and while he could feel the tension in the air he inclined to Dessane’s judgement that it was mainly due to the men shaking off the fear they had experienced at Garren’s farm.

  Even so, it had been a long time since he had felt anything quite so disturbing and he knew that, inde-pendent of Rannick’s condition, all under his command was not yet as it should be and he must watch his back more than usual. It came to him as he walked along beside Haral that Rannick’s conspicuous use of the power had sent a profound shock deep into the souls of all who had been there, and that many strange impulses could be expected from the resultant resonances. Mud had been stirred that had perhaps been better left undisturbed. He resolved to watch for these conse-quences, not least perhaps within himself, and to harness them to his own ends where appropriate.

  Haral led him across the courtyard. Here it was the sound of the stabled horses that predominated, still badly unsettled by the day’s events, though there were small groups of men standing around here and there talking agitatedly in the flickering torchlight.

  As they ran up the steps to the top of the wall by the main gate, an anxious looking sentry came down to meet them.

  ‘Is it…?’ Haral asked softly.

  The sentry nodded, his eyes wide.

  ‘What the…?’ Nilsson began, but Haral raised a finger to his lips for silence and motioned him to the parapet. Nilsson moved forward and rested a hand on the wall. Carefully, Haral leaned over and peered into the darkness.

  ‘What is it?’

  Nilsson found that he was whispering, still affected by Haral’s command to silence.

  He was about to repeat the question more loudly when the presence struck him. Instinctively he stepped away from the parapet.

  It was the creature. There was no mistaking it. He had not realized how deep and awful an impression it had made on him when he had sensed it at his first meeting with Rannick, but it was quite unmistakable.

  ‘There!’ Though Haral’s voice hissed quietly through the darkness, it raked jaggedly across Nilsson’s suddenly heightened sensibilities. With an effort he forced himself to the parapet again and leaned over, following the direction of Haral’s pointing hand.

  The rain had stopped and the sky was clearing, but clouds still hid the moon and little could be seen of the ground below. Nevertheless, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Nilsson caught the vague impression of a movement.

  ‘I’ve no idea how long it’s been there,’ the sentry volunteered. ‘I felt something… queer… then I thought I heard something… sniffing, like… then I saw it. Pacing up and down, up and down.’ He shivered.

  Nilsson raised his hand for silence. Slowly he breathed in deeply in an attempt to stay calm. Fear was the last thing he needed to be showing with his men in the state they were, but this damned thing seemed to be reaching inside him. He felt the knowledge that prey knows when a predator has its scent and when the only escape lies in heart-stopping flight.

  He forced his mind to give him reassurance. He was safe where he was, high on the battlements. It was only an animal, after all. Murral alone knew what kind of an animal, but an animal nonetheless.

  ‘It’s that thing out of the forest, isn’t it, Captain?’ the sentry said, his voice trembling. Nilsson looked at him sharply. He was one of the survivors of Yeorson and Storran’s patrol. ‘I can feel it,’ he went on, his fear mounting. ‘Like it’s come after me.’

  The man’s fear dispelled some of Nilsson’s. He took the man’s arm. ‘It’s just an animal,’ he said, forcing his own reassurances into his words. ‘It can’t get in, can it? And if it did, it’s not on its hunting ground here. There’s spears and arrows enough to kill a score such creatures, and open space in which to use them.’

  The sentry fingered his bow nervously. ‘Should I take a shot at it, Captain?’ he said.

  Nilsson leaned over the wall again and searched for the dim, pacing shadow.

  It had gone.

  Then he was aware of it streaking towards the wall. He tried to jerk away, but some force held him mo-tionless. The shadow leapt and Nilsson felt a scream forming inside him, but still he could not move. Only when he heard the scrabbling of claws against the stone wall and the heavy thud of the creature landing was he able to step back from the edge. His legs were shaking almost uncontrollably, and he was grateful for the darkness which he knew was hiding a face that was white with terror.

  He was safe on top of this high battlement, he told himself again. The creature’s leap had been prodigious but it had fallen well short of the top of the wall. Even so, he found little comfort in the knowledge. It seemed that nothing could truly protect him from the malevo-lent intent and the demented, frustrated rage that had washed over him as the creature had reached the peak of its leap. And the paralysis that had seized him as it had tried to close with him chilled him utterly.

  Yes, yes, kill the damn thing, his mind screamed. Get the men up here, shoot every arrow we have into it. But no such order reached his mouth. Instead he merely shook his head. ‘No,’ he said to the sentry. ‘Leave it alone. Dealing with the likes of that is the Lord’s province, not ours.’

  The sentry stopped fidgeting with his bow with undisguised relief.

  Abandoning the battlements, Nilsson made his way back to Rannick’s room. He arrived as Dessane was helping Avak and Bryn to their feet. Neither seemed disposed to continue his earlier complaints, but Nilsson still sensed some defiance in their manner. With the creature’s blood-lusting intention reverberating through him, he had to fight down an almost overwhelming urge to draw his knife and slay these two where they stood.

  In the wake of this urge, however, a subtler device came to mind.

  ‘If you want to leave, leave,’ he said, his tone unex-pectedly bland and expressionless. ‘But you go now, this minute, or you stay and reaffirm your allegiance to our new Lord and never seek to leave again except at his express wish. Is that understood?’

  The two men looked at one another and then at him, searching for the treachery that they knew must surely lie in his words.

  ‘Now or never,’ Nilsson repeated, flatly.

  Bryn reached his decision. ‘I’ll stay, Captain,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight before. It was just the heat of the moment. I’ve always been with you and I’m with you now. And if you follow the Lord Rannick, then I do too.’

  Avak gl
owered at him. ‘You’re a fool, Bryn,’ he said, wincing and rubbing his jaw where Nilsson had struck him. ‘Take this chance while you’ve got it. That Rannick’s not the man the Lord was by any measure. There’s nothing but death here for anyone who follows him.’

  ‘There’s nothing but death waiting for us anyway,’ Bryn replied. ‘At least with Lord Rannick we’ll maybe get a chance to die in comfort. I shouldn’t have listened to you.’

  Nilsson ended any further debate. ‘Dessane, take this man to the gate and throw him out,’ he said curtly.

  Dessane gave him a brief puzzled look. Such a thing had never happened before. Men left the group only one way: dead. He did not linger, however, but motioned Avak forward.

  ‘No supplies, Captain? No chance to talk to my mates?’ Avak sneered.

  ‘You’ve got no mates here now, Avak, and you’ll find everything you need outside,’ Nilsson said. ‘Get out of my sight before I change my mind.’

  Avak sneered again and then strode off. Dessane made to follow him, but Nilsson caught his arm and whispered very softly to him. ‘Don’t linger at the gate. Close it immediately. Immediately!’

  As the two men left, Bryn remained where he was, his posture unsteady and his hand moving to his head from time to time.

  ‘Not changing your mind again, are you, Bryn?’ Nilsson said, grimly. ‘Go now, if you are.’

  Bryn shook his head carefully. ‘No, Captain,’ he replied. ‘I’m just a little dizzy. I…’

  He fell silent.

  ‘You what?’ Nilsson pressed.

  Bryn’s face wrinkled. ‘It’s odd. I feel as if that crea-ture were around somewhere,’ he said. ‘It’s almost as if it were inside me.’

  Nilsson waited.

  ‘Funny thing is,’ Bryn continued, with an awkward, nervous laugh, ‘while I want to run like I ran in that forest, something makes me want to stand still. It’s…’

  He shrugged, and fell silent again.

  ‘Go to your quarters and rest,’ Nilsson said. ‘You’re too addled to think straight.’