Be afraid.
A menacing rumble came through the darkness in reply. It turned abruptly into a snarl and Farnor sensed rather than heard feet gripping the ground and muscles tensing.
He jumped to one side and swung the staff. His arms caught the side of the creature and in an instant he felt its great weight and muscular power. The impact knocked him over and he fell heavily, something driving into his ribs and sending pain to every part of his body. He cried out, his voice strange in his own ears, but somehow he kept hold of the staff and, fear overriding his pain, he rolled over, away from the sound of the creature, scrabbling once more over the damp rocks to recover its balance. If only he could see! If only there was a vestige of light to guide him!
Then there was a pause. Farnor swung the staff tentatively in a low arc about him. It struck nothing again, and though he could hear the creature breathing, the sound was coming from all around him. Then he felt it trying once again to draw on the power beyond, trying to rend open that which he had sealed. That part of him that healed such wounds cried out, No, here we decide this, you hellhound. But there was no response except a vaguely familiar sound in front of him. His mind searched to identify it.
It had dropped down on the ground. The damned thing was lying down! Waiting!
The sound of thunder reached him again.
It was going to wait for Rannick!
Man and beast must overwhelm him for sure.
He glanced quickly at the glowing sky to the south.
What was happening to the village? And to Derwyn? he thought again. And with the thought of Derwyn came the memory of Angwen. One hand still waving the staff in front of him, he fumbled through his pockets.
It was still there. Angwen’s lantern. As he scrambled to his feet, he heard the creature doing the same. Then he threw open the shutter on the lantern.
The light burst into his face, blinding him. Frantic-ally he turned the lantern round. There was an angry snarl and, through the myriad coloured patterns dancing in his vision, he caught a glimpse of a huge black shape, turning away and disappearing into the darkness.
With desperate slowness his vision cleared, and though the small lantern did not throw a great deal of light, it did show him that he was standing by the entrance to a cave.
His eyes widened in shock. Accidentally he had almost walked directly into the creature’s den!
Now, however, he must do it deliberately. He must face this creature before Rannick arrived. Face it in its own lair. Gripping the staff, he stepped inside. A musty foulness greeted him.
The light gave him some comfort. At least he would be able to see the creature this time. At least he would be able to aim some kind of purposeful blow. And – he checked – he still had his mother’s knife in his belt. With the light, he had a chance.
The smell grew worse, making him want to retch, and a chilling dampness started to strike through him. He was sodden with rain and sweat. He walked on, carefully shining the lantern into the many shadows that the uneven walls and floor formed. The light reflected back off glistening dampness, until the cave suddenly opened out and the lantern’s beam faded into darkness, revealing nothing but the floor. There was blackness to either side of him.
Which way should he go? Suddenly very afraid, he stopped and listened. Nothing was to be heard except a faint dripping in the distance. He swung the lantern slowly from side to side, leaning forward to search into the shadows. Then bright, malignant eyes flared out, pinioning him, and the pool of darkness from which they had emerged surged towards him.
His fear saved him, for only at the very last moment did some reflex manage to twist him to one side. The movement however, did not prevent the creature crashing into him heavily and knocking him down. The lantern spun from his hand and, tumbling across the rocky floor, sent wild shadows dancing into the darkness. Marrin’s staff snapped as he fell on it. He barely had time to cry out before the creature was upon him, its saliva dropping on to his face and its powerful forelegs rigid on his chest. The light from the roiling lantern fell momentarily on its face, lighting its eyes a savage red and revealing its gaping maw and terrible teeth. Its head jerked back a little as the light struck it. Farnor’s hands came up frantically and seized its throat. The muscles and sinews that he grasped told him immediately that he could not hope to strangle it, nor best it in any kind of physical contest. He let out a great cry of fear and rage and, pushing upward desperately with his left hand, brought his clenched right fist up and struck the creature on the side of the head. It produced no noticeable effect except to make it hesitate again slightly.
I won’t die here, Farnor roared inwardly. I won’t die here. Countless images burst simultaneously into his mind: sunset watches, solstice festivals, his journey through the Great Forest, Bildar, Edrien, Gryss, Marna, his mother, his father, Uldaneth…
Uldaneth!
‘Why do you carry a kitchen knife with you, Farnor?’
The images vanished, and his right hand began to grope towards his belt.
The creature’s forelegs pounded painfully into his chest and he felt its back legs scrabbling for purchase on the rocky floor. He also felt his left arm, screaming with effort, beginning to buckle under the increasing pressure. The creature’s foul breath gusted over his face and saliva sprayed hotly into it as the savage jaws snapped shut the merest fraction in front of him.
‘How did you do that?’ he heard himself asking Uldaneth.
‘I didn’t, you did,’ came the reply.
With a final effort he reached the knife and drew it, then jerking his head desperately to one side to avoid the descending jaws, he closed his eyes.
‘I didn’t, you did.’
He let his left arm collapse.
The creature crashed on to the upturned blade.
It let out a strange cry and stiffened. Despite the crushing impact of the fall, Farnor felt his own blood fury grow as the creature’s faded, and with the last residue of his strength he thrust the creature to one side and dragged the knife up the length of its chest. He felt blood spilling hot over his arms.
Then he was rolling free, gasping with terror. To his horror however, he saw the shadow that was the creature struggling to regain its feet. He could not move. His mind told him to stab the creature again, quickly. Stab it over and over until it was still. But his trembling hands would not obey. And still it struggled, a great pool of blood spreading, black in the dim, reflected lantern light.
Then it turned to look at him, and, inclining its head on one side, it whimpered. The sound, unexpectedly poignant, seemed to fill Farnor’s head, until he realized that the sound he was hearing was no longer that of the creature. It was something else. And a flickering uneasy light was pervading the cave. The sound formed itself into words. Words as full of horror as they were of menace.
‘What have you done?’
And Rannick was kneeling by the creature, cradling its head tenderly. Farnor, barely conscious, shook his head. It seemed to him that flames were dancing about Rannick, and that part of him was elsewhere.
Slowly Rannick turned. His hand came out and took Farnor’s knife from him. Farnor could not resist. Rannick raised the bloodstained blade to his mouth and licked it.
Good…
Farnor felt the exhilaration and desire run through him. They turned into Rannick’s laughter. ‘Yes, cousin,’ he was saying. ‘You feel it, don’t you? All this time you’ve been the same as me and we never knew.’ Farnor tried to shake his head in denial but he could not.