Farnor ft-1

by Roger Taylor

  As he strode along the dark passages of the castle and clattered down its stone staircases, Nilsson wiped his forehead with his hand, then wiped his hand down his jacket. He had not realized how profusely he was sweating after his confrontation. Just like old times, he thought again, darkly. A small twist of nausea swirled in his stomach like a caution against such levity.

  He composed himself as he reached the courtyard and set a pace that kept him only slightly behind and to one side of Rannick; action that could be interpreted either as sharing a common purpose with him or maintaining a close supervision over him.

  Rannick went over to Yeorson and Storran, now mounted at the head of their patrol and preparing to set off. He stopped in front of them and laid a hand on the nose of each horse. The eyes of the two horses bulged with fear, but, apart from shivering, they did not move.

  ‘You must not go to the north,’ Rannick said, his voice unexpectedly concerned.

  Startled, both men looked at Nilsson.

  ‘Listen,’ he said pointedly.

  ‘There’s nothing for you there but terrible danger and then the Great Forest,’ Rannick said.

  ‘Captain?’ Yeorson said with an imploring shrug.

  ‘Lord, you must tell them,’ Nilsson said. ‘It’s our way that all matters of import are determined by debate and acclamation. Debate that sets aside all rank and status,’ he added significantly. ‘If you call it then you’ll be treated as one of them and, not having called it myself, I’ll have no say.’

  He glanced at the landing on the wall stair that he himself had spoken from. Rannick nodded. ‘I under-stand,’ he said.

  As they walked towards the stair, Nilsson said, softly, ‘It is our way, and even I have only such authority in the congress as I can muster by craft and cunning. You must bear with whatever decision is reached unless you’re prepared to control everyone here by force.’

  ‘Must, Captain?’ Rannick said, menacingly.

  ‘Must,’ Nilsson replied unequivocally. ‘Or there’ll be bloodshed, make no mistake, and I doubt that’ll serve anyone’s ends.’

  Rannick did not reply but walked steadily up the stone steps to the landing. Once there he moved his head from side to side a little, as if scenting the air. Nilsson found the movement peculiarly unnerving.

  ‘Congress.’

  The word was at once soft and very penetrating as it echoed round the courtyard. Small whirls of dust rose from the floor and the horses responded with alarm.

  The reaction of the men to this call, however, was quite the opposite to that which had been given only a little time previously to Nilsson’s call. They turned and stared, and then cautiously began to converge on the solitary figure standing part way up the stair.

  There was an uneasy, unfriendly silence as the crowd gathered and finally became still.

  ‘It’s not for you to call a congress… Lord,’ someone said. ‘You’re not one of us.’

  Rannick did not single out the speaker, but ad-dressed the whole group. ‘And you are not what you were, now that I have arrived,’ he said. ‘But, that aside, am I not entitled to receive a hearing for saving your comrade Meirach?’

  There was some muttering which, on balance, seemed to concede this claim.

  ‘Men,’ Rannick began. ‘I drew you to this valley for a purpose, a purpose that will serve both my and your own ends. We have need of each other.’

  ‘We need no one!’ someone shouted, to some ac-claim. ‘We can best anyone who comes against us.’

  ‘Is that why you live like dogs and look over your shoulders all the time?’ Rannick retorted.

  There were angry cries in response to this. Rannick swept them into silence with a scornful gesture. ‘We go nowhere together if you cannot see the truth of your condition.’

  Nilsson, standing part way up the stair, watched him carefully. If this speech should turn into a diatribe against his leadership he would have to kill Rannick here and now, ambitions or no. Then again, he mused, listening to the anger of the men, they might do it for him first.

  ‘Be silent!’ Again Rannick’s voice carried softly yet powerfully around the courtyard, though this time it was laden with menace. The effect was immediate. ‘Do you truly wish to continue as you were?’ Rannick went on. ‘Where would you have been now if I had not brought you here to this shelter, and to this village which has fed you so willingly, if unwittingly?’

  No one ventured a reply.

  ‘Wandering who knows where,’ he announced. ‘Growing increasingly weaker and more desperate with every step, your future extending no further than your next meal and your past gathering like a storm cloud behind you, growing darker and more ominous by the hour.’

  Your own future will be less than you imagine if you continue in this vein, Nilsson thought, though out-wardly his face was quietly serious.

  ‘We’ve been through worse, and survived,’ a man called. ‘Could you have led us better? Tending Meirach will only give you so much credit. If you want to teach us our affairs you’ll have to do better than sneer and talk poetic.’

  Nilsson was grateful that the comment had been relatively good-humoured. Others might have told Rannick he had to fight if he wanted to be heard.

  And they might yet.

  ‘I’m not teaching you your affairs,’ Rannick said. ‘I’m telling you what you already know. You’re well led, that’s why you’ve come so far. But from here you must join with me and together we go an entirely different way.’

  ‘We go north… Lord,’ cried another voice. ‘North and away from this place. And we have ways of choosing our own leaders.’

  ‘You go north and you die,’ Rannick said, starkly.

  There was abusive denial from the crowd. ‘Whatever kind of land lies up there, we’ll get there and we’ll cope,’ was the consensus.

  Rannick shook his head. ‘Up there is the Great For-est. No people. Nothing. Just trees and birds and animals. There’s nothing for you to live off except whatever your own labours grow or hunt down. And that’s not your way, is it? But…’ He levelled a finger at the crowd before anyone could remonstrate with this comment. ‘You’ll not even get so far.’

  There was more denial, this time indignant.

  Rannick pointed north. ‘I came to your camp the other night to warn you, but I could see you were in no mood to listen so I had to let matters take their course. But beyond where you were the valley is a bad place. Nothing that does not already live there enters and survives. You saw what happened to the horse,’ he added quietly.

  There was an uncertain silence. ‘Just some animals. Dogs probably,’ someone said eventually. ‘We’ve faced real dangers in our time.’

  Rannick shook his head. ‘You’ve faced men. Crea-tures like yourselves. But up there…’ He left the sentence unfinished and another uncertain silence descended on the crowd.

  Nilsson watched intently. His men were in an odd mood. The early return of the patrol with its account of the slaughtered horse and Meirach’s disappearance, followed by the arrival of this strange person who seemingly had the protection of their leader and who had brought back Meirach, cured of his burns, all conspired to unsettle them. Ironically, he thought it made them more amenable to listening.

  But not that amenable!

  ‘We don’t have to put up with this,’ came a disparag-ing voice. ‘You want to lead us, then state your case and take your chance. We don’t want to hear children’s tales. You said yourself you needed us, Rannick. Well, as far as I can see, we don’t need you. You’re not even a good teller of tales. We’ve given you credit for helping Meirach but unless you’ve anything worthwhile to say, stand down and let us get on with our business. We need to see what’s to the north for ourselves then we’ll decide what we’re going to do.’

  Shouts of agreement greeted this.

  Rannick did not reply for a moment, but stood with his head bowed slightly.

  Then he spoke. His voice was low and menacing and it once again filled the
courtyard, hissing around it like a biting winter wind. ‘In deference to your captain, I have indulged you enough,’ he said. ‘Know this: I come in the wake of the one who once led you. I come with his power to take up his mantle and to lead you back to what was unjustly torn from you by his weakness. I do not vie for leadership with the likes of you any more than does the eagle with the sparrow. If you wish to go to the north and test the truth of my words, then go and I’ll not hinder you. And if any of you are fortunate enough to return then you may try your fortune further by prostrating yourself before me and begging my forgiveness for your arrogance and folly.’

  There was uproar. Still Nilsson watched. Surpris-ingly, the men were divided. Indeed, it was the disarray among them that prevented them from attacking Rannick. There was every conceivable reaction to his powerful declaration: disbelief, anger, confusion, fear and, strangest of all, adulation. It was a reflection of Nilsson’s own inner feelings when he had confronted Rannick earlier. They feel it, too, he thought. The power again.

  ‘I leave you to choose now,’ Rannick went on, his voice overtopping the din. ‘Those of you who wish to go on to the greatness that was denied you, remain. Those of you who wish to follow your old way, go north and accept the consequences.’ Then he turned and walked down the stairs to Nilsson, motioning him back to the castle.

  As they left, the crowd, though noisy, parted for them freely.

  Back in Nilsson’s quarters Rannick sat silent, while Nilsson watched the continuing proceedings from his window. Various figures mounted the stairs to state their piece, some haranguing, some persuading, some reasonable, some emotional. He listened as all the minor jealousies and differences in his troop came to the surface. A wave of anger passed through him. You’ll blow some wind now, won’t you, you dogs? he thought. Now that you’re well fed and housed again. But it was Nilsson this and Nilsson that, look after us, Captain, only a few weeks ago.

  The anger passed as quickly as it had come, to be replaced by some satisfaction. He had effectively manoeuvred Rannick into calling the congress, and the outcome could only be an improvement. A rowdy congress was essential from time to time and, being formally absent from it, he could view this one with unusual equanimity.

  And, too, it had revealed interesting details about this new saviour. He was particularly amused to hear Rannick lying about luring them into the valley; a politician’s device if ever he heard one. Whatever chance had brought them here, it had nothing to do with Rannick, he was certain. Even his former lord would not have claimed such skill; indeed, he had feared chance happenings.

  And too, Rannick had surreptitiously wiped his brow as they had stepped out of the courtyard and into the shade of the castle interior. Good human traits, he thought. They confirmed his earlier conclusion that though Rannick could indisputably use the power, he was still just another scheming, grasping mortal; at heart, his own kind.

  Definitely now he would bind himself to this man. There was a roar from the courtyard.

  Chapter 19

  ‘I don’t think those men are tithe gatherers at all.’

  Standing in Rannick’s dishevelled garden, Gryss felt his insides go cold. Marna’s words were perhaps only the petulant grumblings of an over-sensitive young woman disturbed by recent events, but their effect was like that of a gentle leaf-stirring breeze which tilts an aging tree that final fraction too far and sends it crashing down, seemingly without apparent reason.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked, struggling to keep his voice from reflecting the turmoil within him that had abruptly been released.

  Marna pulled a wry face. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Their appearance. Their behaviour. Everything. They’re a shifty-looking lot, not to say downright nasty-looking. Why would the King hire a motley crew of foreigners like that to collect the tithe? And that… Saddre… didn’t really seem to know what he was doing when he was going round the barn with you. Did you see the way he kept looking at that captain for instructions?’ She began to warm to her revelations. ‘And why did everything have to be taken to the castle to be checked?’

  Gryss gestured to stop this outpouring. ‘I don’t know,’ he conceded. ‘But soldiers are soldiers, Marna. They’re not chosen for their looks, and I’ve no idea where the King gets them from or how he decides who does what. All I’ve ever seen are soldiers on ceremonial parades and on guard outside public buildings, and that was a long time ago. And I didn’t speak to any of them; they could all have been foreigners for anything I know, even then.’

  Marna looked at him, unconvinced and waiting.

  ‘And they can’t go wandering about the country in their fancy city uniforms, can they? They’re bound to wear more rough and ready clothes when they’re out in the field,’ he offered.

  ‘Rough and ready!’ Marna echoed with a snort. ‘You and me are rough and ready…’ Farnor glanced down at his clothes uncomfortably. ‘They look more like beggars than soldiers. They should have some kind of uniform. And what about Saddre? And hauling the tithe all over the valley?’

  Gryss scowled. He never could handle this girl, and she was the very devil when she started.

  ‘Saddre’s just an army clerk,’ he said crossly. ‘Nils-son told us that.’

  Marna’s lip curled.

  ‘And I’ve no idea why they’ve had the tithe taken to the castle,’ Gryss went on, struggling unsuccessfully to keep the desperation from his voice. ‘They said it was the law and that there might be inspectors…’

  ‘Examiners,’ Marna corrected.

  ‘Examiners, then,’ Gryss growled, ‘coming to check up on them.’

  Marna’s expression indicated that she was con-firmed in her suspicions rather than unburdened of them by Gryss’s explanation.

  ‘And if they were coming to collect a tithe why didn’t they bring any carts, for heaven’s sake?’ she added, in what was intended to be a final blow, until another occurred to her. ‘And why didn’t they have produce from any other villages with them?’

  Gryss gave a small sigh of defeat. Marna’s questions merely served to clarify ill-formed thoughts of his own. He had been too concerned with the forgotten niceties of procedures, and with his hopes that these men would quietly move on, to stand back and look at what was happening – or so he pleaded to himself in mitigation.

  Or perhaps he was just getting too old!

  ‘I can’t answer any of your questions, Marna,’ he said. ‘And I don’t know who could. I certainly can’t ask them of the Captain.’

  He stepped over the broken gate and set off down the narrow lane. It was darker than it had been, the hint of rain to come that had hung in the bright morning had become a threat as they had pursued their examination of Rannick’s cottage. Now the sky was grey, and a distinct dampness pervaded the air.

  As they walked along the lane, the sound of inter-mittent raindrops striking the surrounding foliage became evident. Marna led the way, followed by Gryss. Farnor watched them both as they wended their way through the weeds and grasses tangled across the path.

  A raindrop struck his hand, sharp and clear in its coldness.

  He wished his thoughts were as clear. It did not help that Gryss, the senior village elder, was openly uncer-tain, all too human. And Marna’s biting bluntness, as ever, held no comfort. Her questions added their uncontrolled momentum to his thoughts about Rannick and the gatherers, and the creature that had killed the sheep and now, seemingly, a horse, and which he had actually touched in some way.

  Despite all that had happened since the hunt, the memory of that touch persisted; foul, clinging… and growing.

  Farnor found he was hunching up his shoulders after the manner of Gryss. He straightened up and made them relax, but it took some effort.

  Somewhere there was an end to this confusion, surely? An end to this hurt. The word came unbidden and surprised him. Hurt? Who was being hurt?

  We all are, he realized. Both the creature and the gatherers were intrusions from outside, and bo
th brought disruption and anxiety in their wake. And what was anxiety if it wasn’t a hurt? It marred the present and clouded the future. Yet it came to him with this revelation that what was truly disturbing him was the thought, hovering like a tiny, distant light at the fringes of his mind, that he could help in some way if he could but see it.

  He paused. There was a certainty about this that set it aside from any general, vague wishing everything was all right again. But it was elusive, also, and though it remained with him it refused to make itself further known.

  He looked at the retreating figures of Marna and Gryss, and frowned. They seemed different. As if the confusion and the hurt that they, like he, bore were wrapped about them like a cloying mist. Part of him reached out to clear the way for them and allow them to walk unhindered.

  Both of them stopped and turned round.

  ‘Sorry?’ Marna said.

  ‘Did you say something?’ Gryss said at the same time.

  Farnor suddenly felt a little dizzy, but he managed to avoid staggering by crouching down and fiddling with his shoe.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘My shoelace snagged a bramble.’

  Marna reached up to her face as if to brush away a stray hair and Gryss shook his head slightly. Then a gust of wind stirred the trees and threw a light splatter of newly hoarded raindrops on to them and they set off again, briskly.

  There was an odd companionship in their common flight from the rain and, to Farnor, it seemed that they had passed some unseen boundary.

  ‘I think they’re nothing more than bandits,’ Marna said, as prosaically as if she were simply just passing the time of day. ‘I think they came here by accident and…’

  ‘Shush,’ Gryss said urgently, moving his hand up and down as if to beat down her enthusiasm as he would a boisterous pup. They had come to the end of the pathway and he glanced along the lane as they joined it. ‘Don’t say things like that too loudly,’ he said.

  But Marna was barely listening, she had formed the words and they were too potent to remain unspoken. She did lower her voice a little, however.