Roger Taylor - Farnor

Had their fun for the day, Farnor mused bitterly. A brief vision of the future of the valley under the heel of Rannick and these outsiders came to him, but he dismissed it. He had his own problem to deal with. And, in any event, once that had been dealt with, the head of the serpent would have been cut off and the body should not be too difficult to destroy.

Then he was among the trees. The trees that only weeks ago had seemed as far distant from his world as the moon overhead. So much change so quickly. The thought made him feel uneasy. But then he had seen great boulders buffeted from their ancient resting places by streams suddenly swollen by a rapid thaw or a summer storm. And wasn’t he himself greatly changed from the person he had been but those few weeks ago?

Change was the way of things. Usually slow, imper-ceptible even, but sometimes shatteringly fast. It could not be disputed.

He debated which way to turn. Apart from being dark, this terrain was quite unfamiliar to him. Still, woods were woods; these could not be vastly different from those further down the valley. Hiding places would abound, as would food and shelter when need arose. He would have to find something tonight and then explore in the morning.

A night bird flew noisily out of a nearby tree, star-tling him. His horse whinnied. Calming it, he clicked it forward into the darkness.

Gradually his eyes adjusted to the ill-lit gloom amongst the trees, though he could distinguish little more than shadows within shadows. All around him was silence, except for the tread of his horse and the occasional scuffle of some hunting night creature. He dismounted and led the horse.

He had not walked very far however, when he felt suddenly exhausted. He was still stiff and sore from the beating he had received, and the emotional upheavals of the day had drained him utterly. Without further consideration, he tethered the horse, took a blanket from his bag and lay down between the jutting roots of a large tree. He fell asleep in the middle of a vague, muttered instruction to his horse.

Rannick and his companion moved among the shifting realms that lay between the worlds among which could be found the great sources of power. They were searching, though for what or who they did not know. The creature was fretful and angry, its natural malevo-lence bubbling uncontrollably into Rannick’s mind from time to time so that he felt both its fear and its fury at this ancient enemy which had returned to mar their progress.

Rannick, however, kept his mind above this prime-val anger, kept it alert for some sign that he could recognize. Tonight would be the hunt, tomorrow would be the kill… if the prey could be identified. His journeying tonight would be along the screaming highways of nightmare but his journeying tomorrow would be simple and prosaic, and with cutting steel in his hand. He could not risk using his power against this offender, with his unknown skills, nor, for the same reason, could he risk sending Nilsson’s men to do the deed. It would be a task of smiling surprise and vicious suddenness and one that he alone must do.

So they searched, an unholy duo bound inexorably together by desire and driven now by a fear of the shadow that had threatened their pursuit of that desire.

Farnor slept, too tired to dream. His young body, older in wisdom by far than its occupant, held him still and silent while it worked to repair the ravages of the day. From time to time the tiny rodents and other mammals that owned the night forest would investigate him, twitching noses cautiously testing his scent and advising hasty departure. An occasional insect clambered painstakingly over him on its own regular nightly rounds. His horse stood motionless nearby.

The moon moved slowly across the sky.

The castle lay quiet, as did the village, though there were many troubled dreams there.

Then, abruptly, Farnor was awake. Pain echoed through him as he moved, but some instinct kept him from crying out. He looked around into the darkness. He could just make out the dim form of his horse, silent and undisturbed.

What, then, had woken him? Distantly he seemed to hear voices, though perhaps they were no more than the memory of a fading dream mingling with the soft rustle of the leaves about him.

Yet, faint though it was, it was clear.

‘Flee, mover, you are hunted.’

Farnor grunted questioningly, his throat dry. The coarseness of the sound shattered the delicate texture of the dwindling words, if words they were, and they were gone, leaving only the familiar night sounds of the forest.

Farnor considered lying down again, but he was far from comfortable and, besides, he was now wide awake. Cautiously, he levered himself into a sitting position and peered into the darkness again. Nothing was untoward: no sudden silence had fallen; his horse was not restive. He frowned. ‘Mover,’ he whispered softly, trying to recapture the subtle meanings that he had felt hidden within the sound of the word.

But it meant nothing. His voice was as far from what he had heard as children’s pictures in the dust were from the finely etched figures on the ring that hung outside Gryss’s door.

He let out an irritated sigh. Whatever had happened, it had left him too awake to return to sleep while it was still too dark for him to search out a better hiding place.

As these thoughts wandered through his head so the memory of why he was here returned, and the darkness of the night seemed to enter his very soul.

Painfully he wrapped the blanket about himself and settled back against the tree trunk to wait for the dawn.

Slowly, he began to relax. Thoughts of his parents and of the wreckage of his home drifted into his mind, but he set them aside. He did this coldly, but as they continued to return he was obliged to resort to crushing them ruthlessly. There would be time enough for such indulgence when he had destroyed Rannick.

This inner turmoil angered him and after a while he stood up. Despite the warmth of the night and the blanket around him, he shivered.

Yet he wasn’t cold. Why then should he feel such a chill?

Then, with an impact that was almost physical, the presence of the creature was all about him. He flattened himself against the trunk of the tree and cast about desperately, looking for the special shadow within the shadows that would mark the presence of the animal. But there was nothing. Nor too, was his horse distressed, and it, surely, would have felt such a presence if it were nearby.

Yet it was all around him.

Farnor stood very still, scarcely daring to breathe. He must learn about this creature, for it was Rannick’s creature. Or he its. Either way, to learn of one was to learn of the other.

The memory of the incident in the courtyard came back to him. Of something that had reached out from within him and denied the harm that was being brought here. The images meant nothing to him; places that were here and yet not here? Power that was great only because it did not truly belong?

Yet whatever they meant they were vivid and, he knew, accurately remembered.

As, too, was the memory that he had reached out and stopped this… unlawful?… dangerous?… flow!

Or some part of him had.

He did not dwell on the thoughts, however; the per-vasive presence of the creature forbade that. Farnor clung almost desperately to the knowledge that, whatever was happening, the thing itself was not nearby. He could rely on his horse and the forest dwellers to tell him that.

Nonetheless, he drew the knife from his belt and gripped it tightly.

As he did so, the thought formed in his head; I shall kill you, you abomination. You do not belong. You never belonged.

The presence about him shifted, as if it had heard something. Farnor could feel its power, drawn again from a place which should not be here. He felt some-thing stir faintly within him, but it faded as the creature’s presence moved away again. There was something familiar about the way in which the presence came and went.