Then the wind stopped. It did not quietly fade away, so that like the moment of sleep its passing went unnoticed. It stopped abruptly, as if a great hand had seized it. And with it the rain, too, stopped. The damp silence gradually filled with the sound of innumerable raindrops falling from weary, weighted leaves on to the sodden ground below.
Without command, the column stopped also. The men gazed upwards as if expecting to see some cause for this sudden silence.
Haral did the same, then he looked around at the closely spaced trees fading into the distant gloom. His unease grew. Probably because it was a good place for an ambush by men who knew how to use such terrain, he decided. He tried to reassure himself further. It was no hunting ground for a large animaclass="underline" too little game, too little cover.
His horse whinnied, making him start slightly. As he reached up to comfort it, a movement caught his eye. His head jerked round. Even as he was turning, he saw that Bryn’s description had been accurate. Moving so swiftly that he could make out little of its appearance, a black shadow emerged from the darkness and launched itself at the last man in the column.
Haral had scarcely taken a step forward, and his cry was still forming in his throat, as he saw the man tossed effortlessly into the air and dragged off into the trees. The man’s nerve-tearing scream struck him like an axe blow.
Some reflex made him cry out, ‘Hold the horses!’ as he threw his reins to Bryn and began to run along the column.
But few heard the command. Panic struck the rear of the column immediately with a force greater than that of the attacker. The last horse, now untended and screaming like an echo of its erstwhile rider, galloped off into the gloom while men and horses scattered in all directions in a belated attempt to avoid the long-past attack.
Shouting, ‘Hold the horses! Hold the horses!’ Haral snatched a spear from the nearest horse and set about his panicking men with the shaft, following the established battlefield principle of ousting one terror by means of a bigger one.
‘Form up, you dogs! We’ve got to get after it,’ he roared as he laid about him. ‘Form up!’
He had some effect despite the gloom and the close-set tree trunks. One man was knocked down by a horse. He staggered to his feet, dazed, then began to run away from the column. Haral swore and, slithering on the wet leafy ground, set off after him.
He took little catching and Haral’s angry hand seiz-ing the scruff of his neck sent his feet flying into the air before he crashed down on to the ground. Haral did not wait for him to recover, but maintaining the grip on his collar prepared to start dragging him back to the column.
Then he saw darkness rushing towards him. He heard a stomach-churning rumble of a growl and heard again Bryn’s words, ‘Jaws like a mantrap’. He stood frozen with terror. Then, somehow, as blazing red eyes formed in the approaching shadow he dropped down flat, landing violently on top of his charge.
With a winding impact the creature’s foot landed between his shoulder blades as it ran over him and he rolled over in panic, flailing his arms wildly. The impetus brought him on to his belly, and as he looked up he saw the shadow strike a man as he was mounting his horse and knock both man and horse to the ground.
Haral groped for his spear then staggered to his feet and lurched forward, almost on all fours in his despera-tion to reach his men. He heard the scream as the second victim was dragged away; heard the shouts of the men, angry and fearful, and the terrified shrieking of the horses. He saw men slipping on the treacherous ground; spears launched to worse than no avail as one of them plunged into a man’s thigh. He saw two men struck by bolting horses.
He saw fear teeter into panic and rout.
He saw death for them all amid those dark, crowded, trees if he did not act.
He did not need to ponder the nature of the creature that had sought out one of their men and now returned to attack the entire group. Whatever it was, its intent, its will and its awful power defined it sufficiently. Haral knew that his only tactic now was to stem the rout and beat a fighting retreat. If he could.
If…?
Farnor yawned and leaned his forehead against the flank of the cow. It had been hard getting up this morning and he had been walking around half asleep ever since.
It had earned him a rebuke from his father, and now the cow showed her resentment at his slothful attention by sidestepping away from him. Jerked into wakefulness he reached out to steady himself, whereupon the cow moved back and nearly knocked him off his stool. He swore at the animal as he struggled to keep his balance and also keep the milking pail upright. The cow turned and gazed at him reproachfully.
He patted it and muttered an insincere, ‘Sorry,’ then started milking again.
That done, his next duty lay in the work-shed which leaned raggedly against the barn. He had neglected quite a few of his usual tasks of late while ostensibly ‘doing odds and ends’ for Gryss, and this morning his father had detailed a long list of items to be completed, earmarking several for immediate attention. Farnor had considered protesting, citing work still to be done for Gryss, but there was a resolution underlying his father’s quiet requests that he knew of old would make any appeal pointless. And probably unwise.
Still, he reflected, it wasn’t really necessary that he tell Gryss what had happened last night immediately, despite its terrifying vividness. Whatever was happening was happening and would presumably continue to do so whether he told Gryss or not. And to continue neglect-ing his duties about the farm would be merely to aggravate and, in all conscience, burden his parents.
And in burdening them he would burden himself also, thereby adding to the worries he already had. He closed the door of the work-shed behind him, kicking it expertly until the wooden latch dropped into position. He smiled as he did so. That was another job on his list, but it was at least something that he could apply himself to, and eventually put right. All the tasks he had to perform about the farm were thus. They were clear and well defined and they had a purpose, a logic, which, if it was not evident straight away, invariably became so as the various emergencies of farm life occurred: winds damaging the ricks; lightning firing them; frantic haymaking as black storm clouds piled high in the sky, dwarfing even the mountains; damp torchlit sojourns in the hills at lambing time; and many others. But all needing other things to be prepared, to be ready and to hand.
It came to him that the many small, insignificant things his parents had taught and shown him over the years were part of the great rhythm of tending the land which, in its turn, was the culmination of countless generations of learning through trial and error, success and failure.
He glanced out of the window, noting casually that while it was sunny here, the valley to the north was shrouded in mist.
Some culmination, he thought, gazing at the famil-iar disorder of the work-shed. He picked up a sickle lying amid the confusion covering the work bench. Its edge was turned and rusty. But then, could he have known how to win the metal to make this, had it not been for his conversations with the smith? And could he have known how to beat and shape and sharpen it thus? Or learned unaided the simple, effortless swing that would enable him to use it for long hours at a time without tiring?
He looked at the other tools and pieces of equip-ment lying about. No, he could not have hazarded even the nature of such as these, let alone made and used them, had it not been for those who had gone before him.
Not too clever, after all, he said to himself, turning back to the window.
Yet even as this revelation made itself known to him, he had a powerful feeling that he too was a part of this unheard, unseen rhythm, and that it would sustain him in some way through his present trials. Its great and ancient momentum, laden with an accumulated wisdom far beyond that of any one person, would not be so easily deflected.