Nilsson gave an apologetic shrug. ‘We’ve a lot to do, I’m afraid.’
Farnor clambered over the gate.
‘Get on behind me, boy,’ Nilsson said, anxious to avoid further conversation.
Farnor did as he was bidden, rather self-consciously putting his arms around the big man for support. Seeing his son’s embarrassment Garren chuckled again, but Nilsson allowed him no time to give his amusement voice; with a wave of acknowledgement he pulled his horse’s head around and urged it forward into the darkness.
The journey to Gryss’s cottage passed in silence except for Farnor’s occasional instructions. Not that that distressed Farnor in any way. Being seated astride this horse, which like all the gatherers’ horses was larger than any that had ever been seen in the valley, and hanging on to a King’s man, more than compensated for the slight of being referred to as ‘boy’.
For a while he imagined himself galloping over the rolling valley fields on the great horse in search of bold adventures. But rather to his annoyance it soon palled, causing him to muse ruefully that his imaginings of late seemed to have less power, to hold less interest for him, since…
Since when?
Since little more than two or three weeks ago, he realized quite suddenly. Not since his encounter with Rannick had he found the old excitement in his daydreams.
He felt the patient, powerful movement of the horse beneath him carrying him relentlessly on.
I must be growing up, he thought. The notion caught him unawares and, surreptitiously, he glanced from side to side into the darkness as if concerned that some unseen eavesdropper might have mysteriously caught wind of this uncomfortable admission.
‘What’s the matter?’ Nilsson asked.
Farnor started. How could this man have noticed such a slight movement?
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘We’re nearly there.’ He leaned to one side and pointed to a light shining through the trees. ‘That’s it, over there.’
The light came from a small lantern that, like most of the valley dwellers, Gryss lit every night. The origins of the practice had long passed from memory. Certainly the lights were rarely of any value as anyone who was likely to be about at night tended to carry his own small sunstone lantern. Farnor, in fact, found the practice annoying. Living away from the village, he was used to walking about in the darkness, and the presence of bright lights destroyed his night vision. As far as he was concerned, they obscured more than they illuminated.
As Nilsson drew his horse to a halt, Farnor slithered down and walked to the door of the cottage. Nilsson dismounted and followed him. At the door Farnor tugged on the iron ring. The small bell tinkled cheer-fully.
Then the ring was taken from his hand. He released it without any resistance but turned, curious. Nilsson was examining the ring intently. But his face was a mask: its heavy lines etched so deeply by the light of the lantern that it seemed as though the night itself had carved them.
A surprised and slightly indignant bark from the other side of the door forestalled any questions that Farnor might have been considering and, almost immediately, the door was opened.
‘Where did you get this ring from, old man?’
Nilsson’s question was asked abruptly, and none too pleasantly. Farnor looked at him sharply, shocked by this unexpected rudeness.
‘Good evening, Captain, Farnor,’ Gryss said, wilfully courteous. ‘What brings you here so late? One of your men sick? Someone injured?’ He leaned forward. ‘You look a little pale yourself, actually.’
Nilsson seemed to recollect himself. He made no apology for his sudden question but he gently lowered the ring so that the bell did not sound. The dog barked again however.
‘No,’ Nilsson said, a little awkwardly. ‘I…’
‘Do come in, Captain,’ Gryss said, cutting across the hesitation. Nilsson stooped unnecessarily as he stepped into the cottage. Uncertain what was expected of him, Farnor followed and quietly closed the door.
‘I bought the ring many years ago from a trader when I was away over the hill,’ Gryss said with forced amiability as he shuffled down the hallway. ‘Have you seen something like it before? I’d be interested to know where it came from.’
‘No, no,’ Nilsson said hastily, as he narrowly avoided tripping over the dog which was lumbering along in front of him. ‘It just… caught my eye.’
Gryss nodded and grunted but did not pursue the matter.
He led Nilsson into the back room and offered him the wicker chair opposite his own. Nilsson, however, sat down on the bench by the long table and leaned forward on to his folded arms. Farnor hovered in the doorway, seemingly forgotten by both men.
Gryss settled himself into his chair then looked at Nilsson purposefully.
‘How can I help you, Captain?’ he asked.
Nilsson was direct. ‘Do you know a man called Ran-nick?’
Farnor’s attention sharpened.
‘Yes,’ Gryss replied.
‘Tell me about him,’ Nilsson said, straightening up and looking at the old man directly.
‘Is he in trouble?’ Gryss asked.
‘He might be.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘Just tell me about him,’ Nilsson persisted.
Gryss shrugged. ‘There’s nothing much to tell,’ he said. ‘He’s a general… labourer, I suppose you’d call him. Has a cottage just outside the village and a small piece of land, which he assiduously neglects. He earns his keep by doing odds and ends about the place. He’s capable enough when the mood takes him. Very intelligent, I suspect. But he’s got a surly, not to say downright unpleasant disposition. Seems to think that someone owes him a living. He’s not one of the most popular people in the valley.’ He paused briefly then repeated his question. ‘What’s he done?’
Nilsson again did not answer. ‘Can you show me where he lives?’ he asked instead.
‘Certainly,’ Gryss replied. ‘But he’s not there at the moment, nor has been for the last few weeks.’
A flicker of annoyance passed over Nilsson’s face. ‘Where can I find him then?’ he asked.
Gryss leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said. ‘Rannick often disappears for days, sometimes weeks, on end. No one knows where he goes, no one asks.’
‘And no one cares, I gather,’ Nilsson added.
Gryss nodded. ‘If you’ll tell me why you’re interested in him I might be able to help in some way,’ he offered.
Nilsson thought for a moment. ‘Some of my men met him when they were exploring the valley beyond the castle,’ he said. ‘They were concerned about him.’
Gryss could not keep the surprise from his voice. ‘They met him to the north of the castle?’ he said, his eyes wide with surprise, yet oddly piercing.
‘Some considerable way to the north,’ Nilsson re-plied, watching Gryss carefully.
The old man shook his head. ‘I can’t think what he was doing up there,’ he said. ‘As far as I know, no one from the valley has been beyond the castle within living memory.’ He gave Nilsson a stern look. ‘But it’s no crime to wander the countryside as far as I’m aware. Why should he be in trouble?’
Nilsson seemed to be taken unawares by this ques-tion. His answer was hesitant. ‘There’s some kind of vicious animal out there,’ he said awkwardly. ‘A large dog gone wild, I imagine. Or perhaps a pack. We lost one of our horses to it.’
Standing behind him, half in the room and half in the hallway, Farnor felt his insides go cold. The memory of his contact with the creature that had been worrying the sheep had faded since the abandoning of the night watch and he had deliberately turned his thoughts away from it, though it lay in the background of his life like a storm cloud on a far horizon. Now, however, in the wake of Nilsson’s words it returned in all its horror and the storm clouds were dark and ominous, and overhead. For a moment he felt nauseous and dizzy. He steadied himself against the door jamb.
‘A horse?’ Gryss gasped, lurching upright in his chair. ‘You had a horse killed?’ He was almost shouting. ‘Whatever killed our sheep was big, but… a horse!’ He stared at Nilsson, genuinely alarmed. ‘And you think Rannick’s up there, in the same area as this… crea-ture?’