A shadow, dark in the darkness, came towards him.
‘Captain Nilsson,’ the voice said again.
Nilsson drew his knife.
‘My name is Rannick, Captain Nilsson,’ the shadow said. ‘You and I have matters to discuss.’
Chapter 16
‘Who are you, Rannick?’ Nilsson said flatly.
The shadow nodded approvingly. ‘You call my name and yet you ask who I am. I commend your perceptive-ness, Captain. No false blustering about your bewildered men, or Meirach, or your slaughtered horse. Just a simple, direct question. You seek to know my true self. And yet in asking that question you affirm that you know who I am.’ His voice was leisurely and calm, as if they were old friends relaxing over a quiet noonday drink in some peaceful inn, but it seemed to Nilsson that it came in some way from another place, and the slow trickle of old memories that it had invoked at first grew and grew until it threatened to become a flood.
Rannick’s voice cut through the mounting tumult. ‘Do you feel it is meet that I should stoop to tell you what you have told me you already know?’
There was a long silence.
‘You have no answer, I see. At least you do not com-pound your folly by remonstrating with me.’ The shadow nodded again and the voice became concilia-tory. ‘And there is about you the quality of a once true and stalwart servant, so I shall answer your question. I shall tell you what you know. I am a wielder of the power.’
Nilsson’s eyes narrowed. This Rannick had a skill of some kind, beyond a doubt, but the power? That was a nonsense. Then he realized that his hand holding the knife was beginning to sweat.
The survivor in him tested his grip in case it should slip at some crucial moment, then his other hand moved casually over it lest the faint starlight betray its presence.
He cursed himself for a fool and sternly took control of his voice before he spoke.
‘The power!’ he said contemptuously. ‘Spare me your riddles and foolishness, Rannick. I’m no village peasant who thinks these mountains bound the entire world. I’ve seen countless shamans conjure up grandi-ose fantasies of deceit from alehouse tittle-tattle and snatches of camp-fire chatter that they’ve picked up. Seen them build themselves great castles of seeming power for the deception of others from what was no more than gossamer.’ He was almost spitting out his words. ‘In short, I’ve seen too many diviners, priests, necromancers, thaumaturgists and all the other mountebanks of your weary ilk to be other than irritated by you. Or, worse, angered.’
Rannick inclined his head but otherwise gave no response.
Nilsson continued, his anger mounting. ‘Your true prey are the foolish and the gullible. And while you may have deceived some of my men with your trickery, and halted my horse with’ – He shrugged – ‘some noxious nightweed laid across its path, don’t think I don’t see you for what you are. And don’t imagine you’ll live to boast of the deed if you don’t take your leave of me, now, and look to leave the valley while you can. My men would relish hunting you.’
Despite his anger Nilsson felt his mouth go dry, but old reflexes tightened his grip about his knife.
Rannick came closer and rested his hand on the horse’s nose. The horse trembled violently, but did not otherwise move. When Rannick spoke his voice was soft, but a terrible menace permeated it.
‘Your lack of faith disturbs me, Captain. Do not ask me for proof of what you already know. You will find my patience even less than your own.’ He paused. ‘I am your past, Captain. And your future. I am your destiny, just as you are mine.’
The hand patted the horse’s nose and, unexpectedly, Nilsson felt a dark, assured amusement leavening Rannick’s manner. It was more chilling than any threat could have been. ‘I feel your old desires returning, Captain. So many desires whose fulfilment you’d thought had slipped away for ever.’ He paused again, as if listening to something.
‘So many.’ There was a hint of surprise and even admiration, albeit edged with mockery, in his voice. He breathed in audibly. ‘They are like sweet air to me, Captain.’
Nilsson’s reply was harsh. ‘Stand aside, Rannick,’ he said. ‘I told you I’ve seen too many such charlatans to be gulled like my men.’ He bent low towards the shadowy figure by his horse’s head and his voice fell, as if what he had to say would bring a retribution upon him if it were spoken too loudly. ‘And, for your guidance, know that though the one I followed is long dead and his followers scattered far and wide, it would behove you to keep even the thought of him from your mind lest his shade alone stir and shrivel your stunted soul into dust.’
‘Sweet air, Captain,’ came the soft response, indif-ferent to this advice.
Enough, Nilsson decided, and, without warning, he struck. With a speed learned from years of cruel necessity he leaned further forward and thrust his knife at Rannick’s throat.
Rannick did not seem to move, but suddenly Nils-son found himself swept from his saddle and hurled high into the air.
He landed some way from his horse with a winding thud. But worse than the impact of the landing was the fear that swept through him. Fear such as he had not known in many years. Rannick had laid no hand on him, and yet he had been lifted from his saddle effortlessly.
He looked up.
Rannick’s form loomed over him, a deep blackness cut into the dark, starlit sky.
‘Is it you, Lord?’ He heard himself asking, his voice tremulous.
‘No, Captain. Your erstwhile master is truly gone, but his mantle has fallen on me. I am his heir. I shall raise again the banner that he let fall, and you will be at my side leading my army.
Despite his fear, denial rang through Nilsson.
‘No,’ he said, struggling painfully to his feet. ‘This is madness. Whatever skills chance of birth has given you, or you’ve gleaned in this forsaken valley, you’re not he, nor could you ever be. His knowledge was ancient and his power was beyond even your imagining.’
Rannick’s form shifted in the darkness, as if some strange wind were tugging at it.
‘And he failed,’ Nilsson concluded, almost desper-ately. ‘There were others greater who came unheralded and unexpected and slew him. And slew his companions also. And those others live yet, and will slay you if you seek to emulate him.’
‘No,’ Rannick said coldly. ‘My power is guided by an ancient knowledge that even he was not privy to. A knowledge far beyond your understanding. He came but to prepare a path for me. Choose now, Captain. Lead my army and, in the glory of my passing, rekindle and fulfil those ambitions which were promised and which were so cruelly and unjustly torn from you.’
Yes, part of Nilsson cried out. Yes! There was too much truth in the words for his denial to be born.
Yet when he spoke, it was the haggler, the survivor, the soldier who gave him the words.
‘Or?’ he asked, faintly.
Rannick seemed amused again. He opened his arms wide as if to encompass the night. ‘If you would turn from the one true light, then you must face the dark-ness.’
In the silence that followed, Nilsson felt another presence sharing their discourse. A presence full of hard-sinewed power and cruel will that paced silently at some unseen distance. A presence ancient in malevo-lence and cunning and bloodlust but young in the strength of its rending teeth. A presence waiting with infinite patience for a command.
It was the final confirmation.
Yes, the whole of Nilsson cried out this time. Too long he had been hunted and harried for his past service to his lord. It must be no more. Some power had led him to this lonely valley with the shelter offered by its long-sealed castle and the sustenance offered by its foolish people. To deny its will would not merely be futile, it would be… the word teetered at the edge of his mind… it would be blasphemous.
‘Forgive me, my Lord,’ he said, lowering himself on to one knee in obeisance. ‘I will serve you again if you feel me worthy.’
Rannick’s voice was that of a man who had known no doubt about this conclusion. ‘Continue on your way, Captain. I shall come again to you tomorrow.’