Farnor ft-1

by Roger Taylor

  And, as if Farnor’s sudden realization were conta-gious, Gryss found himself back in that dim castle room with Nilsson telling him about the intention to turn the castle into a permanent garrison. The vaguely familiar figure silhouetted against the window… it had been Rannick! Of course. How could he have failed to recognize him at the time? Too tired? Too shocked by Nilsson’s news?

  But it didn’t matter now. It was as if a cold wind had blasted away a cloying mist that had been clinging about his thoughts.

  Then welling up into this new-found clarity came a terrible, murderous urge.

  Though with that same clarity he knew that they were not his thoughts. They were Farnor’s. Gryss could feel the young man’s swirling, complex pain and anger. Somehow, through his torment, Farnor’s strange gift had reached out to him. He felt no wonder at this revelation, however, only fearful concern for the terrible, purposeful intensity of Farnor’s emotions.

  He put his hand on Farnor’s shoulder.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. You mustn’t do it. Rannick will kill you. Whatever’s happened to him, it’s given the evil side of his nature full rein.’

  Farnor jumped as if he had been struck. He looked at Gryss, his face full of questions. ‘You heard me?’ he asked, lifting his hands to his head.

  Gryss attempted no explanations. ‘Come away from here,’ he said. ‘Give yourself time to rest and think. Your mind is too full of horrors and your body’s half drugged by my sleeping draught. You’re not fully yourself. Let’s attend to the burying of your parents properly, then…’

  Without speaking, Farnor pushed his hand aside and began walking across the yard towards the gate.

  ‘Farnor!’ Gryss cried.

  Harlen and Yakob turned as the call echoed emptily around the walls of the battered buildings, but made no move to stop the youth’s departure.

  Then Farnor had swung up on to his horse and was gone.

  ‘What happened?’ Yakob shouted as Gryss, his face anguished, hurried over to his own horse.

  ‘He’s going to the castle to confront Rannick,’ Gryss shouted back. ‘I’ll have to go after him. You take Garren and Katrin down to Nath’s, then see how Jeorg’s getting on.’

  ‘You told him about Rannick?’ Yakob said disbeliev-ingly.

  Gryss turned on him angrily. ‘It just… slipped out,’ he said. ‘Please. This isn’t the time for arguing. Ran-nick’ll kill him. Help me mount then do as I asked.’

  They did, but as he galloped away Yakob said, ‘This is madness. I can’t believe this Rannick business. I think this has all been too much for Gryss. But they’re both riding into serious trouble if they go up to the castle, that’s for sure.’

  Harlen nodded unhappily. He was looking at the cart bearing the bodies of Katrin and Garren. Then he made up his mind.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘And I’m going after them.’ He pointed at the cart. ‘They’d expect us to look after their son.’

  With an effort he clambered on to his horse. ‘Are you coming?’ he said to Yakob, urging the horse forward.

  Yakob frowned and looked about indecisively for a moment, then he nodded.

  The two rode off together.

  * * * *

  ‘Sit with Jeorg,’ Gryss had yelled as he had scuttled out of the cottage in pursuit of Farnor. ‘He shouldn’t wake up for a while yet, but if he does try to keep him quiet. Let him have a little to drink, but don’t let him eat anything yet.’

  As she closed the cottage door, for the first time in her life Marna had an urge to bolt it.

  She left it unlocked, though, and returned to Jeorg’s room. As she sat down, Gryss’s old dog padded in grumpily and flopped at her feet. She bent down and patted it. ‘You’ve no idea what’s going on, have you, old thing?’ she said. ‘All this coming and going.’ The dog gave a heartfelt sigh and rested its chin on her foot.

  Now, in contrast to wanting to lock the door, she felt trapped by the room. She hunched her shoulders unhappily. Inevitably, her thoughts returned to the fate of Garren and Katrin, and she began to shake. She had slept only fitfully through what had been left of the night and, as she had told Gryss, she had wept for most of the time that she was awake. Wept for the memory of Garren and Katrin, wept for Farnor and his loss, wept for herself and for fear of what was happening to the valley. Wept for things she could put no name to, because weeping was all she could do.

  And the fears were still there. ‘They’ll do much worse to you,’ Gryss had said. She knew that, for pity’s sake. But it did not seem to have occurred to Gryss that they would probably do that anyway if they took control of the valley. That was why she was shaking. These were bandits, not soldiers with perhaps some semblance of honour or discipline. When they wanted women they would come and take them, and no one would be able to stop them.

  And with Rannick leading them there would be no restraint. At the thought of Rannick her trembling became worse. Of all people. There would be no doubt about which way his attention would drift when the urge for female company came over him.

  She clenched her teeth violently then clasped her hands together in an attempt to still their shaking.

  Ironically, Marna was one of the few people in the valley who had had any time for Rannick. She had always felt a sympathy for him, sensing in him some-thing lost and helpless. But that had been before her ready smile and her pleasant inquiries about his well-being and his activities had been misconstrued for a more ardent concern. Rannick, considerably her senior, had taken the consequent rebuff badly and had been caustically formal with her ever since, though his eyes told a different tale. That she still felt some remnant of that earlier sympathy did little but confuse her now.

  She remembered powerful hands holding her as she had never been held before. There had been a faint, unexpected flickering of desire at the contact, but the fear had been the greater and had expunged it; the hands had held her helpless.

  ‘There’s no harder thing in life than standing by helpless.’ Gryss’s words came back to her vividly as she recalled the incident. He had not meant them in that context, but they were nonetheless true.

  And here, looking to the future, there was an ele-ment of choice.

  Marna opened her hands. The trembling had stopped, but the spirit that drove it seemed to have suffused through her entire body, its centre resting solid and cold in the pit of her stomach. And it had changed in character. What had been fear was now anger and determination. She would never be helpless like that again. Frozen like a rabbit before a stoat.

  Never!

  She looked at Jeorg again. His battered features were an object lesson to her. She could not fight that way, trading blow for blow. She would have to use flight and stealth. But the conclusion was unsatisfactory. The memory of Rannick’s grip on her arms returned and her hands started to tremble again. This time she willed them to stop. Sooner or later, flight and stealth would not be open to her and she would encounter such power again. She must be prepared to deal with it.

  Her eyes narrowed as she pondered, the fear-driven anger in her giving her a strange creativity. She had teeth and nails which could be used to great effect, but she would need more. She would need a weapon, she realized; something that would do greater damage than teeth and nails and futile fists. Much greater damage.

  Swords, spears, clubs she dismissed even as they came to her. They would need strength and skill to use and, anyway, she couldn’t possibly carry something like that around all day.

  A knife! Or, better still, knives. That was it. She drove a blade into Rannick’s arm and felt his grip vanish. Excellent.

  And there were plenty about her father’s house. She began to run through an inventory of them, at the same time debating where about her person she could carry them.

  Unexpectedly, her fear returned, springing upon her like some childish prankster. What about now? Wasn’t she defenceless? As before, she had a sudden vision of horsemen circling the house, of an urgent hammering on the d
oor, of Rannick standing in the doorway come to take what he wanted.

  Almost in spite of herself, she stood up and went to the window. Cautiously she drew the curtain a little. The sunlit lane stood reassuringly empty. She felt a little embarrassed, but the sense of urgency remained.

  She let the curtain fall back and returned to her chair. A restlessness pervaded her and her eyes wandered about the room, though she could not have said what she was looking for.

  Then she lit on Jeorg’s pack, dropped casually in a corner of the room in the flurry of attending to him.

  She went over and picked it up. It was heavy. Quite unscrupulously she took it back to her chair, undid the clasps and began to rifle through it. Jeorg would have a spare knife in here, surely? The contents, however, were uninspiring; clothes, some fruit and dried meat, a few small sunstones, a tin of bandages and salves. Her nose wrinkled unhappily at the sight of these and she glanced again at the massive damage that had been done to her unconscious charge.

  Even as she did so, her hand encountered a package. She felt around it carefully, testing its shape and size. Thoughts of a knife vanished in a surge of curiosity and, tongue protruding between her teeth, she gently withdrew the package. Rough string bound a waxed paper parcel.

  Untying the string, she opened the paper to reveal a soft leather wallet. She examined it for a moment and then began to open it. It was a cunningly designed and well-made article, with tightly sewn seams and folds and flaps so arranged that, even without the waxed paper wrapping, it was effectively waterproof.

  Inside were papers. She looked at them briefly and then, curiosity well aroused, she took them through into the back room where the light was better.

  Although her search had been prompted by a need for a weapon with which she could defend herself, for some time Marna would have been oblivious to an army laying noisy siege to the cottage, as she became increasingly engrossed in the papers.

  They were the details of the route to the capital that Gryss had prepared for Jeorg. Some of the notes and maps were obviously very old, having perhaps been prepared by Gryss during his own travelling days. Others were much newer.

  For the most part, they were written in a neat, curl-ing script that Marna presumed was Gryss’s, though there were some more coarsely lettered notes here and there. And they were presented in a clear, logical manner that could only have been Gryss’s.

  It was all there before her: the way to the capital, laid out for the following. Her mind raced. Fate had transformed an impetuous idea into a real dilemma for her. She could go now, this minute. She could take a horse from the inn, call at her home to gather clothes and food, and go. Go downland discreetly until she saw whether there were any guards posted or not, and then as fast as she could all the way downland and to the capital. Over the hill!

  She felt her breath tighten in her chest at the pros-pect and her palms began to tingle.

  What could restrain her? Fear? Perhaps. Responsi-bility? Suppose Jeorg were to wake suddenly and need reassurance? And what would be the reaction of Gryss if he returned to find Jeorg abandoned and her missing?

  Or her father’s reaction?

  ‘Your father’s already lost one person that he loved dearly.’ Gryss’s words reproached her.

  Marna’s mouth pursed. She knew all about that, she thought, but no one had ever expressed it to her so forthrightly, and it proved a winding blow now, as she contemplated flight.

  ‘Damn,’ she said, softly and bitterly. She couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not like that; not without any warning.

  For some time she sat motionless, her hands resting on the papers and her mind drifting idly now that it had been released from the torrential rush of her wild plans.

  Slowly however, new patterns began to emerge. Calmer, more reasoned patterns. The threat still remained. The fear and the anger still remained. She must still arm herself. And, if necessary, she must be prepared to make the journey to the capital on her own. She found that she could not avoid that final conclusion, even though the prospect of such a journey was already becoming more daunting.

  But she was not a principal in this affair. She must do nothing that would jeopardize whatever efforts Gryss and the others were putting forth.

  She looked at the papers again. Then, carefully, she gathered them together in order and replaced them in the leather wallet. For a few minutes she looked at the package thoughtfully, then, reaching a decision, she set about scouring through Gryss’s cottage.

  * * * *

  Nilsson had spent much of the remainder of the night consolidating the work that he had initially been obliged to leave to Saddre and Dessane, namely the quietening and assuring of his men following their mostly panic-stricken flight from the Yarrance’s farm.

  It could have been worse, he mused, sitting down on an embrasure and leaning back against the sloping wall that bounded it. A lighter spirit than Nilsson’s would have sung out to the warmth of the stone on his back, and the warmth of the sun on his face, and the sight of the valley, green and lush, winding away below him into the distance. But Nilsson was immune to such paralys-ing infections. His spirit dwelt in the future that he intended to make for himself in the wake of his new lord; the present was merely a passing irritation.

  There had been a few injuries in the crush to escape the power unleashed by Rannick, but in reality the greatest damage had been done to the men’s pride, and it was this that had given rise to much of the trouble as they had returned to the castle in scattered, bewildered groups. As necessary, Saddre and Dessane had soothed injured prides, provided excuses, cracked heads and done the hard work, and subsequently, having stood by his Lord throughout, Nilsson had been able to salve most of the remaining hurts by being avuncular and forgiving:

  A friendly hand on the shoulder.

  ‘It’s been a long time since you saw the likes of that, hasn’t it?’

  ‘You weren’t there on the palace steps when the old Lord outfaced the southland demon. That was some-thing!’

  ‘Who’d have thought we’d ever have come across the likes of him again? Chances like that don’t usually come once to a man, let alone twice.’

  And so on.

  Of course, the destruction of Avak had helped bring a sense of perspective to the proceedings. Pity that. He was a useful fighter, but always apt to be troublesome and, all things considered, he was no great loss.

  The recollection, however, brought with it the surg-ing malevolence he had felt focused on him as the creature had hurled out of the darkness and leapt up the wall towards him. Momentarily he closed his eyes against the bright day, and, on the instant, he heard again the scrabbling claws and the thud of its landing.

  Now, as then, the fact that he was well above any height that the creature could possibly leap gave him no consolation. He had been powerless to move. The only thing he would have been able to do was scream.

  Despite the sunshine, Nilsson shivered. And whether he kept his eyes closed willingly or out of fear he could not have said.

  But Avak’s demise had done more than focus the attention of the men. It had in some way restored the Lord Rannick.

  ‘Good,’ he had said, with a long-drawn-out breath that had chilled Nilsson utterly. Then he had turned slowly, looked at Nilsson and smiled a smile that was rich with the fulfilment of nameless desires. Nilsson had been grateful for the subdued lighting in the room.

  ‘I need rest now,’ he had said. ‘I shall sleep. You may go.’

  Nilsson had bowed. ‘I shall leave a guard outside your door, Lord.’

  ‘I need no guard,’ had been the faintly amused re-sponse. ‘Go, Captain. Tend your men. They will be needed soon, now.’

  Nevertheless, concerned for Rannick’s safety with the men in such an uncertain humour, Nilsson had cautiously opened the door to the darkened room later to see that all was well.

  A blast of air had struck him in the face, stinging his eyes and taking his breath away. It had seemed to pour into his mou
th and down his throat and as he had staggered back, retching, the door had closed with a soft, sighing hiss.

  Nilsson cleared his throat as he remembered the incident. Then, the lights dancing behind the lids of his closed eyes darkened and the warmth on his face lessened. He opened his eyes abruptly, his hand moving to his knife.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Captain,’ said the sentry, who was standing between him and the sun. ‘But there’s a rider coming.’

  Nilsson grunted and stood up. The sentry pointed.

  ‘I think it’s that kid from the farm,’ he said.

  Nilsson leaned forward and screwed up his eyes.

  It was the lad indeed. What was his name? Farnor or something, wasn’t it?

  And coming at the gallop too.

  ‘Should I wake the Lord, Captain?’ the sentry asked. Nilsson shook his head and then smiled. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I think we can manage one tearful country brat on our own. If he gets this far without falling off that horse, that is. Throw the gate open for him. Let’s give him a real welcome.’

  His smile broadened and unfurled into a low, un-pleasant laugh.

  Chapter 34

  ‘What d’you want, boy?’ Nilsson said, catching Farnor as he jumped down from his horse, missed his footing and stumbled. ‘Charging in like that. Someone’s going to get hurt.’

  Farnor, flushed and breathless, did not hear the menace in Nilsson’s voice. He yanked his arm free. ‘Where’s Rannick?’ he demanded.

  Nilsson’s eyes darted to the knife in Farnor’s belt. ‘Lord Rannick, do you mean?’ he said.

  Farnor scowled, thrown momentarily off-balance by this unfamiliar appellation. ‘I don’t know anything about any lord,’ he said, holding Nilsson’s gaze. ‘Just get Rannick out here. Rannick the village labourer.’ He began to shout past Nilsson, his voice becoming shrill. ‘Rannick the village idiot! Rannick the fly trainer! Rannick the coward! Come out and face me, you murderer, Rannick!’