by Roger Taylor
The circle of men that had begun to form expec-tantly about the protagonists fell suddenly quiet and widened noticeably. Even Nilsson found himself casting a quick glance over his shoulder for fear that Farnor’s petulant abuse might result in a violent reproach being brought down on his own head.
Farnor misunderstood the response, taking it to be due to the strength of the passion and hatred that was so possessing him. He made to step around Nilsson but a powerful hand seized his arm and dragged him back effortlessly.
‘Stay where you are, boy,’ Nilsson said, his lip curl-ing to bare his teeth.
Farnor took a wild swing at him, but Nilsson blocked it irritably and then dealt him an open-handed blow across the face that sent him reeling.
Garren Yarrance had had occasion in the past to chastise his son forcefully, and through the years Farnor had had an average exposure to physical violence in his noisy games and quarrels with his peers. But he had never felt anything like the blow he had just received. Apart from the pain, the body-jarring impact and the ringing in his ears, two things conspired to reduce him instantly to a tiny frightened shadow of what he had imagined himself to be. One was the truly terrifying sensation of having someone, for the first time ever, not only totally indifferent to his true self but actually intent on physically hurting him. The other was a chilling sense of total inadequacy before the power of this man.
Through his unfocused vision and the pounding in his head he was aware of the circle closing round him again, and of laughter urging on his assailant.
‘Go home, boy,’ he heard Nilsson saying. ‘The Lord Rannick won you your inheritance quite a time before you might have expected it. You should show some gratitude.’ There was more laughter. ‘Go round up your stock and start tending your farm. We’ll be needing plenty of food soon enough.’
Frightened child and angry man vied in Farnor. The one urged him to turn and flee. To break out of the circle, dash through the still-open gate and over the sunlit fields until he was surrounded by familiar and kindly faces; faces that knew and understood him; faces that would hold him secure and look after him in his torment. Profoundly shaken as he was by Nilsson’s blow, this voice within him was almost unbearably powerful.
Yet, too, there was a fury bubbling within him. A fury that fed on the laughter growing around him and that needed to strike out, to release the pain that he was suffering, to unleash it on anyone, anything, that stood in his way.
And, dimly, underlying everything, there was Ran-nick. The scowling, surly labourer who had always been a dark stain in his mind and who was now somehow the obscene focus of all that was happening. He felt again the bloodlust of the creature, burning hot and ancient within him. He wanted to see Rannick hurled against the wall like that pathetic squealing cat so many years ago. Hurled and hurled and hurled until he too became a limp rag doll of a thing like Garren Yarrance.
The memory of his slaughtered parents fired the fury beyond any controlling and it welled up to sweep all restraints aside. It seemed to him that his body was filled with a blood-red roaring and that he was scarcely in control of his actions. Distantly, he felt himself bending low and charging at the scornful figure that stood between him and the object of his hatred.
Then all was confusion, cruel pain and winding impact as, strong though he was, his wild inexperience fell easily before Nilsson’s greater strength, long-practised and bloody skills and clear-sighted malice.
Pain exploded in different parts of his body, quickly suffusing and accumulating until all he knew was pain. Vague images of the courtyard, of feet and faces and walls and towers, whirled through his vision. And he could do nothing to stop any of it. No part of him seemed to be his own.
Then there was a lull.
The brightness that was percolating through his half-closed eyes began to darken. But it was not the darkness of a merciful unconsciousness, he knew, for he was desperately, painfully awake; it was the circle of men closing around him to finish the work that their captain had started.
Hands seized him and dragged him to his feet. Loud advice was being shouted to someone followed by mocking laughter. The hands held him firm and an unclear silhouette positioned itself in front of him.
‘Leave him!’
The silhouette faltered, and the hands holding Far-nor eased their grip.
The words entered Farnor’s mind and spiralled through his pain and terror until they evoked recogni-tion.
Gryss!
Nilsson turned to face the source of this interfer-ence. Gryss moved forward out of the shade of the gate arch. He was leaning heavily on his horse for support, but his demeanour was angry and determined.
‘Leave him,’ he said again, ‘for pity’s sake. Isn’t it enough that you’ve slaughtered his family and de-stroyed his home? Do you have to break him too?’
‘Old man, go back to your salves and potions,’ Nils-son said menacingly. ‘Before you receive the same. He charged in here and attacked me. He’s lucky I didn’t kill him out of hand. All he’s getting now is a little instruc-tion on how to behave in the presence of his betters.’
Gryss’s mouth twisted with rage as he looked from Nilsson’s sneering face to Farnor’s bruised and bloody one. He caught the twitch in Nilsson’s eyes that responded to this and knew that, however justified his anger, he would merely prolong Farnor’s beating and receive one himself if he gave vent to it injudiciously. From somewhere he dragged out a reluctant diplomacy.
‘I’m sure he understands now,’ he said, forcing the anger from his voice. ‘He was always a quick learner. Let him go, Captain. He’s had enough.’
Nilsson met his gaze. He could feel Gryss struggling to master his fear. It would be no effort to kill the old man right away and then finish Farnor but, just as Gryss had fought down his immediate response, so did Nilsson. Rannick had seized the initiative in the matter of how the villagers were to be treated: perhaps to impose his will on his chosen lieutenant, perhaps for some darker motive that he himself did not fully understand. But it did not matter. The damage had been done, and it would fall to Nilsson now to control a hostile community that would be needed to service what would be a growing number of men at the castle.
And his relationship with Gryss would probably be crucial in this. Despite Rannick’s assertion that the villagers would be easily cowed, Nilsson knew from experience that even partly willing servants were far superior to slaves.
Two other figures appeared, hesitantly, in the arch-way. Nilsson nodded to the men who were holding Farnor to release him. As they did so, he staggered forward, his arms flailing as if to fend off further blows. Nilsson seized his tunic and dragged him upright and then pushed him savagely towards Gryss. He went sprawling along the ground with a cry of pain.
‘That’s four people we’ve had trouble with, old man,’ Nilsson said as Gryss bent down to help Farnor to his feet. ‘I said you’d be left alone if you behaved, and I meant it. We’ve more important things to do than deal with noisy yokels. And anyone who causes problems will be dealt with summarily.’
Emotions ran riot through Gryss as he struggled to support Farnor. Starkly he noted that Nilsson had casually admitted responsibility for the deaths of Garren and Katrin. He wanted to scream at him, ‘Why, you murderous lout? Why? What could they possibly have done to warrant that?’ but he remained silent – though whether through concern for the safety of Farnor or out of simple fear he did not know.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘And I’ll do my best to see that everyone else does.’
‘See you do,’ Nilsson said grimly.
Gryss took refuge in the immediate needs of his charge. ‘Come on, Farnor, let’s get you away,’ he said gently.
Hesitantly, Harlen and Yakob came forward to help him. Though he was almost sobbing with pain, Farnor somehow managed to stand, supporting himself with a single hand resting on Harlen’s shoulder.
There was some raucous abuse from the watching men as the quartet began to move away.
Nilsson quailed inwardly at the sound of the voice. It was Rannick’s. Go, run while you can, he willed the four villagers, but they stopped and turned as they heard the voice. He swore to himself, and turned to face his Lord.
Rannick was wearing a dark brown leather tunic over a linen shirt decorated with a bewildering design of swirling lines. Stoutly woven trousers disappeared into calf-length boots, and were secured by a finely carved leather belt, secured in its turn by a round brass buckle which glinted in the sunlight. Nilsson recognized the clothes as part of the booty they had taken on the raid.
So you’ve been rooting through the goods, have you, Lord? he thought. Picking and choosing like some old dame at a market.
But there was a quality of both practicality and dramatic presentation in Rannick’s choice that for some reason unsettled Nilsson. It betokened both confidence and intent where previously Nilsson had judged there to be mainly bewilderment and spleen.
‘Nothing important, Lord,’ he said jovially. ‘I apolo-gize if we disturbed your rest.’
Rannick saw Gryss and the others.
‘Ah,’ he said, smiling. ‘Coming to protest at the treatment of Jeorg and the Yarrances, I presume, eh, Gryss?’
‘We’ve come to take Farnor away,’ Gryss said, quickly, before anyone else could intervene.
Rannick nodded understandingly and moved for-ward. There was a strangeness about him, his clothes and his hair moving as though he were walking through a wind that was blowing in some other place.
As he approached the group, a deep silence fell in the courtyard.
He stopped a little way in front of Gryss. Yakob and Harlen stared at him in open disbelief. Both made to speak at the same time, but Rannick gave them no opportunity.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked mockingly. ‘Can’t believe your eyes? Allow me to explain.’ He bowed his head.
A small whirlwind of dust formed at his feet. Rap-idly it gathered a vicious, whining power and then, like a hunting bird, it flew directly into the faces of the two men. Both of them staggered back, closing their eyes and lifting their arms to protect themselves from the stinging impact.
Rannick laughed humourlessly. ‘A little dust in the eyes will help you to see things much more clearly, I think,’ he said. ‘Give you a picture of the way things are now. Am I not right?’
Gryss raised his hand to prevent Harlen and Yakob from replying. ‘We just want to leave, now…’ He hesitated, then with an effort he managed to say, ‘… Lord Rannick. We have to tell the rest of the village…’
‘Tell them what, Gryss?’ Rannick interrupted.
Gryss gesticulated vaguely around the courtyard. ‘About the… new garrison that’s to be posted here. About the need…’
Rannick shook his head. ‘That was Captain Nilsson’s jest, Gryss,’ he said, smiling again. ‘All that nonsense about the army. He and his men are no more King’s men than I am. They are fighting men, to be sure, but they are what you might call… independent. They fight for themselves rather than for some distant king.’
His manner became suddenly friendly and explana-tory. ‘They have a fascinating history.’ He looked significantly at Nilsson, whose face became expres-sionless. ‘If you knew it, you would never close your eyes in sleep again. Certainly not venture out at the sound of hooves in the street in the early morning. But now they have decided to pledge their swords to me. It is an arrangement for our mutual benefit.’ He drew closer to Gryss and his voice became a hissing whisper. ‘Just tell the villagers about me, Gryss,’ he said. ‘Tell them that I am their leader now, and that I require their absolute obedience in all things. Tell them that the penalty for disobedience will depend on my fancy at the time, but is unlikely to be pleasant. And tell them that I have instructed the Captain here to kill out of hand anyone who tries to leave the valley.’
Despite himself, Gryss asked, ‘Why did you kill Garren and Katrin?’
Nilsson’s eyes narrowed nervously, but there was no outburst from Rannick. Instead his face became thoughtful.
‘Garren was insolent,’ he said, quite casually, after a moment. He jerked his head towards Nilsson. ‘And it was my able new ally who killed Katrin.’ He held out an acknowledging hand to Nilsson. ‘Or, rather, she killed herself as I remember.’ He gave Gryss a look of injured explanation. ‘But she was trying to kill me, so he could do no other. Had he not done so then I would have had to when I had finished with Garren.’
Gryss shot an anxious glance at Farnor as Rannick gave this brief and callous account, but the young man, leaning on Harlen, seemed to be barely conscious.
Then Gryss felt Rannick’s hand close about his arm. It gave a confidential squeeze. He started violently. ‘But there was another reason, I see now. A much deeper reason.’ Rannick’s voice was almost wheedling in its self-justification. ‘Why should I waste my time brushing an insect like Garren Yarrance from my path?’ He looked at Gryss as if he truly expected an answer. Gryss found that he was holding his breath, so awful was Rannick’s presence. His arm was released.
‘But strange powers are moving here.’ Rannick peered at Gryss intently, as if his gaze would give his words greater meaning. ‘Powers that are focused on me. Powers that have perhaps been focused on me all my life. Powers that bring my destiny to fruition.’ Again the hand closed intimately about Gryss’s arm. ‘Why else should I have been born with the gift?’ A buffeting wind suddenly filled the courtyard, blowing up clouds of dust again and making both men and horses look about them uneasily. And, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. Gryss trembled as memories of the wind that had almost trapped him and Farnor, returned.
‘Why else should I be drawn to…?’ He fell silent and his eyes drifted northwards filled with a strange, smiling secretiveness.
Then he straightened up and continued with the air of an academic carefully following a line of reasoning to a satisfactory conclusion. ‘And why else should Nilsson and his lost band of men turn into this of all valleys but to serve my ends?’
Gryss remained silent.
Rannick looked down at his hands. ‘And why should Garren have provoked me so needlessly?’ His eyes fixed Gryss’s again. ‘Why should he have elected to provoke me and thus die by my hand?’ He curled his fingers so that they looked like talons, then he stretched them out fully and Gryss could feel the tension radiating from his whole body.
‘So many questions, Gryss. So many questions.’ Rannick bent forward and his voice became intense. ‘But only one answer. All this was so that as I made Garren learn what it meant to oppose me, so Katrin would make her sacrilegious assault on me and so, thus, I too would come to a great learning. I would see beyond the totality of my learning thus far. See that it was merely a key to a greater knowledge, a greater strength, a greater power.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘I would be transfigured.’
Sickened and frightened, Gryss could not move away from Rannick even though his arm was no longer held.
‘Watch,’ Rannick commanded softly.
Gryss felt the air about him come alive with a tin-gling, unpleasant energy, as though a thunderstorm were about to break. He braced himself for yet another assault by the wind that seemed to guard this place, but instead he found himself trying to focus on a vague, luminous shape that had appeared in front of Rannick. Involuntarily, he made to step back, but Rannick caught his arm and restrained him.
‘Watch,’ Rannick said again.
Gryss could do no other, so hypnotic was the eerie, dancing light growing in intensity before him. Then there came the fearful screeching that had filled the Yarrance farmyard, and the vague, shifting light became bright, flickering flames. They wove and twisted around one another, merging and separating like sensuous dancers, until they formed a tall column that rose high above the castle walls. The men in the courtyard retreated, as did Harlen and Yakob. Only Nilsson held his ground.
Gryss could feel a heat beating on his face that was worse than
any he had ever known. It seemed to him that even the village blacksmith’s forge would be as a cool stream after this.
He looked at his captor. Rannick’s eyes were glisten-ing in the light, the two tiny columns of flames reflected there seemed to be burning in the heart of the man.
‘This is the merest token,’ Rannick said. ‘Such knowledge I now have. So much more shall I gain. Now I am truly on the golden road to my destiny.’
Every part of Gryss’s body was now shaking. What-ever he had thought about Rannick since Jeorg’s whispered message, his worst visions had been nothing compared to the reality of the power and the will that was being shown to him here. He knew that he should fall on the man and destroy him somehow before Nilsson or his men could interfere. He could do it; he was near enough. A swift lunge with his knife and he could sever the monster’s windpipe. But he knew too that he could not. He knew that with such terror possessing him his hand would not obey any command it received, nor his feet, nor any part of him.
And yet something must be done!
Then he felt Rannick start.
The flames were faltering.
A flicker of anger passed over Rannick’s face to be replaced almost immediately by an expression betoken-ing enormous effort.
Yet still the flames waned; slowly, but quite percep-tibly.
Sweat formed on Rannick’s brow.
Gryss willed himself to absolute silence and turned away from Rannick in an attempt to make himself wholly insignificant. If Rannick was about to fail at the heart of this monstrous boast, then his wrath would be appalling and could fall on anyone at the least provoca-tion.
Rannick began to breathe heavily.
Gryss forced words into his mouth. Words that might perhaps enable Rannick to end this display without loss of face. ‘Your power is magnificent, Lord,’ he gasped. ‘Truly awesome. I’d never have thought to…’