Roger Taylor - Farnor

And his relationship with Gryss would probably be crucial in this. Despite Rannick’s assertion that the villagers would be easily cowed, Nilsson knew from experience that even partly willing servants were far superior to slaves.

Two other figures appeared, hesitantly, in the arch-way. Nilsson nodded to the men who were holding Farnor to release him. As they did so, he staggered forward, his arms flailing as if to fend off further blows. Nilsson seized his tunic and dragged him upright and then pushed him savagely towards Gryss. He went sprawling along the ground with a cry of pain.

‘That’s four people we’ve had trouble with, old man,’ Nilsson said as Gryss bent down to help Farnor to his feet. ‘I said you’d be left alone if you behaved, and I meant it. We’ve more important things to do than deal with noisy yokels. And anyone who causes problems will be dealt with summarily.’

Emotions ran riot through Gryss as he struggled to support Farnor. Starkly he noted that Nilsson had casually admitted responsibility for the deaths of Garren and Katrin. He wanted to scream at him, ‘Why, you murderous lout? Why? What could they possibly have done to warrant that?’ but he remained silent – though whether through concern for the safety of Farnor or out of simple fear he did not know.

‘I understand,’ he said. ‘And I’ll do my best to see that everyone else does.’

‘See you do,’ Nilsson said grimly.

Gryss took refuge in the immediate needs of his charge. ‘Come on, Farnor, let’s get you away,’ he said gently.

Hesitantly, Harlen and Yakob came forward to help him. Though he was almost sobbing with pain, Farnor somehow managed to stand, supporting himself with a single hand resting on Harlen’s shoulder.

There was some raucous abuse from the watching men as the quartet began to move away.

‘What’s going on?’

Nilsson quailed inwardly at the sound of the voice. It was Rannick’s. Go, run while you can, he willed the four villagers, but they stopped and turned as they heard the voice. He swore to himself, and turned to face his Lord.

Rannick was wearing a dark brown leather tunic over a linen shirt decorated with a bewildering design of swirling lines. Stoutly woven trousers disappeared into calf-length boots, and were secured by a finely carved leather belt, secured in its turn by a round brass buckle which glinted in the sunlight. Nilsson recognized the clothes as part of the booty they had taken on the raid.

So you’ve been rooting through the goods, have you, Lord? he thought. Picking and choosing like some old dame at a market.

But there was a quality of both practicality and dramatic presentation in Rannick’s choice that for some reason unsettled Nilsson. It betokened both confidence and intent where previously Nilsson had judged there to be mainly bewilderment and spleen.

‘Nothing important, Lord,’ he said jovially. ‘I apolo-gize if we disturbed your rest.’

Rannick saw Gryss and the others.

‘Ah,’ he said, smiling. ‘Coming to protest at the treatment of Jeorg and the Yarrances, I presume, eh, Gryss?’

‘We’ve come to take Farnor away,’ Gryss said, quickly, before anyone else could intervene.

Rannick nodded understandingly and moved for-ward. There was a strangeness about him, his clothes and his hair moving as though he were walking through a wind that was blowing in some other place.

As he approached the group, a deep silence fell in the courtyard.

He stopped a little way in front of Gryss. Yakob and Harlen stared at him in open disbelief. Both made to speak at the same time, but Rannick gave them no opportunity.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked mockingly. ‘Can’t believe your eyes? Allow me to explain.’ He bowed his head.

A small whirlwind of dust formed at his feet. Rap-idly it gathered a vicious, whining power and then, like a hunting bird, it flew directly into the faces of the two men. Both of them staggered back, closing their eyes and lifting their arms to protect themselves from the stinging impact.

Rannick laughed humourlessly. ‘A little dust in the eyes will help you to see things much more clearly, I think,’ he said. ‘Give you a picture of the way things are now. Am I not right?’

Gryss raised his hand to prevent Harlen and Yakob from replying. ‘We just want to leave, now…’ He hesitated, then with an effort he managed to say, ‘… Lord Rannick. We have to tell the rest of the village…’

‘Tell them what, Gryss?’ Rannick interrupted.

Gryss gesticulated vaguely around the courtyard. ‘About the… new garrison that’s to be posted here. About the need…’

Rannick shook his head. ‘That was Captain Nilsson’s jest, Gryss,’ he said, smiling again. ‘All that nonsense about the army. He and his men are no more King’s men than I am. They are fighting men, to be sure, but they are what you might call… independent. They fight for themselves rather than for some distant king.’

His manner became suddenly friendly and explana-tory. ‘They have a fascinating history.’ He looked significantly at Nilsson, whose face became expres-sionless. ‘If you knew it, you would never close your eyes in sleep again. Certainly not venture out at the sound of hooves in the street in the early morning. But now they have decided to pledge their swords to me. It is an arrangement for our mutual benefit.’ He drew closer to Gryss and his voice became a hissing whisper. ‘Just tell the villagers about me, Gryss,’ he said. ‘Tell them that I am their leader now, and that I require their absolute obedience in all things. Tell them that the penalty for disobedience will depend on my fancy at the time, but is unlikely to be pleasant. And tell them that I have instructed the Captain here to kill out of hand anyone who tries to leave the valley.’

Despite himself, Gryss asked, ‘Why did you kill Garren and Katrin?’

Nilsson’s eyes narrowed nervously, but there was no outburst from Rannick. Instead his face became thoughtful.

‘Garren was insolent,’ he said, quite casually, after a moment. He jerked his head towards Nilsson. ‘And it was my able new ally who killed Katrin.’ He held out an acknowledging hand to Nilsson. ‘Or, rather, she killed herself as I remember.’ He gave Gryss a look of injured explanation. ‘But she was trying to kill me, so he could do no other. Had he not done so then I would have had to when I had finished with Garren.’

Gryss shot an anxious glance at Farnor as Rannick gave this brief and callous account, but the young man, leaning on Harlen, seemed to be barely conscious.

Then Gryss felt Rannick’s hand close about his arm. It gave a confidential squeeze. He started violently. ‘But there was another reason, I see now. A much deeper reason.’ Rannick’s voice was almost wheedling in its self-justification. ‘Why should I waste my time brushing an insect like Garren Yarrance from my path?’ He looked at Gryss as if he truly expected an answer. Gryss found that he was holding his breath, so awful was Rannick’s presence. His arm was released.

‘But strange powers are moving here.’ Rannick peered at Gryss intently, as if his gaze would give his words greater meaning. ‘Powers that are focused on me. Powers that have perhaps been focused on me all my life. Powers that bring my destiny to fruition.’ Again the hand closed intimately about Gryss’s arm. ‘Why else should I have been born with the gift?’ A buffeting wind suddenly filled the courtyard, blowing up clouds of dust again and making both men and horses look about them uneasily. And, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. Gryss trembled as memories of the wind that had almost trapped him and Farnor, returned.

‘Why else should I be drawn to…?’ He fell silent and his eyes drifted northwards filled with a strange, smiling secretiveness.