The two leaders pondered fretfully, Nilsson on the identity of these mysterious attackers and the possibility of a further force arriving before dawn; Derwyn on the impossibility of attacking this increasingly entrenched group and the difficulty of maintaining the spirit of his men now that the fury of the action had ceased. And too, he was beginning to consider the possibility that there might be other groups of these outsiders nearby, ready to come to the aid of their companions. And what of the creature? And Rannick?
Neither man dared wait. Neither dared move.
Both were spared.
From the south came a sound. Everyone seemed to hear it at the same time, though none could have said how long it had been there. At first it was like the irritating buzz of some tiny trapped insect. Then it grew louder and louder, its tone tearing into its hearers like that of fingernails drawn down glass, but worse by far.
None, either in or around the camp, could do other than concentrate on it in deepening fear, and each forgot their sudden foe totally.
Even Nilsson found his mind drawn from his di-lemma. Then he heard a quality in the sound that he recognized.
‘It’s Lord Rannick,’ he shouted, though as much in fear as in anticipation at what must be their relief. It was of no consequence however, for no one heard him. He pushed his way through the front ranks of his men. Vaguely he was aware of the circling Valderen, strug-gling to control their mounts as the sound grew. ‘Their horses are panicking,’ he roared. ‘Get ready to attack.’ But though he was bellowing directly into the faces of his men he could still scarcely be heard. And too, they seemed paralysed by the sound.
Then Rannick was on them, crashing into the belea-guered camp at a speed that no normal mount could attain, and with a sound like thunder and a howling wind tumbling in the wake of his dreadful scream. The wind snatched at the watching men and made the fires roar and blaze triumphantly.
Nilsson, like his men, was now transfixed, for though the figure on the horse was indisputably Rannick, he was not the man he had chosen to follow, even thought to manipulate to his own ends. He was something that radiated a malevolence that was beyond anything Nilsson had ever known. About him ran streams of a strange fire that crackled and flared, consuming everything it touched, save Rannick. And his mount. For the thing that had been a horse was as evilly transformed as its master. Its head strained against Rannick’s fire-laced restraint, its eyes gleamed, and a steaming foam poured from its mouth and nostrils. Both rider and mount seemed unaware of the scene they had entered. They were swaying from side to side, as if scenting for something.
The sight banished all coherent thought from Nils-son, save one: the appalling wrongness of Rannick. The power that his erstwhile master had used had been greater by far than Rannick’s, but its use had been rare and sparing. The thing he saw before him now was without any semblance of restraint, and beyond all controlling. What had been Rannick was, perhaps, quite destroyed, and what was left was not merely death, it was the antithesis of life.
A sensation passed through Nilsson that he had not known in many, many years. A sensation whose birth pangs had perhaps begun with the violent jolt he had experienced when he had thought the approaching Valderen were his long pursuing countrymen come to call him to account.
Guilt.
This abomination was his fault.
It menaced everything! – everything! It could not be allowed to live.
A life in which immediate and cruel action had been the inevitable solution to most problems, took inexora-ble command of him. Aware of nothing now, save the flickering figure swaying before him, Nilsson stepped forward. The word ‘Lord’ formed in his mind as he drew his sword. Rannick’s swaying stopped abruptly as if he had heard the call, and he turned to look at Nilsson.
‘No!’ Nilsson bellowed into the thunder of Rannick’s presence, and taking his sword in both hands, he swung it up in a whistling curve for a blow that would have cut Rannick and his awful steed in half.
Had it landed.
But with the air of a regal lord casually dismissing a tiresome servant, Rannick delicately raised his hand. A terrible, unseen blow struck Nilsson, lifting him clear of the ground and sending him crashing down on to the Forest floor, a dozen paces away. His sword arced up, glittering through the firelight, twisting and turning, until it fell somewhere in the darkness beyond the camp.
For an instant, silence hung over the scene, and Rannick’s brow furrowed a little, as if a troublesome memory had just occurred to him. Then the moment was gone and, his fearful scream returning, he was riding from the camp as precipitously as he had arrived.
The camp fires swirled up as if in homage to his passing, throwing flames high into the night sky.
Some of Nilsson’s men started forward as the flick-ering light gave a semblance of movement to their downed leader.
But Nilsson’s many subtle and devious concerns had ended the instant that Rannick’s will had touched him.
He was dead.
Farnor moved slowly up the rocky slope, carefully testing the ground ahead with Marrin’s staff. He needed no guide for the direction now, for the creature’s presence had become as sharp and as clear to him as if it had been the Dalmas sunstone. Yet it had stopped its headlong rush. It had even stopped its desperate struggle to open again that which Farnor had made whole. It was waiting. For the moment it was deprived of its terrible powers from the worlds beyond, but it had still the power of this world and its cunning and strength, and Farnor was but just another inconsequen-tial prey animal while he chose to hold the way closed and thus deny himself those same powers.
And Rannick was coming, Farnor knew. He had heard the creature’s command reaching across the valley in that last awful roar. And command it had been. Who then was master, and who servant? he wondered.
Somewhere in the distance he heard the sound of thunder. He glanced up. To the south, the sky was glowing red. He frowned uncertainly. What was happening at the village? What was happening to the Valderen? With an effort, he set both thoughts aside and turned his attention back into the darkness. Whatever was happening, he could do nothing about it except what he was doing now.
Despite his clear intent however, fears tore at him. Even without its enhanced powers, this thing was a vicious night-time predator, quite devoid of fear. How big was it? How strong? He remembered the great pieces torn from the slaughtered sheep. Could it see in the dark? How silently could it move?
The thoughts circled and circled, until he found himself trembling again. For a moment he tried to resist it, then again, he paused and gave it free rein.
And he was quiet again.
He swung the stick forward.
It struck something soft. Then it was torn violently from his hand. He heard hard claws scrabbling on the rocks, and an awful rumbling snarl. And, as if a numbing fog had just lifted from him, he felt the creature all about him.
Without thinking, he dropped to the ground and brought his hands over his head for protection. Something caught him a glancing blow and he heard the breathy thud of the creature landing heavily behind him. His nostrils filled with the acrid smell of dank fur. Strangely, the sounds and the smell reassured him a little; anchored him in this world. Here he might live or die now, but there was no strangeness, only savagery.
A thought exploded in his mind. If you were made thus by humans, creature, and you must have been, then all your attributes will be less than human, for no man would create his superior, even if he could.
On that black, rocky mountainside, then, for all his weakness, he, the man, was the greater savage, the more terrible opponent. Farnor heard himself snarling, as if in confirmation of this revelation. His hand swept over the rocky ground and almost immediately lit upon Marrin’s staff. He seized it, rolled over and swung it in the place where he had heard the creature land. It struck nothing, but Farnor could hear the creature pacing slowly around him, suddenly hesitant. Feel it, do you? he thought. Feel the presence of one of those who made you. Be afraid, creature.