Roger Taylor - Farnor

Farnor and Marna were the first to join the growing group of hunters converging on the edge of a small lake. Garren and Gryss had again fallen behind despite the downhill slope.

The group had formed into a circle at the centre of which lay another brutally slaughtered sheep.

From the peaks above came a sound like distant thunder. Farnor’s flesh tingled.

‘Rock slide,’ someone said casually, and attention reverted to the dead animal.

Garren and Gryss arrived, the elder quietly pushing his way to the front of the circle. He bent over the remains of the sheep. ‘This hasn’t been dead as long as the other one,’ he pronounced after a brief inspection. ‘It’s getting hungrier.’

‘Or it’s just acquiring the taste,’ Garren said. Gryss nodded. it was irrelevant which. Both knew that the attacks on the sheep would now become more frequent.

‘It’s making itself at home,’ someone said, by way of confirmation.

Gryss looked up at the sun. ‘We’ve quite a lot of the day left. We must try and find it or we’ll be having to round up the flocks and set a night watch.’

This observation sobered even the merriest mem-bers of the group. A hunt was a hunt, but night watches were a different matter altogether. Dismal affairs at best. Small groups chosen by lot to mount guard on a few huddled sheep. Waiting silent through the cold, dark night, with no fire, no light, not even any talking to set aside the brooding presence of the unseen mountains. And certainly no ale. Fall asleep out there full of ale and glowing and, blanket or no, you could expect to wake up dead.

‘Where do we start?’ a young man asked. ‘There aren’t any tracks to follow.’

Gryss glowered at the speaker. ‘It’s a big dog, or more than one,’ he said, pointing at the corpse. ‘There’ll be signs somewhere if we bother to look properly. If not footprints, then fur snagged on the gorse or a bush. Or bits of this poor beast dropped somewhere. Just spread out carefully and keep your eyes open.’

Subdued, the hunters did as they were bidden.

‘What can we do?’ Farnor asked his father.

‘The same,’ Garren replied. ‘But keep us in sight.’

As Farnor made to walk away, Garren laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘I mean that,’ he said sternly but softly so that Marna would not hear. ‘I don’t want you, by the way, drifting off into some thicket with milady there.’

Farnor coloured and opened his mouth to deny the implicit accusation, but too many protestations formed at once and culminated only in an incoherent stutter which Garren waved to silence. He repeated Gryss’s comments. ‘We have to find whatever’s killing these sheep as quickly as possible now, but it’s marked this place out as its territory and it’s liable to attack anyone who stumbles on it carelessly. So be alert. No foolish-ness of any kind. Do you understand?’

‘What’s the matter?’ Marna asked as Farnor joined her.

Farnor, still a little indignant, fought down a petu-lant ‘Nothing!’, and substituted, ‘He was just telling me to be careful.’

Marna looked at him and then back at the two men. They were laughing about something. Her eyes nar-rowed, but she said nothing.

Inexorably, Marna and Farnor’s search carried them back in the direction of the castle, though, in con-science, they were diligent in their duties, scanning the ground for signs of the passage of the predator. It was, however, with mixed feelings that Farnor noticed some flattened ferns at the edge of an overgrown area bounding the grassy slope up which he and Marna were walking.

He bent down to examine the damaged fronds. They were bloodstained.

‘I’ll call the others,’ Marna said and, putting two fingers in her mouth, she gave a piercing whistle.

‘Don’t touch it,’ she said. ‘The dogs might be able to pick up a scent.’

They did. But instead of a chorus of excited barking rising to greet this find, an oppressive silence fell on the group as each dog in its turn sniffed the ferns and then started back, ears flattened and tail curled deep between its legs. Some whimpered.

‘Leash them,’ Gryss said softly. ‘It looks like we’ll have to finish this without them.’

The dogs’ unease, though, had spread to the hunters and such enthusiasm as they still had waned markedly as they tied up their dogs.

‘So it’s big,’ Garren said, speaking the silent concern. ‘We knew that. We’ve got staves and axes enough for any dog, haven’t we, for pity’s sake? Do you really want to come back up here on night watches? Come on. Let’s find the damn thing and kill it.’ And without waiting for any debate, he plunged off through the ferns. Rather shamefacedly the others followed, some of them raising their spirits by roundly swearing at their dogs.

After his initial rush Garren soon slowed down for, large though it might have been, the animal had left little in the way of clear signs to follow: a broken stem here, long grass trampled there.

Then some fur snagged on a bush.

Garren untangled it and rubbed it pensively between his fingers. It was a mixture of black and dark brown and unusually coarse. He offered it to one of the dogs, but again the ears went back and the tail drooped, and the dog looked reproachfully at its master.

Garren pulled a rueful face as he straightened up and threw the fur away. ‘Well, at least with this colour it should be easy enough to spot,’ he said.

Farnor bent and picked up the fur as the group set off again. It had a peculiarly unpleasant feel to it, and he felt his skin crawling again just as it had when he had heard the rumble of the rock slide earlier.

He rubbed his right arm to still the sensation but his touch felt odd, as if both hand and arm were someone else’s, someone in a different place, at once near and far away. He glanced down, momentarily fearful. His arm and his hand looked as they felt, near yet distant; his, yet not his. Only the dark fur of the strange, slaughter-ing animal held in the familiar, alien fingers seemed to be truly real and present. Indeed, it was vividly present, as if it alone belonged here.

Something somewhere began to form the idea that he was light-headed with the sun and the walking and the excitement of events that day, but it faded into the background as, abruptly, a dreadful malevolence seemed to possess him.

That it was the spirit of the creature they were hunt-ing he knew as surely as he knew his father and Gryss and the others about him, pressing forward through the ferns in their own distant world.

He heard the breath being drawn from him at the horror of the sensation, while at the same time he felt two responses rise within him like ill-matched horses drawing a wagon. Sword-swinging rage to destroy this abomination and all its ilk for ever. And pity for this creation, into which so much wilful evil had been nurtured.

Part of him reached out…

Following a path of his own, Rannick faltered as the presence about him momentarily vanished, then returned, heightened tenfold and full of bloodlust and desire. Desire for vengeance.

With a gasp, Farnor fell headlong forward.

Many sounds filled the swimming darkness that was another place. Sounds and sensations. Clamouring, pushing. Unfocused and incoherent.

Confusion, bewilderment, concern. And, too, anger; human anger. And a different anger; a demented anger; an unfettered animal anger full of awful intent. The two were mingled in an unholy union.

Then they were gone, snatched away brutally. In their wake was a strange void that gradually filled with a myriad voices whispering and calling softly. There was a sense of a vast… family? filled with surprise and inquiry; and some disbelieving alarm. How could it have come here?