by Roger Taylor
Even so, it had been a long time since he had felt anything quite so disturbing and he knew that, independent 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 consequences, 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 motionless. 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 malevolent 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 unexpectedly 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 glowered 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 creature 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.'
As he returned to Rannick's room, Bryn's remarks hovered in Nilsson's mind. What was this creature that hunted with the murderous determination of a human and seemingly paralysed its prey with fear?
He had no answers, but the arrival of the creature had answered his earlier question. It had not wandered off howling into the darkness, it had been drawn mysteriously to its ailing master. What then would its reaction have been had Nilsson followed the prompting to slay Rannick?
He shuddered. He could not understand how he had stood there unable to move as the creature had leapt at him. Irritably, and with some difficulty, he thrust the concern to one side. A far more serious one lay in the condition of his Lord. What could be done to awaken him?
It occurred to him that he might have to send for Gryss, though who knew what reception his messenger might receive in the village when news of the slaughter of Garren and Katrin became known? True, he could ensure Gryss's assistance by taking hostages from among the villagers, but there was no saying what treacherous tricks the old leech might have up his sleeve.
He sat down and gazed at the apparently sleeping form.
Damn you, Lord, he thought. Damn you to hell. You shouldn't have done it. You should've listened to me. Now we've got fifty times the problems we had before.
He let his anger roam freely for a moment, though no sign of it appeared on his face, then he reached out and shook Rannick's arm gently.
'Lord,’ he whispered. ‘Lord.'
There was no response. Gryss it would have to be, then, though that posed the further problem of how he was to be reached now, with the creature patrolling the castle walls. He let out a weary breath and sagged back into his chair. Perhaps it would have gone by daylight.
He squeezed his eyes with his fingers. As he had accused Bryn, so he accused himself: he was too tired and addled to think straight. He needed to sleep. But how could he with Rannick, his future, lying thus?
Despite himself however, he closed his eyes. In the flickering darkness he found his mind watching the sinuous shadow gliding silently around the castle. He could feel the edge of the creature's bubbling hatred.
He could not open his eyes!
Then on the fringes of his consciousness he felt the slight vibration of the wicket door being carefully opened and hastily slammed shut.
Silence...
And was that a drumming of fists he could hear?
Then a faint, shrill scream cut through his half dream. Suddenly released, he found himself bolt upright and wide awake.
Part of his mind was calculating. One man the less. That was a pity, but Avak had been marked for a long time and it would prove to be a salutary lesson for the rest of the men. Self-satisfaction oozed into his thoughts. He did not imagine there would be many more opportunities when he would be able to use Rannick's creature for his own ends.
But the other part of his mind was listening. Listening to a voice. It spoke one word, very softly, drawing it out and tonguing it with a diabolical relish.
'Good,’ Rannick said, turning towards him.
* * *
Chapter 32
Gryss started awake. About him was the touch of a dark and awful dream, but it vanished on the instant as he became aware of sunlight filling the room. For a moment he was a young child again and the day opened before him, full of warmth and summer scents, soft breezes and everlasting freedom.
He was about to cry out joyously to his parents when he remembered who he was.
And where.
And when.
Briefly his face creased as if he were about to cry. Then it relaxed into a look of half amused resignation.
He had spent what was left of the night in a chair, and his body was protesting the fact loudly. Carefully, he began to ease his limbs into life and, as he did so, one by one, the events of the previous night reformed themselves in his mind.
He looked across at the bed. Jeorg had scarcely moved.
Time, he thought. Time was what was needed. Time for Jeorg's injuries to heal. Time for Farnor's bewildered mind to calm. Time for himself and the others to reconcile themselves to the cruel deaths of Katrin and Garren.
And time was what they would have, though it was little consolation as it would have to be lived through, second by painful second. He clenched his hands in a combination of self-reproach and anger. The pain of the passing of his time would be as nothing compared with that of Jeorg's and Farnor's and he at least could ease his own pain by seeking to ease theirs.
A noise brought him to the present and dispelled his thoughts. With a final effort he levered himself out of the creaking chair and limped heavily to the door, banging his reluctant leg irritably with his fist.
'Did I disturb you?’ Marna said, as he scowled into the kitchen. ‘I was making some breakfast for us all.’ She stared disconsolately at the pan sizzling merrily in front of her. ‘But I don't think I can eat it now. I'm sorry. I took the meat from ...'
Gryss waved the apology aside. He looked at her. Her face was drawn and she seemed tired and defeated. She had shed no tears in his presence last night, but her eyes were red with weeping. He turned his face away to hide his distress, then he put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her comfortingly.
'Thanks,’ he said. ‘Serve it up, and have some yourself. It'll make you feel better.'
A spasm passed over her face. ‘I don't think I want to feel better,’ she said. ‘It wouldn't seem right, somehow, carrying on with all the ordinary things, when ...’ She could not finish the sentence.
'When Garren and Katrin are lying dead in one of their own animal stalls?’ he said, finishing it for her starkly but not unkindly.
She nodded and tears filled her eyes.
'It's not something we've any choice in, Marna,’ he said. ‘You don't need me to tell you that. Weep for Garren and Katrin as much as you want. Rant and rage if that's the way it takes you. And it'll take you many ways, believe me. But in the end, you honour them and everything they were by the way you live your life.'
'Words,’ Marna said.
'They're all we've got at the moment, and they're better than nothing. They help to make the time pass, and occasionally they say something that helps someone.'
He looked at her squarely. ‘There's no harder thing in life than standing by helpless, and you're never more helpless, more inadequate, more useless, than when someone's died.'
She returned his gaze, then looked down at the pan again, her mouth pouting. ‘Do you want some of this?’ she asked, dully, turning back to him.
'Not if you're going to burn it like that,’ he said, indicating the now smoking pan.
Marna swore, and there was a flurry of activity as meat and eggs were rescued and transferred to Gryss's fine wooden plates and during which Marna burnt the tip of her finger.
Gryss retrieved a loaf from a cupboard and scooped up some cutlery. ‘Bring the plates through into the back room,’ he said as he left the kitchen. Marna took her finger from her mouth and followed him.
'Eat,’ he ordered, as she placed the plates on the long table. Uneasily, Marna did as she was told. It was no celebratory feast, however, and for some time they sat silent, and ate dutifully, rapt in their own thoughts.
Then Gryss recollected himself. ‘Where's your father and Yakob?’ he asked, guiltily.
'Still asleep. Both of them,’ Marna replied. She gave a reluctant smile. ‘Like battered bookends, either side of Farnor's bed.'
'My bed, if you please,’ Gryss observed, angling like a patient fisherman to keep the smile.
But it slipped away. ‘Should I waken them?’ she asked.
Gryss shook his head. ‘Let them sleep while they can,’ he replied. Then he clicked his tongue and frowned. ‘I'm not doing too well this morning. I should have looked at Farnor before tending my own needs.'
&
nbsp; 'He's all right,’ Marna said, reassuringly. ‘He's fast asleep.'
Gryss looked at her uncertainly. ‘I'll have a look anyway,’ he decided.
He had to agree with Marna's description as he entered his bedroom. Harlen and Yakob were draped gracelessly in chairs on either side of Farnor's bed. Harlen's head was slumped forward while Yakob's was angled backwards and to one side, and his mouth was hanging open. Farnor, on the contrary, was a picture of repose.
The sight was at once funny and poignant.
Moving delicately past the two sleeping guardians Gryss sat on the edge of the bed and laid his hand on Farnor's forehead. It was cool.
That was a relief. The lad had problems enough without going down with a fever as a result of the soaking and the shock he had had the previous night.
Farnor stirred, but did not wake.
Harlen, however, did. After mumbling a few incoherent words he opened his eyes and blinked vacantly. Then recognition came into his face and he made to move.
'Easy,’ Gryss said. ‘Your chairs might be comfortable to sit in, but not for sleeping in.'
The soft conversation woke Yakob, who spluttered indignantly for a moment before he too felt the protest of his limbs at having been confined in a chair for so long.
Marna raised a single eyebrow when the three of them entered the back room, bleary-eyed, unshaven and unkempt. ‘Let them sleep,’ she echoed at Gryss. He gave a disclaiming shrug.
At Gryss's urging, the two men made an attempt at the food that Marna had prepared, but it too was little more than an exercise in satisfying bodily needs, and a dark silence soon descended on the room.
Both Harlen and Yakob, like Farnor, were in a state of shock, though Harlen was perhaps the more affected of the two. The previous night he had gone to his home and bed burdened with the knowledge that one of his friends had been brutally beaten for no apparent reason, and that a menace had come silently to the valley, like a tainted autumn mist. Whatever dreams had arisen in the wake of this, though, were as nothing compared to the nightmare to which his daughter had wakened him: a hurried dash through the village to be greeted by Gryss and Yakob with a tale that made Jeorg's beating seem almost trivial. A tale of cruel murder and wanton destruction. The sense of menace had increased tenfold.