Roger Taylor: Valderen

He burst into flames.

For a moment there was silence. Then Saddre was screaming. The four watchers stared, unable to move, so horrific was the sight.

And, just as suddenly, the screaming stopped. Sad-dre pivoted with an eerie grace to face Rannick. ‘Lord?’ he said, his voice oddly calm through the clamouring flames.

Rannick’s face contorted with rage. His arm swung out and struck the blazing figure sideways with appalling force. The floor shook with the impact as Saddre struck the wall, and the flames about him flared angrily. Then he crashed forward on to the floor and lay still.

Staring through the flames still rising from his erst-while lieutenant, Rannick’s appearance was hypnotically terrifying. The four warriors stood motionless, trans-fixed.

The shimmering light appeared once more, but, abruptly, it flickered uneasily. Rannick cocked his head on one side, as if he had heard a far-distant sound. The action seemed to waken the watchers. ‘He’s only a man!’ Engir shouted hoarsely. ‘And there are four…’

Before he could finish however, a furious cry of rage and desperation filled the passage. It was Rannick. He made a wild gesture and, with a great roar, the shim-mering light burst along the ceiling of the passage to join the flames in the blazing ball. The four hurled themselves flat on the floor as the flames passed over them, but, the immediate danger passed, Engir’s command still carried them forward, intent on the destruction of Rannick at any cost.

But Rannick was gone and the sounds of his scream-ing flight were echoing up the staircase as the four reached it.

‘What happened?’ Yehna shouted.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Levrik replied. ‘It’s not finished yet.’ Then his eyes widened in horror and he pointed along the passage. As the others turned, it was to see the flames that Rannick had released, licking over the walls and ceiling like living creatures.

They were consuming the very stones.

When he had arranged with Aaren a diversion to keep the castle gates open, Gryss had deemed blundering incompetence to be their best ally. It had certainly not been his intention to have his few trustworthy volun-teers become involved in actual combat with Nilsson’s men. There were several reasons for this, not least being the fact that none of them were fighters, and most of them were past their most vigorous youth.

Jeorg however had precipitated events, when the weeks of simmering anger could be contained no more and he felled the gate guard. Two more swift blows had stunned two other men, and, to their credit, Gryss’s impromptu force had read the situation with consider-able alacrity; rage is not the sole province of the young man. Soon the courtyard around the gate was a mass of struggling bodies and flailing wooden staves.

Nilsson’s men, however, were experienced enough not to be afraid to retreat when caught by surprise, and this they did remarkably quickly. A lull developed. Gryss managed to keep his men together, blocking the gate and waving their staves menacingly, while Nilsson’s men were strung out in a thin semi-circle at a safe distance. Some of them were calling out abuse, but most of them were just watching silently. Gryss had seen several of them run towards the buildings across the courtyard. They’ll be armed when they come back, he thought. We won’t stand a chance.

He looked up anxiously at the tower that housed Rannick’s eyrie. The high window was black and dead. Had Aaren and the others succeeded in killing him? Or had he killed them and was even now coming to take vengeance on those who had abetted the attempted assassination?

Before he could ponder these alternatives however, a cry brought his attention back to the immediate fray. His heart sank. Several figures were emerging from the darker reaches of the courtyard. Sheer weight of numbers could overwhelm them now, even without weapons, or Rannick’s aid.

‘Keep together,’ he shouted to his companions. ‘It’s our only chance.’

But there was something unusual about these new arrivals.

‘They’re women,’ a surprised voice said nearby, answering Gryss’s unspoken question.

And, as if in confirmation, a shrill voice rang out, and the women released by Yehna began to launch themselves at Nilsson’s men. Gryss and the others watched in bewilderment for a moment until they realized that many of the women were armed and that several of the men, taken by surprise again, had been badly injured.

Impulsively Gryss’s impromptu force broke ranks and charged forward into the battle. No combat was engaged, however, for even as they were running forward, part of the castle roof burst open with a tumultuous crash, and blazing timbers were hurled high into the night sky. All fighting in the courtyard ceased, as friend and enemy stood open-mouthed, gazing at this spectacle.

But terrifying though it was, this was as nothing compared to what followed. For as further sections of the roof burst into flames, a terrible screaming began to fill the air.

Someone struck Gryss’s arm. He turned to see Ya-kob, dishevelled and bleeding, his eyes wide and his hand pointing. He was shouting too, but even standing so close, Gryss could scarcely hear him above the noise. He looked in the direction that Yakob was pointing.

Galloping towards them across the courtyard was Rannick on his demented steed. His mouth was gaping wide but the scream that was coming from it seemed too awful to have been created inside any living thing. Worse than the noise, though, were the bright flames flowing around him and dancing in his wake. They ran like dust devils along the ground, leaving glowing, smouldering trails until they struck the walls and blossomed upwards and outwards like grotesque flowers.

Gryss, however, barely noted this. His dominant concern was the dreadful focus of Rannick’s will that he could feel. ‘Run,’ he shouted, unheard and unnecessar-ily, for even the oldest among them had suddenly rediscovered the agility of their youth at the sight of this monstrous charge.

But Rannick’s intent lay elsewhere, and he ignored the scattering figures as he rode through them. At the gate, his horse leapt over the broken cart effortlessly, flames tracing out his passing, arcing behind him like some fearful rainbow.

As his scream faded into the distance, it was over-topped by the noise of the flames in the courtyard. Almost the entire castle roof was now ablaze, flames and smoke cascading up into the night. But so too, it seemed, were the very walls of the castle, as flames which should have spluttered into nothingness against their cold stone clambered eagerly over them, their sinister light spreading and devouring.

None of the combatants lingered to watch however. Those who were still standing, dashed past the cart and through the gate to form a silent, watching group out in the darkness, all of them too stunned to pursue their original intentions. As they watched, the cart and its scattered contents in the gateway burst into flames, but this was of little note against the sight of Rannick’s unnatural fire, crawling along the walls and rising up the towers.

Something buffeted Gryss.

‘Where are they?’ an urgent voice shouted at him. He turned round to find himself looking into Marna’s distraught face as she leaned forward from the saddle of a large horse. She was holding three other horses by a long rein.

‘Who?’ he said.

‘Aaren and the others,’ Marna shouted angrily. ‘This wasn’t meant to happen. Where are they?’

The other wheel of the cart collapsed, sending up a great shower of sparks. Gryss gesticulated helplessly. ‘I don’t know,’ he shouted back. ‘I haven’t seen them. If they got in, then…’ He waved towards the inferno.