Farnor ft-1

by Roger Taylor

  He’s dead, Rannick! he screamed inwardly. You’ve made your point. You can let him be now.

  But he was powerless. This was a time when all he could do was watch. He was bound to this man who was filling his vision with his frenzy.

  But another agent intervened to prevent Rannick reaching whatever conclusion he was intending. An image of wild, purposeful eyes, flying hair and a screaming mouth came into Nilsson’s distorted focus.

  And a knife! Glinting, keen-edged, even in the dull light that pervaded the yard.

  Its very sharpness cut through the unreality that was binding him.

  The wife!

  He swore.

  A reflex brought his arm out and his mind watched his hand closing about the sleeve of her dress. He felt its fresh, soft texture.

  Without a flicker of hesitation, Katrin yielded her gripped arm to him totally and in so doing remained free to move. Spinning round, she slashed the knife across her would-be captor twice. Again, old reflexes saved him as he released his grip and arched himself backwards away from the blade. He felt it cutting through his cape and jacket and drawing a thin, ice-hot line across his stomach. Only a shallow cut but a very sharp knife, he registered.

  A survivor of innumerable close-quarter encounters, he knew instantly that, reflexes or no, he was a dead man. He was off-balance and shaken by surprise, while she was so solid in her purpose, so well positioned and so fast. He felt his leaden limbs striving to gain control of themselves while at the same time he found himself waiting for the stroke that she would make next and against which he could not begin to defend himself; the one that he had waited for all his life; the one that would spring open his entrails and lay him in this cold, sodden yard. He fancied already that he could feel the wet stones on his cheeks and the cool rain dripping into his gasping mouth. He was strangely calm.

  But Katrin was no trained warrior with a catalogue of subtle fighting techniques and skilled slayings at her back. She was simply a woman who had read the signs foretelling the death of her husband and who had responded knowing that he had not her vision. She had little conscious thought about what she was doing. Her whole self knew only that she must strike directly at the source of the danger with all the speed she could rouse. Nothing could be allowed to stand in her way: not her own frailty; not this hulking foreigner.

  Thus as Nilsson staggered back he was forgotten, and Katrin returned to the heart of her intent.

  ‘Lord!’

  The urgency in Nilsson’s distant cry penetrated Rannick’s frenzy just as Katrin appeared before him. He glimpsed the upraised knife and her eyes pinioned him. Somehow, a miserable village labourer again, he managed to raise an arm as the knife came down.

  Garren’s body, freed from its torment, slithered to the ground.

  Rannick felt the blow of the knife, but no rending pain; Farnor’s edges were too sharp to allow such. But he felt a scream of fury and terror at this invasion rising within him.

  Katrin did not note what damage she had done. It was irrelevant. He was still there, still conscious, still breathing, still able to hurt her man. She raised the knife again…

  Rannick mimicked her movement, raising his own arm helpless for all his power against this primordial justice and fury.

  Then it was gone.

  Nilsson had recovered and launched himself at Katrin.

  His powerful grip closed around the hand that held the knife. Katrin made no sound, nor again did she fight him. Instead she slithered and slipped within his grasp, her focus ever on Rannick. Twice Nilsson swung the great fist of his free hand at her, but both times she was gone when the blow should have landed. Briefly they pirouetted in a grotesque dance, then Katrin twisted the wrong way and died with the merest flicker of pain on the blade that her son had so diligently sharpened.

  Nilsson felt the life leave her. It was no new sensa-tion to him, but he hesitated for a moment, holding her like a bewildered lover, then he lowered her to the ground with peculiar gentleness, at the same time withdrawing the knife. A mysterious twinge of regret rose within him for this warrior who had bested then spared him. But it passed, although in its wake came a spasm of rage that he could not have begun to explain. Furiously, he hurled the knife away from him. It thudded into the stout wooden frame of the farmhouse door. A fine spray of blood left the blade and stained the painted timber.

  Nilsson’s rage was still alive as he turned to Ran-nick, who was gripping the arm that Katrin had struck. Blood was oozing lavishly between his fingers, falling drops joining the rain and splattering into the puddles around his feet.

  But it was the look on his face that evaporated Nils-son’s rage and replaced it with naked fear.

  * * * *

  In the woods to the west, Farnor sat fulfilling his mother’s prophecy: sheltering under a tree and waiting for the rain to ease before he set off back home.

  His arm was sore and he was beginning to feel cold, and his mind was turning with relish to the prospect of the warm, welcoming kitchen, bright with light and bustle and savoury with the odours of his mother’s cooking.

  He had spent the afternoon wandering idly about the fields and the woods, rejoicing in the soft scents that only the rain can bring forth. Part of the time he had debated recent events yet again, but, despite the violence and strangeness of the assault he and Gryss had experienced at the castle, he had come to no further conclusion than that which he had reached previously: he must watch and wait.

  But not here, he decided finally. A glance at the sky told him that the rain was not going to ease and that he should be on his way soon or he would be walking back to the farm in the dark as well as the wet.

  Then, suddenly, it was all around him. Stronger and more vivid than he had ever known it before.

  The creature.

  Its will pervaded everything.

  It must be nearby. The thought forced itself into Farnor’s mind through the uproar, and froze him with terror.

  No, it was everywhere.

  And there was blood.

  And a demented fury.

  He was vaguely aware of the tree at his back. A host of voices whispered to him with a despairing urgency: ‘Home. Home.’

  His body took control of him and his legs began to carry him on, first staggering, then running. The creature was all around. It was filled with vengeance. And it was hunting. He must reach home. He must reach home.

  * * * *

  Nilsson turned away from Rannick as he looked up. His eyes saw still his new Lord, his arm bleeding and his bloodstained hand now reaching forward, clawed in savage reproach. But his inner vision felt the presence of the creature that had slaughtered his men and come near to slaughtering him. And, too, its spirit was everywhere, pervading and drawing strength from the frenzied mass of riders and horses struggling for escape. Somewhere in his consciousness he sensed men falling from their horses, horses bringing down the stone walls of the yard as they scrabbled over them, legs being crushed and twisted in the tight-packed panic at the gate. And, throughout, the rain fell and the wind blew.

  But these were fleeting motes caught in the whirl-wind that Rannick had now become. And he too, Captain Nilsson, leader and champion of his men, was no more than a mote. To remain where he stood would be to die.

  Yet he edged away with a primitive caution – full of fear that a sudden movement might draw this awful predator down on him.

  As he moved he saw Rannick’s eyes become alive with an ancient malice. But they were not Rannick’s eyes, he knew. They were the eyes of the creature.

  The turmoil in the yard grew further in its desperate intensity. Nilsson fended off animals and men alike as he tried to retreat from the farmhouse. Not once, however, did he shift his gaze from Rannick.

  Then, just as he had seen the creature in Rannick’s eyes, so he heard the creature’s voice as Rannick straightened up, threw his head back and roared. It was a fearful sound that wrapped itself around the battering wind and the din of the fleeing
men and animals, and drew all together into a terrible focus.

  Nilsson’s hands began moving to his ears, though the sound was ringing through his entire body, and even as he did so other noises reached him. He turned from Rannick to the farmhouse.

  With unbearable slowness, the windows were shat-tering and blowing inwards, guttering and tiles were being torn from the roof and hurled high into the grey sky, rafters and beams strained after them then quivered and splintered as they fell back.

  At the edge of his vision, Nilsson saw Rannick stumbling as if the impact of this destruction had rebounded on him. He caught him.

  ‘Lord,’ he said, perhaps in the hope that simple speech might bring back the man from this awful possession.

  But it was not yet over. The frenzied presence of the creature seemed not so much to have fled as to have been transformed into something yet more fearful. Rannick was himself again, and, too, not himself.

  He leaned heavily on Nilsson and began muttering ecstatically.

  ‘Yes. Yes. I have it now. I have it.’

  He pushed himself away from Nilsson and lurched forward, his hands extended towards the shattered farmhouse.

  There was a nerve-tearing sound like fingernails drawn down glass and the air in front of Rannick began to shimmer and glow. The sound grew in intensity, until it was finally topped by a great cry of triumph.

  Nilsson staggered backwards as the shimmering mass crackled into flickering life. A pungent smell assailed his nostrils, then, as if in obedience to Ran-nick’s cry, the light split and divided into great tendrils which surged through the shattered windows of the farmhouse. It seemed to Nilsson that they were like living things, so purposeful was their movement.

  Like serpents, he thought.

  Almost immediately, the interiors of the rooms were ablaze.

  Nilsson watched as flames and smoke poured out of the windows and rose through the gaping roof. It was almost as if they were trying to escape from the horror that had just entered the house. Silhouetted against the scene stood Rannick, his arms held wide, swaying from side to side as if to some unheard music.

  Then he sank to his knees and slumped to the ground.

  Chapter 30

  Farnor ran and ran. The presence of the creature possessed him like a raging fever. He did not see the streams he ran through, the walls he climbed, the fences he slithered under. His mind knew only fear, and his body carried him towards security using reflexes that were older even than the mountains that now stood by, indifferent to the terror that so filled his world.

  And yet as he fled he sensed that no matter which way he ran, he could not avoid the creature. It was all around him. And it was more vivid and powerful than it had ever been before.

  Then it became worse. Save for a vague, flickering remnant somewhere, he lost even his own sense of being. The world was rasping breath and pounding heartbeat, and… the power… moving.

  Flooding in from…?

  Despite his terror, part of him was drawn towards it. Drawn to reach out and stop it. But some deeper instinct pulled him back. He could not stem such a torrent.

  And still he fled on, desperately, unhindered by this inner debate; indeed, scarcely even noting it.

  Then came… light? Lights! Moving, shifting lights. Flames! He could feel their heat beating on his face, and… surging up from within him as if he himself were making them.

  A spark of consciousness returned to him. Night-mare. He was dreaming. Soon he would crash out of this terrible flight into the security of his bedroom.

  But this revelation affected nothing, for always lurk-ing in the terror of a nightmare is the possibility that one might not indeed awaken. Still he had to flee; flee towards and through these surging flames; flee from the terror at his back; flee until he came to his home.

  Then both the flames and the terror faded. As they did so his awareness began to return more fully. It was no nightmare, it was real. And still his body propelled him violently homeward. He must wrap the security of familiarity about him if he was to quench this torment.

  A familiar, not unpleasant smell reached him.

  A hint of autumn in the air.

  Burning.

  Something was burning.

  It brought him to a halt by a gate. He leaned on it breathlessly. There was nothing to be burned on the farm.

  Suddenly, more tangible fears rose within him.

  Fire! There’d been a fire in one of the outbuildings. And he hadn’t been there! With a cry, he clambered over the gate and began running again.

  As he neared the farm, his fears began to be real-ized. A column of smoke was rising above the small hill that separated him from the farm. Despite his exhaus-tion, he forced himself on.

  What had happened? Visions filled his mind. The barns? The stables? The work-shed?

  He reached the top of the hill and stopped.

  The rain had flattened his hair against his head and ran in streams down his face.

  And his world was no more.

  A dreadful numbness began to spread through him.

  Where had stood the clutter of buildings with the solid block of the farmhouse at its heart – a sight as timeless and immutable as the mountains themselves – stood now a grim mockery of that sight. The buildings were there, though they were different now. Their perspective had been changed. Changed because what had been the farmhouse was now a gaping maw, jagged with shattered walls and blackened rafters. Fires burned here and there, and dense wreaths of smoke swirled in leisurely vortices about the broken carcass, like predators at a battlefield, before finally twisting upwards and rising into the air to disappear into the grey, rainy sky.

  And from somewhere came a noise which, though familiar, Farnor could not identify.

  Farnor’s mouth worked as he searched for words of denial that would dismiss this sight from his vision.

  But none came.

  Instead a silent cry of reproach rose up within him.

  Move your legs. Get down there. Find out if your mother and father are safe. Find out what’s happened.

  It seemed to Farnor as he ran towards the smoking ruins that he was in fact motionless and that the house was approaching him, like some injured friend seeking help.

  He clambered over the wall and ran round into the yard, calling out.

  ‘Mother! Father!’

  But there was no reply, except for the sound of the falling rain splashing on to the waterlogged ground and gurgling along gutters and down pipes into the collection butts. And too there was the noise that he had heard on top of the rise. Though much louder than the rain, it seemed to be coming from a great distance. It was the animals clamouring, panic-stricken, to escape their pens. He hesitated, looking from side to side indecisively, as if debating whether he should attend to these demented creatures or continue to search for his parents.

  ‘Mother! Father!’

  He called several times, but there was no response until a single fretful bark pierced the din.

  One of the dogs was standing by the blackened, smoke-streaked gap that had been the front door. It was sniffing at what appeared to be a pile of debris.

  Farnor ran over to it.

  The dog’s tail was dragging along the ground, but it wagged guiltily as he approached, as if it were in some way responsible for the devastation of the farm.

  As he reached the dog, the feeling of numbness spread to possess Farnor totally and for a long, timeless interval he stood staring at the shapeless mound that the dog had been sniffing. Then, slowly, he knew it for his father and mother.

  As if he were looking at a picture in a book, Farnor noted his father’s twisted frame. He was like a broken toy, not a person. And next to him…

  ‘Mother,’ he said.

  He knelt down beside her and shook her gently as if she might simply be sleeping out in the rain, not knowing that her house had burned down.

  ‘Mother.’

  He put his arm around her shoulder and lifted her in
to a sitting position.

  ‘Your dress is all wet and crumpled,’ he said, quietly, fingering the soiled fabric awkwardly. ‘And you’ve dirtied it too. Look.’

  Shaking his head in imitation of his mother’s fre-quent gesture, he ran his hand over the circular stain just beneath the line of his mother’s ribcage. Then he looked at his hand. It was covered in blood. He laid his mother down gently, and touched the bloodstained palm curiously with his other hand.

  Slowly, he stood up and walked across the yard. Then, quite deliberately and very calmly, he opened the doors of the various stalls to release the distraught animals.

  Some brushed him aside in their panic, but others remained where they were. The dog tried to round up some of the escapees dutifully, but after one or two appealing looks at Farnor, who was standing watching them vaguely, it abandoned the attempt.

  Farnor went to the gate. It was wide open. Patiently, he pulled it shut and secured it, then he leaned back against the gate post and slid down it until he was sitting on the ground.

  The rain continued steadily, and gradually the fires died out and the heavy coils of smoke changed into pale grey wisps. Occasionally some too-charred timber would succumb to the depredations of the fire and the water and tumble apologetically into the rubble.

  Farnor sat staring fixedly at the house for a long time without moving. A few pigs and hens were wandering aimlessly about the yard, but most of those animals that had not fled had retreated to their opened pens in the face of the rain.

  Once or twice his lips moved, but no sound came. The dull afternoon light began to fail. Then, for no apparent reason, he stood up, climbed over the gate as he had done almost every day of his life and walked into the darkening evening.

  * * * *

  Gryss staggered as Farnor slumped into his arms.

  ‘Marna!’ he shouted, urgently.

  She was by his side almost immediately. Taking in the scene at a glance, she pushed the door to with her foot and moved to help Gryss support the collapsing Farnor. They manhandled him along the hallway and into the back room, where he was dropped into a chair.