Roger Taylor - Farnor

She went over and picked it up. It was heavy. Quite unscrupulously she took it back to her chair, undid the clasps and began to rifle through it. Jeorg would have a spare knife in here, surely? The contents, however, were uninspiring; clothes, some fruit and dried meat, a few small sunstones, a tin of bandages and salves. Her nose wrinkled unhappily at the sight of these and she glanced again at the massive damage that had been done to her unconscious charge.

Even as she did so, her hand encountered a package. She felt around it carefully, testing its shape and size. Thoughts of a knife vanished in a surge of curiosity and, tongue protruding between her teeth, she gently withdrew the package. Rough string bound a waxed paper parcel.

Untying the string, she opened the paper to reveal a soft leather wallet. She examined it for a moment and then began to open it. It was a cunningly designed and well-made article, with tightly sewn seams and folds and flaps so arranged that, even without the waxed paper wrapping, it was effectively waterproof.

Inside were papers. She looked at them briefly and then, curiosity well aroused, she took them through into the back room where the light was better.

Although her search had been prompted by a need for a weapon with which she could defend herself, for some time Marna would have been oblivious to an army laying noisy siege to the cottage, as she became increasingly engrossed in the papers.

They were the details of the route to the capital that Gryss had prepared for Jeorg. Some of the notes and maps were obviously very old, having perhaps been prepared by Gryss during his own travelling days. Others were much newer.

For the most part, they were written in a neat, curl-ing script that Marna presumed was Gryss’s, though there were some more coarsely lettered notes here and there. And they were presented in a clear, logical manner that could only have been Gryss’s.

It was all there before her: the way to the capital, laid out for the following. Her mind raced. Fate had transformed an impetuous idea into a real dilemma for her. She could go now, this minute. She could take a horse from the inn, call at her home to gather clothes and food, and go. Go downland discreetly until she saw whether there were any guards posted or not, and then as fast as she could all the way downland and to the capital. Over the hill!

She felt her breath tighten in her chest at the pros-pect and her palms began to tingle.

What could restrain her? Fear? Perhaps. Responsi-bility? Suppose Jeorg were to wake suddenly and need reassurance? And what would be the reaction of Gryss if he returned to find Jeorg abandoned and her missing?

Or her father’s reaction?

‘Your father’s already lost one person that he loved dearly.’ Gryss’s words reproached her.

Marna’s mouth pursed. She knew all about that, she thought, but no one had ever expressed it to her so forthrightly, and it proved a winding blow now, as she contemplated flight.

‘Damn,’ she said, softly and bitterly. She couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not like that; not without any warning.

For some time she sat motionless, her hands resting on the papers and her mind drifting idly now that it had been released from the torrential rush of her wild plans.

Slowly however, new patterns began to emerge. Calmer, more reasoned patterns. The threat still remained. The fear and the anger still remained. She must still arm herself. And, if necessary, she must be prepared to make the journey to the capital on her own. She found that she could not avoid that final conclusion, even though the prospect of such a journey was already becoming more daunting.

But she was not a principal in this affair. She must do nothing that would jeopardize whatever efforts Gryss and the others were putting forth.

She looked at the papers again. Then, carefully, she gathered them together in order and replaced them in the leather wallet. For a few minutes she looked at the package thoughtfully, then, reaching a decision, she set about scouring through Gryss’s cottage.

Nilsson had spent much of the remainder of the night consolidating the work that he had initially been obliged to leave to Saddre and Dessane, namely the quietening and assuring of his men following their mostly panic-stricken flight from the Yarrance’s farm.

It could have been worse, he mused, sitting down on an embrasure and leaning back against the sloping wall that bounded it. A lighter spirit than Nilsson’s would have sung out to the warmth of the stone on his back, and the warmth of the sun on his face, and the sight of the valley, green and lush, winding away below him into the distance. But Nilsson was immune to such paralys-ing infections. His spirit dwelt in the future that he intended to make for himself in the wake of his new lord; the present was merely a passing irritation.

There had been a few injuries in the crush to escape the power unleashed by Rannick, but in reality the greatest damage had been done to the men’s pride, and it was this that had given rise to much of the trouble as they had returned to the castle in scattered, bewildered groups. As necessary, Saddre and Dessane had soothed injured prides, provided excuses, cracked heads and done the hard work, and subsequently, having stood by his Lord throughout, Nilsson had been able to salve most of the remaining hurts by being avuncular and forgiving:

A friendly hand on the shoulder.

‘It’s been a long time since you saw the likes of that, hasn’t it?’

‘You weren’t there on the palace steps when the old Lord outfaced the southland demon. That was some-thing!’

‘Who’d have thought we’d ever have come across the likes of him again? Chances like that don’t usually come once to a man, let alone twice.’

And so on.

Of course, the destruction of Avak had helped bring a sense of perspective to the proceedings. Pity that. He was a useful fighter, but always apt to be troublesome and, all things considered, he was no great loss.

The recollection, however, brought with it the surg-ing malevolence he had felt focused on him as the creature had hurled out of the darkness and leapt up the wall towards him. Momentarily he closed his eyes against the bright day, and, on the instant, he heard again the scrabbling claws and the thud of its landing.

Now, as then, the fact that he was well above any height that the creature could possibly leap gave him no consolation. He had been powerless to move. The only thing he would have been able to do was scream.

Despite the sunshine, Nilsson shivered. And whether he kept his eyes closed willingly or out of fear he could not have said.

But Avak’s demise had done more than focus the attention of the men. It had in some way restored the Lord Rannick.

‘ Good ,’ he had said, with a long-drawn-out breath that had chilled Nilsson utterly. Then he had turned slowly, looked at Nilsson and smiled a smile that was rich with the fulfilment of nameless desires. Nilsson had been grateful for the subdued lighting in the room.

‘I need rest now,’ he had said. ‘I shall sleep. You may go.’

Nilsson had bowed. ‘I shall leave a guard outside your door, Lord.’

‘I need no guard,’ had been the faintly amused re-sponse. ‘Go, Captain. Tend your men. They will be needed soon, now.’

Nevertheless, concerned for Rannick’s safety with the men in such an uncertain humour, Nilsson had cautiously opened the door to the darkened room later to see that all was well.

A blast of air had struck him in the face, stinging his eyes and taking his breath away. It had seemed to pour into his mouth and down his throat and as he had staggered back, retching, the door had closed with a soft, sighing hiss.