by Roger Taylor
He put the lantern back into his pocket, then tight-ened his grip about the staff. Perhaps the creature wouldn’t see him, or scent him. But he knew that these were vain hopes even as they came to him. The creature knew him as he knew it, and it would smell his fear both drifting through the night air and trembling through that mysterious bond that he had with it. No. There would be no place secure enough, nor flight fast enough, to save him from it when it emerged to hunt.
His mouth filled suddenly with acrid saliva and his body was possessed with a terrible longing. Blood and terror were in the air, rich and desirable.
Good…
Farnor spat in disgust and denial. In the distance he heard horn calls. Though their note was rapid, desperate even, he was once again staring over the ancient Forest, washed in the bright dawn sunlight, his heart crying out its prayer of thanksgiving to his parents for the gift of life that they had given him. And, he realized now, thanksgiving for the other gifts that they had given him: the love that had sustained him and brought him thus far, scathed but whole and himself, knowing better both the light and the darkness of his nature. And as he had accepted and enjoyed these gifts, so now he must accept that other gift, the one they had given him unknowingly, the one that had twisted and turned its way through the generations of lives in the valley until it had become his; the gift to oppose this creature and the foulness that it had guided Rannick to.
He opened and closed his hands about Marrin’s staff fitfully. He could feel the spirit of the most ancient still held in it. Oddly, it gave him more comfort than had the machete and the bow and the vicious arrows that he had just lost. But it was not going to be much use as a weapon.
He peered up into the darkness. The presence of the creature was becoming more intense. It was drawing nearer. The horns were still calling, shrill and urgent now. Derwyn and Nilsson must have met and, whatever the outcome, blood had been spilt. And soon the creature would leave its lair to range through the woods, slaughtering and feeding amongst whomsoever Rannick decreed: Derwyn’s people.
‘No,’ he said. Not knowing how he did it, he reached out and touched the creature. ‘I understand you more now. Your darkness holds no greater terrors or knowledge than my own. But the light I bring you will destroy you and your master.’
A terrible, high-pitched scream tore open the night. Farnor flinched away from it, but using Marrin’s staff to test the ground ahead of him, he forced himself to walk on towards the heart of the malevolence that he could now feel oozing down the mountainside towards him. He felt, too, the creature’s claws scrabbling over the rock-strewn ground as it raced frenziedly to reach him. And its pounding heart, its rasping breath, its foul desires. And he could feel its lust for the fear that was soaking through him. Then, most terrifying of all, he felt the rift through which, with Rannick, it drew its awful powers. That mysterious rent in this reality that opened into those worlds that did not belong here; could not belong here without terrible havoc following.
For a fleeting instant, Farnor had a vision of the Forest’s great and ancient fear; fear that a flaw lay in the very nature of all things in this age. But it left him – was torn away from him? – almost before he could note it, and his fear became more prosaic: a fear of the power that was emerging to overwhelm him.
Scarcely realizing what he was doing, he leaned on his staff and, looking into the darkness, let the shaking and trembling that he was struggling to restrain take complete possession of him.
After a timeless time, he was still, and all about him was still. The wound torn by the creature filled his consciousness. He reached out, and with his quietness, made it whole.
The scream that the creature had made before was as nothing to that which it uttered now. It seemed to Farnor that the whole of creation rang with its fury and desperation as it strove to tear open that which he had sealed.
But Farnor held.
Though this would not be enough, he knew. The creature still had power enough to kill him and return to undo his work. It had to be destroyed utterly.
He stepped forward into the darkness.
* * * *
‘What in His name is all the noise?’
Engir and Yehna turned to face the inquisitor, who had just emerged from a doorway at the far end of the passage. He came towards them, head craning forward, eyes narrowed.
‘Lord Rannick?’ Engir almost whispered his ques-tion. His mouth and throat had suddenly become dry, and he was shaking.
‘Who else, you dolt?’ Rannick replied. He stopped some distance away, his hand pointing towards the fallen man, but his eyes flickering from Yehna to Engir.
‘We’re new recruits to Captain Nilsson,’ Engir man-aged to say. Again Rannick craned forward. ‘No,’ he said, very softly. ‘You’re his kind, but there’s a foulness about you that he’d choke on, just as I am now.’
No, Lord,’ Engir said, stepping forward.
With a cry of rage, Rannick extended his hand to-wards him. Engir cried out and clutched at his throat. His mouth working desperately for air, he staggered into the open doorway. He collapsed part way into the room, his eyes signalling frantically to Levrik and his right hand circling strangely. Yehna drew her knife and rushed at Rannick, but she had scarcely taken two paces when the same fate befell her.
‘No need to take you to him. He’s here,’ Saddre gasped to Levrik as Engir tumbled across the threshold. Saddre’s eyes were gloating, despite the hand and the knife at his throat. ‘Your turn to account now, I think. I’ll enjoy this.’
‘Saddre!’ Rannick’s voice rasped along the passage.
A vicious blow in the stomach doubled Saddre up before he could reply, though Levrik stopped him from collapsing to the floor. He thrust the gasping figure to Aaren then pulled a leather thong from his belt and took a stone from a pocket.
Long schooled in each other’s fighting techniques, a brief hand signal told Aaren of his intention. She was very pale, and her eyes were unashamedly fearful, but she nodded. Then, seizing the gasping Saddre by the scruff of the neck, she yanked him upright and charged with him to the open doorway. He tripped over the choking Engir but Aaren kept up their joint momentum, and as they burst into the passage she swung him round, and, using him as a shield, charged at Rannick, screaming.
Taken unawares by this explosive response, Rannick instinctively held out his hands to prevent the collision. He was partly successful in that he deflected Saddre with a sweep of his arm, but in doing so he lost his balance and staggered heavily into the wall.
Yehna and Engir were released.
‘Down, now!’ Levrik’s terse command rose above the frantic gasping of his recovering companions as he stepped into the passage. In his right hand he was spinning the leather thong. Before Rannick could react, Levrik’s arm came forward and he released the sling. The stone flew from its soft leather saddle towards Rannick’s throat.
Levrik had dropped the sling and was drawing a knife even as Rannick’s hands came up again to protect himself. The stone caught his wrist and, bouncing up, struck him on the temple. With a cry of pain, he stumbled backwards.
Levrik was moving forward when suddenly Ran-nick’s eyes seemed to burst into light. At the same time Levrik saw his own shadow leaping violently ahead of him. Then something hit him powerfully in the back, lifting him off his feet. Reflexes curled him up, rolled him over and brought him upright almost immediately to face his unexpected assailant. But there was no one there except his three companions. Aaren was dragging Yehna and Engir to their feet. At the end of the corridor however, bright flames were pouring out of the doorway they had passed through only minutes before. Black, flame-filled smoke was rolling along the ceiling of the passage.
As Levrik took this in, he became aware of Aaren pointing. She was shouting, too, though her voice was hardly audible above the noise of the flames. He spun round, recalling their true enemy. Saddre was reeling around drunkenly, and Rannick, too, had been knocked over by the concussion from the now bla
zing hall.
Simultaneously the four moved towards him; dark, menacing and swift against the roaring flames, black knives glinting. But it was too late. Rannick may have been downed but he was sufficiently recovered to defend himself once more. He held out his hand. ‘No!’ he roared. ‘Whoever you are, I shall show you what happens to blasphemers.’ The firelight shone in his eyes again, making it seem as if some internal fire were rising up in response to that now consuming the castle.
The four hesitated.
‘I shall show you the true fire,’ Rannick cried. A thin, nerve-wrenching screech rose above the noise, and in front of Rannick a shimmering light appeared. ‘Thus starts your death,’ he said, clambering to his feet, his arm still extended. He turned to Levrik, the light growing ever more brilliant. Abruptly a figure lurched between them. It was Saddre, still stunned from his fall. As he stepped in front of Rannick, the light streamed forward, enveloping him.
He burst into flames.
For a moment there was silence. Then Saddre was screaming. The four watchers stared, unable to move, so horrific was the sight.
And, just as suddenly, the screaming stopped. Sad-dre pivoted with an eerie grace to face Rannick. ‘Lord?’ he said, his voice oddly calm through the clamouring flames.
Rannick’s face contorted with rage. His arm swung out and struck the blazing figure sideways with appalling force. The floor shook with the impact as Saddre struck the wall, and the flames about him flared angrily. Then he crashed forward on to the floor and lay still.
Staring through the flames still rising from his erst-while lieutenant, Rannick’s appearance was hypnotically terrifying. The four warriors stood motionless, trans-fixed.
The shimmering light appeared once more, but, abruptly, it flickered uneasily. Rannick cocked his head on one side, as if he had heard a far-distant sound. The action seemed to waken the watchers. ‘He’s only a man!’ Engir shouted hoarsely. ‘And there are four…’
Before he could finish however, a furious cry of rage and desperation filled the passage. It was Rannick. He made a wild gesture and, with a great roar, the shim-mering light burst along the ceiling of the passage to join the flames in the blazing ball. The four hurled themselves flat on the floor as the flames passed over them, but, the immediate danger passed, Engir’s command still carried them forward, intent on the destruction of Rannick at any cost.
But Rannick was gone and the sounds of his scream-ing flight were echoing up the staircase as the four reached it.
‘What happened?’ Yehna shouted.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Levrik replied. ‘It’s not finished yet.’ Then his eyes widened in horror and he pointed along the passage. As the others turned, it was to see the flames that Rannick had released, licking over the walls and ceiling like living creatures.
They were consuming the very stones.
* * * *
When he had arranged with Aaren a diversion to keep the castle gates open, Gryss had deemed blundering incompetence to be their best ally. It had certainly not been his intention to have his few trustworthy volun-teers become involved in actual combat with Nilsson’s men. There were several reasons for this, not least being the fact that none of them were fighters, and most of them were past their most vigorous youth.
Jeorg however had precipitated events, when the weeks of simmering anger could be contained no more and he felled the gate guard. Two more swift blows had stunned two other men, and, to their credit, Gryss’s impromptu force had read the situation with consider-able alacrity; rage is not the sole province of the young man. Soon the courtyard around the gate was a mass of struggling bodies and flailing wooden staves.
Nilsson’s men, however, were experienced enough not to be afraid to retreat when caught by surprise, and this they did remarkably quickly. A lull developed. Gryss managed to keep his men together, blocking the gate and waving their staves menacingly, while Nilsson’s men were strung out in a thin semi-circle at a safe distance. Some of them were calling out abuse, but most of them were just watching silently. Gryss had seen several of them run towards the buildings across the courtyard. They’ll be armed when they come back, he thought. We won’t stand a chance.
He looked up anxiously at the tower that housed Rannick’s eyrie. The high window was black and dead. Had Aaren and the others succeeded in killing him? Or had he killed them and was even now coming to take vengeance on those who had abetted the attempted assassination?
Before he could ponder these alternatives however, a cry brought his attention back to the immediate fray. His heart sank. Several figures were emerging from the darker reaches of the courtyard. Sheer weight of numbers could overwhelm them now, even without weapons, or Rannick’s aid.
‘Keep together,’ he shouted to his companions. ‘It’s our only chance.’
But there was something unusual about these new arrivals.
‘They’re women,’ a surprised voice said nearby, answering Gryss’s unspoken question.
And, as if in confirmation, a shrill voice rang out, and the women released by Yehna began to launch themselves at Nilsson’s men. Gryss and the others watched in bewilderment for a moment until they realized that many of the women were armed and that several of the men, taken by surprise again, had been badly injured.
Impulsively Gryss’s impromptu force broke ranks and charged forward into the battle. No combat was engaged, however, for even as they were running forward, part of the castle roof burst open with a tumultuous crash, and blazing timbers were hurled high into the night sky. All fighting in the courtyard ceased, as friend and enemy stood open-mouthed, gazing at this spectacle.
But terrifying though it was, this was as nothing compared to what followed. For as further sections of the roof burst into flames, a terrible screaming began to fill the air.
Someone struck Gryss’s arm. He turned to see Ya-kob, dishevelled and bleeding, his eyes wide and his hand pointing. He was shouting too, but even standing so close, Gryss could scarcely hear him above the noise. He looked in the direction that Yakob was pointing.
Galloping towards them across the courtyard was Rannick on his demented steed. His mouth was gaping wide but the scream that was coming from it seemed too awful to have been created inside any living thing. Worse than the noise, though, were the bright flames flowing around him and dancing in his wake. They ran like dust devils along the ground, leaving glowing, smouldering trails until they struck the walls and blossomed upwards and outwards like grotesque flowers.
Gryss, however, barely noted this. His dominant concern was the dreadful focus of Rannick’s will that he could feel. ‘Run,’ he shouted, unheard and unnecessar-ily, for even the oldest among them had suddenly rediscovered the agility of their youth at the sight of this monstrous charge.
But Rannick’s intent lay elsewhere, and he ignored the scattering figures as he rode through them. At the gate, his horse leapt over the broken cart effortlessly, flames tracing out his passing, arcing behind him like some fearful rainbow.
As his scream faded into the distance, it was over-topped by the noise of the flames in the courtyard. Almost the entire castle roof was now ablaze, flames and smoke cascading up into the night. But so too, it seemed, were the very walls of the castle, as flames which should have spluttered into nothingness against their cold stone clambered eagerly over them, their sinister light spreading and devouring.
None of the combatants lingered to watch however. Those who were still standing, dashed past the cart and through the gate to form a silent, watching group out in the darkness, all of them too stunned to pursue their original intentions. As they watched, the cart and its scattered contents in the gateway burst into flames, but this was of little note against the sight of Rannick’s unnatural fire, crawling along the walls and rising up the towers.
Something buffeted Gryss.
‘Where are they?’ an urgent voice shouted at him. He turned round to find himself looking into Marna’s distraught face as she leaned forward from t
he saddle of a large horse. She was holding three other horses by a long rein.
‘Who?’ he said.
‘Aaren and the others,’ Marna shouted angrily. ‘This wasn’t meant to happen. Where are they?’
The other wheel of the cart collapsed, sending up a great shower of sparks. Gryss gesticulated helplessly. ‘I don’t know,’ he shouted back. ‘I haven’t seen them. If they got in, then…’ He waved towards the inferno.
‘And Rannick?’ Marna shouted, reaching out and shaking Gryss’s shoulder as if he were some inattentive child. ‘Is he dead?’
Gryss pointed. ‘No. He rode off. It was awful. Didn’t you hear him?’
Marna straightened up and gazed at the blazing gateway, flame-shadowed lines of pain and doubt etched deep into her face. Then she leaned forward again and put her arm around Gryss’s neck dragging him off balance with a passionate embrace.
‘Tell my father I love him, and I’m sorry,’ she said, then with a loud cry she drove her heels into the horse.
Before Gryss could protest, the four horses had leapt past him and were charging towards the burning gateway, Marna frantically urging them on. He found voice only as he saw them silhouetted against the flames lighting the gateway.
‘Marna! No!’ he cried, though his voice cracked as all four horses leapt the blazing remains of the cart and disappeared into the brightness beyond.
Scarcely a horsewoman, let alone a jumper, Marna released the rein leading the other three horses, and clung on to her own mount with both arms as it leapt through the gateway. The impact of the landing jolted her, but the sight that greeted her set such discomfort at naught. The light in the courtyard was brighter than a summer’s day, and it seemed that not one part of the castle’s stonework was free from the clamouring flames. The heat was suffocating and terrifying. She felt herself gasping for breath.