Yeorson roused the camp early the following day. He was in a foul mood, his night having been racked by grim and fearful dreams, and he had no hesitation in venting his ill humour indiscriminately amongst his men.
Noting his mood, most of the men knew from ex-perience that it was best to bear his conduct in silence. Meirach, however, opening his eyes to see his immediate neighbour being kicked awake, purposefully drew his knife from under his rough blanket and pointed it at his leader.
The two men held each other’s gaze. Meirach’s de-meanour radiated his clear intention, regardless of consequences, to skewer Yeorson if he chose to bring his bruising feet any closer. After a long moment, Yeorson snarled, ‘Shift yourself, Meirach, we’ve got work to do,’ and turned away.
Despite the blue sky overhead, indicative of another fine day ahead, the clearing was cold and damp, being sheltered from the sun by the lowering cliff face.
Wood was gathered and the fire rekindled. Its smoke, undisturbed by any breeze, slowly filled the clearing as a subdued, grumbling breakfast was cooked and eaten.
Gradually, as the routines of the morning carried him further from his troubled memories and dreams, Yeorson’s mood became less vicious and, by the time they were ready to move, he had mellowed into his usual, supercilious self.
He stared up at the cliff. ‘I’ll have to go with them myself,’ he said to Storran. ‘No point sending any of these up there on their own. They’ll only come back with half a tale. Will you take the rest and see if you can find that yokel? He’s sure to have left tracks.’
‘What do you want us to do with him?’ Storran asked, drawing a finger across his throat inquiringly.
Yeorson shook his head and smiled unpleasantly. ‘Just invite him back here, then we’ll decide on the details,’ he said. ‘It was a mistake to let him get away last night. There’s something about him that we need to get to the bottom of whether he likes it or not.’
‘I agree. But Nilsson? And the villagers?’ Storran said.
Yeorson shrugged. ‘If we’re careful, we’ll be able to take his remains back sorrowfully and say we found him…’ He hesitated.
‘At the foot of a cliff?’ Storran offered.
Yeorson nodded shrewdly. It was one of several alternatives that would suit their ends without bringing Nilsson’s wrath down on them.
Thus, Rannick’s fate agreed, the two parties set off, leaving the horses tethered and in the charge of Meirach, who was too sore to do much walking.
Yeorson’s group headed up the hill towards the cliff. It was an untidy and awkward journey, there being little in the way of a clear route and a great deal of dense undergrowth and treacherously loose ground.
As they toiled upwards, however, Yeorson’s mood became almost cheerful. He buried rather than set aside his foolish night thoughts, and began to look forward to the return to camp and the sport that would be had with Rannick when Storran brought him back.
The prospect was still cheering him when they even-tually rose above the tree line and found themselves scrambling over the mounds of rocks that footed the cliff face proper. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he turned to look across the valley. It was as it had been when he had climbed the tree the previous day: trees in every direction, a sea of rich and varied greens, motionless in the windless morning and with faint wisps of mist rising here and there. It was a scene of great beauty and peace. Yeorson, however, curled his lip in irritation.
He had been right about the valley turning, though.
‘Move on,’ he said, pointing north along the cliff face.
‘Let’s get to that headland. We should be able to see quite a way from the other side.’
Storran’s group had easier going of it. Rannick had indeed left tracks, tracks that needed no great skill to follow: footprints, crushed grass, broken twigs. Storran pouted with delight when he encountered them. There should be no difficulty in finding him. He could not have travelled far at night, and he had probably never thought that anyone would bother to follow him.
He chuckled and motioned his group forward. ‘Qui-etly, lads,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to disturb him, do we? And show some diplomacy when we catch up with him, please. I’d much rather we persuaded him to come back with us of his own accord.’ He chuckled again. ‘Save us the trouble of carrying him.’
As the two groups moved further apart, Meirach wandered aimlessly about the camp. From time to time he took his water bag and splashed his hands and face. His burns were sore as the devil and he could not wholly dispel the feeling that it had been Rannick who had caused the log to fall on to him. He did not dwell on the fact that Rannick had been sitting on the far side of the fire and well away from it.
He splashed his face again and winced. What wouldn’t he do to that village idiot when Storran brought him back!
And yet…
There had been something unpleasantly familiar about Rannick. Something that at least part of him was not entirely sure it wanted to meet again.
His reverie was broken by an urgent whinnying from one of the horses. The noise spread rapidly to the others and they began to mill around, tugging at the tether line.
Swearing, Meirach strode towards them. Stupid animals, it was probably a fox nearby.
‘Meirach,’ came a voice.
It had an edge to it that made his skin crawl. He spun round, searching for the speaker.
A figure came into focus emerging from the trees. Meirach felt a frisson of both elation and alarm. It was Rannick.
But even at this distance Meirach could see that he had changed. His gait alone was confident and assured.
He must have seen the others leave, Meirach thought. Perhaps come back to steal from the camp.
Still, he had met and dealt with cocksure individuals often enough before today, and they all went the same way; there was a world of difference between looking confident and being capable.
The horses became more and more disturbed as Rannick drew nearer. Meirach roared at them furiously, but that served only to increase their distress. He picked up a stick with the intention of beating them into submission, but as he reached the tether line one of them swung sideways in panic and caught him full on, sending him sprawling backwards to the ground.
A powerful hand yanked him to his feet.
‘Tell me about yourselves,’ Rannick said, without preamble.
Meirach tore himself free and stared at him in disbelief. ‘Go to hell,’ he shouted.
Rannick turned to the frantic horses irritably. He closed his eyes slightly and the horses became suddenly still.
His attention turned back to Meirach. ‘Tell me about yourselves,’ he said again.
Meirach’s already livid face coloured further in a combination of fear, bewilderment and rage as he struggled to find some way of coping with this bizarre development. Faced with such uncertainty, his old fighting instincts prevailed. He’d master the situation better when he’d mastered its creator.
Without a vestige of warning he swung his clenched fist straight up to strike Rannick’s chin. Coming from such an angle, it was a blow that would not be seen by the victim until it struck, and it was invariably effective.
But some animal reflex seemed to take command of Rannick and he jerked back and flailed his left arm in front of himself, effectively spoiling the attack. A seasoned fighter, Meirach allowed himself no dismay at this unexpected setback, and without pause, he drove his other hand forward.
There was a brief flicker of surprise in Rannick’s eyes, then they became cold and without pity. Almost casually he stepped to one side to avoid the oncoming attack.
Increasingly angry at this peculiarly elusive victim, Meirach spun round, preparing to follow up his second failed attack. As he did so however, he caught Rannick’s gaze.
And he could not breathe.
All thoughts vanished from his mind except the single one of mortal terror at the leaden weight that had suddenly filled his chest. Convulsively his mouth began to work in an attempt to take in more air. But nothing happened.
‘The air is mine to command, Meirach,’ Rannick said, off-handedly, still staring at him. ‘An ancient gift. You will breathe no more until I allow it.’ He shrugged. ‘And if I feel so inclined then you’ll die.’
Meirach lurched forward, his eyes bulging and his hands clawing the air as if he could seize it and force it into his burning chest or perhaps seize and destroy his tormentor. But his body’s resources were focused totally on its need for air and his legs failed to respond, buckling underneath him. Rannick watched him like a disinterested spectator.
Then Meirach was free. Crouched on all fours and gasping desperately.
Slowly, his breathing settled into some semblance of rhythm.
Then he heard Rannick speaking again.
‘Do you wish to continue attacking me?’
Meirach clenched his teeth and glowered at his as-sailant.
‘I understand,’ Rannick said, sympathetically. ‘But you won’t, will you?’
‘Who in Murral’s name are you?’ Meirach gasped.
Rannick smiled slightly. It gave his gaunt face an even more menacing appearance.
‘Tell me about you and your companions,’ he said.
Meirach grimaced. His impulsive attack, a hitherto infallible stand-by, had failed. His companions were too far away to be of any immediate help, and this… creature… had some frightening tricks in his reper-toire. It was contrary to his nature, but he must try a more subtle approach. He had learned one or two things from Nilsson in his time.
‘A minute,’ he said, twisting himself round to sit on the ground. He beat his fist gently against his chest. ‘How did you do that?’ he asked.
Rannick smiled again, but did not answer.
‘Bad joke of mine, that, last night,’ Meirach said, still breathing heavily but attempting to return the smile. ‘Saying throw you on the fire. We’re not used to your ways. We’ve got a harsh humour. It was only a joke, you know.’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ Rannick said. ‘You’d have done it if Yeorson hadn’t stopped you. I’m interested to know why he did. In fact, I’m interested in everything about you.’
A commotion interrupted him. Some of the horses were becoming restless again. Meirach looked at them. Though tethered, they seemed to be struggling desper-ately against other, unseen, restraints. Fear and curiosity vied within him.
‘What’s happened to them?’ he asked, getting un-steadily to his feet.
But Rannick was not listening. He was peering past him into the trees at the edge of the clearing and shaking his head as if in denial. Meirach followed his gaze. For an instant he thought he caught a glimpse of something moving there, a large shadow. But it was gone even as he saw it, vanishing into the deeper shadows of the forest beyond.
The horses became quiet again.
Rannick turned back to Meirach. ‘Now you’ve re-covered your breath, stop wasting my time and tell me about yourself and your companions. These so-called gatherers.’
Mindful of Nilsson’s instructions, and despite his own terrors, Meirach equivocated. ‘We are gatherers,’ he said indignantly. ‘We’re King’s…’
He felt the air being drawn out of his lungs. Rannick stared at him with an expression of weary resignation. Unable to speak, Meirach desperately waved his hands. Rannick released him.
Meirach gaped at his tormentor, fear now dominat-ing all other emotions. He spoke in his own language, his voice low and full of awe. Rannick frowned. Meirach waved his hands again in frantic apology to forestall any further retribution for this mistake. His voice was thick with his foreign accent when he spoke. ‘Is it you, Lord? Come again?’
Rannick put his head on one side, his brow fur-rowed in puzzlement. ‘What do you…?’ he began, then he stopped and straightened and his face hardened. He spoke slowly and very deliberately, his forefinger emphasizing his words. There was a finality in his voice that was unmistakable.
‘Tell me about yourself and your companions, Mei-rach,’ he said. ‘Now!’
He opened his mouth wide with this last word and it seemed to Meirach that Rannick was not a man, but the heart of a terrible storm. A blast of air struck him, scouring his burned face. He covered it with his hands, but to no avail. The wind seemed to seep around his fingers, tearing at his burns with relish.
He sank to his knees.
‘For pity’s sake, no more,’ he said hoarsely. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘I told you before,’ Rannick replied, almost gently. ‘Everything.’
Moving carefully along the rock face above the tree line, Yeorson and his men gradually made their way around the headland until, at last, they found themselves able to look along the valley for some distance.
The valley wound and twisted away from them, and throughout the length that could be seen, the majestic peaks and ridges rose out of a dense, continuous forest. A strong breeze was blowing around the vantage that the climbers had reached, cooling damp foreheads and tacking chilly shirts and tunics to damp backs, but the forest below seemed unaffected by it, lying serene in the spring sunshine.
Its serenity, however, did not encompass the watch-ers. Yeorson swore and wiped his arm across his brow. He looked up at the cliff looming over him, and thence at the neighbouring peaks. It was beyond him or any of his men to scale it, and, as far as he could judge the ridges, he doubted that they could be traversed easily by anyone capable of reaching them.
One of his men spoke. ‘That Rannick said the valley led to the Great Forest. Just getting through this lot is going to be a major expedition, and if there’s only more forest at the end of it…’
He left the observation unfinished.
Yeorson offered him no rebuke; the words chimed too closely with his own thoughts and the speaker was Haral, as bloody-handed a follower of Nilsson as any and by no definition either a grumbler or a faint heart.
He nodded but entered no debate. ‘We’ve seen what we came to see,’ he said. ‘Let’s get back down, then we’ll decide what’s to be…’
‘Hush!’ someone said, holding up his hand urgently for silence.
The group froze into alert immobility and the speaker craned forward in concentration.
A faint high-pitched sound drifted up to them. It continued for a few seconds then it was gone, sub-merged under the wind soughing around them.
There was a brief silence. Though scarcely percepti-ble, there had been an unsettling, even frightening, edge to the sound. ‘Never heard an animal make a noise like that,’ Haral said, voicing everyone’s thoughts. He frowned, uncharacteristically uncertain. ‘What if that Rannick was right about this place being bad, danger-ous?’ he said.
Yeorson looked at the forest stretching ahead, then at the treacherously easy-looking journey sloping away from them back towards the camp. He saw both for what they were and his face became contemptuous. ‘We’re dangerous, Haral,’ he said. ‘And certainly more dangerous than anything that lives down there.’ The sneer curled into a dark smile. ‘Anyway, when we get back to camp we might be able to encourage friend Rannick to explain himself in more detail.’
It was an encouraging prospect.
When they arrived back at the camp, however, it was to the news that Rannick had not been found, and that Meirach was gone.
‘What do you mean, gone?’ Yeorson demanded.
‘What I said,’ Storran protested. ‘He’s taken a horse and left.’
‘Didn’t he leave a message?’
‘No.’
There was some debate about why Meirach had left but Yeorson was in no mood for reason. Something about this place was unnerving him. He lashed out.
‘And where’s Rannick, for crying out loud?’ he shouted angrily. ‘How could you not find him? He was only on foot.’
Storran’s round face coloured and his mouth tight-ened warningly. ‘And what did you find, after your climb?’ he asked with menacing softness.
Yeorson told him.
‘Marvellous,’ Storran exclaimed witheringly. ‘Noth-ing but forest ahead of us. Meirach wandering off when he’s supposed to be guarding the horses. And that bumpkin, Rannick, running us round in circles.’ He swore violently and, suddenly drawing his sword, aimed a savage blow at the trunk of a nearby tree. It was an uncharacteristic outburst and the men moved away from him warily. Nevertheless, it served to bring the two leaders back to their senses.
‘What happened?’ Yeorson asked as Storran sheathed his sword.
Storran clenched and unclenched his fists as the residual irritation expended itself. ‘He left tracks a blind man could follow,’ he said. ‘Here, there, everywhere. Wandering aimlessly, by the look of it.’ He waved his hands vaguely. ‘We couldn’t see any traps he might have been visiting. Then we came to a rocky outcrop and the tracks just disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’ Yeorson queried.
Storran nodded. ‘We looked all around it and couldn’t find any sign of a camp or of him leaving,’ he replied. ‘My nose tells me he knew we’d follow him and that he was leading us on. It was a mistake to let him go last night.’
‘Well, we did,’ Yeorson said with growling fatalism. ‘But right now we’ve got other things to worry about, namely Meirach and where we go next: forward through this damn forest or back to the castle.’
There was no serious alternative. They would have to search for Meirach.
‘He’s a troublesome son of a whore, but he’s too handy in a fight to lose,’ was Yeorson’s conclusion. ‘We can decide whether to go on or back when we find what kind of a state he’s in.’
They would all go, it was agreed, leaving a note for Meirach should he return to find the camp deserted, and marking their route well. Not knowing what they were going to find, there was no point in splitting the patrol again.
An examination of the ground around the tether line showed them the direction in which Meirach had left. It was to the north.
‘And he’s leading his horse,’ Storran said, crouching down to study the tracks more closely.
Both pieces of information were puzzling. What could have possessed him to head further away from the castle?
After some congestion around the edge of the clear-ing, the trees became more widely separated and the undergrowth less dense. The patrol was obliged to move slowly and carefully as they followed Meirach’s tracks, and their progress took on the appearance of being nothing more than a group of friends enjoying a leisurely afternoon ride across a stately parkland as they moved through the leaf-shadowed shafts of sunlight.
They travelled thus for some time.
Then Haral touched Yeorson’s arm and pointed. Yeorson squinted into the distance and in turn reached out and touched Storran.
Ahead of them lay a mound. It was not possible to make out what it was from a distance because of the shadows being thrown across it by the surrounding trees, but when they reached it, such quietness of spirit each might have been secretly relishing in the silent search, vanished abruptly. The mound was a horse. Its belly and throat had been ripped open and its entrails strewn about the forest floor. Flies were beginning to gather.
For a while the men simply stared at the carnage. They had seen worse in their time, but this had a peculiar horror by virtue of the sunlit calm about them and the implications for their companion.
‘What kind of an animal could’ve done that?’ some-one said eventually, his voice hoarse with shock.
Storran ignored the question and moved to stem any outburst of conjectures. ‘Stay mounted,’ he said sternly, swinging down from his horse. ‘And keep still. We don’t want to disturb any tracks.’
His voluptuous mouth twisted in distaste, he ap-proached the carcass. Yeorson joined him.
‘Good question,’ Yeorson said softly as they both crouched by the body. ‘What could’ve done this?’
‘And what did it do to Meirach?’ Storran added.
‘We heard some kind of a scream when we were up the mountain,’ Yeorson said. ‘Did you hear anything?’
‘Faintly,’ Storran replied. ‘We were a long way from here.’
‘Well, I’ll wager that tells us when this happened,’ Yeorson said, standing up. ‘How do you think we should go about finding out what?’
Storran was prodding the body thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure I want to,’ he said.
‘We’ve got to find Meirach,’ Yeorson said, uncertain about Storran’s intentions.
Storran glanced up at him. ‘Look at the size of this bite.’ He poked the jagged edge of a wound in the horse’s side. ‘Whatever did this won’t have left much of Meirach.’
‘We’ve still got to find him. Or whatever’s left of him,’ Yeorson said. ‘Morale’s bad enough, and on the whole I’d rather face whatever did this than have to tell Nilsson we lost someone and didn’t look for him.’
Storran looked at the waiting men then heaved him-self upright. ‘I know,’ he said, blowing out a resigned breath. ‘Let’s get on with it.’ He turned to the men. ‘Those of you who’ve got them, string your bows,’ he said. ‘And if you see anything big, shoot it and ask after.’
‘Even if it’s Meirach?’ someone shouted.
‘Especially if it’s Meirach, the trouble he’s caused us,’ Storran said.
The raucous laughter was strained as it floated up to the sunlit canopy overhead.
There sat two figures.
‘Your friends don’t seem to be taking your loss too much to heart, Meirach,’ Rannick said softly.
Meirach’s face had a deathly pallor which made his burns peculiarly livid. He stared at Rannick wide-eyed, but made no answer.