Farnor

by Roger Taylor

  And it had become worse as Gryss told of Jeorg's whispered account, concluding with his final torture by Rannick.

  The notion that Rannick could be leading such men and possess such powers invoked the same response from Harlen as it had from Yakob. He had looked to Yakob for support, but all Yakob was prepared to offer was an uncertain shrug and a wary, ‘He believes it,’ with a nod towards Gryss.

  'You know the tales about Rannick's family line, going way back,’ Gryss had countered, heatedly. ‘It's not just a saga of foul and unpleasant temperaments, is it? There are stories of strange gifts as well. Strange enough for them to be mentioned only in whispers if they're mentioned at all. And you should know this: of our old friends lying murdered up the road, one was smashed as badly as if he'd been hurled down a cliff. No ordinary beating did that.’ Tiredness and grief had conspired to make him almost angry with his two friends. ‘Do you think I'd be telling you such wild tales at a time like this if I didn't have good reason for thinking they were true? Both of you are old enough to know that there're plenty of things in this world that we haven't the remotest understanding of. Just hear me out.'

  Rather abashed following this untypical outburst, Harlen and Yakob had fallen silent and Gryss had given the true account of his visit to the castle and the injury to Farnor's arm. He told, too, of the creature that Rannick apparently controlled, though this he attributed to information given to him by Nilsson's injured men. Some instinct told him not to speak of Farnor's own mysterious contact with the creature. Rannick's powers and Farnor's gift were beyond any logic that he knew of, and opposition to them would thus be visceral rather than reasoned. Who, then, could say where it would stop if once it started? And Farnor had no one to defend him now.

  In the end, seeing that Gryss was not noticeably deranged, and in the knowledge that Farnor and Jeorg could be questioned in due course, the two men had reluctantly accepted his tale.

  'Though what it all means and what we can do about it I've no idea,’ Yakob had concluded in despair.

  Gryss, however, had forbidden any debate. ‘I can't tell you any more than I have,’ he said. ‘You have the truth as I know it, grim though it is. Sleep on it as well as you can. We're all too tired and upset to think clearly about anything. And tomorrow we're going to have a lot to do.'

  Now tomorrow was on them, and, despite the sunlight streaming in through the window, no light seemed to reach into the hearts of the three men.

  Their silence was too much for Marna. ‘We can't sit around doing nothing,’ she burst out, abruptly, her voice shaking. ‘We must do something.'

  Yakob cast an awkward glance at Harlen and then, acidly, he said, ‘What, you stupid girl? Charge up to the castle on horseback and drag Rannick out to give an account of himself before the council?'

  Marna pushed her plate away angrily, contemplated a retort, then swung around to stare out of the window. Her jaw stiffened as she fought back tears. Gryss gave Yakob a reproachful look, but Yakob merely scowled unrepentantly.

  Nevertheless, the brief outburst had shattered the leaden torpor that had pervaded the room.

  Harlen laid his hands flat on the table as if to push himself up from his seat. ‘This is all too much for me,’ he said. ‘But I do know we must deal with the needs of the moment. We can talk later.’ He let out a long breath. He addressed Gryss. ‘Yakob and I will go to Garren's and make some arrangement for bringing ... the bodies ... back. You and Marna can stay here and look after Farnor and Jeorg.’ He stood up. ‘Some air, some activity will do none of us any harm.’ His easy-going face hardened. ‘And, Yakob, I'll thank you not to talk to my daughter like that again, unless she gives you just cause. We're none of us over-endowed with wisdom in the face of all this.'

  Yakob coloured and his mouth opened, but he did not reply.

  When the two men had gone, Gryss and Marna set about tending to their charges.

  'What are we going to do?’ Marna asked, as she helped Gryss change some of Jeorg's bandages.

  'I don't know,’ Gryss replied. ‘I don't think I've truly taken everything in yet. I can't even believe that Garren and Katrin are dead.’ His voice faltered. ‘I don't seem to be able to think properly.'

  'I cried a lot last night,’ Marna said, flatly, making no attempt to hide her own gnawing distress.

  'Maybe I should've done the same,’ Gryss said, pausing reflectively for a moment. ‘I probably will eventually.'

  Marna moved close to him. ‘We'll have to send for help,’ she said. ‘We can't just do nothing. What's happened is awful. The King should be told, his soldiers, his army, should be sent to put things to rights. The proper army.'

  Gryss looked concerned. ‘One thing at a time, Marna,’ he said. ‘We need to talk, to clear our thoughts further before we decide about anything. Everything's different now.’ He felt a sudden need to explain. ‘When I agreed to help Jeorg try to reach the capital, I thought I'd be able to talk him out of any trouble if he got caught, or the worst that could happen was that he might be locked up for a while. Or made to pay a fine of some kind. I didn't think they'd do anything like this, or ...'

  Unable to continue for a moment, he fiddled nervously with the bandages.

  'We can't risk that happening again,’ he went on at last. ‘They'll kill anyone else they find trying to leave, I'm sure.'

  'If they catch them,’ Marna said.

  'They caught Jeorg easily enough,’ Gryss said, missing the tone of her voice.

  'He was following behind the entire troop,’ Marna pointed out. ‘Now they're all back at the castle. They've probably not even left any guards downland. Someone could be through and away before they even realized what was happening.'

  This time Gryss did catch the tone. He looked at her. ‘And suppose they're not all at the castle. Suppose they have left guards downland. What then, miss?'

  'I could move around them,’ Marna exclaimed, waving her arms. ‘I know everywhere round there. All the streams, the trees, the secret ways ...'

  'Marna, for mercy's sake, stop it!’ Gryss burst out. ‘This isn't some schoolyard game. We've had this conversation before and I told you then the journey to the capital is long and difficult. Almost impossible on foot unless you really know how to live off the land.'

  Marna made to speak again, but he held up a hand to stop her. His voice became quiet. ‘As far as I can see, they'd have beaten Jeorg to death if Rannick hadn't stopped them to play his own game. They'd do far worse to you. Far worse, Marna. Do you understand?’ He sighed. ‘I don't want to hear any more talk like this. We need to stick together, to rely on one another. You're near enough an adult now, but you've a lot to learn. At times like this, just watch and listen.'

  'There's never been a time like this before,’ Marna retorted, retreating but defiant. ‘And when you've all debated and discussed it'll come to the same in the end. Someone will have to go for help. If Rannick's got anything to do with those men, they'll get worse and worse if no one opposes them. And there's no one here who can stand against men like that.'

  This echo of Katrin's words struck Gryss like a blow and he turned away sharply and began removing a bandage from Jeorg that he had only just put on. He swore when he saw what he was doing.

  'Damn you, Marna, shut up!’ he said. ‘You may well be right, I wouldn't pretend to know at the moment. But I know this ...’ He pointed at Jeorg. ‘This is the consequence of trying to find help. I shudder to think what they'd do against outright opposition. Jeorg and Farnor need our help right now, and that's all we need to think about at the moment. The needs of the living must be met before those of the dead, no matter how we feel.'

  Marna's face darkened ominously, and for the first time in many years Gryss felt real black anger well up inside him. It produced no great ranting, however. Instead he fixed her with a penetrating gaze and spoke very softly. ‘Your father's already lost one person that he loved dearly, Marna. He carries the pain of that still. You can't see it because you didn't know h
im before. But I can. It's in his eyes whenever he looks at you and sees a distant shimmer of your mother there. Just you remember that when you get the urge even to talk about committing some mindless folly such as trying to reach the capital on your own.'

  Marna wilted under this quiet onslaught.

  Gryss tapped his head. ‘We mightn't be able to match these men sword for sword, and certainly we can't match whatever it is that Rannick has, but we can use our heads, can't we? Watch and wait. Be patient. Survive. Now help me with Jeorg.'

  'That's what I thought: watch and wait.'

  Both Marna and Gryss started at the voice. They turned to find Farnor standing in the doorway. He was pale and weary-looking and there was a deadness in his eyes.

  Gryss looked at him anxiously. Some deep agitation within the young man must have made him overcome the effects of the sleeping draught, but his outward appearance gave no indication of anything other than a great calm. It was not a good sign.

  'You should be resting, Farnor,’ he said. ‘You've had a ... bad shock.'

  'Watch and wait,’ Farnor repeated, ignoring Gryss's remark. ‘I'd decided that that was the sensible thing to do. Make my decisions whenever something happened. If anything happened. Wait until it all made some kind of sense. Otherwise I'd go mad, fretting about the next insane thing that might occur. It was quite clear in my mind what I should do.'

  Marna moved across to him, but he raised his hand to prevent her coming too close.

  'And while I was up in the woods, watching, waiting ... being sensible ...’ Marna flinched at the anger and bitterness in his voice. ‘They came and murdered my parents.'

  'We don't know what happened,’ Gryss said, fearful at the young man's tone. ‘We don't know who ...'

  'Does it matter who?’ Farnor blasted, banging the edge of his clenched fist against the door frame. ‘They did it! Nilsson's men. Those so-called gatherers. Them, and whoever they have who can control that murderous creature out there and turn the winds themselves to his own will.'

  Gryss made to intervene, but Farnor caught sight of the figure on the bed, and stepped forward, his expression irritable, as if this silent intruder had interrupted him.

  'Who's this?’ he demanded, bending over and peering closely into Jeorg's swollen face.

  'It's Jeorg,’ Gryss told him.

  'Nilsson's men caught him,’ Marna added. ‘They brought him back yesterday.'

  Recognition was dawning in Farnor's eyes and for a moment he was a bewildered young man again. His fingers twitched nervously at the sheets covering Jeorg, then, like storm clouds closing around the sun, darkness returned again to his face. ‘Yesterday,’ he muttered to himself, shaking his head as if confused. Then he straightened up and said, ‘At least he's alive.'

  Marna bridled at this seeming callousness, but Gryss caught her eye and shook his head.

  Farnor returned to the doorway. Reaching it, he leaned heavily against the jamb and yawned noisily. As he finished, he gritted his teeth almost into a snarl as he willed back the slothfulness that Gryss's sleeping draught was attempting to impose on his body.

  'Where are my parents?’ he asked abruptly.

  'Yakob and I put them in one of the stalls at the farm last night,’ Gryss said. ‘Yakob and Harlen have gone up there now to ... to see if they're all right.'

  Farnor left the room. Gryss threw the bandage he was holding on to the bed and, pushing past Marna, ran after him. He was opening the front door when Gryss reached him. The old man laid a restraining hand on his arm.

  'Where are you going?’ he asked.

  Farnor turned to him. Gryss could barely meet the coldness in his eyes. ‘I'm going home,’ he said. ‘To bury my parents.'

  He pulled the door open and stepped outside, obliging Gryss to move aside. As the bright sunlight washed over him he paused momentarily, blinking.

  His hand took hold of the iron ring, almost as if for support, and he ran his fingers absently along the sharp-etched carving. When he spoke, his voice was expressionless.

  'Then I'm going to the castle to find out who's responsible, and kill him.'

  * * *

  Chapter 33

  Yakob and Harlen had had an uneasy journey to the Yarrance farm. Harlen had hoped that they might talk about what had been happening, but then had found himself oddly reluctant to speak. They could not reasonably dispute Gryss's account of recent events, but there was so little in it that they could take hold of and worry into a more familiar, understandable form. And the implications were too alarming for sensible conjecture. They moved like men riding under a thunder-laden cloud, their minds filled only with the possible ills that might befall them.

  It came, therefore, almost as a relief when Farnor galloped up to them as they were about to turn into the lane that led to the farm. The relief faded however, as they saw the look on his face.

  'This may be a wretched job, Farnor,’ Harlen ventured sympathetically. ‘It's usual for friends and neighbours to attend to such matters rather than close family. You'd be better off at Gryss's, resting.'

  'I'll attend to my parents, thank you, Harlen,’ Farnor said coldly. ‘And I'll rest when I've killed the man, or the men, who killed them.'

  Harlen and Yakob reacted as Gryss had only a little while earlier: with dumbfounded silence. Farnor's manner was a bewildering combination of childish petulance and grim adult resolution.

  He was riding up the lane before either of them had recovered sufficiently to respond.

  'What do you mean?’ Harlen asked when they caught up with him.

  'What I said,’ Farnor replied. ‘I shall attend to my parents, then I shall go to the castle, find out who did this and kill him.'

  'Don't be ridiculous, boy,’ Yakob snapped. ‘How in the world do you expect...?'

  He got no further, his voice failing as Farnor reined to a halt and turned to him. ‘Don't call me boy, old man,’ he said.

  Yakob looked at him, at first angrily and then uncertainly as fear started to stir within him. Whatever else Farnor might be, he was young, fit and strong through his years of working about the farm and his mood now added a menacing perspective to these attributes.

  Harlen reached across and took his arm. ‘Farnor, Yakob meant no harm,’ he said. ‘We're none of us ourselves after what's happened. Don't misjudge a hasty word. We're your friends and all we want to do is help.'

  Some of the grimness left Farnor and after a moment he eased his horse forward again. The two men moved either side of him, Yakob keeping station a little to the rear.

  'You weren't serious about going to the castle, were you?’ Harlen asked tentatively.

  'Yes,’ Farnor replied, starkly.

  Harlen and Yakob exchanged glances. ‘What do you hope you'll be able to do there?’ Yakob asked.

  They were at the farm gate. Farnor leaned down and opened it.

  'What do you expect to do there?’ Yakob pressed.

  Farnor, however, was gazing about the yard. Harlen took in a sharp breath and Yakob's face wrinkled in distress. In the daylight the devastation of the farmhouse and the tumbled disorder of the yard seemed even worse than they had at night. Already the house was gaining the air of a long-derelict building.

  Farnor showed no emotion as he dismounted. From somewhere the two dogs appeared. One of them barked as they ran towards Farnor and began fawning about him. He bent down and stroked them.

  'Where are my parents?’ he asked. Yakob looked around for a moment, at a loss to remember in the daylight. Then he pointed. Leaving his horse to wander, Farnor strode towards the stall. Reaching it, he drew the bolts, pushed the two halves of the door open and stepped inside.

  Yakob and Harlen dismounted and followed him into the musty gloom, both anxious about his state of mind and searching for an opportunity to know his intentions more clearly. There was an unpleasant warmth in the stall and a few flies rose noisily into the air as they entered.

  Farnor looked down at the rough blanket that Gryss
and Yakob had covered the two bodies with. After a brief hesitation, he pulled it back and looked down at his parents.

  For a moment it seemed as if he were going to weep.

  Please, Harlen thought, silently urging the young man's tears on. Let it go.

  But the moment passed, and Farnor found no release. Very gently he replaced the blanket. ‘We must bury them immediately,’ he said.

  'Of course,’ Yakob said. ‘We'll take them down to the village, right away. Old Nath will look after them properly. See that they're in a fit state to be buried.'

  'No,’ Farnor said. ‘We'll bury them here, now.'

  Both Yakob and Harlen stared at him in disbelief, but it was another voice that spoke the denial.

  'No!’ Gryss said powerfully, stepping into the stall. ‘Enough's enough, Farnor. I understand your anger and your hurt, but you're still half drugged with my sleeping draught, and you're on the verge of doing things that you'll regret bitterly.'

  'This is my family's land, this is where they'd want to be buried,’ Farnor said defiantly.

  'Your father's wish was to be buried with the rest of your family in the Resting Field,’ Gryss said. ‘As was your mother's. That I know for a fact—as, I would think, do you.'

  Farnor made to speak, but Gryss, hot and flustered following his chase after him, was in no mood for debate. ‘It was their choice to make, Farnor, not yours, nor mine, nor anyone else's. And it's the duty of the Council to ensure that their wish is followed. Do you understand?’ He did not wait for an answer, though his manner softened. ‘Besides, your parents had many friends, not least those here. They'll need to pay their respects, say what they have to at the graveside. That can't be denied them, Farnor.'

  Farnor seemed set to argue the point, but Gryss's demeanour allowed him nothing. Briefly, it seemed again that he was going to weep, but again he did not. His mouth curled unpleasantly.