‘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.
‘What’s going on?’
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.