On the wall opposite hung a tapestry, one his mother had done in her lonely years of widowhood since his father’s death. How he had loved to watch her work on it, nimble fingers weaving and blending the colors like magic. He missed her, missed his father, too. But they were both long dead.
“A man should not live alone!” Dalia had shouted at him time and time again. “Take a wife. A woman will know how to handle you! Lady Gwenn will know.”
Nigel blunted the memory before it had time to stir. Gwenn was no longer a part of his life, he told himself. He must understand that and take her from his mind. But it was difficult.
He stared at the tapestry again and felt it almost come to life. It was a summer scene, filled with wildflowers and lumbering trees set against a deep blue sky. In a sense it reminded him of his ride into the Westland yesterday morning. That tiny village held some of the same charm he was looking at now. But this was not the real world, he reminded himself painfully. The real world was hostile, cruel. The tapestry and the village were a sad reminder of things that used to be, long ago, long before his own birth, long before even his grandfather’s birth. The Valley had been different then. It was still safe to wander at night even to the edge of the forest itself.
He sipped at the wine; a host of recollections came at him in a rush. Summers at Northwood and the Dale, swimming and riding, walking along the banks of the Valley River. But even then it was never without an escort: a servant, or even his tutor. He smiled whimsically at the thought of that old man, also long since dead. That man who taught him to read, to write, to be a Lord. And some of those lessons were hard indeed on an eight-year-old child.
Drowsy again, his thoughts began to wander. He thought of that warm balmy day when the two of them had been out riding ...
Pausing to rest their horses, Nigel and his tutor had stopped at the crest of a hill that overlooked the Northern Forest. This was the first time in his life he had been so close to the wood, and, like any eight-year-old, he was more than a little curious. His eyes stared intently at the vast and seemingly endless stretch of trees; he became entranced by it as many before him had been.
Wondering, he asked: “Where does the forest end?”
His tutor smiled, sitting back against a stout old chestnut tree. “It has no limits,” he answered. “The forest is endless. Save for our Valley, it covers the entire world like a blanket and bathes it in shadows, so dense and thick in parts, they say, that even the sun does not shine.”
Nigel stretched out on the grass, his head in his hands. He kicked off his sandals and relaxed as his teacher picked petals off daisies.
“And why don’t men explore it?”
The teacher leaned over, mussed the boy’s hair, and laughed. “Because the forest is dangerous,” he said. “Any man fool enough to enter it would soon see the folly of his ways. Why, within a single day such a man would become hopelessly lost, with little chance of ever coming out. And he would be watched — observed by unseen eyes, eyes that lurk in the dark and wait only to strike.”
Nigel listened attentively. This dark and mysterious wilderness with its many hidden secrets excited him. “But there are men who have gone into the wood?” he asked.
His teacher nodded, but the smile was gone. Nigel watched him curiously.
“Yes, Nigel,” he said. “Once men did venture into the forest. Some hunters, some soldiers.” At that his face darkened; he spoke as if the words were painful. “But few ever came back to tell of what they saw. The Forest-Dwellers have no love for men.” His words trailed off into a whisper.
“But birds are our friends,” said Nigel, “and they are Forest-Dwellers.”
“That is true,” replied the teacher, “but that friendship is more than a thousand years old. Remember, they too have suffered at the hands of our enemies. But the other Dwellers? They have neither the need nor the desire to befriend us. They have their domains, we have ours. That is enough.”
Nigel nodded, pretending to understand. He sat quietly for a few minutes. Then he asked: “Why are we so hated?”
“It is the dogs, the wild dogs of the forest that we must fight,” the teacher said.
Nigel stared at him. “Why?”
“Because in the wood they are masters. It is their empire. And men are a thorn in their side. The Valley is rich and fertile and the dogs lust for it. But we stand in their way. It would be the crowning jewel of their empire if they could take it from us. And they have tried, many times.”
Restless, Nigel got up and paced, but kept his eyes fixed on the wood. And the more he looked, the more inquisitive he became.
“What happened to the men who went into the forest?” he asked him. His tutor rubbed his eyes, cocked his head to the side, and inquired: “Why do you ask?”
Nigel put his hands on his hips, trying to speak with the authority of a Lord. “Because I want to know!”
The man smiled. “Very well, young Lord,” he said. He paused and rubbed at the side of his nose, half closing his eyes. “Most were slain,” he said after a time. “Others, in desperation, took their own lives.”
“And the rest?”
The teacher took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He lowered his gaze. “They became insane. The forest can do that to men, drive them mad. Some came to believe that they were Forest-Dwellers themselves —”
Nigel smiled.
“Do not laugh, Nigel,” his teacher said sternly. “Legends abound with such tales. Tales of doomed souls who mated with the Dwellers, and whose hideous offspring still roam close to the Valley. Sometimes at night you can hear their cries.”
“Those are the cries of jackals!” protested Nigel. “Do you really believe all those old wives’ stories?”
His tutor was not amused. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the ground. “No man can say with assurance what can be found in the blackness of the forest,” he said, speaking slowly and deliberately. “Only children laugh.”
Nigel pouted, trying not to look hurt. He threw back his head and let his locks fall over his shoulders. “I’m not afraid,” he said. “When I’m a man I’m going to go into the forest!”
His teacher smiled, looking into his face. “Many have dreamed of it,” he sighed. “But most forget their dreams.”
“I won’t!” said Nigel.
The teacher leaned back again, sitting cross-legged. “In many ways you remind me of Ciru and the men of his time,” he said.
Nigel’s eyes widened. Ciru! What boy had not heard tales of him! Lord Ciru, soldier and adventurer, the last man to enter the forest. “Tell me the story!” implored Nigel, eager to hear.
The teacher nodded and closed his eyes. It had happened almost fifty years before, when he was a boy himself. Yet in many ways the memory was as fresh as today’s bread. “Lord Ciru was a mighty soldier, as you know,” he began, “brave and daring. He feared no Dweller. And like you, he scoffed at the dangers of the wood. He believed that the forest could be conquered, that it was no more endless than was our Valley. And he scorned those who tried to talk him out of his foolishness. Determined to prove his ideas, he set off in early spring with a band of volunteers, hoping to find a path through the Northern Forest. His goal was to seek new lands for our Empire and set men into a new age of exploration. It was a noble ambition, and most of us prayed for his success.”
Nigel sat expressionless, hanging onto every word. Ciru was the kind of man he would be when he grew up.
“All through summer we awaited word from the wood,” continued the teacher, “but none came. For a while we thought he might have succeeded, for why else would he have taken so long? But as the winds blew colder and the first frosts came, we despaired. If he was still alive, he would have little chance of surviving the winter. And it was a bitter winter, if I recall. But we could do nothing except wait.
“When the snows melted in spring, a Deep-Forest falcon flew to the Haven. And it was sad news that he brought. All the members of Ciru’s band were dead, he told u
s. Their bodies lay frozen in the snow, many miles from home. They had become lost and there had been no one to help them. Not even birds. A few took their own lives, the falcon told us, while the rest were either slain or starved to death. Ciru’s body was never found, though. What happened to him we shall never know.”
Nigel felt tears welling in the corners of his eyes. He looked away and dried them on his tunic. His tutor put a comforting arm around his shoulder. “So you see,” he said, “that is why the Council has decreed that no man shall ever again venture into the wood. And with good reason: Ciru had traveled for more than six months, and at the end he was no closer to finding a way out than the day he began. His search was futile. The forests are endless.”
“But how can we be sure?” asked Nigel, drying his eyes. “Ciru became lost, you said that yourself. He must have wandered in circles.”
His tutor shrugged. “The result would have been no different if it were otherwise,” he said. “Why are you so stubborn? Forget this talk of the wood. Our home is here, in the Valley. This is our Empire. Leave the wood to those who belong there.”
“But our Empire is nothing!” protested Nigel. “The world is vast, even if it is mostly forest. Our goal should be to explore it, as Ciru said. We should seek out the Forest-Dwellers and try to befriend them, try to get them to help us.”
His tutor stood, gestured sweepingly to all the lands around them. “Why do you speak so ill of our Empire, young Lord?” he asked. “The Haven governs all lands for more than twenty miles in each direction. From the fjords, the Outlands, the hills and dales, to the foot of the forest itself. Our soldiers protect it, keep it safe. What more would you have us do?”
Nigel kicked his bare foot into the dirt. “If the world were a tree,” he said, “our Valley would be a single leaf. Men were not meant to be so confined. We must reach out, explore, seek new lands where the dogs won’t threaten us.”
His teacher shook his head. “Perhaps when you are a man you will understand,” he said. He peered out to the forest, to the horizon. “You seek something that doesn’t exist,” he said, “and the seeking of it will break your heart as well as your spirit. We need men such as you will be here in the Valley. A lad as clever as you can go far, perhaps even become Elder of the Council. Listen to me, Nigel, put aside childish thoughts. This is your home; do what you can to improve it.”
They rode back in silence, passing farmhouses and grazing cattle. Far off, across the plain, the walls of the Haven loomed high, majestically. He could make out the parapet and the high towers. Mule-drawn wagons, laden with produce, rolled toward the Great Gate. Nigel looked sadly at them. His teacher had meant well, he knew, and he was right; the Haven did need men at home, physicians, men of science, even as it needed farmers and soldiers. Nigel knew that. But it also needed men who realized that the future lay beyond the Valley. That day he made a vow: that he would not forget his dream and that one day he would do what others thought impossible. He would succeed where Ciru and others had failed; he would find the path through the forest.
*
Nigel woke. The wind was howling, banging the shutters. He sighed and smiled wistfully. That boy’s vow had yet to be kept — but it was not forgotten, nor would it ever be.
He got up and threw a few more logs into the fire. The flames leaped high, the wood crackled, and shadows danced across the walls.
Nigel reached out and took his new dagger in his hand; he ran a finger along its edge. A thin stream of blood appeared. Nigel winced. The blade was sharp. He had barely touched the thing and it had drawn blood. He put his finger to his mouth and slumped into his chair. For an instant he became frightened by the dagger, then a wave of calm swept over him. He would carry the dagger from that day forward, he knew, as though it were a badge. And somehow he sensed that the day was close when he would need it.
Just then there was a flutter of wings beside the window. Nigel looked up pensively as a large parrot with a curved beak and dull green talons flew into the room. The bird flapped its wings and glided to the mantel atop the fireplace, eagerly taking some water from a cup.
Nigel grinned; his eyes brightened. Antonius had come home.
The parrot shook his feathers; bits of mud and grime flew about. “I apologize for being so late,” his friend, the parrot, said in a high-pitched squawl, “but there were many things to be done.”
Nigel brushed aside the apology with a wave of his hand. “We’ll talk soon, but now you must be hungry.” He reached over and brought the bird a small plate filled with worm and snake, placing it near the fire. Antonius eyed it eagerly; he flew down and began to devour it.
Nigel watched and smiled. The parrot had been with him all his life. He wondered, but really could not imagine, what life would be like without him.
Nigel had not even been born when his aging grandfather had found the parrot in the Dell, lying frozen and half dead in the snow. Wrapping his cloak carefully around the injured bird, he brought him back to the Haven and painstakingly nursed him back to health. Of all the Dwellers only birds, as anyone knows, had thrown their lot in with men. To allow the parrot to die would be a crime no man would want to carry in his soul.
It had taken many months to bring him back to health, and Antonius had never forgotten. He stayed on with them, becoming both friend and companion to all his family. And when the old Lord died he proudly served Nigel’s father as loyally as he had the man who saved his life. But to Nigel he became even more than that. He became almost like a brother. Never caged, always free, Antonius was now all that was left of Nigel’s family.
His meal done, Antonius stood beside the fire and warmed his wings.
“And what news from the forest?” asked Nigel at last. “Have you been able to learn anything?”
Antonius blinked his eyes and shook his head. “Rumors only. Nothing that can be confirmed.”
Nigel sipped from his goblet. “Then maybe Desmond was wrong after all. Sean thinks this was only an isolated incident, probably the work of some stray pack who fled after it was over.”
The parrot did not try to answer for a moment Only members of the Council had received word of what had happened at the farmhouse, and Nigel believed that hiding it from the populace was a mistake. Did men really believe they could keep it a secret? Already all the forest was whispering.
“Desmond wasn’t wrong,” he said at last. “There are packs moving near the Valley. Other birds have sighted their Scouts. They hide close to the frontier, waiting for orders, probably. At any rate they’ve caused hundreds of other Dwellers to flee.”
Nigel stared into the dancing flames; he felt a shiver. Flatly he said: “Then war is imminent.”
Antonius lifted his wings slightly in a gesture remarkably like a shrug.
“Well, what else have you heard?”
“As I said, Nigel, only rumors. Better not to vent them and cause undue alarm.”
Nigel felt a trace of anger. “Tell me,” he snapped. “We have to know, if only to prepare for the worst.” Antonius restlessly fluttered his feathers, gazing at the wooden beams that crisscrossed the ceiling. “All right,” he said, drawing a long hissing breath. “The falcons claim to have seen signs of Deep-Forest Packs leaving their lairs and trekking south.”
Nigel raised his brow and gazed wide-eyed. “Are they heading toward the Valley?” The question was tinged with a hint of fear.
Again Antonius shrugged in parrot fashion. “Who can say? The falcons have observed many movements. They saw deer flee from the scent, saw rabbits afraid to leave the warrens even at noon. But all this is not proof. We must not draw false conclusions.”
Nigel was certain he detected a note of genuine concern in the parrot’s voice. He knew Antonius was not telling all. “Well, surely all this means something,” he said dryly. “What else do the falcons say?”
“They are frightened,” rasped Antonius. “Is that what you want to hear? Vandor has dispatched his spies to fly deep into enemy territory. In a
few days we should be hearing what they have seen.”
Nigel nodded with understanding. Vandor, king of hawks, was a shrewd bird. His predators were sharp-eyed and keen; nothing would pass their watchful eyes unseen. If the dogs were on the move, they would find out.
Antonius studied Nigel’s face closely; he saw fatigue and worry written on it. “Why are you so upset?” he squawked. “It’s too early to know anything for sure.” The young Lord took a long draught and let the wine’s warmth run through his body. “The Doomsayers are at it again,” he said. “This time they’re quoting from the Prophesy. They say by summer the entire Valley will be overrun.”
Antonius shot him an angered glance from his beadlike eye. “And since when do you listen to the ravings of Doomsayers?”
Nigel forced a bitter laugh. “Normally I wouldn’t. But in light of what happened at the farmhouse —”
“Bah!” The bird flexed his talons. “This is not the first time a frontier settlement has been attacked or ravaged. Some form of war may be at hand, yes. But you fear something that goes far deeper. What you speak of is the total war, the World War spoken of in the Prophesy. Do you really believe the enemy is prepared for it?”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore. The Doomsayers have been speaking of Signs.”
Antonius screeched in laughter. “I’ve heard that before!” he chortled. “Doomsayers are always seeing their Signs, in the wind, in the sky — but they’re mad! You know that They’ve predicted this a hundred times.”
Nigel looked at his friend uneasily. “But what if this time it’s true?”
The parrot cocked his head to the side and gave him a strange stare. “And why should it be true?”
Nigel gazed blankly at the window, then closed his eyes. Indeed why? “Because of all these things coming together at once. The farmhouse, these ‘rumors’ of Packs on the march, the fears of the falcons, the fleeing of so many Dwellers. And the Doomsayers.”
Antonius snapped his beak, his eyes flashing hotly. “But there is no proof!”
The Haven Page 2