Gradually, as the routines of the morning carried him further from his troubled memories and dreams, Yeorson’s mood became less vicious and, by the time they were ready to move, he had mellowed into his usual, supercilious self.
He stared up at the cliff. ‘I’ll have to go with them myself,’ he said to Storran. ‘No point sending any of these up there on their own. They’ll only come back with half a tale. Will you take the rest and see if you can find that yokel? He’s sure to have left tracks.’
‘What do you want us to do with him?’ Storran asked, drawing a finger across his throat inquiringly.
Yeorson shook his head and smiled unpleasantly. ‘Just invite him back here, then we’ll decide on the details,’ he said. ‘It was a mistake to let him get away last night. There’s something about him that we need to get to the bottom of whether he likes it or not.’
‘I agree. But Nilsson? And the villagers?’ Storran said.
Yeorson shrugged. ‘If we’re careful, we’ll be able to take his remains back sorrowfully and say we found him…’ He hesitated.
‘At the foot of a cliff?’ Storran offered.
Yeorson nodded shrewdly. It was one of several alternatives that would suit their ends without bringing Nilsson’s wrath down on them.
Thus, Rannick’s fate agreed, the two parties set off, leaving the horses tethered and in the charge of Meirach, who was too sore to do much walking.
Yeorson’s group headed up the hill towards the cliff. It was an untidy and awkward journey, there being little in the way of a clear route and a great deal of dense undergrowth and treacherously loose ground.
As they toiled upwards, however, Yeorson’s mood became almost cheerful. He buried rather than set aside his foolish night thoughts, and began to look forward to the return to camp and the sport that would be had with Rannick when Storran brought him back.
The prospect was still cheering him when they even-tually rose above the tree line and found themselves scrambling over the mounds of rocks that footed the cliff face proper. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he turned to look across the valley. It was as it had been when he had climbed the tree the previous day: trees in every direction, a sea of rich and varied greens, motionless in the windless morning and with faint wisps of mist rising here and there. It was a scene of great beauty and peace. Yeorson, however, curled his lip in irritation.
He had been right about the valley turning, though.
‘Move on,’ he said, pointing north along the cliff face.
‘Let’s get to that headland. We should be able to see quite a way from the other side.’
Storran’s group had easier going of it. Rannick had indeed left tracks, tracks that needed no great skill to follow: footprints, crushed grass, broken twigs. Storran pouted with delight when he encountered them. There should be no difficulty in finding him. He could not have travelled far at night, and he had probably never thought that anyone would bother to follow him.
He chuckled and motioned his group forward. ‘Qui-etly, lads,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to disturb him, do we? And show some diplomacy when we catch up with him, please. I’d much rather we persuaded him to come back with us of his own accord.’ He chuckled again. ‘Save us the trouble of carrying him.’
As the two groups moved further apart, Meirach wandered aimlessly about the camp. From time to time he took his water bag and splashed his hands and face. His burns were sore as the devil and he could not wholly dispel the feeling that it had been Rannick who had caused the log to fall on to him. He did not dwell on the fact that Rannick had been sitting on the far side of the fire and well away from it.
He splashed his face again and winced. What wouldn’t he do to that village idiot when Storran brought him back!
And yet…
There had been something unpleasantly familiar about Rannick. Something that at least part of him was not entirely sure it wanted to meet again.
His reverie was broken by an urgent whinnying from one of the horses. The noise spread rapidly to the others and they began to mill around, tugging at the tether line.
Swearing, Meirach strode towards them. Stupid animals, it was probably a fox nearby.
‘Meirach,’ came a voice.
It had an edge to it that made his skin crawl. He spun round, searching for the speaker.
A figure came into focus emerging from the trees. Meirach felt a frisson of both elation and alarm. It was Rannick.
But even at this distance Meirach could see that he had changed. His gait alone was confident and assured.
He must have seen the others leave, Meirach thought. Perhaps come back to steal from the camp.
Still, he had met and dealt with cocksure individuals often enough before today, and they all went the same way; there was a world of difference between looking confident and being capable.
The horses became more and more disturbed as Rannick drew nearer. Meirach roared at them furiously, but that served only to increase their distress. He picked up a stick with the intention of beating them into submission, but as he reached the tether line one of them swung sideways in panic and caught him full on, sending him sprawling backwards to the ground.
A powerful hand yanked him to his feet.
‘Tell me about yourselves,’ Rannick said, without preamble.
Meirach tore himself free and stared at him in disbelief. ‘Go to hell,’ he shouted.
Rannick turned to the frantic horses irritably. He closed his eyes slightly and the horses became suddenly still.
His attention turned back to Meirach. ‘Tell me about yourselves,’ he said again.
Meirach’s already livid face coloured further in a combination of fear, bewilderment and rage as he struggled to find some way of coping with this bizarre development. Faced with such uncertainty, his old fighting instincts prevailed. He’d master the situation better when he’d mastered its creator.
Without a vestige of warning he swung his clenched fist straight up to strike Rannick’s chin. Coming from such an angle, it was a blow that would not be seen by the victim until it struck, and it was invariably effective.
But some animal reflex seemed to take command of Rannick and he jerked back and flailed his left arm in front of himself, effectively spoiling the attack. A seasoned fighter, Meirach allowed himself no dismay at this unexpected setback, and without pause, he drove his other hand forward.
There was a brief flicker of surprise in Rannick’s eyes, then they became cold and without pity. Almost casually he stepped to one side to avoid the oncoming attack.
Increasingly angry at this peculiarly elusive victim, Meirach spun round, preparing to follow up his second failed attack. As he did so however, he caught Rannick’s gaze.
And he could not breathe.
All thoughts vanished from his mind except the single one of mortal terror at the leaden weight that had suddenly filled his chest. Convulsively his mouth began to work in an attempt to take in more air. But nothing happened.
‘The air is mine to command, Meirach,’ Rannick said, off-handedly, still staring at him. ‘An ancient gift. You will breathe no more until I allow it.’ He shrugged. ‘And if I feel so inclined then you’ll die.’
Meirach lurched forward, his eyes bulging and his hands clawing the air as if he could seize it and force it into his burning chest or perhaps seize and destroy his tormentor. But his body’s resources were focused totally on its need for air and his legs failed to respond, buckling underneath him. Rannick watched him like a disinterested spectator.
Then Meirach was free. Crouched on all fours and gasping desperately.
Slowly, his breathing settled into some semblance of rhythm.
Then he heard Rannick speaking again.
‘Do you wish to continue attacking me?’
Meirach clenched his teeth and glowered at his as-sailant.
‘I understand,’ Rannick said, sympathetically. ‘But you won’t, will you?’
‘Who in Murral’s name are you?’ Meirach gasped.