‘There is something… unpleasant… about the place,’ he decided eventually as he retreated from the bedroom. ‘Apart from the general mess and decay. There’s a…’
The front door of the cottage opened.
Chapter 17
Nilsson had little or no recollection of the remainder of his journey back to the castle. It was a swirling mael-strom of fears and doubts, of re-awakened and burning ambition, of elation and black despair, the whole interwoven with long-dead memories risen anew and richly lit by the fire of the promise that had been kindled in him.
‘What did you find out, Nils?’
The question reached out to draw him from his deep preoccupation. He looked at the speaker vacantly for a moment. It was Dessane.
‘What did you find out?’ The question came again, Dessane concerned at his leader’s abstractedness. ‘About Rannick?’ he prompted. He stepped back a pace. The light of his torch illuminated both rider and horse. ‘Ye gods!’ he exclaimed. ‘What have you been doing to your horse? It’s in a lather, and it’s petrified.’
Nilsson ignored the questions but swung slowly down from the horse. His face was still intensely preoccupied and he held up his hand for silence.
Despite this unspoken injunction, however, Dessane confronted him urgently.
‘Nils,’ he hissed. ‘What’s happened? Did you run into trouble in the village?’
Nilsson’s eyes focused on him eventually. ‘What’s happened, Arven?’ he echoed. ‘A great deal’s happened. Things that were ended are begun again. From tonight we go in a different direction.’
Dessane scowled in bewilderment at this enigmatic reply. He was half inclined to ask his captain if he had been drinking, but apart from the intrinsic risk in such a question it was patently obvious that he had not. Nilsson when drunk was either dangerously jovial or savagely, coldly, cruel.
Nilsson ended his quandary for him.
‘Tomorrow, Arven,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow. He’ll be here tomorrow, then your questions will be answered.’
‘Who? Who’ll be here?’ Dessane asked in frustration. ‘And what questions?’
‘Tomorrow,’ Nilsson repeated. ‘Leave me now. I need to think, to sleep. I’ll need a clear head when he arrives.’
Dessane opened his mouth to ask, ‘Who?’ again, then gave up. Whatever had affected Nilsson thus, there was no indication of any immediate danger to the group in his behaviour, and it could prove as dangerous to press him in this strange mood as when he was drunk.
‘As you wish, Nils,’ he said, taking the reins from the Captain’s hands and stroking the frightened horse. ‘As you wish. I’ll tend your horse for you.’
But Nilsson made no answer, he was striding pur-posefully away into the darkness.
The morning did not bring Nilsson the clarity he would have preferred, however. He had spent the remainder of the night tossing and turning fitfully, unable to control the uproar in his mind and, indeed, for much of the time unable to tell whether he was awake and imagining or asleep and dreaming.
Nevertheless he was quieter and his thoughts were to some extent more ordered when daylight struck through the narrow window and finally lured him, aching, from his bed. The leader in him rose to the fore as he dashed cold water in his face and began to repair some of the ravages to his appearance the fretful night had wrought.
Had it been a dream?
No. Beyond a doubt, no. Cautiously he flexed his back and felt the stiffness and bruising of his fall, an all-too-tangible confirmation of the night’s event.
Had it been some trickery by Rannick? Nilsson had told the truth when he said that he had seen many wondrous things apparently miraculously conjured into existence which transpired to be no more than base trickery by equally base fraudsters.
Unlikely, a quiet – not to say awed – part of him declared. Apart from some subtle, familiar quality in the man’s very presence, there was the vivid memory of being lifted from his horse and hurled effortlessly through the night at the very moment when his knife should have been ending Rannick’s life.
That had been the power. He had known and felt it before. And Rannick it had been who had wielded it as he stood there motionless in the darkness.
And, too, there was that other, sinister, presence that had touched him briefly. Nilsson shivered. That he had not known before, and whatever it had been he had no desire to know it again.
Yet, though his convictions were more solid in the morning light, his doubts and questions too, were stronger. Where and how could this man have acquired his skills if, as Gryss had said, he had lived in the valley all his life? And how truly adept was he? Nilsson could not begin to answer the first question, and found it impossible to conceive that anyone could have the same awesome ability as his erstwhile lord, but…?
The schemer and tactician in him began to take control. He would have to watch and measure Rannick’s power; watch and measure his skill in dealing with men; discover and direct to his own ends whatever plans this mysterious valley dweller had. Because, unless he learned more about him, that was all Rannick could be: another valley dweller, presumably simple and unlet-tered. Almost certainly he would be, in some ways, as gullible as the rest of the people here.
Nilsson ran his wet hands through his hair and drew himself up straight, pleased with his conclusion. Whatever happened today, he must be seen to be in authority either as Rannick’s indisputable second in command or as his executioner. He checked his various knives and, taking out his favourite, tested its edge. He replaced it with a nod of satisfaction. Whatever hint I gave you last night I’ll not give again, he determined. If a thrust is necessary it’ll be after a smile of support, in your back, and fast.
There was always the possibility, of course, that Rannick would not appear. That presented problems. He could easily fabricate some yarn to explain the previous night’s conduct to Dessane, but future plans would be thrown into confusion.
He pondered various alternatives. He could post-pone Yeorson and Storran’s second exploration of the valley, but that would cause awkward questions as everyone knew that, sooner or later, they would have to leave here. Or he could send it out as he had intended. But what danger was there in that? Why had Rannick chosen to intercept the first group? It occurred to him suddenly, that it might have been solely for the purpose of kidnapping Meirach, or someone – anyone. And the implications of this? Rannick now knew everything about Nilsson and his men; or at least as much as Meirach knew, and that was enough. Adept or crafty faker, it would give him no small advantage in their future dealings.
Too many alternatives and too little information for detailed planning, he decided. He must deal with each thing as it happened, as in battle. The strategy, after all, would be no different: first his personal survival, second his best personal interests.
The morning passed for him in a disjointed, spas-modic manner, punctuated as it was by intervals of unreality as he drifted occasionally into deep reveries, plans and schemes forming and re-forming in his mind while the castle pursued its morning routine.
Not that there was a great deal of routine to be pur-sued. As usual, those who had risen too late for the communal breakfast made their own or did without. The rest did nothing apart from those detailed to guard the walls and the gate, and those who were preparing to leave with Yeorson and Storran.
These latter were acting with commendable effi-ciency. Generally callous in their dealings with other than their own, and typically brutal with one another, Nilsson’s men had an almost incongruously chivalrous horror of abandoning each other and there had been no shortage of volunteers to join the patrol in its search for Meirach.
Feelings were mixed however, as the tale brought back by the first patrol was told and retold, wilfully exaggerated and embellished, inevitably misunderstood and generally allowed to assume a significance far greater than its original reality. Nilsson, assisted by his aides, poured icy scorn on such of these excesses as reached their ears, but it was obvious that a serious morale problem was developing and would continue to develop unless positive action was taken to stop it.