by Roger Taylor
‘He’ll be all right,’ he said, in an attempt to comfort Marna. ‘He’s a sensible lad at heart.’
Marna shook her head. ‘They killed his parents, Jeorg. For no reason. Just killed them. It’s done something to him. You saw how he was. I think it’s driven him crazy. I think he’s probably riding back up to the castle right now.’ Her face twisted in pain. ‘They’ll kill him for sure this time. I should have stopped him.’
‘Don’t be silly, Marna,’ Jeorg tried again. ‘You couldn’t have stopped him. And anyway, he won’t be crazy enough to go back for another beating off Nilsson, believe me.’ He winced as a casual movement brought him another unexpected pain. ‘He probably needed to be alone. Perhaps he wanted to cry. Knowing Farnor, that’d be difficult for him in front of you.’
Marna sat down heavily in the chair that she had occupied for much of the day and, leaning forward, put her head in her hands. Her mind was awash with swirling, nameless fears and with images of Farnor alone in the darkness, and of Rannick, crazed and powerful, and, most sinister of all, though she had not thought about it for some time, images of the strange, savage creature that linked both men.
* * * *
Farnor rode through the darkness. The moon gave some light, but the horse had sufficient sense to ignore the urgings of its rider and proceeded at a steady trot.
Each jolting step racked Farnor’s beaten frame, but for a while he was oblivious to it. His whole being was still consumed by a black, driving desire to confront and destroy Rannick. On his immediate return with Gryss and the others, he had been struggling with the fear and humiliation that he had suffered during his beating by Nilsson. The humiliation in particular had risen to dominate him as the immediate pain of the beating had begun to fade. Its roots seemed to go deeper even than the cringing childishness to which he had been reduced and, as Gryss had surmised, he felt degraded in a way that he would never have imagined possible.
But, in its turn, this too had faded, or, rather, been overwhelmed as a terrible urging had arisen to seek out the source of this horror and destroy it. It, too, seemed to come from some depths beyond his awareness, if not from somewhere quite beyond him.
Yet, as Jeorg had declared, Farnor was a sensible lad at heart and gradually the complaints of his body began to force their way through his dark passion, bringing with them shadows of the fear and humiliation once more. He allowed the horse to slow to a walk. His hand went to his belt; the knife that had killed his mother was still there. More humiliation – Nilsson had considered him too trifling an opponent even to be disarmed while he was beating him.
Farnor bared his teeth in unconscious imitation of his tormentor, then drew out the knife. He tested its edge. It was as sharp as if he had honed it only today. But he would have expected nothing else from this. It was a fine knife; his mother’s favourite.
‘And I’ll split you open with it, Rannick,’ he said to the night. ‘And that obscenity you’ve conjured up.’
But even as he spoke the words he knew their false-ness. They were no more than the petulant swearing of a thwarted child. To go to the castle would be to die.
And yet…
And yet, though the words were hollow, the inten-tion was not. That was solid and true. Rannick must be destroyed for what he had done. And destroyed by him, if he was ever to know any peace. A memory of his parents leaning on the farmyard gate suddenly surged over him; his father looking out across the fields and his mother, prompted by some wry remark, turning to slap his arm while at the same time smiling so that the young girl inside burst out through the long-married wife and mother.
The vision was almost unbearable. Farnor clenched his teeth and twisted his fist painfully into his thigh to prevent it from overwhelming him. He must not give way, he told himself. That would be no honour to his parents. He must do what he had to do: finish the task that he had set himself.
The horse had stopped, and he kicked it on again. The sudden, vivid memory of his parents seemed to have left him hollow and empty inside. The future had ceased to exist. Plans that he had never really known he had made were gone. Plans for gradually acquiring his father’s knowledge and skills and for taking over the work of the farm as his father grew older. Plans perhaps for marrying and having children, to elevate his parents to the status of grandparents and to ensure the ancient continuity of the line. Vague though they might have been, they were gone utterly now. All that the future offered was a menacing blackness beyond which lay only further darkness.
And it was Rannick’s fault!
The hatred began to return, filling the emptiness inside him with comforting purposefulness. He would destroy Rannick, one way or another. He closed his hand around the knife hilt. He would indeed split him from end to end for what he had done. He would come to his future again, through Rannick’s blood.
Trailing in the wake of this turmoil, and slave to its decisions, came his rational mind. If he could not kill Rannick by confronting him at the castle, then he must kill him by some act of stealth. He must come upon him when he was alone.
Without realizing what he was doing, he turned the horse off the road and into the lane that led to the farm. He was about to jerk it back on to the road when he changed his mind and allowed the animal its head.
Rooting through the blackened rubble of the farm-house and through the horrific, disordered familiarity of the store-shed was grim work, but he steeled himself to it, once again fighting down those thoughts and memories that strove to unman him and divert him from his purpose. For his purpose would carry him through all things now if he so willed it.
Thus, a while later, Farnor returned to the road with his horse carrying saddle bags filled with food and such tools and other items as he would need to survive alone in the woods.
He could not assail the castle, but he could quietly besiege it. Watching the comings and goings of the men, learning their ways, their routines, watching and waiting until that moment when Rannick would venture out alone. For venture out alone he surely would. Sooner or later, Farnor knew, though he could not have said how he knew it, Rannick would wander to the north to commune with the creature. And when he did…
Farnor laid his hand on the knife in his belt.
But he was going the wrong way. This road would lead him directly to the castle. He tugged the reins gently and the horse turned obediently off the road.
Slowly, Farnor rode over the rolling fields in a wide arc, well away from the castle. On the few occasions when it was clearly in view, he could see little or no activity; just a few slits of light along the walls and the odd torch glimmering on the battlements.
Had their fun for the day, Farnor mused bitterly. A brief vision of the future of the valley under the heel of Rannick and these outsiders came to him, but he dismissed it. He had his own problem to deal with. And, in any event, once that had been dealt with, the head of the serpent would have been cut off and the body should not be too difficult to destroy.
Then he was among the trees. The trees that only weeks ago had seemed as far distant from his world as the moon overhead. So much change so quickly. The thought made him feel uneasy. But then he had seen great boulders buffeted from their ancient resting places by streams suddenly swollen by a rapid thaw or a summer storm. And wasn’t he himself greatly changed from the person he had been but those few weeks ago?
Change was the way of things. Usually slow, imper-ceptible even, but sometimes shatteringly fast. It could not be disputed.
He debated which way to turn. Apart from being dark, this terrain was quite unfamiliar to him. Still, woods were woods; these could not be vastly different from those further down the valley. Hiding places would abound, as would food and shelter when need arose. He would have to find something tonight and then explore in the morning.
A night bird flew noisily out of a nearby tree, star-tling him. His horse whinnied. Calming it, he clicked it forward into the darkness.
Gradually his eyes adjusted to the ill-lit
gloom amongst the trees, though he could distinguish little more than shadows within shadows. All around him was silence, except for the tread of his horse and the occasional scuffle of some hunting night creature. He dismounted and led the horse.
He had not walked very far however, when he felt suddenly exhausted. He was still stiff and sore from the beating he had received, and the emotional upheavals of the day had drained him utterly. Without further consideration, he tethered the horse, took a blanket from his bag and lay down between the jutting roots of a large tree. He fell asleep in the middle of a vague, muttered instruction to his horse.
* * * *
Rannick and his companion moved among the shifting realms that lay between the worlds among which could be found the great sources of power. They were searching, though for what or who they did not know. The creature was fretful and angry, its natural malevo-lence bubbling uncontrollably into Rannick’s mind from time to time so that he felt both its fear and its fury at this ancient enemy which had returned to mar their progress.
Rannick, however, kept his mind above this prime-val anger, kept it alert for some sign that he could recognize. Tonight would be the hunt, tomorrow would be the kill… if the prey could be identified. His journeying tonight would be along the screaming highways of nightmare but his journeying tomorrow would be simple and prosaic, and with cutting steel in his hand. He could not risk using his power against this offender, with his unknown skills, nor, for the same reason, could he risk sending Nilsson’s men to do the deed. It would be a task of smiling surprise and vicious suddenness and one that he alone must do.
So they searched, an unholy duo bound inexorably together by desire and driven now by a fear of the shadow that had threatened their pursuit of that desire.
* * * *
Farnor slept, too tired to dream. His young body, older in wisdom by far than its occupant, held him still and silent while it worked to repair the ravages of the day. From time to time the tiny rodents and other mammals that owned the night forest would investigate him, twitching noses cautiously testing his scent and advising hasty departure. An occasional insect clambered painstakingly over him on its own regular nightly rounds. His horse stood motionless nearby.
The moon moved slowly across the sky.
The castle lay quiet, as did the village, though there were many troubled dreams there.
Then, abruptly, Farnor was awake. Pain echoed through him as he moved, but some instinct kept him from crying out. He looked around into the darkness. He could just make out the dim form of his horse, silent and undisturbed.
What, then, had woken him? Distantly he seemed to hear voices, though perhaps they were no more than the memory of a fading dream mingling with the soft rustle of the leaves about him.
Yet, faint though it was, it was clear.
‘Flee, mover, you are hunted.’
Farnor grunted questioningly, his throat dry. The coarseness of the sound shattered the delicate texture of the dwindling words, if words they were, and they were gone, leaving only the familiar night sounds of the forest.
Farnor considered lying down again, but he was far from comfortable and, besides, he was now wide awake. Cautiously, he levered himself into a sitting position and peered into the darkness again. Nothing was untoward: no sudden silence had fallen; his horse was not restive. He frowned. ‘Mover,’ he whispered softly, trying to recapture the subtle meanings that he had felt hidden within the sound of the word.
But it meant nothing. His voice was as far from what he had heard as children’s pictures in the dust were from the finely etched figures on the ring that hung outside Gryss’s door.
He let out an irritated sigh. Whatever had happened, it had left him too awake to return to sleep while it was still too dark for him to search out a better hiding place.
As these thoughts wandered through his head so the memory of why he was here returned, and the darkness of the night seemed to enter his very soul.
Painfully he wrapped the blanket about himself and settled back against the tree trunk to wait for the dawn.
Slowly, he began to relax. Thoughts of his parents and of the wreckage of his home drifted into his mind, but he set them aside. He did this coldly, but as they continued to return he was obliged to resort to crushing them ruthlessly. There would be time enough for such indulgence when he had destroyed Rannick.
This inner turmoil angered him and after a while he stood up. Despite the warmth of the night and the blanket around him, he shivered.
Yet he wasn’t cold. Why then should he feel such a chill?
Then, with an impact that was almost physical, the presence of the creature was all about him. He flattened himself against the trunk of the tree and cast about desperately, looking for the special shadow within the shadows that would mark the presence of the animal. But there was nothing. Nor too, was his horse distressed, and it, surely, would have felt such a presence if it were nearby.
Yet it was all around him.
Farnor stood very still, scarcely daring to breathe. He must learn about this creature, for it was Rannick’s creature. Or he its. Either way, to learn of one was to learn of the other.
The memory of the incident in the courtyard came back to him. Of something that had reached out from within him and denied the harm that was being brought here. The images meant nothing to him; places that were here and yet not here? Power that was great only because it did not truly belong?
Yet whatever they meant they were vivid and, he knew, accurately remembered.
As, too, was the memory that he had reached out and stopped this… unlawful?… dangerous?… flow!
Or some part of him had.
He did not dwell on the thoughts, however; the per-vasive presence of the creature forbade that. Farnor clung almost desperately to the knowledge that, whatever was happening, the thing itself was not nearby. He could rely on his horse and the forest dwellers to tell him that.
Nonetheless, he drew the knife from his belt and gripped it tightly.
As he did so, the thought formed in his head; I shall kill you, you abomination. You do not belong. You never belonged.
The presence about him shifted, as if it had heard something. Farnor could feel its power, drawn again from a place which should not be here. He felt some-thing stir faintly within him, but it faded as the creature’s presence moved away again. There was something familiar about the way in which the presence came and went.
It was hunting, he realized sharply.
Then, chillingly, he felt another presence mingling with that of the creature, riding it almost, both guiding and following.
Rannick!
Farnor’s grip on the knife tightened further.
He felt anger and hatred surging up inside him.
‘Flee, mover, you have not…’
Farnor started as the voices whispered softly to him. His mind jerked towards them but that very action again dispelled the subtle sound and the message was lost to him.
Who are you? he thought, but there was no reply. Fearfully, he gritted his teeth and pressed himself back against the tree trunk.
Was he going insane? Quivering in the silent woods beyond the castle, clutching his mother’s favourite knife and hearing voices, feeling the presence of a creature that he had never seen?
He felt as though his mind were teetering on the edge of a terrible darkness from which he could never return if he tumbled in. He heard the heavy thumping of his heart and the harsh rasping of his breath. All around he sensed forces moving, though to what end he could not even begin to guess.
It seemed to him that he stood on this fearful edge for an eternity of time, waiting.
Waiting…
But for what…
Faint ribbons of thought flitted through the dark-ness. Gryss, who had listened and believed; Marna, who had listened and believed; Rannick who had looked into the entrails of the slaughtered sheep and found – what…? A wind that had slammed a wicket door on his arm. His han
d reached for the bruised arm and squeezed it hard.
The pain cut through the darkness like distant lightning in the night sky, and the twisting ribbons of thought became like the pennants of an approaching army; sharp-etched against the gloom; confident and bold.
No! For all its appalling strangeness, what was hap-pening was happening and it was real. It was no rambling disorder from inside himself.
I’m here, Rannick! Farnor called into the creature’s watching silence.
‘No…’ came the voices in despair.
And, on the instant, Farnor felt the truth of their concern. For the presence of the creature was about him now as it had been on his flight back to the ruin of his home. Vast and overwhelming. Power pouring through huge rents in reality that must surely be beyond any repairing.
And with it was Rannick’s will, malevolent and wild with rage.
* * * *
‘Farnor Yarrance,’ Rannick whispered to himself in the darkness of his communion with the creature. ‘Farnor Yarrance. It was you who defied me. Who stood in my light and marred my power.’
It was beyond belief that such a thing could be. That a beaten and broken farmer’s boy should have such a skill. And that he should come now with a defiant challenge.
But in the same instant, he knew that his concerns had been of no account. For all that happened in the courtyard, the farm boy’s will was no more than an autumn leaf caught in a winter wind. He could not prevail against the might that he, Rannick, now possessed; a might that grew daily both in its totality and in the refinement of its use.
Tomorrow Farnor Yarrance would pay the penalty for his rash interference. There could be no escape for him. Rannick smiled. There would be the joy of the hunt and then the joy of the slow destroying. That this would also serve to quell further the spirit of the villagers added an exquisite savour to the prospect.