‘Push, Farnor!’
His vision cleared momentarily and he thrust his free hand into the gap and hooked it around the edge of the gate. Then, roaring in an attempt to take himself beyond the pain, he pushed.
The noise mounting around him seemed to exult in his cry, picking it up and returning it to him tenfold. But the awful grip on his arm eased slightly, and suddenly his shoulder was in the gap.
And then his whole body.
For an instant it seemed that the wicket would crush him utterly as the pressure behind it was redoubled. But Farnor had both arms firmly against the edge of the gate, his good one pushing with a strength he had never thought he possessed and his injured one pushing, perhaps less powerfully, but with the pain transmuted now into a fury more ancient and terrible than that which was feeding the roaring wind.
The gap widened.
‘Get out! Get out! Get out!’ he shouted, his voice hoarse with desperation.
From somewhere Gryss appeared to scramble un-derneath Farnor’s straining arms and tumble out through the gap.
No sooner was he through, than Farnor snatched his hands free and jumped. The wicket slammed behind him, giving him a final vicious buffet which sent him flailing wildly out into the sunlight. His legs made a valiant effort to keep him upright, but almost immedi-ately they tangled and he was rolling over and over on the hard-packed ground.
In his ears rang the final, deafening boom of the closing wicket.
As he came to a halt, Farnor became aware of the sound of the roaring wind fading away interminably into a distant nothingness. He became aware, too, that the strange resolve inside him was gone, leaving only a fleeting after-image. He felt oddly empty.
With the dwindling of the terrible noise, sounds of normality began to return.
But they were no solace, for the pain in his arm returned with them and it was fearful. And too, the devil’s brew of fear and anger that had given him the strength he needed was not yet fully spent. Clutching his injured arm and wincing at the pain, he twisted himself round and screamed every obscenity he had ever heard at the now silent gate. Eyes wide, mouth gaping, he screamed his defiance and rage, spewing forth not only the horrors of the moment but all the doubts and fears and resentment of the past weeks.
Then he slumped to the ground, hugging his arm miserably.
Only for a moment, though, for no sooner did he begin to become aware of the blue sky overhead than he remembered Gryss. Incongruously he felt himself colouring as he recalled the language he had just been using in front of the village elder. The embarrassment did not last long, however, as an agonizing spasm in his arm made him cry out.
Where the devil was Gryss? Couldn’t he see he was injured? Stupid old man!
Propping himself on his good arm he pushed him-self up into a kneeling position and looked around. For a moment, his vision still streaky with the tears of pain, he thought that Gryss had abandoned him. Then a nearby blur that he had thought was a rock came into focus. It was the old man, lying on the ground.
He was lying very still.
Chapter 25
Jeorg rode steadily along the winding stone road that led down the valley. Already almost completely overgrown it would soon peter out into little more than a cart track before disappearing completely. Beyond that, all would be strange though Jeorg knew from what Gryss had described to him that, after a while, the mountains would gradually become less steep and turn eventually into rolling, grassy hills.
‘Look back at the mountains,’ Gryss had said, in passing. ‘We live in the middle of a sight of rare splendour.’
But splendid sights were far from Jeorg’s mind. He was nervous and at times regretting his impulsive volunteering for this journey.
Still, he reassured himself when his chest began to tighten with alarm, it had to be done. And it might be the only chance they would have to find out who these new arrivals truly were. And too, he had prepared for the journey diligently under Gryss’s reluctantly given tuition.
The thought helped.
But not much.
He kept his eyes fast on the far distance for any sign that he might be catching up with Nilsson and his troop. Ironically, he felt that he would feel safer when he was in the completely strange country beyond the valley. At least there he would not be hedged in by the mountains on either side. And it was quite possible that Nilsson would go in a completely different direction to the one that he would be taking.
Thinking about which, he must keep his wits about him lest he miss any of the many landmarks that Gryss had told him about, and which he had so carefully memorized. At least the weather was fine today; he would have been even more nervous had he been attempting this journey on a misty winter’s day.
The road ended, and the scenery about him became unfamiliar. He began to feel tense again.
Come on, you’re no child, he told himself. You’ve survived being benighted high in the hills, and being trapped by sudden snows. There’s nothing out here that can harm you; even Nilsson and his crowd, providing you can talk fast enough.
His unease passed and he turned his mind to the details of the journey ahead. It was a long way to the capital, and he would have to pass through several villages and towns.
Towns! He had always had difficulty in imagining what such places would be like. Were they wondrous, magical places such as Yonas might describe, or were they just big villages?
The notion taxed him. There was an aura of futility about the idea of so many people living so close together, relying on others to grow and catch their food while they pursued the kinds of tasks that were only necessary because they chose to live so close together. He shook his head as, once again, he failed to break this circle of reasoning.
And Gryss had not been much help. In answer to his questions he had pouted, shrugged and said, ‘There’s not much to tell, really. They’re confusing, noisy and very crowded in places.’ Then he had seemed to relent. ‘But they’re nice sometimes, as well. All manner of interesting things to see. And people? So many strange people, from the wretched to the magnificent.’ As for the capital itself, all that Gryss would say was, ‘That is worth seeing, without a doubt. But you’ll be glad to leave it behind and get back here.’
Ah well, Jeorg mused, philosophically, I’ll find out for myself in time, I suppose.
As he went on, he was relieved to see that the way was developing as Gryss had said it would. The old man had affected weakness of memory, ‘After all this time,’ but, in fact, the route he had taken as a young man was as clear to him now as it had been when he first walked it, so intense had his excitement been, and he had described it to Jeorg with great accuracy.
Jeorg passed by the shore of a long lake, mottled white here and there with flocks of birds and bright blue under the summer sky. It was bigger than any of the lakes further up the valley, and was hauntingly beauti-ful. Here and there he passed derelict buildings with trees and shrubs growing through roofs and windows, and, for the first time in his life, as he looked at these forlorn remains, he wondered what peoples had gone before in this place.
He allowed his horse to maintain its own steady pace, to ensure that he would not close with Nilsson and his men who were travelling on their larger steeds. But he was still following the route they had taken, there being ample sign of the passage of a large number of horsemen, and he kept himself alert for any indication that he might be drawing too near.
As the afternoon wore on, he remembered Gryss’s advice and turned round, for the first time, to look from where he had come. He caught his breath as the vista revealed itself. It was far more than what Gryss had called, simply, a splendid sight. Mountains filled the horizon; massive and majestic. Etched sharp and clear against the blue sky by the low bright sun, they radiated an ancient stillness which held not only Jeorg’s gaze for an interval that he could not have begun to measure, but his whole being.