Nilsson shrugged. ‘Doubtless he’ll tell us if he wants us to know,’ he said. ‘But it looks as if something’s gone wrong. Keep an eye out for his temper when he gets back.’
It was not mere temper that Rannick was exhibiting when he returned, however. It was a deep, cold fury that he made no attempt to conceal. Even the most oafish of Nilsson’s men had wit enough to feel it and stay silent.
Nilsson, increasingly attuned to his new master’s moods, sensed it long before any of the others and rode forward to meet him. ‘Lord, what’s happened?’ he asked. ‘Has there been an attack? Damage done?’
‘We must find the ones responsible immediately,’ Rannick said ominously. ‘He must be found. If we have to raze every building in the valley, he must be found.’
‘He, Lord?’ Nilsson queried.
‘They, they!’ Rannick snarled.
Nilsson’s horse carried him backwards from Ran-nick’s wrath. ‘Have you any idea who it might be, Lord?’ he asked when he finally succeeded in bringing his mount under control.
‘When I meet him,’ Rannick replied, his savagery unabated.
Nilsson let both the vagueness of the reply and the further reference to a single individual pass.
‘It’s late to organize a full-scale search, Lord, but if the matter’s urgent, we can start with the nearest and see how far we get before nightfall.’
‘We search until he’s found, Captain,’ Rannick said, brutally.
‘You’ll have to come with us, Lord, if you’re the only one who can recognize the culprits.’
But Rannick needed no such advice, he was already off, galloping gracelessly towards Garren’s farm. Nilsson spurred his horse after him and signalled the troop to follow.
The dogs set up a noisy barking as the troop neared, and rushed out threateningly when they clattered into the yard. Rannick flicked his hand towards them and the two animals abruptly turned tail and fled yelping piteously.
More than the sound of the barking, this brought Garren to the door of the farmhouse. Looking to see what had happened to so frighten his dogs, his gaze lit first on Nilsson.
‘What in thunder’s name’s going on, Captain?’ he demanded.
Before Nilsson could reply, however, Rannick had ridden forward to confront Garren. The farmer’s anger changed to confusion. ‘Rannick? What’re you doing here, riding with these men?’
‘I’m not riding with them,’ Rannick replied. ‘They’re riding with me. At my command.’
Garren’s confusion grew. He gave a bewildered, apologetic smile, as if he had misheard something, though there was some irritation in his voice at Rannick’s manner. ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’ he asked.
Rannick bent low towards Garren, his face twisted with rage.
Nilsson moved his horse forward quickly. ‘Who’s been into the castle while we were away?’ he asked. His voice was stern and commanding, but free of the rage that was consuming Rannick. It gave Garren the opportunity to turn away from Rannick’s strange belligerence. Instinctively, he told as near the truth as he dared. ‘No one,’ he said, his voice wilfully quiet and courteous. ‘Gryss and Farnor set off there to see if there were any sick or injured who needed attention while you were away, but they never got there.’
‘What happened?’ Rannick intruded.
Garren shrugged. ‘Gryss had an accident on the way. A fox startled his horse and it threw him.’
Rannick stretched up in his saddle and stared at the wet rooftops of the farmhouse and its outbuildings.
‘Is this the truth?’ he asked without looking at Gar-ren.
‘To the best of my knowledge,’ Garren replied, with some heat. ‘I wasn’t there personally, but why should either Gryss or my son lie about such a thing? An old man falling off a horse is hardly a matter of any consequence, and Farnor was certainly hurt when he came back. He fell on a rock when he was trying to catch Gryss.’ He moved on to the attack. ‘What’s happened, anyway, to bring you all charging into my yard in the pouring rain?’
A good question, Nilsson thought, realizing that he himself did not know the answer to it, so preoccupied had he been in avoiding Rannick’s rage.
‘My orders have been disobeyed,’ Rannick said. ‘You and everyone else will have to learn the consequences of such disobedience.’
Garren’s anger overmastered his bewilderment. ‘Rannick, I don’t know what the devil you’re doing here, or what cracked fancy these men have put into your head. I presume it’s some private jest of their own, but if you’re expecting to get any work from me this summer I’ll thank you to moderate your tone.’
A silence descended on the yard. Katrin appeared in the doorway. Her gaze moved across the watching men, but no reaction showed on her face.
Nilsson felt the storm coming and, almost in spite of himself, moved to forestall it. ‘Farmer,’ he said, grimly, ‘you must understand that many things are changed about here now. You must not address the Lord Rannick thus, on pain of severe punishment. Whatever he may have been, he is now as he says he is: our Lord and our leader. It’s no jest. As he orders, so we do.’
‘What?’ Garren’s single word was filled with both amusement and disbelief. He was about to say more, but Rannick, the force of his anger deflected a little by Nilsson’s intervention, spoke first.
‘Where’s Farnor?’ he asked starkly.
‘He went for a walk over towards the west-side for-est.’ It was Katrin who answered, her voice strong but without aggression. ‘He hurt his arm when he caught Gryss, and he can’t do a lot about the farm. I sent him out because he was pacing up and down like a caged rat.’
This was very nearly the truth, though in fact it was Farnor who had decided to go for a walk. He was bored with the enforced inaction, but mainly he felt that he needed time and silence in which to think.
‘He’s probably sheltering somewhere until the worst of this rain has passed,’ Katrin went on. ‘We can send him up to the castle when he gets back if you want to speak to him.’
Rannick hesitated. Katrin’s manner was direct and open, and spoke of gentler, kinder times. It touched the humanity in him; the humanity that had always sat uneasily with his dark, sour spirit and which was shrivelling further day by day with his increasing use of the power. He teetered on the balance. But in the scales were his old life as a near pariah, a labouring malcon-tent, and set against them was the glorious, rich and powerful future that lay ahead. There was no true choice for him.
‘Speak when I speak to you, woman,’ he said con-temptuously.
Katrin’s eyes blazed momentarily, but her hand went out again to restrain her husband. To no avail however. Garren stepped from the shelter of the doorway and, before anyone could react, his powerful arms had reached up, seized the front of Rannick’s cape and dragged him from the saddle. As Rannick thudded on to the wet, hard ground, Garren retained his grip and began to drag him to his feet.
Not by any definition a violent man, Garren’s inten-tion was probably to give this lout a good cuffing for his insolence. But he was among men whose knowledge of violence was utterly different and before he could set about his chastisement Nilsson had drawn his knife and, spinning it in his hand, had struck him a powerful blow on the head with its hilt.
Katrin screamed and ran forward as Garren dropped to his knees, both hands clasped over his head.
Rannick staggered to his feet. Nilsson swung down from his horse to catch and support him.
‘Lord…’ he began, but Rannick was intent on only one thing. He shook off Nilsson’s supporting hand and delivered a vicious kick to the kneeling Garren. It was a form of assault that he himself had learned only the other day as he had watched Nilsson’s men beating Jeorg. He had never seen, or even truly envisaged, such calculated and personal brutality, and it had exhilarated him. The use of the power was not the only corrupting influence in Rannick’s life.
Katrin, who was trying to help her husband, fell backwards as Garren was torn from her hands by the force of the impact.
Stunned by Nilsson’s blow and winded by Rannick’s kick, Garren rolled over until he bumped into the wall of the house. Then, gasping, he began to claw himself upright against it.