As they made their way through the village, Nilsson’s men remained silent and in close formation. The only sign of interest in their surroundings they had shown had been the ironic salutes that some of them had given to Gryss and the others, as they had stood, bewildered and uncertain, supporting the unconscious Jeorg, while the troop passed by.
Even after they had left the village some way behind, the men maintained their silence and their close formation. Then Nilsson raised his face so that the rain fell directly into it, and let out a low, rumbling laugh.
The sound was a comparative rarity, but it was fa-miliar enough to be recognized and it ran down the column gathering momentum as it went. Soon the troop was a loose, straggling band of men shouting, laughing and jeering.
One rider, the hood of his cape pulled well forward, pushed his horse through the mass to join Nilsson at the front. Nilsson turned to look at him and some of the laughter faded from his face.
‘A good trip, Lord?’ he asked.
Rannick threw back his hood and ran a hand through his unkempt black hair. There was laughter in his face, too, but there was no humour in it. Not that there was much humour in the laughter that rippled to and fro along the column. It was coarse and raucous and dedicated to the amusement derived from watching the sufferings of others.
‘A beginning, Captain,’ Rannick replied. ‘A begin-ning. I will confess that it was… interesting… to watch your men ply their trade. Stimulating, even.’
Nilsson smiled, knowingly. ‘The men were becoming restive, Lord,’ he said. ‘They needed the exercise and it was only a matter of time before they took it in the village here. Something which would have presented quite a few difficulties for us in the future.’
No sooner had he spoken the words than he cursed himself for a fool. He braced himself for Rannick’s response.
It began with a sneer. ‘I’ve told you before, Captain, you concern yourself too much about these people. I know them. A little… exercise… as you choose to call it would avoid difficulties with them in the future, rather than cause them.’
Nilsson bowed in acknowledgement, but offered no argument. It had been careless of him to touch on the subject of how to treat the local people, and he hoped now that his silence would allow it to fade away. It was sufficient that he had had his own way so far in keeping Rannick from inflicting some horror on them to satisfy whatever malice it was he had towards them.
Fortunately, Rannick chose not to pursue the mat-ter, though Nilsson sensed that it was rankling his new Lord and would surface again eventually. He sensed, too, that if it did so then almost certainly he would have to cease his opposition if he wished to survive.
Rannick looked at him directly, and his sneer turned into a malevolent smile. ‘I noticed that you too enjoyed the exercise, Captain,’ he said.
Nilsson inclined his head. Except for what you did to that villager who followed us, he thought, though this time he managed to remain silent. In that instance he had not had his own way. He would have preferred to let the men have their fun with him and then seen him safely dispatched. It would have been scarcely necessary even to hide the body, so deserted and little-travelled was the region. But Rannick had wanted exercise of his own and, that done, he had ordered that the man be returned to the village by way of an example to others. There had been no debate about it.
It seemed to Nilsson at the time to be a major error, but nothing would have possessed him to even hint at disagreeing with his Lord when he saw the look on his face as he worked his fearful way with the choking villager.
He shrugged his concerns aside. If the worst came to the worst as a result, then so be it. He and his men had dealt with worse problems than rebellious villagers in their time. He smiled to himself. It had been a good trip. They had not had one such for a long time. And apart from putting heart back into the men, it had also provided them with considerable extra supplies.
Faintly, from the edges of his thoughts like the sound of a distant ocean, came the strains of the grim chorus of the maimed and dying that had risen in the wake of his passing over the years. It was a little louder now, but he paid it no heed. It would fade, and though it was ever there, rumbling to the surface in his quieter moments, he rarely heard it and he never listened to it.
Yet that cry for retribution in its harmony was not easily dismissed. Suddenly a chill ran through him. It was not unfamiliar, but there was nothing he could do about it. Somewhere back there they would be following. They would never stop. Never. They would pursue him and his men wherever they went; no boundary, natural or man-made, could offer protection against them, nor the arm of any king or prince. Not even time would give any protection for they would come to his very deathbed to demand an accounting. And there would be no faltering in their resolution; that, he knew; that, they all knew. That much had been known since the first blow had been struck early that misty morning so long ago.
He shivered and, scarcely realizing what he was doing, glanced over his shoulder. Accidentally catching the eye of Dessane, he forced himself to grin and then passed the act off as a casual inspection of his men.
There had always been the possibility of turning and facing the pursuers and of putting them to the sword, given a chance. But apart from the inherent danger in such a step, to do so would merely be to declare their whereabouts, and there would be others to follow in their wake; always there would be others.
He wiped the rain from his face and turned forward again. Just reaction, he thought. It always happened after a good raid. Perhaps, ironically, it was worse this time because their circumstances were so much improved following the arrival of Rannick. Now, he reminded himself, they were aided by the power. His fear of the past was, in reality, little more than a habit. Rannick may not have the awesome talents of the Lord that he had once followed, but Nilsson could see for himself that his skills were growing, and even now no ordinary man could hope to prevail against him.
With an effort, Nilsson set aside his fears and looked again to the future of wealth and power that could be his if he retained Rannick’s good will.
The thought brought him back to his original con-cern. He glanced covertly at Rannick and then allowed himself a discreet moment of satisfaction; his inadver-tent rekindling of the dispute about the fate of the villagers had not been fanned into a larger blaze. He had been fortunate this time, but he must remember in whose presence he was. He must weigh his every word just as he had had to do in the past.
And, as if in confirmation of this, the rain falling ahead of them began to twist and swirl. Nilsson watched, fascinated, as skeins of water danced hither and thither, merging and dividing, looping and spiralling, now flying high into the air, now slithering along the ground like glistening grey serpents.
His mind filled with questions about how, and why, but he did not speak. Watch and learn were to be his watchwords. Rannick’s behaviour had all the hallmarks of childish playfulness, but there was a sinister menace even in these seemingly innocent, dancing shapes, whose cause it would be best not to inquire into.
Then the skeins merged into a single solid shape which rose into the air. It stood looming over them for a moment, like a great tree trunk supporting the grey sky above, then it trembled throughout its entire bulk as if something at its heart were trying to escape and, with a strange sigh, burst into a cloud of fine spray.
Nilsson risked a compliment. ‘Your skill grows by the day, Lord.’
‘No particular skill is needed for such foolishness,’ Rannick said, staring at the dispersing mist. ‘But you are right. My skill and my power build upon one another. It comes to me that we will be able to pursue my inten-tions much sooner than I had envisaged.’
Nilsson fought down a frown. One successful raid against a defenceless village did not form a basis for assessing the worth of the men against more prepared adversaries. It was a long time since they had done any serious fighting.
He eased his horse closer to Rannick and lowered his voice. ‘The men can’t adjust to circumstances as rapidly as you, Lord. And we must build up our strength before we become too… adventurous. Sooner or later we’ll have to face real opposition as your plans begin to take shape.’
‘We must be cautious. Take care not to over extend ourselves?’
Nilsson looked at him, startled by this paraphrasing of the comments he had made so often in their discus-sions of late. Was it a genuine acknowledgement of their position or did it merely portend an impulsive punish-ment in response to some fault on his part?
But not to answer could be equally provocative.
‘Yes, Lord,’ he said, as neutrally as he could manage.
Rannick was silent. Nilsson instinctively held his breath. Then Rannick smiled unpleasantly. ‘Holding your breath will avail you nothing, Captain,’ he said. ‘I can hold it for you for hours, if you wish.’ He turned towards him. ‘I can do it for the entire troop. Or I can sweep you all into oblivion.’
Nilsson made no effort to keep the fear from his face. ‘I’m yours to command, Lord,’ he said.
Rannick nodded. ‘Yes, you are,’ he said simply. The menace in his presence evaporated. ‘But have no fear. I shall ask nothing of you that you are not prepared to do willingly. And, as I have agreed with you, those who are loyal and serve me well will be duly rewarded.’
‘Lord,’ Nilsson said with a bow.
Rannick turned away from him and looked towards the castle which was now occasionally appearing through the rain. Nilsson let his horse fall back a pace so that he could discreetly recover his composure.
Abruptly Rannick leaned forward, as if he were trying to catch a distant sound. Then he frowned. ‘Someone’s been inside the castle,’ he said, his voice an odd mixture of anger and anticipation.
Nilsson swore under his breath. In spite of Ran-nick’s assurances, he knew that he should have left a guard. It was all very well talking about these locals as if they were timid half-wits, but to take such a risk as leaving the castle undefended was folly of a high order. They could have seized back their precious tithe, leaving the troop without supplies other than those that they had just stolen. They could have found such few documents as he had which might reveal the true nature of the troop.
Visions of poisoned food and fouled wells hovered on the fringes of these concerns. And ambush!
‘We’ll prepare for an attack, Lord,’ he said, but Ran-nick shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘My guards have done their duty ade-quately. There’s no one there now. Though…?’ His voice tailed off with a note in it that Nilsson had not heard before.
Doubt, he realized. What had happened with these mysterious guards he had left behind?
Then Rannick was himself again. ‘I am going ahead,’ he said icily. ‘Follow at the walk. There’s no urgency.’
Frightened we might come across some flaw in your schemes, Lord? Patch it up before we arrive? Nilsson thought viciously, though he kept his manner attentive and concerned.
‘As you wish, Lord,’ he said.
He watched Rannick galloping away, stiff and un-gainly, swaying awkwardly from side to side. Whatever else he might be, he was no rider, though he managed well enough on the horse he had eventually chosen. ‘Evil-minded, bad-tempered mare, that one. We should’ve eaten it months ago,’ Dessane had said of it. But it seemed to get on with Rannick, prompting Dessane to conclude, very softly, ‘Two of a kind.’
‘A happy sight, Nils,’ a voice said quietly by Nils-son’s side. He turned to find Saddre, his restless eyes flicking significantly after Rannick.
‘Him riding away?’ Nilsson suggested.
Saddre nodded. ‘Talk about the old days,’ he said, puffing out his cheeks. ‘It’d have been kinder to cut that poor sod of a farmer’s throat than do what he did.’
Nilsson raised his hand as an injunction to Saddre to avoid the topic.
Saddre missed the movement and continued. ‘Do you remember Commander Gro…?’
‘Yes! Leave it,’ Nilsson snapped angrily, favouring Saddre with a look laden unmistakably with danger.
‘Sorry,’ Saddre said hastily. ‘What’s the matter with him, anyway?’ he went on, gesturing after the now-vanished Rannick.
Nilsson shrugged. ‘Doubtless he’ll tell us if he wants us to know,’ he said. ‘But it looks as if something’s gone wrong. Keep an eye out for his temper when he gets back.’
It was not mere temper that Rannick was exhibiting when he returned, however. It was a deep, cold fury that he made no attempt to conceal. Even the most oafish of Nilsson’s men had wit enough to feel it and stay silent.
Nilsson, increasingly attuned to his new master’s moods, sensed it long before any of the others and rode forward to meet him. ‘Lord, what’s happened?’ he asked. ‘Has there been an attack? Damage done?’
‘We must find the ones responsible immediately,’ Rannick said ominously. ‘He must be found. If we have to raze every building in the valley, he must be found.’
‘He, Lord?’ Nilsson queried.
‘They, they!’ Rannick snarled.
Nilsson’s horse carried him backwards from Ran-nick’s wrath. ‘Have you any idea who it might be, Lord?’ he asked when he finally succeeded in bringing his mount under control.
‘When I meet him,’ Rannick replied, his savagery unabated.
Nilsson let both the vagueness of the reply and the further reference to a single individual pass.
‘It’s late to organize a full-scale search, Lord, but if the matter’s urgent, we can start with the nearest and see how far we get before nightfall.’
‘We search until he’s found, Captain,’ Rannick said, brutally.
‘You’ll have to come with us, Lord, if you’re the only one who can recognize the culprits.’
But Rannick needed no such advice, he was already off, galloping gracelessly towards Garren’s farm. Nilsson spurred his horse after him and signalled the troop to follow.
The dogs set up a noisy barking as the troop neared, and rushed out threateningly when they clattered into the yard. Rannick flicked his hand towards them and the two animals abruptly turned tail and fled yelping piteously.
More than the sound of the barking, this brought Garren to the door of the farmhouse. Looking to see what had happened to so frighten his dogs, his gaze lit first on Nilsson.
‘What in thunder’s name’s going on, Captain?’ he demanded.
Before Nilsson could reply, however, Rannick had ridden forward to confront Garren. The farmer’s anger changed to confusion. ‘Rannick? What’re you doing here, riding with these men?’
‘I’m not riding with them,’ Rannick replied. ‘They’re riding with me. At my command.’
Garren’s confusion grew. He gave a bewildered, apologetic smile, as if he had misheard something, though there was some irritation in his voice at Rannick’s manner. ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’ he asked.
Rannick bent low towards Garren, his face twisted with rage.
Nilsson moved his horse forward quickly. ‘Who’s been into the castle while we were away?’ he asked. His voice was stern and commanding, but free of the rage that was consuming Rannick. It gave Garren the opportunity to turn away from Rannick’s strange belligerence. Instinctively, he told as near the truth as he dared. ‘No one,’ he said, his voice wilfully quiet and courteous. ‘Gryss and Farnor set off there to see if there were any sick or injured who needed attention while you were away, but they never got there.’
‘What happened?’ Rannick intruded.
Garren shrugged. ‘Gryss had an accident on the way. A fox startled his horse and it threw him.’
Rannick stretched up in his saddle and stared at the wet rooftops of the farmhouse and its outbuildings.
‘Is this the truth?’ he asked without looking at Gar-ren.
‘To the best of my knowledge,’ Garren replied, with some heat. ‘I wasn’t there personally, but why should either Gryss or my son lie about such a thing? An old man falling off a horse is hardly a matter of any consequence, and Farnor was certainly hurt when he came back. He fell on a rock when he was trying to catch Gryss.’ He moved on to the attack. ‘What’s happened, anyway, to bring you all charging into my yard in the pouring rain?’
A good question, Nilsson thought, realizing that he himself did not know the answer to it, so preoccupied had he been in avoiding Rannick’s rage.
‘My orders have been disobeyed,’ Rannick said. ‘You and everyone else will have to learn the consequences of such disobedience.’
Garren’s anger overmastered his bewilderment. ‘Rannick, I don’t know what the devil you’re doing here, or what cracked fancy these men have put into your head. I presume it’s some private jest of their own, but if you’re expecting to get any work from me this summer I’ll thank you to moderate your tone.’
A silence descended on the yard. Katrin appeared in the doorway. Her gaze moved across the watching men, but no reaction showed on her face.
Nilsson felt the storm coming and, almost in spite of himself, moved to forestall it. ‘Farmer,’ he said, grimly, ‘you must understand that many things are changed about here now. You must not address the Lord Rannick thus, on pain of severe punishment. Whatever he may have been, he is now as he says he is: our Lord and our leader. It’s no jest. As he orders, so we do.’
‘What?’ Garren’s single word was filled with both amusement and disbelief. He was about to say more, but Rannick, the force of his anger deflected a little by Nilsson’s intervention, spoke first.
‘Where’s Farnor?’ he asked starkly.
‘He went for a walk over towards the west-side for-est.’ It was Katrin who answered, her voice strong but without aggression. ‘He hurt his arm when he caught Gryss, and he can’t do a lot about the farm. I sent him out because he was pacing up and down like a caged rat.’
This was very nearly the truth, though in fact it was Farnor who had decided to go for a walk. He was bored with the enforced inaction, but mainly he felt that he needed time and silence in which to think.
‘He’s probably sheltering somewhere until the worst of this rain has passed,’ Katrin went on. ‘We can send him up to the castle when he gets back if you want to speak to him.’
Rannick hesitated. Katrin’s manner was direct and open, and spoke of gentler, kinder times. It touched the humanity in him; the humanity that had always sat uneasily with his dark, sour spirit and which was shrivelling further day by day with his increasing use of the power. He teetered on the balance. But in the scales were his old life as a near pariah, a labouring malcon-tent, and set against them was the glorious, rich and powerful future that lay ahead. There was no true choice for him.
‘Speak when I speak to you, woman,’ he said con-temptuously.
Katrin’s eyes blazed momentarily, but her hand went out again to restrain her husband. To no avail however. Garren stepped from the shelter of the doorway and, before anyone could react, his powerful arms had reached up, seized the front of Rannick’s cape and dragged him from the saddle. As Rannick thudded on to the wet, hard ground, Garren retained his grip and began to drag him to his feet.
Not by any definition a violent man, Garren’s inten-tion was probably to give this lout a good cuffing for his insolence. But he was among men whose knowledge of violence was utterly different and before he could set about his chastisement Nilsson had drawn his knife and, spinning it in his hand, had struck him a powerful blow on the head with its hilt.
Katrin screamed and ran forward as Garren dropped to his knees, both hands clasped over his head.
Rannick staggered to his feet. Nilsson swung down from his horse to catch and support him.
‘Lord…’ he began, but Rannick was intent on only one thing. He shook off Nilsson’s supporting hand and delivered a vicious kick to the kneeling Garren. It was a form of assault that he himself had learned only the other day as he had watched Nilsson’s men beating Jeorg. He had never seen, or even truly envisaged, such calculated and personal brutality, and it had exhilarated him. The use of the power was not the only corrupting influence in Rannick’s life.
Katrin, who was trying to help her husband, fell backwards as Garren was torn from her hands by the force of the impact.
Stunned by Nilsson’s blow and winded by Rannick’s kick, Garren rolled over until he bumped into the wall of the house. Then, gasping, he began to claw himself upright against it.
Nilsson went forward to take hold of him.
‘No!’
Rannick’s face was so contorted with rage that it was barely recognizable as human. Nilsson abandoned Garren and moved to one side with no pretence at either dignity or courage. He noted, but scarcely registered the fact, that Katrin had disappeared.
Rannick lifted his hand to the stricken Garren. ‘You are the second person to defy my will these past two days,’ he hissed. ‘You have to understand, all of you, what such defiance will mean.’
Garren looked at him, screwing up his eyes in an attempt to bring his tormentor into focus. He staggered forward, his arms nursing his chest. ‘You lunatic, Rannick,’ he gasped, painfully. ‘I think you’ve broken my ribs. I’m already having to do Farnor’s work. How the devil am I supposed…?’
‘Your ribs, you pathetic sod-turner!’ Rannick shrieked. ‘Your ribs!’ He turned to Nilsson, who stood very still. ‘You see?’ he shouted. ‘I told you. They don’t understand. They have to learn. And there’s only one way they can do that.’
‘As you will, Lord,’ Nilsson said, though he knew that his words did not reach into the whirling mael-strom of ancient bitterness and hatred that had festered and rotted in Rannick’s heart, any more than Rannick’s declamation to him had been intended for his illumina-tion. It had simply been a step in some obscene, self-imposed ritual that Rannick apparently found necessary before he could bring the encounter to its inevitable conclusion.
Nilsson realized that he had not had his own way after all. Rannick was intent upon asserting his will in all matters, and in the treatment of the locals he had not been deferring to experienced counsel, he had merely been waiting for an opportunity.
Talk about the old days. Saddre’s words came back to taunt him.
He had no time to ponder them, however, as Ran-nick had now gathered such resources as he needed.
A violent, gusting wind suddenly sprang up. It blus-tered angrily around the farmyard, scattering great gouts of rainwater and further unsettling the riders and their mounts. Nilsson staggered under its force and reached for his horse’s bridle, both to quieten it and to steady himself.
But it seemed to him that the wind was merely inci-dental to what was happening. Or a precursor to something.
‘Learn! Learn! Learn!’ Rannick’s scream rose to become one with the increasingly furious wind. Any semblance of discipline left the watchers and the yard became a frenzy of panic-stricken horses and men.
Battered by the wind and by the hatred pouring from his new Lord, Nilsson clung to his mount, grimly determined to stand his ground come what may.
He had a fleeting impression of Garren’s face, alarm beginning to replace bewilderment, then, although nothing could be seen, a dreadful blow struck him, sending him crashing back into the farmhouse wall. So fierce was the impact that Nilsson heard Garren’s breath leave him and his bones breaking even above the din of the wind and the uproar of the struggling men and horses.
Talk about the old days. Yes, this was the way it had been.
Rannick was motionless, though to Nilsson it seemed that he was the swirling focus of the chaos that was filling the farmyard. He was aware of another blow striking Garren. And another. The farmer slammed repeatedly into the wall like a child’s doll, his limbs jerking lifelessly.
It was like watching a man being trampled under an invisible cavalry charge.
Nilsson was indifferent to Garren’s fate, but there was a demented quality in Rannick’s wilful destruction of his body that sickened him.
He’s dead, Rannick! he screamed inwardly. You’ve made your point. You can let him be now.
But he was powerless. This was a time when all he could do was watch. He was bound to this man who was filling his vision with his frenzy.
But another agent intervened to prevent Rannick reaching whatever conclusion he was intending. An image of wild, purposeful eyes, flying hair and a screaming mouth came into Nilsson’s distorted focus.
And a knife! Glinting, keen-edged, even in the dull light that pervaded the yard.
Its very sharpness cut through the unreality that was binding him.
The wife!
He swore.
A reflex brought his arm out and his mind watched his hand closing about the sleeve of her dress. He felt its fresh, soft texture.
Without a flicker of hesitation, Katrin yielded her gripped arm to him totally and in so doing remained free to move. Spinning round, she slashed the knife across her would-be captor twice. Again, old reflexes saved him as he released his grip and arched himself backwards away from the blade. He felt it cutting through his cape and jacket and drawing a thin, ice-hot line across his stomach. Only a shallow cut but a very sharp knife, he registered.
A survivor of innumerable close-quarter encounters, he knew instantly that, reflexes or no, he was a dead man. He was off-balance and shaken by surprise, while she was so solid in her purpose, so well positioned and so fast. He felt his leaden limbs striving to gain control of themselves while at the same time he found himself waiting for the stroke that she would make next and against which he could not begin to defend himself; the one that he had waited for all his life; the one that would spring open his entrails and lay him in this cold, sodden yard. He fancied already that he could feel the wet stones on his cheeks and the cool rain dripping into his gasping mouth. He was strangely calm.
But Katrin was no trained warrior with a catalogue of subtle fighting techniques and skilled slayings at her back. She was simply a woman who had read the signs foretelling the death of her husband and who had responded knowing that he had not her vision. She had little conscious thought about what she was doing. Her whole self knew only that she must strike directly at the source of the danger with all the speed she could rouse. Nothing could be allowed to stand in her way: not her own frailty; not this hulking foreigner.
Thus as Nilsson staggered back he was forgotten, and Katrin returned to the heart of her intent.
‘Lord!’
The urgency in Nilsson’s distant cry penetrated Rannick’s frenzy just as Katrin appeared before him. He glimpsed the upraised knife and her eyes pinioned him. Somehow, a miserable village labourer again, he managed to raise an arm as the knife came down.
Garren’s body, freed from its torment, slithered to the ground.
Rannick felt the blow of the knife, but no rending pain; Farnor’s edges were too sharp to allow such. But he felt a scream of fury and terror at this invasion rising within him.
Katrin did not note what damage she had done. It was irrelevant. He was still there, still conscious, still breathing, still able to hurt her man. She raised the knife again…
Rannick mimicked her movement, raising his own arm helpless for all his power against this primordial justice and fury.
Then it was gone.
Nilsson had recovered and launched himself at Katrin.
His powerful grip closed around the hand that held the knife. Katrin made no sound, nor again did she fight him. Instead she slithered and slipped within his grasp, her focus ever on Rannick. Twice Nilsson swung the great fist of his free hand at her, but both times she was gone when the blow should have landed. Briefly they pirouetted in a grotesque dance, then Katrin twisted the wrong way and died with the merest flicker of pain on the blade that her son had so diligently sharpened.
Nilsson felt the life leave her. It was no new sensa-tion to him, but he hesitated for a moment, holding her like a bewildered lover, then he lowered her to the ground with peculiar gentleness, at the same time withdrawing the knife. A mysterious twinge of regret rose within him for this warrior who had bested then spared him. But it passed, although in its wake came a spasm of rage that he could not have begun to explain. Furiously, he hurled the knife away from him. It thudded into the stout wooden frame of the farmhouse door. A fine spray of blood left the blade and stained the painted timber.
Nilsson’s rage was still alive as he turned to Ran-nick, who was gripping the arm that Katrin had struck. Blood was oozing lavishly between his fingers, falling drops joining the rain and splattering into the puddles around his feet.
But it was the look on his face that evaporated Nils-son’s rage and replaced it with naked fear.
In the woods to the west, Farnor sat fulfilling his mother’s prophecy: sheltering under a tree and waiting for the rain to ease before he set off back home.
His arm was sore and he was beginning to feel cold, and his mind was turning with relish to the prospect of the warm, welcoming kitchen, bright with light and bustle and savoury with the odours of his mother’s cooking.
He had spent the afternoon wandering idly about the fields and the woods, rejoicing in the soft scents that only the rain can bring forth. Part of the time he had debated recent events yet again, but, despite the violence and strangeness of the assault he and Gryss had experienced at the castle, he had come to no further conclusion than that which he had reached previously: he must watch and wait.
But not here, he decided finally. A glance at the sky told him that the rain was not going to ease and that he should be on his way soon or he would be walking back to the farm in the dark as well as the wet.
Then, suddenly, it was all around him. Stronger and more vivid than he had ever known it before.
The creature.
Its will pervaded everything.
It must be nearby. The thought forced itself into Farnor’s mind through the uproar, and froze him with terror.
No, it was everywhere.
And there was blood.
And a demented fury.
He was vaguely aware of the tree at his back. A host of voices whispered to him with a despairing urgency: ‘Home. Home.’
His body took control of him and his legs began to carry him on, first staggering, then running. The creature was all around. It was filled with vengeance. And it was hunting. He must reach home. He must reach home.
Nilsson turned away from Rannick as he looked up. His eyes saw still his new Lord, his arm bleeding and his bloodstained hand now reaching forward, clawed in savage reproach. But his inner vision felt the presence of the creature that had slaughtered his men and come near to slaughtering him. And, too, its spirit was everywhere, pervading and drawing strength from the frenzied mass of riders and horses struggling for escape. Somewhere in his consciousness he sensed men falling from their horses, horses bringing down the stone walls of the yard as they scrabbled over them, legs being crushed and twisted in the tight-packed panic at the gate. And, throughout, the rain fell and the wind blew.
But these were fleeting motes caught in the whirl-wind that Rannick had now become. And he too, Captain Nilsson, leader and champion of his men, was no more than a mote. To remain where he stood would be to die.
Yet he edged away with a primitive caution – full of fear that a sudden movement might draw this awful predator down on him.
As he moved he saw Rannick’s eyes become alive with an ancient malice. But they were not Rannick’s eyes, he knew. They were the eyes of the creature.
The turmoil in the yard grew further in its desperate intensity. Nilsson fended off animals and men alike as he tried to retreat from the farmhouse. Not once, however, did he shift his gaze from Rannick.
Then, just as he had seen the creature in Rannick’s eyes, so he heard the creature’s voice as Rannick straightened up, threw his head back and roared. It was a fearful sound that wrapped itself around the battering wind and the din of the fleeing men and animals, and drew all together into a terrible focus.
Nilsson’s hands began moving to his ears, though the sound was ringing through his entire body, and even as he did so other noises reached him. He turned from Rannick to the farmhouse.
With unbearable slowness, the windows were shat-tering and blowing inwards, guttering and tiles were being torn from the roof and hurled high into the grey sky, rafters and beams strained after them then quivered and splintered as they fell back.
At the edge of his vision, Nilsson saw Rannick stumbling as if the impact of this destruction had rebounded on him. He caught him.
‘Lord,’ he said, perhaps in the hope that simple speech might bring back the man from this awful possession.
But it was not yet over. The frenzied presence of the creature seemed not so much to have fled as to have been transformed into something yet more fearful. Rannick was himself again, and, too, not himself.
He leaned heavily on Nilsson and began muttering ecstatically.
‘Yes. Yes. I have it now. I have it.’
He pushed himself away from Nilsson and lurched forward, his hands extended towards the shattered farmhouse.
There was a nerve-tearing sound like fingernails drawn down glass and the air in front of Rannick began to shimmer and glow. The sound grew in intensity, until it was finally topped by a great cry of triumph.
Nilsson staggered backwards as the shimmering mass crackled into flickering life. A pungent smell assailed his nostrils, then, as if in obedience to Ran-nick’s cry, the light split and divided into great tendrils which surged through the shattered windows of the farmhouse. It seemed to Nilsson that they were like living things, so purposeful was their movement.
Like serpents, he thought.
Almost immediately, the interiors of the rooms were ablaze.
Nilsson watched as flames and smoke poured out of the windows and rose through the gaping roof. It was almost as if they were trying to escape from the horror that had just entered the house. Silhouetted against the scene stood Rannick, his arms held wide, swaying from side to side as if to some unheard music.
Then he sank to his knees and slumped to the ground.