Farnor ft-1

by Roger Taylor

  Rannick wallowed in the glow of his triumph. Truly great powers were guiding and protecting him, to lead him so ingeniously to expose the one person in the valley who might have opposed him. His destiny, as ever, ran true.

  But something was amiss.

  The creature was disturbed. Rannick sensed its unease, and the awakening of its most ancient hunting instincts.

  No, he instructed. Not in the village. Not yet. Your time for that will come. There will be enough to sate even you in the future. But not yet.

  But though the creature heard and responded, still it stirred restlessly. Rannick felt his restraint tested, though in anxiety rather than defiance.

  He had a fleeting image of fleeing prey.

  Fleeing!

  He jolted into wakefulness. As he had felt Farnor’s puny challenge, so Farnor had felt the weight of his awesome response.

  And he was running!

  Rannick and the creature became as one.

  Go! Rannick hissed into the lusting hunter. Go, hunt him down. He is yours. Let the whole valley be awak-ened to the ringing of his screams echoing from the peaks!

  Chapter 37

  Blind fear filled Farnor. The power pervading the eerie presence of both Rannick and the creature was formi-dable. There were strange stirrings in him, but nothing, he knew, could oppose what was now levied against him. He was a sapling in the path of an avalanche that could sweep away an entire forest.

  Just as Nilsson’s cruel fighting expertise had casu-ally destroyed his shield of anger and hatred to leave him exposed, shivering and helpless against the icy blasts of reality, so now did Rannick’s power.

  All his intentions of watching the castle and pa-tiently waiting for the time when he would come upon Rannick alone vanished before the weight of the ancient malevolence that was turning towards him.

  He was dimly aware of the voices again, urgent this time, and fear-laden.

  ‘Flee, mover, flee!’

  But he needed no such urging. Almost without real-izing what he was doing, he was mounting his horse and kicking it forward. Instinctively it turned towards the village.

  ‘No’ said the voices inside him.

  They coincided with his own raucous shout, ‘No!’ The valley was Rannick’s now; he could not go that way. He yanked the reins violently. Unused to such treat-ment, the horse reared and nearly unseated him, but desperation kept him in the saddle. Then the horse leapt forward. Farnor grabbed at its mane to keep his balance, then, as a low branch skimmed through his hair, he ducked and wrapped his arms about the horse’s neck. As the horse gathered speed, he remained in this position.

  All around him – indeed, almost part of him – the presence of Rannick and the creature swung to and fro, searching. It seemed to Farnor that there was nothing in the entire world except these two malevolent wills seeking him out: Rannick taunting, vicious and triumphant; the creature primordial and savage, and focused utterly on its ordained prey.

  ‘Run, horse, run!’ Farnor whispered, over and over, as if to cry out would be somehow to draw the attention of the searching creature.

  And the horse ran, Farnor clinging to it like a terri-fied child to its mother, his bruised body begging for relief from the merciless pounding but his fear allowing it no voice. Dark-shadowed trunks flitted by, leafy branches reached down and brushed over him mock-ingly. Occasionally he became aware of the moon peering through the canopy above, as if it were gallop-ing after him, marking his demented progress for the creature to follow.

  And still the presence of the creature was about him, hunting, scenting.

  Yet fragments of coherent thought broke through the relentless rhythm of Farnor’s flight.

  The creature could feel his presence, his naked fear, and it knew that he was fleeing. But it did not know where he was. Briefly he found that his vision was not his own. It was steadier, and closer to the ground; and the sky was different. And, too, strange scents pervaded him, feeding a swirling mass of ancient hatreds that some part of him shied away from, so once again he was himself, pain-racked and frantic, hanging on desper-ately to his galloping horse.

  Whatever else the creature might be, he discovered, it was still an animal and, in seeking him out, it was constrained by the limitations of its body.

  The creature’s frustration and anger washed over him even as the thought came to him.

  ‘Run, horse. Run!’

  So much pain!

  ‘Find him. Find him. He is yours,’ Rannick encour-aged.

  Distance. Surely nothing could outrun this charging animal that he was clinging to? The creature had the woods to roam to find his scent before it could begin to pursue him.

  Yet Rannick was gloating. He had no doubts about the success of this hunt.

  Even before Farnor could ponder the reasons for this, a sudden breeze struck him from one side. The horse veered under the impact, but did not slow down appreciably. To Farnor’s horror, the breeze was redolent with the presence of Rannick.

  He had searchers of his own.

  Farnor’s stomach tightened agonizingly. He was found!

  ‘Run, horse. Run!’

  The breeze gathered strength and began to tear at him. Farnor wanted to scream his terrifying urgency to the horse, but he knew it would be futile. Besides, the sudden tormenting wind had, in itself, put more fear into the horse. All Farnor could do now was hold on, tighter and tighter.

  He caught another fleeting glimpse of the sky. A pattern of stars struck him. They pointed to a solitary star.

  North. He was heading north. For an instant, fears mingled. The fear of Rannick and creature, and the fear of what lay ahead in the mysterious land to the north. The Great Forest, whose existence had hovered with an uneasy menace in the background of his childhood years. But that fear was distant, and hedged about by as many years of homely security, and it was as nothing compared to the horror gathering behind him.

  The buffeting breeze stopped as abruptly as it had started. Farnor felt Rannick’s will luring it back; he knew that it would be carrying its precious perfume back to the creature.

  ‘Run, horse. Run!’

  And then the hatred about him changed. It changed from being vague and dispersed to being sharp and focused. Farnor could feel the creature pausing to test the scent that it had been given, and then gathering its terrible resources to commit them to the simple, single-minded pursuit of its prey.

  The moon still dashed relentlessly overhead, mark-ing his passage.

  And the creature was coming!

  Even the horse seemed to sense the change in their common danger. Its neck bent low and its pounding speed increased. It occurred to Farnor that the horse was quite likely to run itself to death, but his own terror swamped any compassion. All that mattered was that it outran this dreadful pursuer and gave him a chance to reach some kind of safety.

  ‘Run, horse. Run!’

  Farnor was the creature again. Moving faster now by far than when it had been hunting back and forth seeking his scent. Briefly he tried to use this strange possession to redirect it, to make it stumble, to run it into a tree, a bush… anything. But to no avail. He was himself again on the instant, brushed aside effortlessly by a greater will.

  There was no hope for him except speed.

  And he was moving downhill now, he realized. They must have passed the head of the valley and be heading down into the land to the north.

  He wondered where he would find himself if he survived this chase, but the thought was gone almost before he noted it. He could feel the creature closing the distance between them relentlessly, yet as its presence about him grew stronger, he felt Rannick’s growing weaker. A faint spark of hope began to glimmer in the darkness.

  But it fanned into no great blaze. The creature’s presence was as massive as it was baleful. Indeed, as Rannick’s influence seemed to wane so the creature’s savagery grew.

  And then he could hear it. Penetrating even into the thunderous tumult of his flight came a
n intermittent baying, partly a frantic, frustrated screaming, partly a demented roaring.

  And the horse heard it too. It missed its footing as its fear began to turn into outright panic. Belatedly Farnor’s concern turned towards his mount. If the horse stumbled at this speed then, if the fall did not kill him, the creature certainly would. With an effort he changed his goading litany to a more soothing one.

  ‘Easy, easy,’ he whispered.

  It had no effect; the sound of the creature was grow-ing louder. Farnor’s instincts overwhelmed his reason.

  ‘Run, horse. Run!’

  Then for the briefest of moments, but with appalling horror, he saw himself, with keen night-eyed vision, draped over the neck of the horse scarcely a hundred paces away, galloping through the trees. As he became himself again he felt an acid, lustful taste in his mouth, and a chilling hint of the ancient and awful emotions now dominating the creature.

  He managed to turn his head to peer into the dark-ness behind, to search for his pursuer, but he could see nothing. He had not the vision of this dweller in the darkness.

  He closed his eyes and buried his head in the throb-bing neck of the horse.

  And waited.

  Somewhere in the heart of his terror he knew that he was beyond Rannick’s will. But it was of no conse-quence; his terrible envoy was here to do his bidding, and within a count of heartbeats its dreadful crushing jaws would be upon him.

  His whole being filled suddenly and totally with the comforting musty scent of the horse and the rich night perfumes of the trees and crushed forest turf.

  But the creature’s presence penetrated this flimsy shield and reached right into him. From deep in the darkness of his inner self, Farnor felt a scream forming. And a knowledge that it was what was needed, it was what the creature wanted. It would appease its dreadful lust; turn its rage away.

  Yet the scream would not come. Some other inner resource demanded resistance against this pursuing torturer. It reached out and denied the scream, then ensnared and strangled it. But Farnor was scarcely aware of this dispute. Verging on unconsciousness, his dominant thought was to hold on to the horse and to will it forward still faster.

  ‘Run, horse. Run,’ he mouthed, but no sound came now.

  Behind him, the creature drew nearer with each breathless pace.

  * * * *

  Rannick waited, alone in the darkness. Waited for the return of the creature and the knowledge that Farnor was no more. It disturbed him a little to have the creature beyond his influence, but he consoled himself with the thought that it needed no guidance from him to hunt down the fleeing youth, especially after he had given it his scent. And of course, it would return to him. It would never leave him. Brought once again to the world of men by who knew what great upheaval in its deep and ancient lair, it had waited for too long for such as he to abandon him now.

  He had not realized it at the time, but the creature had been desperately weak when he had first ventured into the darkness to find it. Perhaps, he mused in his increasingly rare reflective moments, had it not been so, then he might have perished for his temerity in striving to master it. But master it he had. Once again his destiny had guided him truly.

  He had kept it silent in its lair as the villagers had first searched for it and then stood guard, waiting for it to blunder into their feeble traps. Then he had nurtured it on sheep he had stolen in the confusion. And, throughout, he had grown with it as its terrible power had burgeoned, their two ambitions feeding one from the other.

  But it had only been after the killing of Nilsson’s men that he had come nearer to learning of its true nature. For it drew qualities from the killing of men that it could draw from no other prey – not even the horse it had taken. Qualities other than mere sustenance. Qualities that fed its dark soul.

  From wherever it had come, it had not simply been trained to kill men, nor had it accidentally acquired a taste for them. To hunt, destroy and kill men was engrained in the distorted spiralling weave of its very nature. It had been bred for that purpose and seemingly no other, and nothing, save death, could divert it. Yet a deeper purpose had been written into the making of the creature and all its kind, and those with the gift could reach into its depths and unleash that purpose; could be drawn into the places beyond, where the power lay; could bring it here, where its use was unfettered.

  And such a gift was Rannick’s.

  He closed his eyes ecstatically at the prospect of the creature’s return.

  It seemed to him that with each journey beyond, his enslavement of the creature increased. The vision to see that it enslaved him also was denied him.

  Hitherto, since his meeting with the creature, Ran-nick’s knowledge and skill in the use of the power had grown apace, unhindered by anything other than his own ignorance and inexperience. Then there had appeared that strange marring, that sealing of the ways that had thwarted his demonstration to Gryss and the others. Not that they had noticed it, he presumed, but it had struck him like a physical blow, an icy blast of retribution, and his rapturous vision of his future had faltered and trembled.

  But now that he had identified the cause, and found it wanting, all would be well. Nothing further could stand in his path. Soon all would kneel before his might.

  It was good.

  So he waited in the darkness. Waited for the faint gossamer touch that would tell him that the creature was coming near again. For when it came near, it would not merely have fed on its most desired fare, it would have destroyed the only person who could have defied him.

  * * * *

  ‘Didn’t you talk to him?’ Gryss said, his voice a mixture of anger and hopelessness.

  Marna answered the question yet again. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ she said, heatedly. ‘Of course I talked to him, but me talking and him listening are two different things.’ Her mouth tightened into a thin line and tears of frustration shone in her eyes.

  Gryss finally gave up and sat down heavily. He rested his head on his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Marna,’ he said, quietly. ‘I shouldn’t rant at you. You couldn’t have done other than you did.’ He looked at Harlen, who had returned with him from the meeting along with Jeorg’s wife. ‘And there’s nothing we can do either except wait and see what news comes down from the castle tomorrow.

  Marna’s voice shook as she said, ‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’

  Gryss wanted to say, ‘Of course he will. He’s a sensi-ble lad, and who’d want to hurt him? Farnor, of all people. He’s not got a hurtful bone in his body.’ But he knew that he could not. This was not some child late home for his meal on a sunny evening, or smitten with spots and belly ache. And Marna was no fretful parent.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘If he goes back to the castle they’ll probably kill him out of hand.’

  He heard Marna take in a sharp breath, but he did not relent his words. She did not speak for some time, and the voices of Jeorg and his wife drifted into the room; or, more correctly, the voice of the wife and the occasional submissive grunt from Jeorg.

  ‘Go home and rest,’ Gryss said more gently. ‘Get what sleep you can. You’ve done more than enough today.’ Then, despite himself, ‘I’m sure everything will come right in the end.’ He could not meet Marna’s gaze as he spoke, however, and she laid a compassionate hand on his arm as she stood up.

  Gryss did not notice her unconsciously patting her belt bag as she and Harlen set off towards their home.

  Chapter 38

  There was turmoil. Fears that had hitherto hovered at the edges of awareness like uneasy dreams rolled inexorably forward, proclaiming themselves beyond any denial. The rumbling doubts of years were focusing themselves into an indisputable and immediate certainty.

  ‘It is the spawn of the Great Evil.’

  ‘And it hunts the strange mover.’

  Yet as many doubts swirled about this enigmatic figure as fears about the manifest evil.

  ‘His power is unknown.’

  ‘H
e carries a darkness of his own that is beyond us.’

  But the speed of the events now unfolding de-manded action.

  What was to be done?

  ‘To stay one darkness will be to admit another, and who can say what consequences might flow from that?’

  ‘And who can say what consequences will ensue should the mover fall? There has not been such a Hearer in countless generations. If the spawn of the Great Evil is abroad again, we may have need of such a one, tainted or no.’

  Silence.

  The pain and the fear were faced.

  ‘If it is possible, stay the known evil and admit the Hearer.’

  The conclusion was definitive.

  But the prospect was fearful.

  * * * *

  ‘Run, horse, run!’

  Farnor’s relentless, inaudible litany had become meaningless to him as his plunging journey carried him onward through the darkness, the creature drawing ever nearer.

  He did not look behind. More for fear that he would lose his precarious hold on his terrified mount than of what he might see. For he knew how close the creature was. With almost every heartbeat he seemed for an instant to bond with it; to be possessed by its foul desires, to breathe in the heady odours of the terror of its fleeing prey, to feel his mouth slavering warm, his hair raised stark and stiff. But, worst of all, he would touch fleetingly on the ancient and malevolent will that was powering the still green muscles and sinews.

  Yet it was, perhaps, the horror of this that kept his mind focused on the reality of what was happening rather than yielding to the urge to accept this crazed flight as some nightmarish figment from which he must soon awaken to safety and security.

  For he knew that, although he was fleeing, he was also fighting a battle of some kind. Whatever unholy kinship he had with this creature, he knew that he must resist to the end.

  No.

  He must resist. There would be no true end while he did. Only if he faltered would there be an ending.