He grimaced. What a disaster! He issued up a small prayer of thanks that he had not, after all, sent that frivolous message to Nilsson, ‘Expect a trophy.’ At least he would not have the galling humiliation of that on top of the reproaches that would soon be coming his way.
But what else could he have done? he pondered. The damned thing was an animal. He had hunted animals before, as had they all. Fierce animals at that: boars, bears, even wild bulls. And while they would turn and fight, this was usually only at the last extremity when all other avenues of escape had been denied them. Certainly they didn’t think like men: didn’t know that they were stronger, faster and better armed by far than their flimsy pursuers; didn’t know to turn from hunted into hunter by laying ambushes.
But this one had known. Despite himself, Haral found himself thinking of the whole incident as being like some kind of trap, with its bait and its lure and its final assault.
‘There’s nothing for you there but terrible danger and the Great Forest,’ Rannick had said.
And you knew that because, somehow, you were at the heart of it, you piece of horse dung, Haral thought viciously, though he glanced about him as he cursed for fear that, in some way, he might be overheard. Any doubts he might have had about Rannick’s involvement in the attack had been dispelled by his seemingly fortuitous appearance and his promise of help.
Such as he, did nothing unless it served his own end. Such as he, Haral mused, struck by the turn of his thoughts. He no longer saw Rannick as a petty village trickster, and though he found it hard to imagine that the man had the power of his former lord, he neverthe-less had a great deal. And he had the will to use it. He was, beyond debate, someone to be either obeyed or fled from.
Of course, there was always the alternative of killing him, but Haral had seen the fate of others who had thought similarly in the past, and he had no desire to share any part of it. He shuddered at the memory.
Wholly pragmatic, Haral shifted his stance without any qualms. He had followed and obeyed someone all his life: his Lord, Nilsson, Rannick, it did not really matter. Let them have their grandiose plans; just so he knew where he stood. He had only modest ambitions, and so long as he got what he wanted he didn’t really give a damn who he followed. And getting what he wanted was generally not too difficult once he had a measure of his leaders.
And the clear measure he had of Rannick now was that he wanted the group to remain at the castle instead of heading north. Wanted it to the extent that he was prepared to kill some of them for it. Further, he had some control over the fearful animal that had attacked them. Haral had no measure of that thing except that it was to be avoided at all costs.
Perhaps the reasons for Rannick’s wish that they remain at the castle would become apparent in time but, for now, Haral knew enough. ‘You go north and you die,’ Rannick had said, meaning, ‘You go north and I will kill you.’ And having had that demonstrated, Haral needed to know nothing further. All he had to do now was give a good account of today’s happenings, suitably praising Lord Rannick for his timely intervention, then he would do what was expected of him and confirm that the valley was too dangerous to risk any more ventures. After that he would stand back and await events.
A noise from the head of the column interrupted his planning.
For a moment his insides turned to ice. Had Ran-nick decided to make a real example of them by sending the animal after them to destroy them all? He laid his hand on his sword hilt in readiness for action.
But soon the noise identified itself as other riders, sent by Nilsson to act as rearguard to the group. Haral spurred his horse forward to greet them.
The journey back to the castle was uneventful, though it was dark when they arrived and, gallopers having been sent ahead with the news, the courtyard was crowded with men and ablaze with flickering torches.
Nilsson cursorily examined the seriously injured. ‘Send someone for that leech, Gryss,’ he said. ‘Tell him… ask him… to come and look at these men.’
He turned to Haral, his face grim and questioning. Haral told his tale as he had determined, laying suitable emphasis on the role played by Rannick and duly declaring that the passage to the north was too danger-ous.
The telling was received in silence by the encircling men. Despite the losses, there were fewer reproaches than Haral had anticipated. A congress had been held and each man had made his own decision freely. Those who had stayed, for the most part, considered them-selves fortunate rather than wise in their choice, and those of Haral’s men who had survived considered themselves both wiser now and fortunate.
Nilsson and others shrewd enough read Haral’s true message: ‘Do as Rannick says, or he’ll kill you. And he can do it.’
It was no great surprise. They had all known the power in the past and, whatever questions they had about how Rannick came to wield it, they knew its force. There was some resentment about being held in thrall by this new leader, but it found little or no voice, and indeed, most were beginning to look to the future for the first time in many years, reflecting into it the lives they had led under their former master.
There were some questions about the creature but they petered out as it became apparent that neither Haral nor any of the others could give any indication as to what it might be.
‘What about Mirek and the others?’ Dessane asked.
‘Dead, beyond a doubt.’ Haral’s face wrinkled in distaste. ‘And probably eaten by now.’
Nilsson looked round to see if there was any enthu-siasm for a search and found none. Loyalty was loyalty, but this wasn’t worth the risk.
He nodded. ‘Now we wait,’ he said.
Gryss was in no sweet mood when he arrived. He had been preparing to go to bed when Nilsson’s messenger had filled the house with his noisy banging; and the journey to the castle had been too fast for his taste.
‘I’m too old for this rattling round,’ he complained as Nilsson greeted him.
‘Why’s the boy here?’ Nilsson asked brusquely, indi-cating Farnor, hastily collected by Gryss as he had passed the farm.
‘He helps me,’ Gryss lied, equally irritably, handing a large leather bag to Farnor.
Nilsson said nothing, though he looked as if he wished to object to Farnor’s presence. After a moment, however, he gave a curt nod, then pointed to the building in which the injured were being housed.
‘I hope you’ve managed to find somewhere more wholesome than the last place,’ Gryss said in an attempt at conversation as Nilsson led them into a long, arched corridor.
The martial tattoo of the Captain’s heels on the stone floor was the only reply.
Eventually they stopped outside a heavy wooden door which Nilsson threw open. He motioned Gryss inside. As the old man went into the room he grimaced. It was clean enough, but it needed no physician’s eye to see the pain racking the men lying there. They made little sound, though the subdued hiss of tightly con-trolled breathing was more distressing to Gryss than any amount of groaning.
‘What happened?’ he asked, turning to Nilsson.
‘Just tend them,’ Nilsson replied coldly.
Gryss began to protest. ‘I’ll need to know if…’
‘Just tend them,’ Nilsson replied, before he could finish.
The two men held each other’s gazes for a moment, then Gryss nodded.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll do what I can.’ He took his bag from Farnor. ‘There’s no point you staying, Captain. This is going to take some time. I’ll see you before I leave and tell you what I’ve done.’