Farnor

by Roger Taylor

  Motioning the new arrivals to one side, Nilsson opened his arms apologetically and smiled at Gryss. It was a real smile this time.

  'I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘We've been too long in the saddle, as you say, and tempers are not what they should be.’ He became confidential. ‘To be honest,’ he went on, lowering his voice, ‘we weren't quite sure where we were. There aren't many ...’ He snapped his fingers in search of the word. ‘Maps ... of this part of the country, and we've had considerable difficulty finding our way here.'

  Gryss smiled back relieved, but still did not move until Nilsson guided him through the door and out into the courtyard. It was almost deserted now, and Gryss's horse had been tethered to a post by the door.

  Nilsson opened the wicket door for him. ‘Would you like an escort back to your farm ... Har Grysstson?’ he asked.

  'No, thank you, Captain,’ Gryss replied. ‘It's a clear night and, unlike yourself, I'm lucky enough to know where I am.'

  With an effort he mounted and, nodding a farewell to the Captain, urged his horse forward. As he heard the door close behind him he felt as if a great burden had been lifted from him. He had not realized how oppressive the atmosphere in the castle had been.

  Looking down the valley, he saw the sunstone shining on top of the tithe barn. He halted his horse and gazed at it for some time. Then he half turned and looked back at the castle. Once familiar yet mysterious, it seemed now to have been totally transformed. The familiar had become alien. The mysterious, haunted and fearful.

  He closed his eyes and released a long, slow breath. He was tense. Too much had happened today. Far too much.

  When he opened his eyes, the tithe barn sunstone again filled his vision. He looked at the bright, hopeful light of the Dalmastide symbol. The light that had meant so much to him and, indeed, the whole valley for so long.

  Now he found himself wishing only for darkness to cover and protect the valley and his people.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  'What the devil do you think you're playing at, Halfvrin? First bringing him here and then letting him go like that!'

  The complaint came from the man who minutes previously had seized Gryss's arm to prevent him leaving: Arven Dessane. He was shorter than Nilsson and of a similar, heavy build, though where there was a stillness about Nilsson there was a restless nervousness about Dessane.

  Nilsson stared at him coldly. ‘More to the point, Dessane, what the devil were you doing grabbing hold of him like that?’ His voice was low and full of menace, and Dessane edged back. He managed to maintain some of his defiance, however. ‘I was trying to stop him leaving,’ he replied bluntly. ‘The last thing we want is news getting out about us being here.'

  Nilsson's teeth glinted an unhealthy yellow in the dying torchlight. He let out an audible breath in which weariness just overcame anger, and pushed past Dessane to head back towards the building housing his exhausted men. ‘How you've survived this long defies me,’ he said. He stopped and turned to face Dessane. ‘Didn't you learn anything from our late unlamented leader? Didn't you learn to watch and listen and wait? To smile and keep your knife up your sleeve?'

  'Much good his plotting and scheming did him in the end,’ came the unhesitating reply. Dessane's tone became scornful. ‘And don't you go pretending you're like him, or have you suddenly found the secret of his special kind of protection?’ He made a disparaging noise. ‘You'll get us all killed, wandering off like that and bringing strangers back to spy on us. We should keep things simple. Strong arms and sharp steel. That's all we've got, that's all we need and that's all we should bother ourselves with.'

  Nilsson clenched his fists and seemed to be giving serious consideration to striking his companion. Instead he leaned towards him, like a huge swaying tree. ‘Really?’ he said caustically. ‘An elegant and perceptive analysis. I hadn't appreciated that you had such a subtle grasp of our position. How fortunate I took the others with me for a little pleasant company when I went out looking for a healer. There'd probably have been enough of us to deal with anything untoward that we ran into, or don't you think so?’ Dessane held his ground, but only with difficulty in the face of this viciously soft onslaught. ‘But, fortunately, it wasn't necessary, was it?’ Nilsson went on. ‘We found no ambushes, no spies, no ...’ He paused significantly. ‘... pursuers. Just a lad out with his dogs and a healer visiting a friend.’ He paused. ‘But perhaps I made a mistake: thinking, planning, like our erstwhile leader did.’ He pointed to the wicket door. ‘You go after the old man. Cut his throat before he gets back to that farm. I doubt he rides fast.’ Then his rage came through. ‘And see where that gets us. The whole valley up in arms and us stuck up the wrong end of it while they're raising the entire countryside.'

  'We can seal the valley and deal with a few villagers easily enough,’ Dessane replied defensively.

  'With what, you donkey?’ Nilsson hissed. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘It may have escaped your attention, but we've virtually no food left and damn near a third of our men are too sick and exhausted almost to mount, let alone fight. That's why we stopped at this place when we found it, if you can remember that far back, and why I went looking for a healer. And you'd kill him. In one stroke make sure the men would get no proper treatment and start a war they couldn't fight. Brilliant.'

  His tone was withering, and Dessane made no response for some time, though, momentarily, his eyes blazed. The fire faded however, and when he spoke his manner was defeated and sulky. ‘Even so, I don't like the idea of that old man knowing we're here and that we're so weak,’ he said. ‘He could be sending messengers right now.'

  Satisfied that his companion was subdued, Nilsson became conciliatory. ‘Look, you're nearly as tired as that lot in there. You're not thinking. Where would he send his messengers to? We haven't seen another village in days, let alone a town with a garrison. This place is the back of beyond. I'll wager no one's been out of this valley in years, nor anyone visited it except the odd tinker. And why should he send for help? What have we done? Nothing. Rode quietly through the village, that's all.'

  Dessane was still unsettled. ‘We broke into this place,’ he said. ‘And it's been a major garrison fort at some time, judging by the size of it.'

  'Once. Maybe,’ Nilsson agreed. ‘But you saw the state of that road.’ He waved an arm around the courtyard. The last torch had guttered out, and the cold moonlight gave the ancient walls a sepulchral look. ‘And every lock we've come across in this place is rusted solid. I wouldn't be surprised to find most of the roofs rotted through when we see them in daylight. This place hasn't been used in decades.’ He came close to Dessane and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘If need had arisen, I was going to tell him that we'd had to break in because of our sick men.’ He tapped his head and bared his teeth again. ‘But if you'd watch and listen, like I said, instead of reaching for your knife every time you see a stranger, you'd learn.’ He paused. ‘He didn't even seem surprised about us being here. He even suggested that we stay on for a few days. Said they could come to an arrangement about some food for us. That's all we need. Food and rest and we'll be on our feet again. If we make no trouble here then we can slip away quietly along the valley on to pastures new and it'll be years before anyone finds out about where we've gone.'

  'You seem very sure about the old man,’ Dessane said, a faltering rearguard.

  Nilsson smiled. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘As far as I could understand him, he seemed to think we were some kind of king's men.’ He searched for Gryss's words. ‘Gatherers, that's it. Tithe gatherers he called us. You speak the language better than I do. What are they, do you think?'

  Dessane thought for a moment, brow furrowed, then he chuckled, relieved to be standing with his captain instead of against him. ‘They're tax collectors, by the sound of it,’ he said. His chuckle became a low laugh. ‘Yes, I'm sure of it. They think we're tax collectors.'

  Nilsson snapped his fingers. ‘That's why
that crowd was waiting in the village.'

  'And looking so miserable.’ Dessane laughed maliciously.

  Nilsson clapped his lieutenant on the back, the tension between them gone. The two men's laughter floated up into the bright sky, twisting around the thin columns of smoke rising from the dead torches.

  * * * *

  Gryss called at the farm as Garren had asked. He had little to say. ‘They don't look any better by torchlight than they did by daylight,’ he said. ‘But those I saw were in a poor way. In need of rest and good food, I'd judge.'

  'Shouldn't they have had enough supplies to come this far?’ Garren asked.

  Gryss shrugged. ‘One would think so, but perhaps they've had problems. The Captain did say they'd got themselves lost. Understandable, I suppose, after all this time. There'll certainly be no one alive who could remember the way since the last time the tithe was gathered. Although, to be honest, I think he's a harsh one. I certainly wouldn't like to try knocks with him. He's probably been driving them too hard.'

  'You did say they were foreigners,’ Garren said. Necessarily, that comprehensively explained many evils.

  Farnor surreptitiously hugged himself as these revelations and speculations fed off one another, though he would have preferred to have been without the chilly note that filled Gryss's voice when he spoke of the Captain.

  'Where do you think they come from?’ he ventured. ‘And why would the King use foreigners as gatherers?'

  Once again Gryss shrugged. ‘Anywhere, and he alone knows, are the best answers I can give you, Farnor. We might find out in time, I suppose, but my main concern now is to have the tithe agreed and get them out of here.’ He sighed. ‘Though they'll have to stay for a few days at least. They've got some very tired men there.'

  Katrin entered the room, her fingers threaded through the handles of four cups. Gingerly the men unhooked them. A savoury smell filled the room. Gryss sipped his noisily and then patted his stomach.

  'Splendid, Katrin,’ he said. ‘It's a clear night out there and chillier than you'd think. And the company so far's not been too warming.’ He became businesslike. ‘I think it'd be a good idea to take some food to them as soon as possible. Be friendly, but not too friendly. Just enough to get them on their feet and to get us a good deal, but not so much that they'll remember us next year.

  He laughed. ‘Better not give them any of this, though, Katrin,’ he said, holding his cup up like a formal toast. ‘Or they'll never leave.'

  Katrin gave him a knowing look and raised a finger to rebuke him for such foolishness.

  'Pity about Dalmas,’ Farnor slipped into the easy silence.

  The others nodded. ‘I think I'm about used to the idea now,’ Gryss said sadly. ‘When this is over, we'll have to see if there's anything else we can do. It'd be a shame to lose the whole celebration.'

  There was a short debate about what could be done, and how, but the day had been long and, filled with his mother's warm drink, Farnor found himself falling asleep. He jerked himself awake a couple of times, then finally had to concede defeat and retire to bed after being awakened by Gryss and his parents laughing when he almost fell out of his chair.

  * * * *

  In bed, he lay, half awake, half dozing, for some time, basking in the steady rumble of the voices percolating through his bedroom floor. I must remember to ask what they were talking about in the morning, he thought, as he turned over, relishing his growing adult privileges from the childish security of his familiar bed.

  Gradually he sank deeper and deeper into a luxurious drowsiness, his thoughts pursuing their own strange, incoherent ways and he happening upon them from time to time and thinking he understood where they were going. From nowhere, his mother and father and Gryss flowed into this meandering stream and he felt their thoughts and hopes and fears with extraordinary vividness. Instinctively, he reached out to cherish the love and to soothe the pains.

  Then, as on the hillock, he jerked violently. The impact left him winded and shaking and wide awake.

  He swore, and twitched his right leg once or twice, deeming it to be that limb which had offended, then he turned on to his back, and flopped down into the pillow again.

  As the small noises of this upheaval faded, he realized that no sound was coming from down below. The room, in fact the whole house, was silent. For a moment, ominous shadows began to form at the edge of his awareness, but, almost immediately, they were scattered as his mother's laugh suddenly rose up to reassure him. It was closely followed by echoing laughter from Gryss and his father. The sounds merged and peaked a few times and then drifted back into their steady drone.

  Farnor turned over and went to sleep immediately.

  * * * *

  'Dalmas stayabed, young man,’ was Gryss's greeting as Farnor entered the kitchen the next morning. ‘Your father's gone to collect some of my medicines and food for our guests. Would you like to come with me to the castle when he gets back?'

  'Jobs and then breakfast first, Dalmas or no,’ Katrin intervened. ‘Then he can go if he wants.’ She wielded a large spoon like a judicial sceptre.

  Both men bowed to this higher authority.

  A little later, Farnor and Gryss were sitting on one of Garren's carts and being drawn steadily along the remains of the castle road by Garren's old mare. Much of the vegetation that had overgrown the road had been trampled by the riders the previous night, but twice Farnor had to jump down and lead the animal as the unevenness of the neglected surface caused her problems.

  He complained after the second time but Gryss shut him up. ‘Don't mention anything about the state of this road,’ he said. ‘For all I know it might be our job to look after it.'

  'Why? We don't need it,’ Farnor protested. ‘If they want it, they should ...'

  'Never mind,’ Gryss interrupted firmly. ‘Just do as I say. Paying tithes and the like is bad enough, but there's all sorts of queer things can happen when you start getting involved in the affairs of folks from over the hill, and I'd prefer you didn't go giving them any ideas. You just look and listen when we get to the castle and keep a guard on your tongue. There'll be bargains to be struck soon, and the more we know, the better.'

  Though quietly spoken, there was an authority in this instruction that was not to be argued with. Farnor nodded and urged the mare on.

  The rest of the journey was uneventful. The soft clop of the horse's hooves, the creaking of harness, the muffled rumble of the wheels and the swaying rhythm of the cart conspired with the warm sunshine and the scents of the valley to lull both passenger and driver into as deep a state of relaxation as is possible short of actually falling asleep.

  Farnor scarcely noticed when they passed beyond the point where, but days earlier, he would have considered his world as ending.

  As they neared the castle two riders came out to meet them. Farnor had had in mind, albeit vaguely, that once in their proper home the soldiers would be wearing some kind of formal uniform, and he was disappointed to note that they looked as unprepossessing as they had the previous evening.

  In fact, everything about them had a patched and worn look: clothes, weapons, tackle. They could not have been further from any of the notions Farnor had held about what a soldier should look like. And they were none too fragrant, he discovered, as one of them moved upwind to peer into the cart. That was something Yonas had never seen fit to mention even in his most down-to-earth yarns.

  More disconcerting however were their suspicious, fast-moving eyes and their hands which were never far from the knives in their belts.

  'Would you tell Captain Nilsson that I've come to look at your sick again? And we've brought you some food,’ Gryss said. ‘Can you get the gate open?'

  Gryss's news succeeded in making the two soldiers less surly, although his question caused some frowning.

  They held a brief debate in their own language, then one of them rode back to the castle while the other motioned Gryss to follow.

  It transpired
that the answer to Gryss's question was that they couldn't get the gate open, and Gryss and Farnor found themselves waiting in front of it listening to a great deal of hammering and banging intermingled with much swearing and some unkind laughter.

  'For pity's sake, we've not brought them that much,’ Farnor said, softly, with a world-weariness that made Gryss smile. ‘They could've carried it through the door in half this time. There's enough of them.'

  Eventually, amid raucous and ironic cheering, the gates creaked ponderously open. Despite his growing disenchantment with the soldiers, Farnor felt a surge of excitement at the sight. The two great timber leaves were even thicker than their outside appearance had indicated and he could scarcely believe the size of the iron bolts and hinges. He tried to imagine the village blacksmith drawing them from his furnace and beating them out on the anvil, but the image eluded him. How in the world were such things made?

  A nudge in the ribs from Gryss brought him out of his wonderment. He clicked the horse forward. As the cart passed underneath the gate arch he almost fell out of his seat as he stared up at the huge keystone above him.

  'Steady,’ Gryss said, catching his arm. ‘Your father and mother won't be too pleased with me if I fetch you home with a wheel track across your ribs.'

  'Sorry,’ Farnor exclaimed. ‘I was ...'

  'I know what you were doing,’ Gryss said, a serious edge to his voice. ‘And I understand. But I don't want you daydreaming here, Farnor. I want you to watch and listen as I told you.'

  As the cart trundled across the courtyard, more men began to appear from various doorways. Again, Farnor felt a twinge of excitement as he saw himself the centre of this martial attention, but it faded quickly enough when he saw that they all seemed to have the same demeanour as the first two they had met. He also found the sound of the gates closing behind him disconcerting.