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…’
But above his words and above the noise of the flames a faint, distant sound drifted into the courtyard. It was a terrible, nerve-shredding sound; a howling. It might have been a wolf or some wild feline, but it was both and neither. It was agonized and unnatural; an animal noise, but full of all-too-human malevolence.
It was the creature, Gryss’s reason told him; no animal he had ever known would have made such a sound. But he needed no logic; the ancient knowledge in every fibre of his body cried out in response to the sound.
He found his gaze turning back to the flames. They burned less powerfully than before, and a bloody tinge tainted them. Further, there was an aura of struggling effort about them. He was aware of Rannick at the edge of his vision. His face reflected the struggle, grim-shadowed in the light of the flames and glistening with sweat.
It gave Gryss no reassurance to realize that Rannick was not simply struggling to maintain an impressive illusion, but that he was locked in combat with some other power.
Some other will…
Rescued by Gryss’s intervention, Farnor leaned heavily on Harlen’s shoulder. Some remnant of childish pride suppressed any outward expression of the inner turmoil that was racking him except for his arm clutched about his stomach and his mouth held tightly shut. Somehow it was enough to keep him from sinking to his knees and crying out at the pain and the fear; crying out for his father to come and take him away from this awful place, and the determined cruelty that had been let loose upon him; crying out for his father to make all well with the looming figure of Captain Nilsson… He was sure that he and the big man could become friends and end this misunderstanding. Reproachful inner voices reminding him that it was Nilsson who had killed his parents were, for the nonce, lost beneath the pain.
Indeed, the pain and the effort that he was making to restrain this howling inner plea rendered him almost oblivious to everything that was happening around him.
He could hear familiar voices; disputing, perhaps? But they were distant and unclear and there was nothing in them to draw him from his cocoon of pain.
Until a peculiar unease disturbed him. An unease that was beyond himself. And, like the voices, it was familiar. How long had it been there?
Then it was all about him.
Now here, now gone; elusive. Flickering and intan-gible, it seemed to dance through and about him. Its touch was foul. A faint memory returned to him.
A memory of the creature, ferocious and cruel. A memory of Rannick. A memory of the torrent of unrestrained emotion that had rolled over him as he had fled across the fields to find his parents slain and his home destroyed.
And they were all one. Brought together in a loath-some totality that had somehow ripped its way into this place where it did not belong.
And then the memories were gone. Swept aside by something stirring deep within him, as if from a long sleep; something like a faint, distant light. And then it was reaching out and forbidding this intrusion.
The unease faltered and shifted, and then trembled.
Then a will emerged to sustain it.
Rannick’s will! Farnor’s mind thought faintly.
Or the creature’s!
It did not matter.
The light that had come from within him flared and, like a predator finding its prey, it assailed this opposi-tion.
Somewhere, the merest mote, Farnor watched, help-less, floating in a place that was both here and not here; aware of his beaten body, full of pain and fear and leaning still on Harlen, but unburdened by it; aware that the battle that had just been engaged had been at his will, though it was quite beyond his control.
He was…
What…?
That, too, did not matter. He knew only that resolu-tion was needed of him. Implacable determination. What had come here did not belong. In this alien clime, its ability to do harm was beyond measure. The terrible rent through which it had been drawn must be sealed.
And the gift of this sealing lay with him.
But the knowledge meant nothing to him.
Yet he would not be defeated.
He would not be defeated.
He would hold.
There was a timeless interval when all was balanced and still. Somewhere, Farnor knew, the battle was being fought, but he could do nothing other than wait and commit his will to denying this intrusion further entrance.
Then the foulness faltered once again. At first slightly, then with increasing desperation like the scrabbling fingers of a climber at the edge of a rounded ledge.
Was it dying? came the question.
No. That could not be. But it was failing. It was be-ing driven back.
And now it was screaming. But to no avail. It must be returned from whence it came, and everything made well here.
And, with a dwindling, spiralling spasm, it was gone. And there was stillness.
Farnor felt the light, released now, washing back over him, returning him to himself. He felt a myriad sensations as his body closed about him again.
Painful sensations!
Like a dream, both the intrusion and the mysterious opposition to it had passed away. The light had become now the bright sunlight that was filling the courtyard and forcing its way through his partly closed eyes. And the painful sensations focused themselves in his ribs, and his back and his face and… everywhere else that Nilsson had struck.
He heard himself gasp with pain.
The sound seemed to be abnormally loud. He be-came aware of the silence around him, a silence that rang with tension. He forced his eyes to open further.
Everyone in the courtyard was staring at something, though there was nothing there that he could see.
‘What happened?’ he heard Harlen say, his voice soft and full of awe.
‘It vanished.’ It was Gryss replying, in an equally awe-stricken whisper. His hands were by his ears as if he had been covering them. ‘That terrible noise,’ he said in distress.
‘That colour,’ Harlen said. ‘Like blood. I’ve never seen flames like that before. Let’s get away, Gryss, while we can. Something’s gone wrong. Look at Rannick’s face.’
At the mention of Rannick, the eerie interlude that had possessed Farnor vanished from his mind utterly, to be replaced by the savage anger that had brought him to the castle in the first place.
It returned to urge him forward to destroy this abomination, as if it had never been halted. Harlen seized him as soon as he started to move, however.
‘For pity’s sake, Farnor,’ he hissed. ‘What are you doing? Look at him. We’re dead men.’