Farnor ft-1

by Roger Taylor

  But above his words and above the noise of the flames a faint, distant sound drifted into the courtyard. It was a terrible, nerve-shredding sound; a howling. It might have been a wolf or some wild feline, but it was both and neither. It was agonized and unnatural; an animal noise, but full of all-too-human malevolence.

  It was the creature, Gryss’s reason told him; no animal he had ever known would have made such a sound. But he needed no logic; the ancient knowledge in every fibre of his body cried out in response to the sound.

  He found his gaze turning back to the flames. They burned less powerfully than before, and a bloody tinge tainted them. Further, there was an aura of struggling effort about them. He was aware of Rannick at the edge of his vision. His face reflected the struggle, grim-shadowed in the light of the flames and glistening with sweat.

  It gave Gryss no reassurance to realize that Rannick was not simply struggling to maintain an impressive illusion, but that he was locked in combat with some other power.

  Some other will…

  * * * *

  Rescued by Gryss’s intervention, Farnor leaned heavily on Harlen’s shoulder. Some remnant of childish pride suppressed any outward expression of the inner turmoil that was racking him except for his arm clutched about his stomach and his mouth held tightly shut. Somehow it was enough to keep him from sinking to his knees and crying out at the pain and the fear; crying out for his father to come and take him away from this awful place, and the determined cruelty that had been let loose upon him; crying out for his father to make all well with the looming figure of Captain Nilsson… He was sure that he and the big man could become friends and end this misunderstanding. Reproachful inner voices reminding him that it was Nilsson who had killed his parents were, for the nonce, lost beneath the pain.

  Indeed, the pain and the effort that he was making to restrain this howling inner plea rendered him almost oblivious to everything that was happening around him.

  He could hear familiar voices; disputing, perhaps? But they were distant and unclear and there was nothing in them to draw him from his cocoon of pain.

  Until a peculiar unease disturbed him. An unease that was beyond himself. And, like the voices, it was familiar. How long had it been there?

  Then it was all about him.

  Now here, now gone; elusive. Flickering and intan-gible, it seemed to dance through and about him. Its touch was foul. A faint memory returned to him.

  A memory of the creature, ferocious and cruel. A memory of Rannick. A memory of the torrent of unrestrained emotion that had rolled over him as he had fled across the fields to find his parents slain and his home destroyed.

  And they were all one. Brought together in a loath-some totality that had somehow ripped its way into this place where it did not belong.

  And then the memories were gone. Swept aside by something stirring deep within him, as if from a long sleep; something like a faint, distant light. And then it was reaching out and forbidding this intrusion.

  The unease faltered and shifted, and then trembled.

  Then a will emerged to sustain it.

  Rannick’s will! Farnor’s mind thought faintly.

  Or the creature’s!

  It did not matter.

  The light that had come from within him flared and, like a predator finding its prey, it assailed this opposi-tion.

  Somewhere, the merest mote, Farnor watched, help-less, floating in a place that was both here and not here; aware of his beaten body, full of pain and fear and leaning still on Harlen, but unburdened by it; aware that the battle that had just been engaged had been at his will, though it was quite beyond his control.

  He was…

  What…?

  That, too, did not matter. He knew only that resolu-tion was needed of him. Implacable determination. What had come here did not belong. In this alien clime, its ability to do harm was beyond measure. The terrible rent through which it had been drawn must be sealed.

  And the gift of this sealing lay with him.

  But the knowledge meant nothing to him.

  Yet he would not be defeated.

  He would not be defeated.

  He would hold.

  There was a timeless interval when all was balanced and still. Somewhere, Farnor knew, the battle was being fought, but he could do nothing other than wait and commit his will to denying this intrusion further entrance.

  Then the foulness faltered once again. At first slightly, then with increasing desperation like the scrabbling fingers of a climber at the edge of a rounded ledge.

  Was it dying? came the question.

  No. That could not be. But it was failing. It was be-ing driven back.

  And now it was screaming. But to no avail. It must be returned from whence it came, and everything made well here.

  And, with a dwindling, spiralling spasm, it was gone. And there was stillness.

  Farnor felt the light, released now, washing back over him, returning him to himself. He felt a myriad sensations as his body closed about him again.

  Painful sensations!

  Like a dream, both the intrusion and the mysterious opposition to it had passed away. The light had become now the bright sunlight that was filling the courtyard and forcing its way through his partly closed eyes. And the painful sensations focused themselves in his ribs, and his back and his face and… everywhere else that Nilsson had struck.

  He heard himself gasp with pain.

  The sound seemed to be abnormally loud. He be-came aware of the silence around him, a silence that rang with tension. He forced his eyes to open further.

  Everyone in the courtyard was staring at something, though there was nothing there that he could see.

  ‘What happened?’ he heard Harlen say, his voice soft and full of awe.

  ‘It vanished.’ It was Gryss replying, in an equally awe-stricken whisper. His hands were by his ears as if he had been covering them. ‘That terrible noise,’ he said in distress.

  ‘That colour,’ Harlen said. ‘Like blood. I’ve never seen flames like that before. Let’s get away, Gryss, while we can. Something’s gone wrong. Look at Rannick’s face.’

  At the mention of Rannick, the eerie interlude that had possessed Farnor vanished from his mind utterly, to be replaced by the savage anger that had brought him to the castle in the first place.

  It returned to urge him forward to destroy this abomination, as if it had never been halted. Harlen seized him as soon as he started to move, however.

  ‘For pity’s sake, Farnor,’ he hissed. ‘What are you doing? Look at him. We’re dead men.’

  Chapter 35

  ‘We’re dead men.

  The terrible, shaking fear in Harlen’s words brought a final awakening to Farnor, heightening the racking pains of the beating that Nilsson had given him. He must have fainted, he decided hazily, and something bad had happened while he had been unconscious.

  But what?

  He looked at Gryss, who in his turn was staring fixedly at something. Following the old man’s gaze Farnor turned to see Rannick. His face was a mask of bewildered fury.

  ‘Down,’ Gryss muttered frantically, dropping on to his knees and bowing his head. ‘Get down!’

  Compelled by the urgency in his voice, Harlen and Yakob also fell to their knees. Farnor had little choice: he staggered as the support he had been receiving disappeared, then Harlen’s hand seized his arm and dragged him down. He managed not to cry out as the pain of his knees striking the hard paving added itself to the others that were vying for attention. He leaned forward to take some of his weight on his arms.

  ‘Lord Rannick, forgive us.’

  Despite his preoccupation with his pain, Farnor became aware of Gryss speaking. Cautiously he looked at the old man. Gryss’s head was still bowed and, reminding Farnor of a beaten dog, he was conspicuously avoiding looking directly at Rannick.

  ‘We did not understand how great your power had become…’ Gryss faltered momentarily then hastened on. ‘Ho
w great a power you had achieved, Lord. How could we have known of such a wonder as you’ve just deigned to show us?’

  Horror and shame filled Farnor. What was happen-ing? He would not bow to this savage. This was Rannick, the murderer of his parents, the master of that creature…

  But Harlen’s hand held him fast and tightened as he tried to move.

  Gryss was continuing. ‘We have seen the measure of your great power. Forgive us, Lord, we beg of you. Let us go now so that we may spread the news of your greatness through the valley that all may know what we now know.’

  There was a long silence. Farnor made another at-tempt to protest, but Harlen’s grip became almost vicious and he could feel the man trembling.

  ‘Go, then. Get out! And see that I am not troubled further with your foolishness.’ Rannick’s voice was strained and angry.

  ‘Lord,’ Gryss acknowledged, bowing lower.

  Still avoiding Rannick’s gaze, he clambered awk-wardly to his feet and motioned the others to follow him. Harlen and Yakob exchanged a quick glance then they stood up quickly, yanked Farnor unceremoniously upright and, eyes lowered, dragged him towards the gate.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Farnor said, furiously strug-gling to keep his balance.

  ‘Shut up,’ Harlen and Yakob hissed simultaneously, hustling him on. Harlen’s voice was shaking. ‘Let’s get out of here before he changes his mind.’

  Before he fully realized what was happening, Farnor had been dragged through the shade of the gate arch and out into the sunlight again.

  He clutched at normality in an attempt to reach through to his two relentless guides. ‘Where are the horses?’ he asked.

  They did not relax their pace. ‘Over the hill and half way to the capital by now, I expect,’ Yakob replied acidly. ‘Judging by the speed they left the castle.’

  More gently, Harlen sought to reassure. ‘No, they’ll be grazing their way back to the inn.’ Farnor, however, was indifferent to the fate of the horses. He finally gathered enough wit and strength to shake himself free. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.

  A powerful push in the back sent him lurching for-ward. He cried out as the impact jarred every pain in his body.

  ‘Just keep moving,’ came Gryss’s grim voice from behind. ‘We can slow down when we’re out of sight of the castle.’

  Farnor turned on him angrily, but there was a look on Gryss’s face that he had never seen before: a profound fear coupled with an equally profound determination. He held the old man’s gaze for a moment, then faltered before it. Without speaking he turned away from him and began limping along the road. Harlen and Yakob came either side of him but he rejected their support.

  Nothing more was said for some time until, well away from the castle, they moved into the shade of some trees. ‘Let’s get off the road,’ Gryss said. ‘I want to have a look at Farnor.’

  As they entered the trees the pace eased, as did also the discipline that had kept them stone-faced and silent.

  ‘What happened? What was all that?’ Yakob asked nobody in particular, a note near to hysteria in his voice. ‘Where did those… flames… come from… or whatever they were?’

  Gryss had taken Farnor’s arm and was directing him to a grassy embankment. ‘That was Rannick,’ he replied savagely, sitting Farnor down and crouching to examine him. ‘That was our sour faced village lout coming to full flower. His family taint breaking out in him like a great boil.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘But nothing. You saw him. Somehow, he’s in charge there now,’ Gryss said, without turning from his examination of Farnor. ‘And don’t ask me how any of it’s come about, or how he made those flames. It was no conjurer’s trickery for sure. I can feel the heat of them still.’ He shuddered. ‘And that terrible colour as they faded…’

  ‘And the noise,’ Harlen added.

  Gryss nodded. ‘From what he said, I suspect he only learned to make those flames yesterday at…’ He hesitated and looked at Farnor unhappily. ‘At Farnor’s farm.’

  Yakob had been pacing up and down, his face dark and frowning, but the reference to Farnor’s personal tragedy made him stop and grimace in self-reproach. ‘I‘m sorry, Farnor,’ he said. ‘It’s just that… what happened up there frightened me so much it made me forget you’re the only one who’s really been hurt.’

  Farnor was in no mood for such solicitude however. ‘What did happen?’ he demanded. ‘And why are we running away from that murderous dog? I want him…’ He cried out and pushed Gryss away roughly. ‘Watch what you’re doing, you idiot. That hurt.’

  Gryss regained his balance, then his hand shot out and slapped Farnor across his already bruised face. ‘And you watch your lip, young Farnor. You nearly got yourself killed, barging in there like that. Not to mention the rest of us for following you.’

  ‘I never asked you…’ Farnor began.

  ‘Enough!’ Gryss thundered.

  Then he abandoned his examination and sat down by his patient, his head in his hands.

  No one spoke.

  A small bird fluttered to the ground nearby, studied the motionless quartet with a cold yellow eye for a moment and then flew off again.

  The rapid pulse of its beating wings made Gryss look up.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, turning back to Farnor and put-ting a hesitant hand on his shoulder. ‘You’ve been badly knocked about, and we’ve all been badly frightened. Let me see if there’s anything that needs immediate attention and then we’ll go back to my cottage.’ He looked round at Harlen and Yakob. ‘Perhaps before we get there one of us can think of how we’re going to break the news to the rest of the village.’

  * * * *

  Rannick rode slowly through the woods. Outwardly he was icily calm, but inwardly his mood oscillated between craven fear and blinding fury; fear that forces were arising that could oppose him in the fulfilment of his destiny, and fury that he could not identify the source of this opposition.

  The demonstration of his new-found powers had seemingly been successful. Certainly it had impressed the men, and it had brought that old fool Gryss and the others literally to their knees. That at least was some consolation. He had been right, and Nilsson wrong. All the villagers needed was a display of power and they would present no future problems. Diplomacy and goodwill were items he might choose to use later as his domain spread, but for now why squander them?

  But this was trivial. He snatched his mind back to his main concern. His demonstration had been, in reality, a disaster. He rubbed his arm where Katrin had stabbed him. It had been a savage gash, long and deep, but if he rolled up his sleeve he would see now only a thin, well-healed scar. Since his contact with the creature and the knowledge he had gained thereby, his healing skills had developed incredibly. But he would willingly have given his entire arm for the truth that had been revealed to him as a result of Katrin’s fearsome attack.

  Revealed then, and made manifest by the destruc-tion of the Yarrance farmhouse and revealed further in the darkness into which he had entered afterwards. The darkness of the strange and secret journey that the spirit of the creature had carried him on, taking him to the places between and beyond the worlds where the power was to be found.

  Such knowledge!

  His hands tightened about the reins of his horse as he recaptured the ecstasy of his discovery; of the vistas opening before him.

  And now…

  His rapture became a hollow, ringing mockery.

  Now, when the golden road of his destiny was grow-ing ever wider and easier he was opposed.

  He opened his mouth and shouted a cry of fury and hatred at the silent will that had come from nowhere and laid its dead hand across the way through which the power came; had unmade that which he had made and taken the great power from him, leaving him only the power of this world.

  Birds rose noisily into the air and his horse pranced its forelegs. Rannick reached out and silenced it. The power of this world was sufficient for most things. But…<
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  He reined the horse to a halt. The memory of that other presence loomed dark and ominous in his mind, dominating his every thought, an unexpected shadow across his future. And yet, for all its effectiveness in denying him the power, it had been hesitant, unsure; fearful, almost.

  In fact fearful, definitely, he decided.

  He clenched his fists. He would not be defied thus! Least of all by some craven interferer. Excuses began to pour into his thoughts. The opposition had taken him unawares, he had been unprepared. It would not happen again, he would be ready for it; he would destroy it if it came again.

  But the doubt that permeated his inner ranting enraged him further. Could he risk such another confrontation? Who could say what this other power could do, or from whence it came? He needed to know much more about it.

  He knew that the creature, too, had felt it, and felt it powerfully. Yet the very howling of its anger and defiance across the valley heightened the wavering uncertainty that, for the first time, he had sensed in his savage companion.

  And it had recognized that which had opposed them! It had known such a power before and feared it. The memory of the creature’s doubt mingled with his own to bring his thoughts to their inexorable conclu-sion; the source of this opposition must be found and destroyed.

  He slipped down from his horse and released it. It moved away from him, but it needed no tether to prevent it from wandering for it had been schooled in the consequences of any form of disobedience to its new master. Rannick nodded to himself. He knew now why he had ridden out from the castle after Gryss and the others had left. He had to commune with his dark ally. Had to be close to it. Somewhere silent and away from the oppressive presence of Nilsson and his wretched band.

  Together he and the creature must travel the ways between the worlds until the creature scented the source of the power and he, Rannick, identified the will behind it. For it was someone he knew, he was sure. There had been a familiarity about it that kept returning to him, dancing tantalizingly in and out of his awareness.