Farnor Page 32

  His nervousness returned. Apart from the continuing need to watch for Nilsson and his men, he would have to be careful in this wide, rambling land where, free of the mountains on either side, he would be able to wander in almost any direction. Landmarks would be smaller and less obvious and there would be fewer opportunities to stand high above it and determine his route.

  But he had Gryss's descriptions memorized, and he was not exactly stupid, was he?

  And, in that connection, his first task now, before descending further, was to check if Nilsson and his men were somewhere in this panorama. He spent some time peering intently over the landscape, but though he could see no line of riders, there were too many folds and dips and extensive areas of woodland for him to move on carelessly. He wrinkled his nose in disappointment. He would have to continue as he had been doing, keeping his eye on the tracks that they had left and as far ahead as the terrain would allow.

  He set off down the slope, leading his horse.

  By noon he was down from the hills and riding over soft grasses and through light woodlands. All around him spring was hectically preparing for summer, birds singing and nesting, flowers blooming, the occasional small animal pausing briefly to examine this alien passer-by.

  But for the fact that he was still following Nilsson's men, Jeorg would have immersed himself in this great awakening. He was old enough to appreciate the joy of the moment while knowing that this same countryside would hold little joy given a good downpour and a strong wind.

  At last he reached the point that he had been hoping to find for most of the journey. The tracks turned suddenly north.

  He stood for a little while on the spot, gazing in the direction they had taken. What was up there? Another valley? And what were Nilsson and his men doing, anyway? For a moment he considered going a little way after them to see if he could find an answer to these questions, but the urge soon left him. He had spent much of the journey so far looking to be free of these people and now he was. Now all he had to concern himself about was remembering the way to the capital.

  He turned his horse to the west.

  As he did so a swirling flock of small birds flew low overhead, the sound of their wings loud and urgent.

  Then an unexpected and strong breeze began to blow. His horse shied uneasily.

  * * * *

  Nursing his throbbing arm, Farnor struggled to his feet and ran across to where Gryss lay.

  'Gryss, Gryss! Are you all right?’ he called out as he dropped to his knees beside the old man.

  Gryss's eyes were closed and he made no response. For a terrifying moment, Farnor thought that he was not breathing and, without thinking, he took hold of his arm and shook it as if to waken him. Gryss's eyes opened and he drew in a sharp, gasping breath.

  'Are you all right?’ Farnor asked again, still shaking him.

  Gryss yanked his arm free. ‘I will be when you stop pulling my arm off,’ he said testily. But his face was both pale and covered with perspiration, and belied the vigour of this rebuke. ‘Help me up,’ he demanded, trying to lever himself on to one elbow. He was breathing heavily.

  'In a moment,’ Farnor said, putting his left arm around Gryss's shoulders. ‘Just rest a little. You look awful.'

  Gryss's lip curled. It was almost a sneer, and an expression that Farnor had never seen before on the old man's face.

  'Thank you, Farnor,’ Gryss said, his tone matching his look. ‘You obviously have a natural healer's flare for building confidence in a patient. Now get me up, and let's get away from here before anything else happens.'

  But for all his protestations, he lay back on the ground again and made no effort to help himself for some time. When, finally, he did so, it proved no easy task to get him to his feet. He was having difficulty in breathing and Farnor had no feeling in his right arm other than pain, which seemed now to be affecting every part of his body; and both of them were shaking with the shock of the terrifying encounter.

  'Where's the horse?’ Gryss asked as they began to move hesitantly away from the castle.

  'I've no idea,’ Farnor replied. ‘It ran off when the gate slammed shut.’ He shook his head. ‘I was half inclined to join it. What happened in there?'

  Gryss halted and patted his chest with a clenched fist. Farnor kept his left arm about the old man until, at last, he began to straighten up, and to breathe a little more easily.

  'I don't know, Farnor,’ he said, without looking at him. ‘But I do know that I'm too old for this kind of activity.’ He patted his chest again, and coughed painfully.

  Gently he shook Farnor's arm from his shoulders and looked around vaguely. ‘The horse has probably gone back to the inn.'

  'That'll cause a stir,’ Farnor said. ‘There'll be all sorts of questions. What are we going to say happened?'

  Gryss frowned. ‘We'll have to lie, I'm afraid,’ he said. ‘I can say I was coming to see your father and something ... a fox, maybe ... startled the horse, and it bolted and threw me.'

  Farnor looked at him unhappily. ‘I can't lie to my parents any more,’ he said. ‘Keeping this business about the creature from them is bad enough. It makes me feel ... uncomfortable ... and my mother knows something's the matter apart from any worries about whether Nilsson's men are gatherers or not.’ He grimaced violently and held his right arm tightly. It was growing increasingly painful and he thought he could feel bones moving about under his hand. With an effort he tried to continue talking. ‘And staggering in with you half dead ...'

  But the pain was too much and had Gryss not already taken hold of him he would have stumbled.

  'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,’ the old man said, the tone of his voice echoing the desperate apology in his words. Quickly he led Farnor to the edge of the road and, sitting him down on a grassy bank, began to take off his jacket.

  Now it was the young man who was pale and perspiring.

  'I was so busy with my own concerns,’ Gryss said as he gingerly worked Farnor's jacket off his arm, ‘I forgot what you did in there.’ Self-reproach filled his face as he rolled up Farnor's shirt sleeve to examine the injured arm, but he set his emotions aside and became purposeful. ‘Move your fingers,’ he said, gently.

  After a few minutes of probing and manipulation, during which Farnor simply did as he was told, wincing freely as need arose, Gryss rolled down the sleeve again and draped Farnor's jacket about his shoulders.

  'There's nothing broken, fortunately,’ he said. ‘But it's badly bruised and some of your muscles have been damaged. It'll be very sore for a while. You'll need to rest it. Then it'll be just plain sore for a long time.’ His face lightened and he managed a smile. ‘And the colours will be something to behold.’ He took Farnor's right hand and folded it across his body. ‘Just hold it there for now, as relaxed as you can. I'll make a sling out of something when we get to your father's.'

  Farnor confined himself to nodding, some reflex from childhood always making him behave thus in the presence of Gryss the healer.

  He found that his legs were rather uncertain as Gryss helped him to his feet, but the pain was easier if only for the assurance that no bones had been broken.

  They set off down the road at an elderly man's pace.

  'You saved my life in there,’ Gryss said when they had walked some way. ‘I don't know what to say. Thank you seems woefully inadequate. I've never been so frightened in all my life.'

  Farnor in his turn did not know what to say by way of reply. ‘What happened?’ he asked again.

  'I can't remember properly,’ Gryss said. ‘I looked inside and saw no one about, then I went in and ... something ... hit me. Threw me into the gate.’ His brow furrowed. ‘I think I managed to turn round. I recall banging on the gate and shouting, but everything seemed to be sucked up into the noise and thrown back to mock me. It was as if half a dozen winter blizzards were clamouring at my back. And the force ...’ he went on, as if he still could not believe what he had felt. ‘So powerful ...’ He turned to
Farnor. ‘Then it eased. It felt almost as if it had been driven back by something. Like a fierce animal retreating before something even fiercer. And then you came tumbling in through the wicket and dragged me out.'

  He looked at Farnor intently. ‘What did you hear, on the outside?'

  'The same,’ Farnor replied. ‘A tremendous noise. But there was something else as well. I called out to you before you went in. I had this feeling that something in the courtyard was both ... here and ... somewhere else at the same time. I can't explain. And it was as if something awful was coming from that somewhere else. Bringing all the harm.’ He shook his head, and nursed his arm once again.

  Gryss blew out his cheeks. He felt useless, and it was not a feeling he cared for. Things were happening that were far beyond anything he had ever experienced. Not even in any of Yonas's tales had he heard of anything so strange. He glanced covertly at Farnor. Something in the courtyard from somewhere else? What was the lad talking about? He would have liked to have laughed understandingly and dismissed him as being over-imaginative, or shocked, or deranged even, but the sound and the furious power of the wind that had seized him and pinned him helpless against the castle gate were still with him and all too real. He had no doubts about the threat that he had experienced.

  And there was something else too, something he did not want to think about.

  Then, as if by their very intensity his wishes could make themselves come to pass, he found his mind filling with an almost desperate longing for everything to be as it was before Nilsson and his troop had arrived. That was a world which he understood completely. Nothing could happen there which he could not turn his mind to and solve eventually. But now...

  He began to feel utterly wretched, and it was only with a great effort that he kept any sign of this inner turmoil from his face. Sternly he reminded himself that, whatever was happening, the young man next to him had been injured in saving his life and that, despite his youth and through no fault of his own, he found himself near to the centre of this mystery. However impotent he, the village elder, felt, Farnor felt no less and needed all the support that could be given.

  But what support could he offer? There wasn't even anyone he could turn to for advice.

  You've sat helpless by enough death beds in your time, just be here for him, came a grim reply from within as he felt the waves of despair about to break over him again. It mightn't be much but it's all you've got.

  'What are we going to tell my father?'

  Farnor's reversion to his original concerns brought Gryss sharply out of his inner debate.

  'I've told you, I can't lie any more. I might fool my father, but not my mother. And it'll upset her if I try.'

  The request heartened Gryss. Here, he could help. ‘We'll have to go halfway,’ he said, shrewdly. ‘Tell some of the truth. I'll confess to going to search the place on my own, and to dragging you along with me. Then ...’ His head wobbled from side to side as he pondered various alternatives. ‘We'd better say that the castle was locked, or Yakob and your father will be up there tomorrow.’ He fell silent and, brow furrowed, pondered yet more alternatives until, ‘We'll have to say that the horse was startled and bolted, after all,’ he decided, a little unhappily. ‘And that you ... banged your arm on a rock as you tried to catch me.'

  He made an effort to look enthusiastic, but Farnor pulled a sour face.

  'Well, you think of something better, then,’ Gryss said, a little indignant at this rebuff.

  'I suppose we'll have to,’ Farnor conceded after a moment. ‘We can't tell them what actually happened. It's too ... complicated. And my father would take Nilsson to task about it in the middle of the village green if he got wind of it. Stealing the tithe is one thing. Hurting people is another.'

  Gryss nodded. That was true, and something that he himself had not considered. Garren was a quiet and reasonable man but, as is the way with such men, if roused on a matter he would pursue it, quietly and reasonably, with a dogged relentlessness worthy of any wild-eyed fanatic, until he obtained an explanation that quietly and reasonably satisfied him.

  'It was some kind of a trap, you know,’ Farnor said.

  Gryss frowned, thrown off balance by this strange remark. ‘What was?’ he asked.

  'That ... wind, or whatever it was. It was a trap,’ Farnor expanded. ‘It was left there in case anyone tried to get into the castle.'

  Gryss stared at Farnor anxiously, afraid that the shock of the young man's injury might be affecting his mind. But even as these thoughts came to him, he realized that their clamour was because he himself did not want to hear what Farnor was saying. Did not want to hear anything that would make him give credence to what he had felt so strongly: that what had happened at the castle was no freak wind. That it was...

  He twitched away from the thought and turned his attention back to Farnor.

  As he knew it would be, Farnor's face, though pale and lined with pain, showed no sign of that detachment which hallmarks a disordered or fevered mind. Farnor was calm and composed, and in full possession of his reason.

  'What do you mean, a trap?’ Gryss asked hesitantly. ‘I don't understand. It was just ...’ His voice tailed off.

  Farnor looked at him impatiently. ‘It was just what?’ he demanded scornfully.

  Gryss flinched a little at the unexpected force of the question but made no reply. Apart from having no answer, he knew he must not hinder Farnor's sudden need to pursue the matter.

  'The damn thing was alive,’ Farnor went on, urgently, grimacing and hugging his arm as a jolt of pain struck him. His face was angry and fearful, as if he were back in the gloom of the archway again, battling to open the wicket. ‘It was a guard—a trap. There was a will behind it. Someone set it there.'

  Gryss wanted to argue. Wanted to say that this was foolishness brought on by his pain. Wanted to say, prosaically, ‘If they'd wanted to keep people out all they had to do was lock the gate.’ But he couldn't. What he was trying to avoid, he would have to face now or later. Even without Farnor's angry dismissal, he knew that the screaming turmoil that had risen to greet him when he entered the castle had not been any natural happening. There had been an intent in the force that had hurled him against the gate and nearly crushed Farnor's arm. A malevolent intent. Even he had felt its burning malice focused on him.

  But what did it mean?

  He tried to shy away from the only answer that was left, but he could not. Nilsson, or one of his men, had powers beyond the understanding of ordinary people; powers that could control natural forces such as the wind. How such a thing could be he did not pause to consider. He was old enough to know that his ignorance out-reached his knowledge by far, and he had seen enough inexplicable events in his life not to reject such a possibility out of hand. But who it could be? That was a different question; one that seemed to be important. None of the few he had met had seemed in any way ... extraordinary. But then, what might such a person look like?

  He remembered the vaguely familiar figure who had been in Nilsson's room when he had received the news about the intended garrison, but, tantalizingly, face and name continued to elude him.

  'And I'm the same,’ Farnor said.

  The remark, filled as it was with guilt and despair, startled Gryss. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked, eyes wide with concern. He stopped and took Farnor's uninjured arm.

  'I'm the same,’ Farnor said, looking desperately from side to side as if for escape.

  'Same as what?’ Gryss said, forcefully, shaking him. Farnor pulled away and moved over to a tree by the roadside. He leaned against its trunk then slid to the ground, his eyes pained.

  'I saw it, Gryss. When you opened the gate, I saw it. I knew it was wrong. I knew it drew a power from ... somewhere else. Something in me recognized it. Something came out from ... inside me ... and went for it. Like a fox after a rabbit. I couldn't help myself. I attacked it. And it knew it was attacked,’ he went on. ‘It knew. It retreated. It was hurt. Somehow
I'd taken its power from it. Weakened it. I must be the same as the person who set it there in the first place ...'

  He looked down at his hands. Gryss did not speak. After a long silence, Farnor said softly, ‘I'm not going mad, am I, Gryss?'

  The question came almost as a relief to Gryss. ‘If you are, then so am I,’ he said without hesitation. ‘And do I look mad?'

  Farnor smiled weakly.

  'I can't pretend to understand what's happening here,’ Gryss went on. ‘Or to be other than frightened by it, but it's not in our imaginations, that's for certain.’ He took Farnor's face in his hands and gazed at him intently. ‘You're not perfect by any means, Farnor Yarrance, but you've no real ill in you. You may or may not have some strange skill that you knew nothing of, I don't know—there are some strange things in the world. But I do know you'll do no intentional harm with it.'

  Farnor's eyes filled with doubt.

  Gryss dismissed it utterly. ‘Fire is fire, Farnor,’ he said. ‘Warm yourself by it, cook your food with it, or burn your neighbours’ ricks with it. Cut the crops or people's throats with one of your sharpened blades. The choice is yours—always yours. And whatever gift you have, you'll always choose rightly. Do you understand me?'

  Farnor looked at him uncertainly.

  'And remember this,’ Gryss went on, urgent now, ‘because I live by it. I might be frightened now—that's part of being alive, part of learning—only fools are never afraid—but really nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood. Do you understand that?'

  'Yes, I think so,’ Farnor said quietly after a moment. Gryss released him gently.

  Then, as if following his own advice, Gryss found his mind coldly turning towards what had been happening. ‘Maybe it's that creature that's doing it,’ he mused. ‘It's ...'

  But Farnor was shaking his head.

  'I've touched the creature,’ he said. ‘And I touched that ... thing at the castle. They're connected in some way, but they're not the same. It was a man who set that trap, not an animal.'

  Suddenly his face went white, and he began to tremble.