Farnor

by Roger Taylor

  That had been the power. He had known and felt it before. And Rannick it had been who had wielded it as he stood there motionless in the darkness.

  And, too, there was that other, sinister, presence that had touched him briefly. Nilsson shivered. That he had not known before, and whatever it had been he had no desire to know it again.

  Yet, though his convictions were more solid in the morning light, his doubts and questions too, were stronger. Where and how could this man have acquired his skills if, as Gryss had said, he had lived in the valley all his life? And how truly adept was he? Nilsson could not begin to answer the first question, and found it impossible to conceive that anyone could have the same awesome ability as his erstwhile lord, but...?

  The schemer and tactician in him began to take control. He would have to watch and measure Rannick's power; watch and measure his skill in dealing with men; discover and direct to his own ends whatever plans this mysterious valley dweller had. Because, unless he learned more about him, that was all Rannick could be: another valley dweller, presumably simple and unlettered. Almost certainly he would be, in some ways, as gullible as the rest of the people here.

  Nilsson ran his wet hands through his hair and drew himself up straight, pleased with his conclusion. Whatever happened today, he must be seen to be in authority either as Rannick's indisputable second in command or as his executioner. He checked his various knives and, taking out his favourite, tested its edge. He replaced it with a nod of satisfaction. Whatever hint I gave you last night I'll not give again, he determined. If a thrust is necessary it'll be after a smile of support, in your back, and fast.

  There was always the possibility, of course, that Rannick would not appear. That presented problems. He could easily fabricate some yarn to explain the previous night's conduct to Dessane, but future plans would be thrown into confusion.

  He pondered various alternatives. He could postpone Yeorson and Storran's second exploration of the valley, but that would cause awkward questions as everyone knew that, sooner or later, they would have to leave here. Or he could send it out as he had intended. But what danger was there in that? Why had Rannick chosen to intercept the first group? It occurred to him suddenly, that it might have been solely for the purpose of kidnapping Meirach, or someone—anyone. And the implications of this? Rannick now knew everything about Nilsson and his men; or at least as much as Meirach knew, and that was enough. Adept or crafty faker, it would give him no small advantage in their future dealings.

  Too many alternatives and too little information for detailed planning, he decided. He must deal with each thing as it happened, as in battle. The strategy, after all, would be no different: first his personal survival, second his best personal interests.

  The morning passed for him in a disjointed, spasmodic manner, punctuated as it was by intervals of unreality as he drifted occasionally into deep reveries, plans and schemes forming and re-forming in his mind while the castle pursued its morning routine.

  Not that there was a great deal of routine to be pursued. As usual, those who had risen too late for the communal breakfast made their own or did without. The rest did nothing apart from those detailed to guard the walls and the gate, and those who were preparing to leave with Yeorson and Storran.

  These latter were acting with commendable efficiency. Generally callous in their dealings with other than their own, and typically brutal with one another, Nilsson's men had an almost incongruously chivalrous horror of abandoning each other and there had been no shortage of volunteers to join the patrol in its search for Meirach.

  Feelings were mixed however, as the tale brought back by the first patrol was told and retold, wilfully exaggerated and embellished, inevitably misunderstood and generally allowed to assume a significance far greater than its original reality. Nilsson, assisted by his aides, poured icy scorn on such of these excesses as reached their ears, but it was obvious that a serious morale problem was developing and would continue to develop unless positive action was taken to stop it.

  Looking down from the castle walls, Nilsson watched the comings and goings of his men. Like eddies in a stream, they had a rhythm and a pattern seemingly full of purpose but with no discernible cause or conclusion. Yet the movement was too fast, too erratic. To his experienced eye, there were ripples present that betokened the onset of a sudden and dangerous flood.

  And, like a flood, a timely intervention would be needed to divert its energies if harm was to be avoided.

  He turned to Dessane. ‘Call a congress,’ he said.

  Dessane stared at him in surprise. ‘Now?’ he asked, eyebrows raised. ‘The patrol will be ready to leave shortly.'

  'Now,’ Nilsson confirmed.

  Dessane did as he was bidden. The procedure was simple and devoid of formal ritual. He walked to the stairs that led down to the courtyard and shouted, ‘Congress!’ at the top of his voice.

  The hubbub in the courtyard faltered momentarily before returning with renewed vigour and a quite different character. The cry ‘Congress!’ was taken up by whoever heard it and was soon echoing around the smaller yards of the castle, along corridors and into every inhabited room and hall.

  Within minutes, almost the entire company was gathered in the courtyard gazing expectantly at their leader.

  Nilsson walked slowly down the stairs and stopped on the first landing next to Dessane. Saddre emerged from the crowd and came up the stairs to join him.

  The gathering gradually fell silent.

  'I'll keep this simple, men,’ Nilsson shouted.

  There was a murmur of surprise and almost alarm from the crowd as his voice boomed round the courtyard, magnified many times by some feature in the shape of the walls or quality in the stonework.

  'You can keep it quieter too,’ someone shouted, to general laughter.

  Nilsson smiled and acknowledged the jest with a wave of his hand. That was useful; the laughter alone would remove much of the tension that had built up.

  He lowered his voice and found that it carried adequately over the entire courtyard.

  'I'll keep this simple,’ he said again. ‘I've been hearing some rare tales this morning.’ He exaggerated, mockingly. ‘Tales of fire-breathing warlocks invading our campfire. Tales of monsters wakened from their ancient sleep to snatch away our men and devour our horses.’ He shook his head and laughed. ‘For months we've lived hand to mouth, scratching the meagrest living from this country. Now we find this cosy billet, with shelter made for us and food thrust upon us, and what happens? You've so little to do you begin to rave.'

  He did not wait for a response but shouted, ‘Now!’ and clapped his hands together loudly. It had the effect he had desired, as the noise boomed back off the walls, startling all present.

  He continued without pause, his voice normal again. ‘We can tolerate such children's tales for a little while, but no longer. What we have is an injured, perhaps feverish man who's wandered off into the forest and a horse killed probably by a small pack of wild dogs. Just that. Nothing more. No irate locals marching out on the hue and cry, no groups of mercenaries, no so-called bandits looking to ambush us. One lost man and a wild dog or two.'

  Delivered with a carefully judged measure of scorn and fatherly amusement, the brief speech brought the gathering to foot shuffling hesitation almost immediately.

  'What about Rannick?’ someone ventured, though not too loudly.

  What about him indeed? Nilsson thought. Time to prepare the ground for his coming ... or his not coming as the case should prove.

  'A local character,’ he replied with a dismissive shrug. ‘That's all.’ He paused, then continued, ‘Though from what I've heard there may be more to him than meets the eye. On the whole, I think we'll benefit more from his friendship and local knowledge than from his enmity. He's to be treated well if those of you going out on patrol come across him. Give him every courtesy and my best wishes and tell him he's welcome to visit the castle and sup with us whenever he wants to.'


  Yeorson and Storran were standing a little way up the first flight of stairs. Nilsson nodded to them significantly to confirm this change from his earlier orders. Then he put his hands on his hips and moved towards the edge of the landing. His presence filled the courtyard.

  'I'll tell you this, men,’ he said. ‘No idle chance brought us here. My guts tell me that we're at the start of something new: something big. Something that'll mean an end to our looking over our shoulders all the time.’ He paused to let this unfamiliar optimism seep into his listeners. ‘Whatever it proves to be, I want us to be ready for it. Opportunities don't come to people who aren't ready to seize them. We're banded together by common consent, but we're still soldiers so let's behave like it. Those of you who're going out on patrol, put your best face to it. No moaning, no malingering. Those of you who're staying here, get yourselves and this place cleaned up. Check your weapons, check your kit, check your horses. Check everything that needs to be checked for us to begin a new beginning.'

  Some of the men were actually open-mouthed at this declamation but the balance of the gathering was beginning to show marked signs of enthusiasm for Nilsson's new vision. Before any of them could mar it with injudicious questions however, he raised his hand.

  'No questions, men,’ he said with a knowing look to indicate that he knew more than he could say at the moment. ‘Not yet. Our first job is to find Meirach and look to his needs, our second is to find out what lies to the north and our third is to get this place operational. Let's have all efforts directed to those ends.'

  He stepped back and dismissed the congress. One or two camp-fire lawyers amongst the men muttered that a congress was only supposed to be held when an important decision was to be made, and that such a decision should be made by acclamation after a free discussion. But the mood of the meeting was too buoyant for their grumblings to be listened to, and they held their peace.

  Nilsson smiled to himself as the meeting dispersed. He motioned to Yeorson and Storran and they joined him on the landing.

  'I can't tell you everything yet,’ he said, quietly, ‘but I don't want any misunderstanding. If you come across Rannick, then do as I ask. Give him every courtesy and tell him he's welcome here, as I said. Do you understand?'

  Both men nodded, though with some reserve. ‘Some of the men won't be happy,’ Yeorson said. ‘They think he was responsible for Meirach getting burned.'

  The anger in Nilsson's voice was barely concealed. ‘I appreciate it's a change of direction,’ he said. ‘But it is necessary. I don't even want him put on the wrong end of anyone's tongue, let alone their knife. Explain it to the men in whatever fashion you feel's most effective, but warn them that if they seek to deal with him in their own way in the hope that they can leave him dumped in the undergrowth somewhere, I'll know about it and the consequences for them will be singularly unpleasant.'

  There being nothing else to be discussed after this lucid exposition, the two men left. As they walked down the stone steps Dessane moved closer to Nilsson, drawing Saddre with him. ‘Do you mind telling us what's going on?’ he said. ‘All this talk about a new beginning. And what the devil happened to you last night? When you came back you looked like ...'

  A loud banging on the castle gate interrupted him.

  * * * *

  'What are you doing here?'

  'What are you doing here, is more to the point, Farnor. You've gone as white as a sheet.'

  'You frightened the daylights out of me, bursting in like that,’ Farnor protested vehemently, his face colouring red as quickly as it had blanched.

  'And you frightened the daylights out of me, jumping like that, you ninny,’ Marna countered fiercely.

  'Ninny?’ Farnor's jaw jutted.

  Gryss interposed himself between the two antagonists. ‘We were looking for Rannick, Marna,’ he said. ‘We haven't seen him for quite a time and were getting worried. What have you come here for?'

  Marna's truculence faded. ‘The same,’ she said.

  'Since when have you been interested in Rannick?’ Farnor taunted.

  Marna rounded on him. ‘For mercy's sake, Farnor, don't be so ...’ She flailed about for a word. ‘Dense,’ she decided, after considering several less charitable alternatives. ‘I've no great liking for the man, but he doesn't normally disappear for this length of time, does he? He could be lying injured somewhere, for all we know. Ye gods, we'd be more bothered about a missing sheep! I came here because I thought I should ...’ She shrugged her shoulders and her anger fizzled out. ‘... do something.'

  Gryss gave Farnor a look of amused reproach, but Farnor could only manage one of injured indignation.

  'You put us both to shame, Marna,’ Gryss said, putting a hand on her arm. ‘But I think I can set your mind at rest, or at least partly so. Apparently some of the gatherers met Rannick when they were exploring up past the castle.'

  Marna's eyes widened. ‘Past the castle!’ she exclaimed, in some alarm. ‘What was he doing up there?'

  Gryss shook his head. ‘I don't know,’ he replied. ‘But I think perhaps you needn't concern yourself about him any more. At least he's not lying hurt somewhere, and if he's survived this long he's not going to starve to death.'

  'I suppose so,’ Marna said. ‘I needn't have bothered then, need I?’ She gave an awkward little smile. Gryss was about to commend her again for her concern when she frowned and wrinkled her nose. The state of the room had begun to impinge on her. ‘This place is disgusting,’ she announced. ‘I've seen cleaner stables.'

  'Yes, well, I think we'd better leave it as we've found it, don't you?’ Gryss said, turning her towards the door. ‘We shouldn't really be here at all.'

  Marna followed his gentle urging out of the cottage and towards the broken gate. Suddenly she stopped, causing Gryss to stagger.

  'What are you two doing here, anyway?’ she asked forcefully, returning to her original question.

  Not having a clear answer, Gryss, a lifelong bachelor, made a mistake. He ignored the question in the hope that it would go away. ‘How's your father, Marna?’ he said, looking purposefully towards the gate. ‘I haven't seen him for some time, I ...'

  Marna's eyes narrowed. ‘What's going on?’ she demanded. ‘Rannick wandering about beyond the castle for weeks on end. And running into gatherers. And you two skulking about his cottage ...'

  'We were not skulking,’ Gryss protested. But Marna raised scornful eyebrows by way of reply and deliberately allowed an embarrassing silence to develop until another thought occurred to her.

  'And how did you know that the gatherers had seen him?’ she asked.

  Gryss capitulated and briefly told her of Nilsson's visit the previous evening, confining himself to the simple facts and omitting any references to the slaughtered horse and Nilsson's concern about Rannick's ‘strangeness'.

  'What did he want to look at Rannick's cottage for?’ Marna asked, when he had finished.

  Gryss took refuge in his ignorance. ‘I've no idea,’ he said. ‘I don't know what happened when his men met Rannick, and he didn't say. He just asked me to show him where Rannick lived, so I did.'

  Marna set off for the gate. ‘It wasn't very polite, was it?’ she said, incongruously.

  Gryss agreed with some relief. ‘But he is a soldier and he does have the King's authority for anything he does.'

  Marna sniffed. ‘I shouldn't imagine the King's so ill-mannered,’ she said.

  Gryss could not help but laugh at this observation and its solemn utterance.

  'How's your father?’ he tried again, as they walked back down the pathway.

  'He's well, thanks,’ Marna replied off-handedly. Then she stopped again abruptly, and her face clouded. ‘I don't like any of this, Gryss,’ she said, her voice uncharacteristically anxious and urgent. ‘I didn't like the look of those gatherers when they rode in, nor what I saw of them when they came to collect the tithe. Now there's this business about them wandering around the top of the valley and finding Ra
nnick there, of all people. It all feels wrong. No one ever goes up there, Gryss. Not ever. And why should that wretched captain be sniffing about Rannick's cottage? And why you two as well?'

  She looked at Gryss squarely. He reached out to put an arm around her shoulders then thought better of it.

  'Just changing times, Marna,’ he said gently. ‘Changing times.’ He pointed towards the mountains. ‘We live a good life here, very sheltered, very secure. But out there, over the hill, there's another much bigger world full of all sorts of strange people and strange things, a lot of them not particularly nice and some downright bad. Believe me, I've been there. It's not for no reason that we've developed our way of living here through the generations. Now a little of the outside world has come into the valley and unsettled everything. If we keep our wits and our manners, these gatherers will probably forget about us completely after they've left and things will soon be back to normal.'

  Marna shook her head. ‘You can't unbreak a pot,’ she said, simply. ‘What's gone is gone and can never be the same, and there's no point fretting about it.'

  Momentarily, Gryss looked distressed at this stark verdict, not least because he knew it to be accurate. He searched for words to soften its impact, but none came. And, in any event, he realized, Marna needed no comforting about the implications of her own conclusion. But there was need in her manner, without a doubt.

  'I feel so ... vulnerable,’ she said, unexpectedly.

  Gryss tried again. It was just change ... The King must need the tithe for something ... Everything would settle down again ... more or less...

  But Marna swept the answers aside.

  'No,’ she said. ‘Something's wrong.’ She looked at Gryss squarely, her dark eyes concerned but determined. ‘I don't think those men are tithe gatherers at all.'

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  'Hold!’ Nilsson shouted to the gate guard as he started to run down the stairs that led to the courtyard.