Roger Taylor - Farnor

He was…

What…?

That, too, did not matter. He knew only that resolu-tion was needed of him. Implacable determination. What had come here did not belong. In this alien clime, its ability to do harm was beyond measure. The terrible rent through which it had been drawn must be sealed.

And the gift of this sealing lay with him.

But the knowledge meant nothing to him.

Yet he would not be defeated.

He would not be defeated.

He would hold.

There was a timeless interval when all was balanced and still. Somewhere, Farnor knew, the battle was being fought, but he could do nothing other than wait and commit his will to denying this intrusion further entrance.

Then the foulness faltered once again. At first slightly, then with increasing desperation like the scrabbling fingers of a climber at the edge of a rounded ledge.

Was it dying? came the question.

No. That could not be. But it was failing. It was be-ing driven back.

And now it was screaming. But to no avail. It must be returned from whence it came, and everything made well here.

And, with a dwindling, spiralling spasm, it was gone. And there was stillness.

Farnor felt the light, released now, washing back over him, returning him to himself. He felt a myriad sensations as his body closed about him again.

Painful sensations!

Like a dream, both the intrusion and the mysterious opposition to it had passed away. The light had become now the bright sunlight that was filling the courtyard and forcing its way through his partly closed eyes. And the painful sensations focused themselves in his ribs, and his back and his face and… everywhere else that Nilsson had struck.

He heard himself gasp with pain.

The sound seemed to be abnormally loud. He be-came aware of the silence around him, a silence that rang with tension. He forced his eyes to open further.

Everyone in the courtyard was staring at something, though there was nothing there that he could see.

‘What happened?’ he heard Harlen say, his voice soft and full of awe.

‘It vanished.’ It was Gryss replying, in an equally awe-stricken whisper. His hands were by his ears as if he had been covering them. ‘That terrible noise,’ he said in distress.

‘That colour,’ Harlen said. ‘Like blood. I’ve never seen flames like that before. Let’s get away, Gryss, while we can. Something’s gone wrong. Look at Rannick’s face.’

At the mention of Rannick, the eerie interlude that had possessed Farnor vanished from his mind utterly, to be replaced by the savage anger that had brought him to the castle in the first place.

It returned to urge him forward to destroy this abomination, as if it had never been halted. Harlen seized him as soon as he started to move, however.

‘For pity’s sake, Farnor,’ he hissed. ‘What are you doing? Look at him. We’re dead men.’

‘We’re dead men.

The terrible, shaking fear in Harlen’s words brought a final awakening to Farnor, heightening the racking pains of the beating that Nilsson had given him. He must have fainted, he decided hazily, and something bad had happened while he had been unconscious.

But what?

He looked at Gryss, who in his turn was staring fixedly at something. Following the old man’s gaze Farnor turned to see Rannick. His face was a mask of bewildered fury.

‘Down,’ Gryss muttered frantically, dropping on to his knees and bowing his head. ‘Get down!’

Compelled by the urgency in his voice, Harlen and Yakob also fell to their knees. Farnor had little choice: he staggered as the support he had been receiving disappeared, then Harlen’s hand seized his arm and dragged him down. He managed not to cry out as the pain of his knees striking the hard paving added itself to the others that were vying for attention. He leaned forward to take some of his weight on his arms.

‘Lord Rannick, forgive us.’

Despite his preoccupation with his pain, Farnor became aware of Gryss speaking. Cautiously he looked at the old man. Gryss’s head was still bowed and, reminding Farnor of a beaten dog, he was conspicuously avoiding looking directly at Rannick.

‘We did not understand how great your power had become…’ Gryss faltered momentarily then hastened on. ‘How great a power you had achieved, Lord. How could we have known of such a wonder as you’ve just deigned to show us?’

Horror and shame filled Farnor. What was happen-ing? He would not bow to this savage. This was Rannick, the murderer of his parents, the master of that creature…

But Harlen’s hand held him fast and tightened as he tried to move.

Gryss was continuing. ‘We have seen the measure of your great power. Forgive us, Lord, we beg of you. Let us go now so that we may spread the news of your greatness through the valley that all may know what we now know.’

There was a long silence. Farnor made another at-tempt to protest, but Harlen’s grip became almost vicious and he could feel the man trembling.

‘Go, then. Get out! And see that I am not troubled further with your foolishness.’ Rannick’s voice was strained and angry.

‘Lord,’ Gryss acknowledged, bowing lower.

Still avoiding Rannick’s gaze, he clambered awk-wardly to his feet and motioned the others to follow him. Harlen and Yakob exchanged a quick glance then they stood up quickly, yanked Farnor unceremoniously upright and, eyes lowered, dragged him towards the gate.

‘What are you doing?’ Farnor said, furiously strug-gling to keep his balance.

‘Shut up,’ Harlen and Yakob hissed simultaneously, hustling him on. Harlen’s voice was shaking. ‘Let’s get out of here before he changes his mind.’

Before he fully realized what was happening, Farnor had been dragged through the shade of the gate arch and out into the sunlight again.

He clutched at normality in an attempt to reach through to his two relentless guides. ‘Where are the horses?’ he asked.

They did not relax their pace. ‘Over the hill and half way to the capital by now, I expect,’ Yakob replied acidly. ‘Judging by the speed they left the castle.’

More gently, Harlen sought to reassure. ‘No, they’ll be grazing their way back to the inn.’ Farnor, however, was indifferent to the fate of the horses. He finally gathered enough wit and strength to shake himself free. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.

A powerful push in the back sent him lurching for-ward. He cried out as the impact jarred every pain in his body.

‘Just keep moving,’ came Gryss’s grim voice from behind. ‘We can slow down when we’re out of sight of the castle.’

Farnor turned on him angrily, but there was a look on Gryss’s face that he had never seen before: a profound fear coupled with an equally profound determination. He held the old man’s gaze for a moment, then faltered before it. Without speaking he turned away from him and began limping along the road. Harlen and Yakob came either side of him but he rejected their support.

Nothing more was said for some time until, well away from the castle, they moved into the shade of some trees. ‘Let’s get off the road,’ Gryss said. ‘I want to have a look at Farnor.’

As they entered the trees the pace eased, as did also the discipline that had kept them stone-faced and silent.

‘What happened? What was all that?’ Yakob asked nobody in particular, a note near to hysteria in his voice. ‘Where did those… flames… come from… or whatever they were?’

Gryss had taken Farnor’s arm and was directing him to a grassy embankment. ‘That was Rannick,’ he replied savagely, sitting Farnor down and crouching to examine him. ‘That was our sour faced village lout coming to full flower. His family taint breaking out in him like a great boil.’