Nilsson’s rage was still alive as he turned to Ran-nick, who was gripping the arm that Katrin had struck. Blood was oozing lavishly between his fingers, falling drops joining the rain and splattering into the puddles around his feet.
But it was the look on his face that evaporated Nils-son’s rage and replaced it with naked fear.
In the woods to the west, Farnor sat fulfilling his mother’s prophecy: sheltering under a tree and waiting for the rain to ease before he set off back home.
His arm was sore and he was beginning to feel cold, and his mind was turning with relish to the prospect of the warm, welcoming kitchen, bright with light and bustle and savoury with the odours of his mother’s cooking.
He had spent the afternoon wandering idly about the fields and the woods, rejoicing in the soft scents that only the rain can bring forth. Part of the time he had debated recent events yet again, but, despite the violence and strangeness of the assault he and Gryss had experienced at the castle, he had come to no further conclusion than that which he had reached previously: he must watch and wait.
But not here, he decided finally. A glance at the sky told him that the rain was not going to ease and that he should be on his way soon or he would be walking back to the farm in the dark as well as the wet.
Then, suddenly, it was all around him. Stronger and more vivid than he had ever known it before.
The creature.
Its will pervaded everything.
It must be nearby. The thought forced itself into Farnor’s mind through the uproar, and froze him with terror.
No, it was everywhere.
And there was blood.
And a demented fury.
He was vaguely aware of the tree at his back. A host of voices whispered to him with a despairing urgency: ‘Home. Home.’
His body took control of him and his legs began to carry him on, first staggering, then running. The creature was all around. It was filled with vengeance. And it was hunting. He must reach home. He must reach home.
Nilsson turned away from Rannick as he looked up. His eyes saw still his new Lord, his arm bleeding and his bloodstained hand now reaching forward, clawed in savage reproach. But his inner vision felt the presence of the creature that had slaughtered his men and come near to slaughtering him. And, too, its spirit was everywhere, pervading and drawing strength from the frenzied mass of riders and horses struggling for escape. Somewhere in his consciousness he sensed men falling from their horses, horses bringing down the stone walls of the yard as they scrabbled over them, legs being crushed and twisted in the tight-packed panic at the gate. And, throughout, the rain fell and the wind blew.
But these were fleeting motes caught in the whirl-wind that Rannick had now become. And he too, Captain Nilsson, leader and champion of his men, was no more than a mote. To remain where he stood would be to die.
Yet he edged away with a primitive caution – full of fear that a sudden movement might draw this awful predator down on him.
As he moved he saw Rannick’s eyes become alive with an ancient malice. But they were not Rannick’s eyes, he knew. They were the eyes of the creature.
The turmoil in the yard grew further in its desperate intensity. Nilsson fended off animals and men alike as he tried to retreat from the farmhouse. Not once, however, did he shift his gaze from Rannick.
Then, just as he had seen the creature in Rannick’s eyes, so he heard the creature’s voice as Rannick straightened up, threw his head back and roared. It was a fearful sound that wrapped itself around the battering wind and the din of the fleeing men and animals, and drew all together into a terrible focus.
Nilsson’s hands began moving to his ears, though the sound was ringing through his entire body, and even as he did so other noises reached him. He turned from Rannick to the farmhouse.
With unbearable slowness, the windows were shat-tering and blowing inwards, guttering and tiles were being torn from the roof and hurled high into the grey sky, rafters and beams strained after them then quivered and splintered as they fell back.
At the edge of his vision, Nilsson saw Rannick stumbling as if the impact of this destruction had rebounded on him. He caught him.
‘Lord,’ he said, perhaps in the hope that simple speech might bring back the man from this awful possession.
But it was not yet over. The frenzied presence of the creature seemed not so much to have fled as to have been transformed into something yet more fearful. Rannick was himself again, and, too, not himself.
He leaned heavily on Nilsson and began muttering ecstatically.
‘Yes. Yes. I have it now. I have it.’
He pushed himself away from Nilsson and lurched forward, his hands extended towards the shattered farmhouse.
There was a nerve-tearing sound like fingernails drawn down glass and the air in front of Rannick began to shimmer and glow. The sound grew in intensity, until it was finally topped by a great cry of triumph.
Nilsson staggered backwards as the shimmering mass crackled into flickering life. A pungent smell assailed his nostrils, then, as if in obedience to Ran-nick’s cry, the light split and divided into great tendrils which surged through the shattered windows of the farmhouse. It seemed to Nilsson that they were like living things, so purposeful was their movement.
Like serpents, he thought.
Almost immediately, the interiors of the rooms were ablaze.
Nilsson watched as flames and smoke poured out of the windows and rose through the gaping roof. It was almost as if they were trying to escape from the horror that had just entered the house. Silhouetted against the scene stood Rannick, his arms held wide, swaying from side to side as if to some unheard music.
Then he sank to his knees and slumped to the ground.
Chapter 30
Farnor ran and ran. The presence of the creature possessed him like a raging fever. He did not see the streams he ran through, the walls he climbed, the fences he slithered under. His mind knew only fear, and his body carried him towards security using reflexes that were older even than the mountains that now stood by, indifferent to the terror that so filled his world.
And yet as he fled he sensed that no matter which way he ran, he could not avoid the creature. It was all around him. And it was more vivid and powerful than it had ever been before.
Then it became worse. Save for a vague, flickering remnant somewhere, he lost even his own sense of being. The world was rasping breath and pounding heartbeat, and… the power… moving.
Flooding in from…?
Despite his terror, part of him was drawn towards it. Drawn to reach out and stop it. But some deeper instinct pulled him back. He could not stem such a torrent.
And still he fled on, desperately, unhindered by this inner debate; indeed, scarcely even noting it.
Then came… light? Lights! Moving, shifting lights. Flames! He could feel their heat beating on his face, and… surging up from within him as if he himself were making them.
A spark of consciousness returned to him. Night-mare. He was dreaming. Soon he would crash out of this terrible flight into the security of his bedroom.
But this revelation affected nothing, for always lurk-ing in the terror of a nightmare is the possibility that one might not indeed awaken. Still he had to flee; flee towards and through these surging flames; flee from the terror at his back; flee until he came to his home.
Then both the flames and the terror faded. As they did so his awareness began to return more fully. It was no nightmare, it was real. And still his body propelled him violently homeward. He must wrap the security of familiarity about him if he was to quench this torment.
A familiar, not unpleasant smell reached him.
A hint of autumn in the air.
Burning.
Something was burning.