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.