Farnor noticed, however, that the flies were gone from both the corpse and Rannick. They were hovering in a dark shifting cloud some way away, almost as if they were being constrained there or were too fearful to venture closer. And he sensed that Rannick was observing him in some way, even though he seemed to be totally occupied by his examination of the sheep. Briefly, his disorientation returned.

‘What are you looking for?’ he ventured after a mo-ment in an attempt to recover himself. Rannick did not reply, but bent forward and retrieved something from the sheep’s fleece. He looked at it closely and then he lifted it to his nose and sniffed at it. It was a peculiarly repellent action. Farnor grimaced.

‘I… I’ll have to get back,’ he stammered, stepping back as he felt his stomach beginning to heave. Only the fear of Rannick’s mockery prevented him from vomiting there and then.

Again, Rannick did not reply. Instead he stood up and moved his head from side to side like an animal searching for a scent. Farnor felt the unseen observation pass from him.

‘I’ll have to get back,’ he said again, continuing to retreat. ‘Tell my father what’s happened. He’ll need to know. And the others… they’ll want to hunt this thing…’

Still Rannick said nothing. He was looking to the north, still, so it seemed, scenting the wind.

Farnor turned and began to run. Not so fast as to appear to be frightened, he hoped, but sufficient to emphasize the urgency of his message. He needed the movement and the wind in his face to quieten his churning stomach. He did not look back until he knew he would no longer be able to see Rannick on the skyline.

* * * *

The farmhouse of Garren and Katrin Yarrance was little different from any other in the valley, though its stone walls were somewhat thicker than most and its thatched roof a little steeper, in deference to the fact that it was the highest farm up the valley and tended to receive more of the winter snows than those lower down.