He must not neglect what was simple and mundane. He must let the performing of his routine everyday tasks be a fist raised in opposition to this unsought intrusion into his life. It was more important, not only for the sake of peace with his parents, but for his own peace, that he diligently attend to the ordinary rather than be for ever scuttling round to Gryss with tales of the extraordinary.
Anyway, what could Gryss do?
Precious little, he decided, though with the thought came guilt. Gryss had done everything that he could do: he had listened, and he had cared. And he thought about things.
Farnor’s mood swung from confident determination back towards uncertainty and fear again. While Gryss was there, he knew that he would not be totally alone. Gryss was important to him. The great sweep of the ages offered its continuity, but Gryss offered him more human and immediate sustenance. And he needed the one as much as he needed the other if he was to cope with the darkness that seemed to be clouding the edges of his every thought.
He would go and see him today, but only after he had attended to his tasks here; attended to them correctly and thoroughly.
He took another look at the mist-shrouded valley to the north, then he hefted the sickle and took it to the grinding bench. A rotating shaft driven by water piped down from one of the higher fields gave a protesting judder as, with a push on the foot pedal, Farnor connected the several grinding stones to it.
Sharpening the various cutting tools that were used on the farm was a source of some enjoyment to him. ‘A blunt knife is a dangerous knife,’ his father had told him for as long as he could remember, and it always gave him pleasure to know that whenever one of his edges was used it would move effortlessly through string or rope or wood, or whatever it was being turned to. Not only did he enjoy sharpening, but he was good at it. So much so that his father had actually admitted it publicly and his mother had solemnly delegated the task of sharpening her kitchen knives to him; a responsibility more forbidding than any other on the farm.
He frowned a little as he examined the blade. What had his father been doing with it? Cutting down trees?
The fleeting sense of superiority heartened him and he smiled to himself. Let his father cut rocks with it if he wished. He could do what he wanted, and when he had finished his son would make all things well again.
The grindstones rumbled round steadily, the blade hissed in response to Farnor’s touch and small showers of sparks cascaded on to the floor, bounced hither and thither in confusion and vanished mysteriously into nothingness.
And then it was finished. Farnor turned the blade this way and that, squinted expertly along its curving edge and pronounced it… adequate. He hung it on its correct hook – his tasks included tidying the work-shed as well as sharpening everything in sight – and took down a lethal-looking machete.
He smiled as his hand closed about the grip and, crouching, he made a menacing face. Handling this always brought to him the memory of his father frantically snatching it away from him once when, fired by one of Yonas’s tales, he had chosen it as his magical sword. A sword which could cut through anything, even the anvil on which it had been forged, and which would slay all who were foolish enough to come against him, no matter how great their skill or rugged their armour.
He chuckled. Lot of problems, children, he said to himself, in imitation of his father’s remark at the time.
Now, siding understandingly with his father at this childish peccadillo, he looked at the blade seriously and then offered it to one of the stones.
The sickle, with its curving blade, was quite difficult to sharpen, but the machete was simplicity itself and the long sweeping strokes that he was able to use were particularly satisfying.
He soon became engrossed in the work again and all thoughts that were not concerned with the grinding and honing of the blade faded from his awareness. He watched his hands moving swiftly, steadily and surely; carefully testing, retouching, testing again. And gradually the deed became timeless as his whole world filled with the tuneless song he was creating.
But, it was different today. Fuller, more intense. Words could not begin to describe the feeling.
And, without realizing when it had begun, he be-came aware that beyond the rumbling and hissing of the stones and the blade he could hear – or, perhaps, more correctly sense – a sound. A sound like a distant chorus of countless voices. Yet so natural did it seem that he felt no surprise. Indeed, he knew that he had heard it before, though where and when eluded him. It was as if he were listening to a huge family debating, discussing, gossiping, and though he could hear no words he felt a sensation of surprise… inquiry?… pervading it. And directed towards him!
What do you want? he found his thoughts asking.
The debate rippled and shifted, the surprise in it now stronger by far. And he detected some element of denial; a refusal to believe.
As he listened, his eyes watched his hands moving the blade to and fro across the stones and he knew that everything was well.
Then a tiny, swirling knot of confusion came into the chorus, and the attention was no longer focused on him. The knot swelled rapidly to become alarm, then disbelief, and finally, in the merest blink of time, outright horror.
Distantly Farnor became aware of the machete be-ginning to bounce off the stone as his grip faltered.
Then, rising in pitch to a rending shriek but dimin-ishing in intensity in the same proportion, the chorus was gone, as if into an unknowable distance, and Farnor felt himself overwhelmed by pounding, primitive lusts: the taste of fresh blood in his mouth; human screams rendered inhuman by pain and terror resonating through him; the fear and panic of his prey rich in his nostrils.
Men, horses, confusion. Another victim chosen, burdened and scurrying blindly through the dark trees.
Good…
It was good to have found such release after so long. Good to have found such as him again. Good to be free to pursue the old ways again.
In a dream somewhere else, Farnor saw his hand snatching away as the bouncing blade began to move upward, its bright edge glinting in the dust-laden sunlight streaking through the work-shed window.
And, clearly, he saw the shadowy, stumbling figure glance over his shoulder and see his fate.
As the blade continued upwards, Farnor felt himself reaching into the horror that was possessing him, and denying it.
And it was gone!
There was only the work-shed and the grinding bench. With a jarring thud, the machete struck the ceiling and hung there, swaying gently.
Haral dashed forward roaring, ‘Regroup, regroup!’
A charging horse narrowly missed him but he made no attempt to stop it. His prime concern was the men. This creature could take them one at a time if they scattered, and, though he had never known the like before in any animal, it seemed as though that could be its precise intention.
Using the butt of his spear freely and filling the forest with his thunderous vituperations, he stemmed the scattering of his men.
‘Form up! Form up! And hold those damn horses! It won’t attack a group.’
It helped, too, that those at the front of the column had been less panicked by the creature’s ferocious attacks and to some extent had restrained their terrified companions.
‘Where’s Bryn? Where in hell’s name is Bryn?’ Haral roared.
The man next to him pointed. Bryn was moving through the trees towards them. He had run after one of the fleeing men and was returning with him slung unconscious across his shoulders. Two of the men started forward to help, when out of the darkness beyond him the shadow came again, moving directly towards him, fast and purposeful.
‘He’s not going to make it,’ someone cried, fearfully. Haral made no answer, but began running forward, his spear held low before him. ‘Run, Bryn!’ he shouted desperately as he closed with him. ‘Run!’