Gryss’s eyes widened. There must have been a fire at the farm. ‘What’s all gone, Farnor?’ he asked, trying to keep the alarm from his voice. ‘One of the barns? One of the sheds? Burned down?’ Despite himself he took hold of Farnor’s shoulders and shook him. ‘Where are your parents, Farnor? Did they send you for help?’
Farnor screwed up his face in concentration. ‘They’re gone too,’ he said eventually. ‘Father’s broken. Mother’s asleep. She’ll catch cold,’ he said plaintively. ‘She’s soaking wet.’ He stared at his hand. ‘And her dress is all stained,’ he muttered. ‘She won’t want to be seen in that state.’
Gryss had heard enough. Whatever had happened, it was serious, and little more was to be gleaned from Farnor. He turned to Marna. ‘Fast as you can. Get to Yakob’s, tell him to come straight away and to bring horses. Don’t waste any time answering his questions, just get him here. We have to go to Garren’s.’
‘Shouldn’t we raise the Cry if there’s a fire?’ Marna asked.
Gryss shook his head, and flicked his thumb at Far-nor. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘This one’s been out in the rain for a long time. Several hours, I’d judge. Go now,’ he said, taking her arm and directing her to the door. ‘Get Yakob, quickly.’
When she had gone, Gryss looked down at the now motionless Farnor. His every body sign showed deep and profound shock. What the devil had happened to bring the lad to this state?
Concern yourself with matters of the moment, he reprimanded himself. Farnor had to be made dry and warm and given a sleeping draught before Marna returned if his chilled frame was to be protected from infection and further shock. The truth of what had brought him here would be found soon enough at Garren’s.
Even as he busied himself about this task however, possibilities drifted through his mind. Happiest of these, though holding small comfort for all that, was the possibility that something had happened to Farnor that had made his mind succumb to the pressures he had been under of late. Perhaps when he and Yakob went to the Yarrance farm they would find nothing other than the brightly shining sunstone lighting the yard and Garren and Katrin anxiously waiting for the return of their son.
But he tried to give this no more credence than the other, more sinister and ill-formed notions that were plaguing him.
He had scarcely finished installing Farnor into his own bed when the cottage door opened and Yakob strode in with Marna, red-faced and out of breath, at his heels.
The two men looked at one another for a moment. Yakob seemed tired and worried, but he did not look like someone who had hastily dressed.
‘Couldn’t sleep, either, eh?’ Gryss said.
Yakob nodded. ‘Too many dark thoughts,’ he re-plied. ‘What’s happened now?’
‘You’ve brought the horses?’ Gryss asked. Yakob made no attempt to press his question.
‘We’ll talk on the way, then,’ Gryss concluded. He drew the sheets up tight against Farnor’s chin, and dimmed the lantern by the bed.
‘Marna, you keep an eye on him,’ he said.
There was a momentary hint of rebellion in Marna’s eyes, but she allowed it no rein. Someone would have to stay with both Farnor and Jeorg lying here in enforced sleep.
The night was cold and damp as the two men rode towards Garren’s farm. The rain had stopped and the sky was clearing. A bright moon began to emerge from behind hulking clouds, transforming them for a while into a towering, silver-edged mountain range.
The moonlight lit the road and enabled Gryss and Yakob to make as much speed as their age and unskilled horsemanship would allow. Gryss recounted Farnor’s vague tale, but bluntly refused to answer any of Yakob’s questions. ‘We’ll find out the truth soon enough,’ was all he was prepared to say. Indeed, it was all he was prepared even to think at the moment.
He sniffed as they entered the lane that led up to the farm, then he grimaced.
‘What’s the matter?’ Yakob asked.
‘Smoke,’ Gryss said.
The lane, shaded by trees, was quite dark and they were obliged to travel at a slow walk. As he peered ahead, however, Gryss thought he saw brightness in the distance. His heart rose. It was probably Garren’s sunstone lighting up the yard in anticipation of Farnor returning home.
But as he reached the gate he realized it was merely the moonlight shining on the remains of the white front wall and contrasting with the darkness of the lane.
‘No,’ Yakob whispered in horror as they gazed at the gaping destruction that had once been the Yarrance farmhouse. ‘No, no!’
Gryss closed his eyes tightly, as if they would not focus properly.
The smell of charred and sodden timber filled the air, and small tendrils of smoke floated out through the shattered frontage. The moonlight gave them the appearance of some ghastly plant.
Gryss, his stomach turned to lead and his head un-naturally clear, climbed down from his horse and fumbled with the gate latch.
The gate opened silently and easily as he pushed it, mute and poignant testimony to Garren Yarrance’s thorough and conscientious life.
‘This happened hours ago,’ Yakob said, still speak-ing softly, almost as if he were in a holy place. ‘Why didn’t Farnor come sooner?’
Gryss raised his hand. ‘We must find out what’s happened to Garren and Katrin,’ he said, his voice unsteady.
Farnor’s words came back to him. ‘All gone… Fa-ther’s broken… Mother’s asleep… her dress is all stained…’
He started as something nudged his leg. He looked down. It was a pig. It eyed him beadily and then turned away.
‘All the stalls are open,’ Yakob said.
‘Yes.’ The palms of Gryss’s hands were sweating with fearful anticipation, and his mouth was dry. He beckoned to Yakob to dismount. ‘Stay by me,’ he said.
They walked towards the farmhouse. It looked dead and haunted in the moonlight. The sight was at once so familiar and so alien that it disorientated Gryss horribly. He knew that, like Farnor, he too was now suffering from shock.
Yakob caught his arm and pointed, but Gryss had already seen the shadowy mound by the front door of the house. As they drew near, the shadow moved and an ominous growl reached them. Both men froze, then Gryss reached into his pocket and took out a small sunstone lantern. It flared into life, banishing the moonlight and turning the world into a small, night-bounded sphere.
The dog, crouching by the bodies of Garren and Katrin, blinked at the light then stood up, its hackles bristling and its upper lip drawn back to reveal its cruel teeth.
‘No, no, no.’ Yakob’s voice trembled as his gaze looked past the dog and at the bodies.
Gryss could hardly speak; his tongue felt dry and distended in his mouth. Part of him wanted to dash forward and lay into this stupid dog with feet and fists, but his quieter nature ached for it in its futile vigil over its erstwhile master and mistress.
Handing the lantern to Yakob, he crouched down and began to make soothing noises to the dog, calling its name and holding out his hand gently. Ironically, though the dog’s diligence was keeping him from tending his friends, he was glad to have his mind occupied with a simple task. It dispelled the sense of unreality that had descended on him, just as the lantern had dispelled the ghostly moonlight.
It took him a little time, but the dog eventually stopped its growling and moved cautiously towards him, dropping on to its belly as it reached him. He put out his hand and stroked it. ‘Good boy,’ he said. ‘We’ll see to them now. Your job’s finished.’
Then, keeping his hand comfortingly on the dog’s shoulder, he moved over to the two bodies. Yakob followed him.
‘Are they…?’ he asked needlessly, finishing the question with a vague and helpless gesture.
‘Yes,’ Gryss said. ‘And some time ago, I’d say.’ He looked up at Yakob. ‘Farnor was deeply shocked when he came to me. I think he’d been wandering round lost for hours.’
Yakob crouched down by him. ‘What in pity’s name has happened here?’ he said, his voice lower than ever. ‘Why are they… here? Outside the house? Why are they dead? What…?’