Roger Taylor - The Return of the Sword

‘What were you expecting?’

Farnor thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know, now you mention it.’

‘Ah. So you’ve learned at least two things, then?’

Farnor looked at him blankly.

‘That few things in life are as you expect them to be, whether you do or whether you don’t.’

He paused significantly.

‘And?’ Farnor prompted suspiciously.

‘You don’t always learn what you think you’re learning.’

Marna leaned over to Farnor and said, ‘They’re going to laugh now.’

And they did.

Abruptly Farnor lurched forward. Yengar’s arm shot out and caught him before he tumbled into the fire. Jenna and Yrain took hold of him and were easing him upright when Olvric’s voice hissed through the sudden commotion.

‘Quiet!’

Instantly Marna found Yrain’s free hand across her mouth and the Goraidin’s urgent eyes confirming the command. She nodded quickly to indicate she understood. Yrain withdrew her hand. Olvric was peering intently into the darkness. Silently Yengar eased a thin slab of stone over the fire to douse its light. Equally silently, Jenna and Yrain laid Farnor down, Jenna whispering to him, then testing his pulse and finally bending low to listen for his breathing.

Yrain drew her knife.

Marna wanted to speak, but she had known the Goraidin long enough to know that in such circumstances she must just do as she was told and stay alert. She became aware of Olvric pointing. Following his direction she saw a movement some way away from the camp. She screwed her eyes tight in an attempt to bring it more clearly into focus, but to little avail. The movement was not that of a figure, human or animal. Rather it was an odd shimmering, as though the night air were dancing above hot coals. And, too, she realized she could not judge where it was, near or far. For an instant it was almost as if it were not beyond the camp, but dancing in her mind. She drew in a sharp breath and, as she did so, the shimmering was beyond her again.

Jenna was still trying to win a response from Farnor, but without success. Frighteningly she could see that his eyes were wide open, dull white in the darkness.

The others were silent and watching.

Marna could contain herself no longer. ‘What is it?’ she whispered.

‘Watch. Listen,’ came the reply.

Then she felt a faint, unpleasant tingling. It shifted and changed, echoing the mysterious movement in the darkness. The hairs on her arms rose in revulsion and she clenched them tight to herself as though a cold wind had sprung up. She became aware of a scuffling behind her. Glancing quickly over her shoulder, she could just make out Farnor struggling to pull himself upright, Jenna helping him, her hand hovering about his mouth to stifle any inadvertent cry.

The tingling in Marna’s arms grew worse, and started to spread down her back. She wanted to turn away from the dancing shape, but, serpentine now, it held her fascinated. A thin wavering light started to cut an unsteady thread through it. As it too moved, parts of it flared brightly, like ghastly jewels, then it faded and slowly widened, becoming a foaming grey, turbulent and troubled.

Still Marna could not decide how far away it was, or even whether it was on the ground or floating in the air. Her stomach lurched.

She felt Farnor moving again.

‘No,’ she heard him saying hoarsely. ‘No!’ Then she could sense Jenna’s hand gently but very firmly silencing him.

A convulsion shook the grey, storm-cloud turbulence.

And into it came the black silhouette of a horseman.

Marna felt a scream forming but no sound came from her constricted throat.

‘No.’

The hoarse cry became a rumbling growl. Though she knew it was Farnor she could barely recognize his voice, so full of angry defiance was it. And though it was not loud, there was a deep resonance about it that seemed to echo all around her. The boiling greyness shivered at the touch of it and both rider and horse became momentarily still. Then, slowly, as though the movement were tearing through the air itself, the rider’s head turned.

Marna could sense a burning gaze searching through the darkness. Already crouching low she had to fight an almost overwhelming urge to throw herself flat to the ground to avoid this unseen scrutiny. Then an arm was raised and a hand was pointing towards them and the horse was prancing and rearing violently as though struggling to move forward. The unpleasant tingling that was now suffusing her became a wave of horror, biting and acidic. Though she could hear nothing, she knew it was the rider, calling out. She turned away and raised her hands protectively as if against a blistering wind. As she did so, she had a fleeting impression of other riders appearing behind the first.

Then Farnor, free of Jenna, was pushing past her, his arms extended.

It seemed then to Marna that suddenly there were two great forces opposing one another – balanced – and she could do no other than hold her breath for fear of disturbing this frightening equilibrium. Slowly it shifted. There was a sensation of something tearing within and around her – a noise that was not a noise. Looking up hesitantly, she saw the storm-cloud greyness beginning to shrink. She willed it on its way desperately as, with a painful slowness, it closed about the riders. Then, quite suddenly, it dwindled into nothingness, leaving only a thin, baleful red line that quivered and twitched unpleasantly before fading in its turn. As it vanished, so the awful tingling slipped away from her, though she kept rubbing her arms.

For what seemed to be a very long time there was a deep silence. Then Yengar was barking out orders, his voice low but coldly urgent, and Jenna was rushing forward to catch Farnor who was slowly sinking to his knees. Even as Yengar was speaking, he and Olvric were moving into the night towards where the mysterious image had appeared. Yrain, eyes and knife scanning the darkness, remained protectively by Marna who was still rubbing her arms.

The silence returned.

Marna watched the strange, flickering movement of the two men as they searched. Bright swathes of light came and went suddenly, now here, now there, as they used the tightly focused lanterns fastened to their wrists to slice open the darkness. Anything caught in their beam would be both dazzled and exposed – either to the sword in the light-bearer’s other hand, or to that of his companion, now silent and dark. Yengar and Olvric moved to a deadly, long-practised rhythm.

For a while the lights bobbed and jerked like sinister fireflies, then they were gone and the two men were returning.

‘Nothing,’ Yengar said, disbelief dominating the exasperation in his voice as he unfastened the lantern from his wrist, checked it and laid it down by the fire. ‘No sign of anything. Not a stone moved, not a blade of grass bent. No sound of riders moving away. There’s nothing and no one here or anywhere near.’ He addressed no one in particular. ‘What in the name of Ethriss was that?’

‘Help me with Farnor,’ Jenna said, ignoring the question.

The group rallied round, seeking temporary solace from the eeriness of what they had just witnessed in a common concern. Farnor, shaking and patently distressed, was gently brought back to the fire and sat down. Olvric gingerly eased the slab from the fire and soon had it blazing again. Its light banished the darkness of the empty valley around them but not the memory of what they had just seen.

For a long time Farnor sat motionless and silent, staring into the fire, his eyes wide and unblinking. No one spoke. Each seemed to be waiting for the other.

‘Something awful is happening,’ he said eventually.

Despite this ominous remark, there was an almost palpable sense of relief in the group.