by Roger Taylor
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 him 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 expres-sion irritable, as if this silent intruder had interrupted him.
‘Who’s this?’ he demanded, bending over and peer-ing 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, oblig-ing 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 expres-sionless.
‘Then I’m going to the castle to find out who’s re-sponsible, 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 ven-tured 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 un-certainly 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 mo-ment 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 farm-house 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 dayl
ight. 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 re-lease. 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.
‘Do as you wish,’ he said, pushing past the three men and going out into the yard.
‘Find a cart and harness it up,’ Gryss said to Harlen and Yakob. ‘Get them to Nath’s. I’ll see if I can settle Farnor down a bit.’
Farnor was standing in the doorway of the farm-house when Gryss emerged into the yard. He had withdrawn the knife that Nilsson had hurled away and that had stuck in the door frame. He was looking at it idly.
‘It’s one of my mother’s favourite kitchen knives,’ he said as Gryss approached him. He appeared to be his normal self again, but there was still a distant note in his voice as if his mind were elsewhere. ‘Strong blade, good steel, kept its edge for a long time. I wonder who stuck it in the door.’
Gryss briefly considered a shrug of ignorance, then he told the truth. ‘It was probably used to kill your mother,’ he said, as gently as such a statement would allow. ‘She died very quickly. As did your father.’
Farnor hefted the knife. ‘I sharpened it only a week or two ago,’ he said.
Kicking some charred debris to one side, he went into the remains of the house. Gryss followed him, picking his way carefully. Inside he looked round at the smoke-stained walls of the familiar rooms. Equally familiar furniture lay crushed and broken under the blackened remains of the collapsed roof and floors. Gryss grimaced. It was the very familiarity that height-ened his appalling sense of desolation. He wanted to say something, but no great words of solace came to him.
‘The walls are sound,’ he said weakly after a while. ‘It can be rebuilt, Farnor.’
‘The cows will need milking,’ Farnor said absently.
‘We’ll get someone along to round up the stock and tend it,’ Gryss said, suddenly glad to be practical. ‘There’ll be no shortage of willing hands, you know that.’
And no shortage of wild speculation and rage and anger, came the thought at the same time. He dismissed it. That would break about his head all too soon. His immediate task was to take care of Farnor. The rest of the village could remain safe and secure in its ignorance for a little while yet.
Farnor put the knife into his belt, then bent down and picked up something. It was a small model cart, neatly carved, and still intact. ‘My father made this for me when I was a child,’ he said. ‘A solstice gift. I played with it for hours on end.’ He looked around as if momentarily lost. ‘It ended up as an ornament on that shelf there.’
He pointed to a clean line on the wall running be-tween two split and charred brackets.
Gryss watched him carefully.
‘How did my father die?’ he asked, in the same ab-sent tone.
Once again Gryss considered an easy lie, but again such of the truth as he could divine came out almost unbidden.
‘A great blow, Farnor,’ he said. ‘As far as I can tell. Probably several. The only time I’ve seen anything like it was years ago when someone fell off the crags up east.’
For an instant he had the impression that he was at the centre of a powerful force as he seemed to feel Farnor’s scattered attention suddenly draw together into a single hard-knotted whole.
‘I don’t understand,’ Farnor said. ‘Do you mean he was beaten, like Jeorg?’
‘No,’ Gryss replied. ‘I’m certain he wasn’t beaten like that. The external damage would have been worse and the internal damage less.’ He gave a helpless shrug. ‘The only way I can describe it is as I have done. He seemed to have been killed by a massive impact, as if he’d fallen from a great height.’
Farnor’s brow knitted as he struggled with Gryss’s explanation. An image came into his mind from his early childhood. An image of Rannick teasing a cat with increasing roughness until finally it lashed out and scratched him. Rannick had sworn, then with one sweeping action he had snatched up the cat and hurled it into a nearby wall, killing it instantly.
The sound of the impact lingered in Farnor’s mind yet, though he had not thought about the incident in many years.
‘Or as though he’d been thrown against a wall?’ he said, partly to himself.
Gryss stuttered, caught unawares by the attention given to his answer. ‘I… I suppose so,’ he said. ‘Yes. But I can’t think of how a thing like that could’ve been done.’
Farnor looked at him coldly. ‘Well, he couldn’t have fallen off a cliff around here, could he?’ he said.
Before Gryss could answer, Farnor had turned around and walked out of the house. Gryss hurried after him, thoughts of Farnor’s parting words at the cottage rising to the surface.
But Farnor was standing just outside the door, gaz-ing round the yard. Harlen and Yakob were backing a horse awkwardly between the shafts of a high-sided cart. They stopped when they saw Farnor emerge from the house, but Gryss motioned them to continue.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked Farnor.
‘Hurled against a wall,’ Farnor said quietly, as if turning the words over for inspection. Then he pointed and said, ‘There’s been a great wind here. Look at the damage to those roofs over there. Lines of slates torn off.’ He swung his arm round to encompass the yard. ‘And look at the mess. Walls damaged, everything scattered everywhere.’ He turned to Gryss, his eyes unnaturally bright. ‘That wind at the castle snatched you off your feet and pinned you to the gate like a dried leaf, didn’t it?’ he said. His hand went to his injured arm. ‘Whoever set that… trap… for us there killed my father.’ He shivered. ‘And that creature had something to do with it as well. I felt it, out there in the woods. I thought it was on top of me, it felt so close. But it was after something el
se, and it was in full cry.’ He bent towards Gryss, confidentially. ‘Wherever it is, it draws a power from somewhere else. I could feel that too,’ he said. ‘Some place that’s both here and beyond here. There was a great flood of energy pouring through. Like something alive.’ He paused. ‘And the creature is a channel for it.’
Gryss gazed at him wildly, understanding nothing, but caught up by the force in his words.
‘Now what I have to do is find out who it is who uses this power and controls this creature,’ Farnor went on.
Gryss pulled himself together. ‘And?’ he said.
‘And kill him,’ Farnor answered, without hesitation. When Farnor had made this threat at his cottage, Gryss had taken it for no more than an angry, frightened outburst. But here there was such resolve in it that he went cold with fear. He wished he could have laughed and cried out, ‘You couldn’t hurt anyone, Farnor, it’s not in your nature.’ But the words would not come, because they were only half true. True in that Farnor would not willingly hurt anything, but not true that he would not kill. He had slaughtered animals in the past as a matter of routine. Slaughtered them quickly and efficiently under the tutelage of his father. The skills were in his hands. All that was needed to bring them to bear on people was the will.
‘Is it Nilsson, do you think?’
The question burst in upon Gryss, catching him completely unawares in the middle of his dark reverie. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It’s Rannick.’
Even as he spoke the words, his mind sped after them as though it could seize them before they reached their destination.
Farnor spun round and his gaze fixed Gryss just as surely as would one of his long-bladed knives. ‘Ran-nick?’ he said, his voice filled with changing shades and nuances: disbelief, doubt, realization.
Every encounter that he had ever had with Rannick seemed to pass through Farnor’s mind, culminating in that irritated flick of the hand and the angry buzzing of a cloud of flies restrained by some power beyond their knowing. And with those memories came memories too of subtle familiarities in the contacts he had had with the creature. Familiarities that now fell into place around the name of Rannick, as crystals would form about a single seeding grain. It was sufficient. He needed no further interrogation of his informant to confirm this knowledge.