A Country Life

CHAPTER 16 - FARRON

Farron struggled as hard as he could, but the man kept a tight hold with one hand over his mouth, and his other arm wrapped tightly around his body, preventing him from breathing. Spots formed in front of his eyes, and a dull rushing sound began in his ears as the world contracted around him. Just when he was about to faint, his lungs screaming for oxygen, the man removed his hand from his mouth and eased his grip. Farron took huge gulps of air into his lungs and slumped to the ground, unable to stand without support. He found himself staring at a pair of large, mud-splattered leather boots.

"Get up!" barked the Fen Knight, an immense grey shadow standing over him in the half light. In one hand he held Farron's bag, in the other a knife he'd pulled from a sheath at his waist. The knight waved the knife threateningly, emphasising his demand. "Get up and walk!"

Farron stood unsteadily, his legs shaking with the effort. The knight grabbed Farron by the shoulder and turned him around, then pushed him roughly in the back. Farron stumbled and almost tripped, but regained his footing and began to follow the castle wall back towards the main gate, which was almost the opposite side of the castle from the where he had come down from the window.

"What do you want me for?" asked Farron. "What have I ever done to you?"

"Beats me. I just do as I'm told. Chief tells me to go looking for you making an attempt at escape, I go looking. Lucky me - I find you escaping. Now, shut up and walk."

"Who's the Chief. Is it Sir Darrick?"

"Of course it is - who'd you think? Your Lord and his people were so ready to believe we're knights, pledged to one of your country's stupid Kings, it was almost funny. Goddam gullible as hell, that's what you Brits are."

Farron frowned. Not everyone had been easily fooled. Thom had certainly been suspicious from the start, as had Farron. And these knights were obviously foreign, as this particular mans accent proved. Sable Holm had hidden it well, but sometimes, when he had been tired, or just forgetful in Farron's company, his speech had sounded similar, betraying the fact that he was not from the Protectorate. Farron had guessed a long time ago that Sable had come over from America, and this pretend knight's accent was similar, yet much stronger than Sable's had been.

"You're American. You've come all this way just to get me?"

"Well, ain't we the clever one? Better watch my big mouth around you, in case I give away something more- Unnghh!"

Farron spun around. The knight, or soldier, or whatever he was, had fallen to the ground holding his head, writhing and groaning in agony. Behind him was a white cloaked Revenant Monk, holding a long, heavy metal candle stick above him. The monk brought the candle stick down hard, landing a sickening thud on the soldiers head again, and the soldier fell quiet and still. He raised it a third time, but Farron shouted at him to stop. The Monk looked up at him from where he was stooped over the soldier. Farron thought for a second that the monk had come to save him, but it was clear from the look of revulsion and hate on the monk's face that he was wrong.

"Stop? Stop? Who are you to tell me what to do, you abomination! And anyway, what is he to you? He was trying to steal you away, wasn't he?"

"Yes," said Farron. "But that doesn't mean he has to be killed for it. Why are you here anyway? You can't be trying to help me, surely?"

"Of course not, thing! The very thought repulses me. You are the spawn of the evil one himself! Your very existence is an offence to all that is decent and good! Now, keep walking - I'm taking you to the church, wretch."

"The church. Really?" Farron found the monks vitriolic words typical of those who followed the Order of the Revenant Monks, to whom Farron was like a lit torch to a moth for attracting their unjust hatred. "I don't think they'll want me there. I'm the wrong colour, in case you haven't noticed."