Chapter 35
‘We’re dead men.
The terrible, shaking fear in Harlen’s words brought a final awakening to Farnor, heightening the racking pains of the beating that Nilsson had given him. He must have fainted, he decided hazily, and something bad had happened while he had been unconscious.
But what?
He looked at Gryss, who in his turn was staring fixedly at something. Following the old man’s gaze Farnor turned to see Rannick. His face was a mask of bewildered fury.
‘Down,’ Gryss muttered frantically, dropping on to his knees and bowing his head. ‘Get down!’
Compelled by the urgency in his voice, Harlen and Yakob also fell to their knees. Farnor had little choice: he staggered as the support he had been receiving disappeared, then Harlen’s hand seized his arm and dragged him down. He managed not to cry out as the pain of his knees striking the hard paving added itself to the others that were vying for attention. He leaned forward to take some of his weight on his arms.
‘Lord Rannick, forgive us.’
Despite his preoccupation with his pain, Farnor became aware of Gryss speaking. Cautiously he looked at the old man. Gryss’s head was still bowed and, reminding Farnor of a beaten dog, he was conspicuously avoiding looking directly at Rannick.
‘We did not understand how great your power had become…’ Gryss faltered momentarily then hastened on. ‘How great a power you had achieved, Lord. How could we have known of such a wonder as you’ve just deigned to show us?’
Horror and shame filled Farnor. What was happen-ing? He would not bow to this savage. This was Rannick, the murderer of his parents, the master of that creature…
But Harlen’s hand held him fast and tightened as he tried to move.
Gryss was continuing. ‘We have seen the measure of your great power. Forgive us, Lord, we beg of you. Let us go now so that we may spread the news of your greatness through the valley that all may know what we now know.’
There was a long silence. Farnor made another at-tempt to protest, but Harlen’s grip became almost vicious and he could feel the man trembling.
‘Go, then. Get out! And see that I am not troubled further with your foolishness.’ Rannick’s voice was strained and angry.
‘Lord,’ Gryss acknowledged, bowing lower.
Still avoiding Rannick’s gaze, he clambered awk-wardly to his feet and motioned the others to follow him. Harlen and Yakob exchanged a quick glance then they stood up quickly, yanked Farnor unceremoniously upright and, eyes lowered, dragged him towards the gate.
‘What are you doing?’ Farnor said, furiously strug-gling to keep his balance.
‘Shut up,’ Harlen and Yakob hissed simultaneously, hustling him on. Harlen’s voice was shaking. ‘Let’s get out of here before he changes his mind.’
Before he fully realized what was happening, Farnor had been dragged through the shade of the gate arch and out into the sunlight again.
He clutched at normality in an attempt to reach through to his two relentless guides. ‘Where are the horses?’ he asked.
They did not relax their pace. ‘Over the hill and half way to the capital by now, I expect,’ Yakob replied acidly. ‘Judging by the speed they left the castle.’
More gently, Harlen sought to reassure. ‘No, they’ll be grazing their way back to the inn.’ Farnor, however, was indifferent to the fate of the horses. He finally gathered enough wit and strength to shake himself free. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.
A powerful push in the back sent him lurching for-ward. He cried out as the impact jarred every pain in his body.
‘Just keep moving,’ came Gryss’s grim voice from behind. ‘We can slow down when we’re out of sight of the castle.’
Farnor turned on him angrily, but there was a look on Gryss’s face that he had never seen before: a profound fear coupled with an equally profound determination. He held the old man’s gaze for a moment, then faltered before it. Without speaking he turned away from him and began limping along the road. Harlen and Yakob came either side of him but he rejected their support.
Nothing more was said for some time until, well away from the castle, they moved into the shade of some trees. ‘Let’s get off the road,’ Gryss said. ‘I want to have a look at Farnor.’
As they entered the trees the pace eased, as did also the discipline that had kept them stone-faced and silent.
‘What happened? What was all that?’ Yakob asked nobody in particular, a note near to hysteria in his voice. ‘Where did those… flames… come from… or whatever they were?’
Gryss had taken Farnor’s arm and was directing him to a grassy embankment. ‘That was Rannick,’ he replied savagely, sitting Farnor down and crouching to examine him. ‘That was our sour faced village lout coming to full flower. His family taint breaking out in him like a great boil.’
‘But…’
‘But nothing. You saw him. Somehow, he’s in charge there now,’ Gryss said, without turning from his examination of Farnor. ‘And don’t ask me how any of it’s come about, or how he made those flames. It was no conjurer’s trickery for sure. I can feel the heat of them still.’ He shuddered. ‘And that terrible colour as they faded…’
‘And the noise,’ Harlen added.
Gryss nodded. ‘From what he said, I suspect he only learned to make those flames yesterday at…’ He hesitated and looked at Farnor unhappily. ‘At Farnor’s farm.’
Yakob had been pacing up and down, his face dark and frowning, but the reference to Farnor’s personal tragedy made him stop and grimace in self-reproach. ‘I‘m sorry, Farnor,’ he said. ‘It’s just that… what happened up there frightened me so much it made me forget you’re the only one who’s really been hurt.’
Farnor was in no mood for such solicitude however. ‘What did happen?’ he demanded. ‘And why are we running away from that murderous dog? I want him…’ He cried out and pushed Gryss away roughly. ‘Watch what you’re doing, you idiot. That hurt.’
Gryss regained his balance, then his hand shot out and slapped Farnor across his already bruised face. ‘And you watch your lip, young Farnor. You nearly got yourself killed, barging in there like that. Not to mention the rest of us for following you.’
‘I never asked you…’ Farnor began.
‘Enough!’ Gryss thundered.
Then he abandoned his examination and sat down by his patient, his head in his hands.
No one spoke.
A small bird fluttered to the ground nearby, studied the motionless quartet with a cold yellow eye for a moment and then flew off again.
The rapid pulse of its beating wings made Gryss look up.
‘Come on,’ he said, turning back to Farnor and put-ting a hesitant hand on his shoulder. ‘You’ve been badly knocked about, and we’ve all been badly frightened. Let me see if there’s anything that needs immediate attention and then we’ll go back to my cottage.’ He looked round at Harlen and Yakob. ‘Perhaps before we get there one of us can think of how we’re going to break the news to the rest of the village.’
Rannick rode slowly through the woods. Outwardly he was icily calm, but inwardly his mood oscillated between craven fear and blinding fury; fear that forces were arising that could oppose him in the fulfilment of his destiny, and fury that he could not identify the source of this opposition.
The demonstration of his new-found powers had seemingly been successful. Certainly it had impressed the men, and it had brought that old fool Gryss and the others literally to their knees. That at least was some consolation. He had been right, and Nilsson wrong. All the villagers needed was a display of power and they would present no future problems. Diplomacy and goodwill were items he might choose to use later as his domain spread, but for now why squander them?
But this was trivial. He snatched his mind back to his main concern. His demonstration had been, in reality, a disaster. He rubbed his arm where Katrin had stabbed him. It had been a savage gash, long and deep, but if he rolled up his sleeve he would see now only a thin, well-healed scar. Since his contact with the creature and the knowledge he had gained thereby, his healing skills had developed incredibly. But he would willingly have given his entire arm for the truth that had been revealed to him as a result of Katrin’s fearsome attack.