Farnor ft-1

by Roger Taylor

  But who?

  He motioned the horse further away. He needed to be free from its swamping animal fears, needed to touch the ground, to be aware of everything about him so that he could be aware of himself and bring a quietness to his thinking.

  He began to walk through the trees. His horse fol-lowed him reluctantly, keeping a considerable distance behind him.

  Was it one of Nilsson’s men? It could have been, Rannick supposed. His acceptance by them was not as complete as they pretended. Some were wholeheartedly his, their lustful greed leaking from them like a rich incense. But others paid only a dutiful obeisance, shot through with fear and doubt.

  But these were of no import; lesser spirits, dispen-sable should need arise.

  The familiarity that he had sensed in the power that had thwarted him returned briefly, flitting nervously at the edge of his consciousness. But it defied examination, vanishing when he turned to confront it.

  Frustration and anger rose to cloud his mind for some time. As it gradually waned, he dismissed Nilsson’s men. The familiarity had stirred vague images of times long before the arrival of the troop, and, apart from that, any difficulties with Nilsson’s men would have shown themselves by now.

  No, it was someone in the village.

  But who?

  The anger bubbled up again, but he forced it down ruthlessly, forging it into an icy hatred.

  Gryss? Yakob? Harlen? Farnor? Surely not. Three old men and a battered, broken youth who could scarcely stand. There could be no opposition there. The merest touch would scatter their pathetic spirits like dried leaves in autumn.

  But who?

  He snarled as the question pressed in on him. It did not matter who. He could not answer the question here and now, so he would not allow it to be asked again.

  He walked on steadily, following the warm lure of the creature’s will. As he passed through a small clearing he found himself moving to its shaded edge, instinctively avoiding the sunshine. He permitted himself a bitter smile at this response to the creature’s dark nature, which increasingly mingled with his own; it had little love for the daylight, and none at all for such brightness.

  Soon, my pet, he thought. Soon I’ll be with you. We can rest together in the darkness of your lair and ready ourselves for the hunt tonight.

  A lustful anticipation flooded through him.

  * * * *

  In the absence of any inspiration on the weary journey back from the castle, Gryss broke the news of the murder of Garren and Katrin and the seizure of the valley simply and bluntly to a hastily gathered meeting of the Council.

  There were as many reactions as there were Council-lors present, ranging from the fatalistic to the massively belligerent. Unlike the last meeting, Gryss did not let the uproar continue too long. Then it had seemed that time was ahead of them and that they could patiently await events. Now those events had happened and, they being more desperate in character than anything he could have possibly imagined, Gryss saw no benefit to be gained by allowing a gentle proceeding.

  ‘We have no choice but to accept the reality of this,’ he shouted above the din, going straight to the conclu-sion that the previous meeting had reached. He repeated it as the noise fell. ‘We have no choice, my friends. We’re trapped in our own valley. Trapped by armed and ruthless men who themselves have been subdued by one of our own.’

  The mood of the meeting tumbled between stunned shock at the untimely and brutal deaths of Garren and Katrin – some wept openly – and, initially, open disbelief of the news of Rannick’s transformation. However, being valley dwellers, the Councillors had that profound pragmatism that comes as a consequence of living close to the mysteries of the land, and none would fly in the face of the combined testimony of Gryss, Harlen and Yakob, however much they would have wished to. Further, Rannick was known by all and, eventually, both shock and disbelief turned into anger. Gryss allowed some time to be spent in the general telling and retelling of old tales about the ill-natured labourer and his forebears, and in declamations of how none of this would have happened if he had been treated this way, or that way, or forbidden to do this, or allowed to do that, and so on.

  But he was stark in his description of the probable fate of anyone who chose to consider Rannick as the man they all imagined they knew.

  ‘You’ll die for your pains, and none too pleasantly either. He regarded it as an honour for Garren and Katrin that they died by his hand.’

  The very quietness of the utterance of this revelation brought a fearful silence to the meeting.

  ‘Murder’s murder,’ someone ventured after a while. ‘It’s the King’s business, I suppose. As is the seizing of his castle. We should get word to the capital.’

  ‘I know,’ Gryss said. ‘But Jeorg was caught trying to do just that and he only escaped with his life because of some whim on Rannick’s part. Now he’s said categori-cally that anyone who tries to leave will be killed.’ He shrugged his shoulders unhappily. ‘I don’t know what to say, let alone what to do.’ He looked at the waiting faces of his friends sitting around the Council table. Their fear and anger were almost palpable. It came over him that all he wanted to do was run away, go back to his cottage, close the door behind him and just… sit; leave the problem to someone else. For a moment he found himself wishing fervently that this was all some awful dream and that he would wake up to the sun streaming through his window and to the everyday problems of life that had seemed to be such a penance but a few weeks ago.

  But none of his inner turmoil reached either his face or his voice. Instead he said, calmly and authoritatively, ‘I think what we have to do is to make sure that everyone understands what has happened and to ensure that no one does anything foolish. In my estimation, crossing Rannick would bring dire consequences not only on the person who did it but on anyone else nearby. You all know what a spiteful swine he was.’ He closed his eyes for a moment in self-reproach. ‘And no language like that, even in private.’ There was a stir amongst his listeners. ‘I mean it,’ he said sharply. ‘Those… bandits… call him Lord Rannick, presumably for a damn good reason. You’ll do the same if you…’

  Several disparaging voices interrupted him.

  ‘Lord Rannick, indeed! I’ll lord him, the…’

  ‘Yes you will,’ Gryss said, before any of the protests could gather momentum. He pointed to Harlen and Yakob. ‘You’ll do what we did. You’ll lord him, and you’ll go down on your bended knees and call him wonderful or whatever else he wants, if you’ve got two grains of sense in your head. Trust me. You want no demonstration of what he can do.’

  His anger subdued the outburst, but other voices had been released by it.

  ‘We can’t sit around and do nothing,’ they said, quietly and reasonably, echoing Marna’s plaint.

  ‘I know,’ Gryss said, wearily. He stared down at the table helplessly for some time. ‘But all I can think of is watch and wait. Whatever dreadful game’s being played here, we’re small pieces and easily removed from the board. If we avoid trouble, appease them a little, we’ll probably be able to find out more about them. Get to know how they think…’ He managed a rueful smile. ‘Perhaps in a week or so, we might be a great deal wiser than we are now, and far better placed to decide what to do.’

  It was an unsatisfactory answer, he knew, but he had no other.

  ‘You don’t appease a mad dog,’ someone muttered.

  ‘And you don’t pull its tail either, unless you’ve got a stick big enough to deal with it,’ Gryss retorted, impatiently.

  It was virtually the end of the meeting.

  Later a large crowd gathered on the village green to hear the same news. The light was fading when Gryss arrived and, as he climbed on to a table that someone had taken from the inn, a few stars were beginning to appear in the purpling eastern sky. They were mirrored by a sprinkling of lanterns and small sunstones amongst his audience.

  He told them what had happened as he had told the Council, and their respons
e was the same, though it was louder and wilder and the clamour lasted a great deal longer. More than once some of the younger men had to be restrained from dashing off immediately to storm the castle and drag Rannick to justice. Gryss found the experience of his many years as a negotiator of disputes, as a calmer of quarrels and a soother of hurts sorely stretched. He prevailed, however: here a sharp com-mand, a caustic rebuttal; there a friendly word, a laughing dismissal. Words, gestures, expressions all played their part in swaying the crowd away from hasty action and towards quieter, more serious considera-tions.

  He ended, ‘I’ll run second to no one in my love for Garren and Katrin Yarrance, or in my desire to see justice done. But Katrin herself saw the truth clearly enough. “They’re all fighting men. Used to brutality and stabbing and killing. There’s none in the whole valley could stand against any of them and hope to live should need arise.”’ He paused. ‘Her words, my friends. Tragically accurate. And now these men are obeying the orders of Rannick.’ He paused again to allow the words to sink in. ‘To move against them will gain us only the same fate as she suffered. Living is the way to honour the dead, not dying. Her own son was almost killed when he sought in his grief to confront Rannick. We must be circumspect in all things, no matter what our inner feelings. We find ourselves locked in the pen with a wild bull. Watchfulness, silence and stillness will be our best allies.’

  His endeavours, though, left him ill at ease as he watched the crowd disperse into the night, pale faces fading into the gloom to become shadows through which flickered the lights of the lanterns and sunstones.

  ‘I feel as much a murderer as Rannick,’ he said softly to Harlen as he took his supporting hand and clambered off the table.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Harlen asked.

  Gryss shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said sadly. ‘I just feel…’ He brought his two fists down on the table. ‘I feel like getting my old axe out, marching up to the castle and hacking my way through everything until I get to Rannick, regardless of what happens. And yet I tell them to be calm, to be thoughtful, to do nothing rash. I can’t help feeling that I’m betraying them. Continuing to betray them, in fact. Perhaps that’s what we should do. Trust the judgement of the youngsters. March up there and fight them.’

  Harlen laid a hand on his shoulder, but made no comment.

  Chapter 36

  Gryss had returned to his cottage with Yakob and Harlen and the battered and silent Farnor.

  ‘We’re all right,’ Gryss had said, by way of hasty reassurance to an alarmed Marna. ‘I’ll tell you every-thing in a moment.’

  Then he had given Farnor a more thorough exami-nation than he had been able to do on the road and, finding he was only bruised, ordered him to stay at the cottage and rest.

  ‘I’ve got to arrange a Council meeting, then a village meeting,’ Gryss said to him, finally. ‘While you’re here, help Marna with Jeorg if you can.’ He put his hand to his brow as he spoke. ‘I’ll have to see Jeorg’s wife, too.’ He closed his eyes and blew out an unhappy breath at this remembrance, but no one volunteered to ease his burden.

  Farnor ignored him except for a slight nod that some residual courtesy made him make, and Gryss’s face was taut with controlled impatience when he turned to Marna and gestured towards Jeorg’s room. ‘How’s he been?’ he asked.

  ‘He keeps waking up,’ Marna said. ‘I’ve been telling him what happened, but I don’t know how much he’s taken in.’

  ‘Was he distressed, agitated?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ Marna replied. ‘Not after I told him you’d heard what he said about Rannick.’ She smiled weakly. ‘He thought he might have been dreaming.’ Then she glanced at the room they had just left. ‘What’s the matter with Farnor?’ she asked, softly.

  She clasped her hands tightly in front of her to pre-vent their trembling as Gryss told of Farnor’s beating at the hands of Nilsson, but she went pale as she heard about Rannick and his strange powers. Her only question, however, was about Farnor’s dark mood.

  ‘The beating he received was no light matter, Marna,’ Gryss replied. ‘He’ll be hurting badly, and feeling humiliated, degraded. But I think he’s the way he is because of his grief.’

  Marna did not understand. ‘Why doesn’t he shout and scream, or cry or something?’ she said.

  ‘Grief takes everyone differently.’ Gryss grimaced anxiously. ‘To be honest, he’d be better if he did shout and scream. He’s penning too many things up inside himself.’ He shook his head. ‘It’ll do him no good. These things have to come out sooner or later, one way or another.’

  He made a hasty gesture to forestall any further questions. ‘I haven’t much time, Marna. I’ll have to get this meeting arranged. Just talk to Farnor if he wants to talk. Failing that, leave him alone. Just be here.’

  Thus, while Gryss was contending with the Council-lors and the villagers, Marna found herself sitting opposite Farnor by Jeorg’s bedside. Uncertain about the gloomy figure alone in the back room making no effort to light a lantern as darkness came on, she had asked him to help her lift Jeorg into a sitting position. Then to detain him she had forced herself to say, ‘Please stay with me, Farnor.’ She had not quite managed the plaintive tone she had intended, but Farnor was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to be sensitive to such subtleties. Indeed, despite her concern for him, the look on his face as he sat down in response to this request brought an acid comment to her mouth which took her some effort to bite back.

  The effects of Gryss’s sleeping draught having gradually worn off, Jeorg, though weak and in some pain, was sufficiently awake to note the tension in the room.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, looking first at Farnor and then Marna. ‘What’s happened?’

  Farnor did not reply. Marna hesitated, uncertain what to say; she could not lie and she did not want to tell him the truth.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Jeorg asked again, his manner both insistent and anxious.

  Finally, Marna took his bandaged hand and said, very softly, ‘Rannick and Nilsson have killed Garren and Katrin, and burned down the farm.’

  Jeorg’s eyes widened in horror, then his face con-torted and his free hand came up to cover it. It was some time before he lowered it, and when he did his eyes were shining with tears. He reached out and laid his hand on Farnor’s shoulder, but Farnor brushed it aside. Marna squeezed Jeorg’s hand and shook her head, mouthing the words, ‘Leave him.’

  Jeorg nodded. ‘This is awful,’ he said, quietly. ‘Gar-ren and Katrin. Murdered. I can’t believe it.’ He shook his head. ‘And yet I can, after what happened to me. If only I’d been more careful. I’d have been well on my way to the capital by now. Perhaps…’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘I don’t think it would have made any difference,’ Marna said. ‘We don’t even know why it happened. Farnor came back from the fields, and…’ Her voice fell. ‘Just found them. He went to find Rannick, but Nilsson did that to him.’ She nodded towards her silent companion.

  Jeorg turned carefully to him. ‘You’re probably lucky to be alive,’ he said, simply. ‘As am I. I don’t know what’s happened to Rannick, but he’s a mad dog.’

  ‘He’ll be a dead one if I catch him alone,’ Farnor said, viciously, still staring fixedly ahead.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Farnor,’ Marna hissed. ‘Jeorg’s right. You’re lucky to be alive after dashing into the castle like that.’

  Farnor’s lip curled. ‘It wasn’t your parents he killed,’ he said, sourly. Marna bit her lip, and this time it was Jeorg who took her hand.

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’ Jeorg asked, to break the painful silence that ensued. Then, more anxiously, ‘Does my wife know what’s happened?’

  ‘About a day,’ Marna replied. ‘And no, your wife doesn’t know what’s happened yet. Gryss was going to see her after the Council meeting.’

  Jeorg pulled a wry face, but the effort made him wince. ‘She’ll be here shortly then, I expect,’ he said,
ruefully. ‘And I’ll be out of the fire and on to the anvil.’

  In spite of herself, Marna smiled at his manner.

  Then Farnor stood up and moved towards the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Marna asked.

  ‘Out,’ Farnor replied, tersely.

  ‘Gryss said you should stay here and rest,’ she shouted after the departing figure. There was no reply, and with an oath she ran after him.

  She caught him at the door. ‘Gryss said you should stay,’ she said again, taking his arm.

  Farnor screwed up his face as if he had just eaten something unpleasant, and wrenched open the door despite Marna’s restraining hand. ‘Gryss can go to hell,’ he said, brutally. ‘And so can you, Marna. Get out of my way. I’ve got things to do.’

  Then he was limping out into the darkness.

  Shocked by this outburst, Marna was unable to respond. It was not until she heard the clatter of hooves as he mounted one of the horses retrieved by Gryss and the others on their return that she found her voice.

  ‘Farnor, where are you going?’ she called into the night. But it was to no avail. The only reply was the sound of the hooves gathering speed.

  She slammed the door shut and, turning, nearly tripped over the dog. ‘Shift, damn you,’ she snapped, as she staggered past it.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Jeorg asked, trying to lever him-self out of the bed as she returned to his room.

  Marna’s face was a mixture of rage and distress, and she was on the verge of tears. ‘I don’t know, the stupid sod,’ she blurted out. ‘And you stay where you are.’ An angry finger shot out purposefully at Jeorg, and he stopped his attempted escape. ‘There’ll be enough trouble with that idiot wandering the countryside trying to get himself killed without you getting up too soon. You can wait for your wife to arrive… or Gryss.’

  Jeorg lay back, not unrelieved to be the butt of Marna’s anger. He could feel the terror of his treatment by Nilsson and Rannick receding a little, but his hasty movement had heightened the weakness and pain that pervaded his body.