Roger Taylor - Farnor

But he tried to give this no more credence than the other, more sinister and ill-formed notions that were plaguing him.

He had scarcely finished installing Farnor into his own bed when the cottage door opened and Yakob strode in with Marna, red-faced and out of breath, at his heels.

The two men looked at one another for a moment. Yakob seemed tired and worried, but he did not look like someone who had hastily dressed.

‘Couldn’t sleep, either, eh?’ Gryss said.

Yakob nodded. ‘Too many dark thoughts,’ he re-plied. ‘What’s happened now?’

‘You’ve brought the horses?’ Gryss asked. Yakob made no attempt to press his question.

‘We’ll talk on the way, then,’ Gryss concluded. He drew the sheets up tight against Farnor’s chin, and dimmed the lantern by the bed.

‘Marna, you keep an eye on him,’ he said.

There was a momentary hint of rebellion in Marna’s eyes, but she allowed it no rein. Someone would have to stay with both Farnor and Jeorg lying here in enforced sleep.

The night was cold and damp as the two men rode towards Garren’s farm. The rain had stopped and the sky was clearing. A bright moon began to emerge from behind hulking clouds, transforming them for a while into a towering, silver-edged mountain range.

The moonlight lit the road and enabled Gryss and Yakob to make as much speed as their age and unskilled horsemanship would allow. Gryss recounted Farnor’s vague tale, but bluntly refused to answer any of Yakob’s questions. ‘We’ll find out the truth soon enough,’ was all he was prepared to say. Indeed, it was all he was prepared even to think at the moment.

He sniffed as they entered the lane that led up to the farm, then he grimaced.

‘What’s the matter?’ Yakob asked.

‘Smoke,’ Gryss said.

The lane, shaded by trees, was quite dark and they were obliged to travel at a slow walk. As he peered ahead, however, Gryss thought he saw brightness in the distance. His heart rose. It was probably Garren’s sunstone lighting up the yard in anticipation of Farnor returning home.

But as he reached the gate he realized it was merely the moonlight shining on the remains of the white front wall and contrasting with the darkness of the lane.

‘No,’ Yakob whispered in horror as they gazed at the gaping destruction that had once been the Yarrance farmhouse. ‘No, no!’

Gryss closed his eyes tightly, as if they would not focus properly.

The smell of charred and sodden timber filled the air, and small tendrils of smoke floated out through the shattered frontage. The moonlight gave them the appearance of some ghastly plant.

Gryss, his stomach turned to lead and his head un-naturally clear, climbed down from his horse and fumbled with the gate latch.

The gate opened silently and easily as he pushed it, mute and poignant testimony to Garren Yarrance’s thorough and conscientious life.

‘This happened hours ago,’ Yakob said, still speak-ing softly, almost as if he were in a holy place. ‘Why didn’t Farnor come sooner?’

Gryss raised his hand. ‘We must find out what’s happened to Garren and Katrin,’ he said, his voice unsteady.

Farnor’s words came back to him. ‘All gone… Fa-ther’s broken… Mother’s asleep… her dress is all stained…’

He started as something nudged his leg. He looked down. It was a pig. It eyed him beadily and then turned away.

‘All the stalls are open,’ Yakob said.

‘Yes.’ The palms of Gryss’s hands were sweating with fearful anticipation, and his mouth was dry. He beckoned to Yakob to dismount. ‘Stay by me,’ he said.

They walked towards the farmhouse. It looked dead and haunted in the moonlight. The sight was at once so familiar and so alien that it disorientated Gryss horribly. He knew that, like Farnor, he too was now suffering from shock.

Yakob caught his arm and pointed, but Gryss had already seen the shadowy mound by the front door of the house. As they drew near, the shadow moved and an ominous growl reached them. Both men froze, then Gryss reached into his pocket and took out a small sunstone lantern. It flared into life, banishing the moonlight and turning the world into a small, night-bounded sphere.

The dog, crouching by the bodies of Garren and Katrin, blinked at the light then stood up, its hackles bristling and its upper lip drawn back to reveal its cruel teeth.

‘No, no, no.’ Yakob’s voice trembled as his gaze looked past the dog and at the bodies.

Gryss could hardly speak; his tongue felt dry and distended in his mouth. Part of him wanted to dash forward and lay into this stupid dog with feet and fists, but his quieter nature ached for it in its futile vigil over its erstwhile master and mistress.

Handing the lantern to Yakob, he crouched down and began to make soothing noises to the dog, calling its name and holding out his hand gently. Ironically, though the dog’s diligence was keeping him from tending his friends, he was glad to have his mind occupied with a simple task. It dispelled the sense of unreality that had descended on him, just as the lantern had dispelled the ghostly moonlight.

It took him a little time, but the dog eventually stopped its growling and moved cautiously towards him, dropping on to its belly as it reached him. He put out his hand and stroked it. ‘Good boy,’ he said. ‘We’ll see to them now. Your job’s finished.’

Then, keeping his hand comfortingly on the dog’s shoulder, he moved over to the two bodies. Yakob followed him.

‘Are they…?’ he asked needlessly, finishing the question with a vague and helpless gesture.

‘Yes,’ Gryss said. ‘And some time ago, I’d say.’ He looked up at Yakob. ‘Farnor was deeply shocked when he came to me. I think he’d been wandering round lost for hours.’

Yakob crouched down by him. ‘What in pity’s name has happened here?’ he said, his voice lower than ever. ‘Why are they… here? Outside the house? Why are they dead? What…?’

‘Hold the lantern still while I look,’ Gryss said.

He began to examine the two bodies.

One of the grimmer thoughts that had occurred to him as he had tended Farnor was that indeed the lad’s mind had failed under the pressure of recent happen-ings and that he had committed some terrible atrocity. His whole being rebelled against the idea, but it had its own dark logic and could not lightly be set aside.

His mind was not eased by the rent he found in Katrin’s dress and by the broad wound under the arch of her ribs. As he examined the wound, his eye caught sight of the stout kitchen knife embedded in the door frame.

Almost reluctantly, he moved to Garren. Gently he kneaded the crooked limbs, then he placed his hand around Garren’s head to raise it.

The softness there made him draw a sharp breath and he had to force himself to examine it further.

‘What’s the matter?’ Yakob said.

Gryss shook his head in a mute appeal for further patience, and continued his sorry work.

When he stood up his face was puzzled, though there was also a hint of relief in it. Whatever had happened here, Farnor could not have done it. Yakob looked at him expectantly.

‘Katrin was stabbed,’ Gryss said bluntly. ‘Probably with that thing there.’ He gestured to the knife. ‘As for Garren, he’s a mass of broken bones. I’ve not seen anything like it since we found Menion.’

Yakob grimaced. That incident had been many years ago. Menion had been a young man, who, finding that a long-held and until then secret love was not returned, wandered off into the mountains. Yakob and Gryss had been members of the party that was sent out to search for him two days later. They found him twisted and broken at the foot of a towering cliff. Whether he came there by accident or by intent none could ever deter-mine, but for those on the party the sight of his shattered body remained with them always.