Valderen [The Second Part of Farnor's Tale]

by Roger Taylor

  His mind rang with defiance. He should never have come to this place. He would not be bound. He would not be restrained. He would not be denied his vengeance upon Rannick and his hell-spawned familiar, or any who stood beside him.

  At times, breaking through the swirling turmoil filling his mind, he Heard the voice ... voices? ... of the trees calling out to him. They were full of fear. Fear of the consequences of attempting to restrain him, fear of the consequences of allowing him to escape. Agonizing doubt mingled with confusion and anger and reproach.

  Every part of Farnor trembled under the images of pursuit. Snarling dogs were scenting after him, foaming horses were being spurred recklessly forward, sharpened edges and points glinted in the forest light. And always the towering trees seemed to be bending forward, their branches flailing wildly down to entangle and ensnare him in an embrace that would hold him there for ever.

  'Leave me alone!’ he cried out repeatedly as he crashed blindly through the Forest.

  Dissension washed over him furiously. Now loud, now soft, now one, now many. But he could not—would not—listen.

  'He is Its spawn. He has come here to destroy us from our heart, as before.'

  'No, he is a sapling, unformed and foolish.'

  'He moves in the worlds beyond this world, and in the places between the worlds.'

  Fear.

  'He is a shaper, a sealer. He could make whole that which is rent.'

  'And he could rend also. He could destroy us. The darkness in him is beyond our reach. We cannot know.'

  'We must defeat him.'

  'No. We must trust.'

  'Trust in what?'

  Fear returned to swamp the broken discourse. Fear of the ancient evil, the Great Evil, returned again.

  There had been truth in the signs they had Heard. She had confirmed it. And her word was beyond any gainsaying.

  Fear. Crueller than the bitterest winter.

  And self-reproach at a vigilance long-neglected; at an age-spanning complacency.

  And such ignorance; such appalling lack of knowledge.

  And all the time, Farnor ran and ran.

  'We must trust.’ A resonant, persistent declamation.

  Doubt.

  'What can be said that has not been said? The Hearer Mar-ken judged him sound ...'

  Scorn. ‘He has not this one's power. He is only a ...'

  'A Mover. And many-ringed by their lights. Skilled in their ways. However dimly, he sees where we cannot. We must trust.'

  There was a sudden silence.

  'And she too bade us trust.'

  Realization.

  Resignation.

  Farnor burst through into sunlight. A rocky slope lay in front of him. With scarcely a pause he began to scramble up it.

  Silence now, save for the sound of his rasping breath and his scrabbling feet as he clambered higher and higher.

  'We will trust.'

  'But his darkness is terrifying.'

  'We can do no other. We shall watch him still. Do not despair.'

  And the debate faded, dwindling fainter and fainter into an unknowable distance.

  But the conclusion was unnoted by Farnor. His only need was escape. Escape from the great soaring temple of trees where their ancient spirit tried to bind him. Upwards, upwards he went, over the thinly grassed turf until it was no more and, knees and hands bruised and skinned, he was clambering over rocks.

  Then he could go no further. Through his sweat-blurred vision, he saw a sheer rock face ahead of him. He fell against it. His hands came up to beat a brief and futile tattoo, then exhaustion, physical, emotional, total, seeped up through him like a black cloud, and with a plaintive, almost animal whimper, he slithered to the ground.

  Silence.

  * * * *

  Time, now, was nothing. Nor place. Nor how he had come here, nor how he would leave. Some instinct had drawn him into the lee of a long-tumbled slab that leaned against the rock face, and in this narrow lair the world had become a tight drawn, nameless knot of aching limbs and tortured thoughts, the one indistinguishable from the other.

  And in the darkness dreadful things stirred. Fearful, crushed and oppressed things that had long been prowling in the shadows and which should not be shown the light, nor heard, nor felt, for fear of what would come in their wake.

  Things that disturbed and distorted the sustaining, pain-branded images of the dying and dead Rannick; blurred their edges; questioned them...

  Memories, simultaneous and separate, ordered and random, came and went. Sustaining hands and voices. Scents—of flowers, of cooking, of cattle and hay and grass, of soft embracing, and comforting clothes. And hands that tended, and mended; made whole that which was broken, made new from that which was old; repaired and healed, and nursed with tender sorrow where they could not do either; strove endlessly and without question to weave order from disorder, because that was how it should be.

  Memories that ripped open and probed deep into his pain.

  And through all, threading unbreakable, that which no words could encompass. That which showed, ‘This is wrong, because ...’ and, ‘This is right, because ...’ And too, ‘This is both right and wrong, because ... and there will be pain in the judging, but it is not to be shunned.'

  Kindness and gentleness. And love; love that was not afraid to be stern and to reproach and restrain.

  But mingled with this remembering came also the darkness; the anger, the hatred, the desires. They too tore and wracked, treading these gentle memories, these deep and gentle learnings, under iron-shod feet, lest they rise up and bring the light, the truth, with them.

  * * * *

  Knees pulled tight against his chest, arms wrapped about his head, Farnor wedged himself harder and harder against the ancient rock, as if this painful immobility would halt what seemed to be rolling inexorably towards him. Yet though his body was motionless, his inner self tossed and turned, swayed hither and thither, tormented by the boiling mixture that his conflicting emotions both fanned and stirred.

  Faster and faster his thoughts began to whirl, a terrifying, churning conflict beyond any possibility of reconciliation or control.

  Then, with a momentum like that of a tumbling boulder, the release crashed through the remains of his fading resistance, a great cry, filling his mind, filling his whole body. A great wordless cry of agony at the cruel, untimely death of his parents.

  And through the breach, like vomit, poured all that had been dammed there; the guilt that he had not been by their side when they died, but tending to his own trivial concerns; guilt that he had not died with them, and guilt that he was glad that he had not died, but lived and breathed still, and did not want to die, ever. Then anger at his guilt; and familiar well-worn anger at Rannick and Nilsson and the creature, and the blind chance that had brought about their fateful alignment; and unfamiliar anger at Gryss and Marna and all his friends for not being there to save his parents, or to help him in his pain.

  Then, an awful climax in this fearful torrent; bitter, choking reproach for his parents for having died and abandoned him, and shown him the wretched frailty of his own mortality. And, in its wake, yet more guilt at this treacherous betrayal of everything his parents had ever been to him.

  Farnor's hands clawed at the cold, unyielding rock, his body racked with sobs, his eyes blinded, his face sodden.

  The flood ebbed and flowed, but it could not be stemmed. Not one part of it took form but it came back a score of times.

  But weaker...

  And weaker...

  Until there was only a husk, filled with a cold, black emptiness, and surrounded by a cold, black, empty night. A husk that waited and waited for it knew not what, until an older wisdom within it gave it sleep; dreamless, restful sleep, far below the wreckage of the turmoil on which such indulgence would surely have foundered.

  * * * *

  A trembling penetrated the darkness, and with it, a greyness.

  Slowly, very slowly, it came to
Farnor who he was, and where he was. Cold struck through to the core of him, and wretched, dragging pain filled his joints and muscles. It focused what little consciousness he had and, with painstaking slowness, he eased each limb into life and crawled from the narrow cleft that had been his shelter for the night. As his awareness grew, so did his discomfort.

  But something had changed.

  He did not pursue this vague realization. Instead he concentrated on gradually, painfully bringing himself upright and attempting to rub some of the juddering cold out of his bones. His every movement felt alien, inappropriate.

  He looked around at his surroundings. The sky was grey with the light of the coming dawn, and in front of him was the rock face that had barred his reckless upward progress an eternity ago. It was not as large as it had been and to one side it fell away to reveal a gentler slope. For no reason that he could clearly form, except perhaps to distance himself further from the trees, though even these now seemed to be of little import to him, Farnor turned and began slowly walking up the slope.

  As he walked he gave no thought to where he was going, though vaguely he began to feel that he needed to be on a high place, where he could just...

  He needed to be on a high place.

  The journey passed unheeded, but had it been ten times the length, Farnor would not have noticed. All was a grey emptiness. Time, distance, effort, were naught.

  He reached the jagged summit.

  Neighbouring mountains, hidden by their fellow from its foot, now looked down upon it, bleakly indifferent.

  Farnor stared out over the Great Forest, though little was to be seen except for the tops of some of the trees reaching up above a thin, damp, summer morning mist.

  He sat down and dropped his head into his hands.

  And waited.

  Faint echoes of the dreadful turmoil of the previous night still sounded through him, reverberating to and fro. But they were distant now, no longer such a part of him. All feeling seemed to have gone from him.

  Yet something had changed. His pain was different. It was the pain of healing rather than the pain of injury.

  Still he waited, his head buried in his hands, staring at the rocky ground between his feet, though scarcely seeing it. Occasionally he shuddered, as his body responded to the chill that his mind was not noting.

  Then a vibration ran through him that was different; finer, more delicate, longer.

  And the light around his feet changed.

  And there was a sound in the air; distant, but ordered.

  As though he were waking from a long sleep he leaned forward into the sound, his head still bent low.

  It was a horn call. Indeed, a series of horn calls. Calls such as he had heard almost every morning since he had left Derwyn's lodge, and to which he had paid no heed. Others rose out of the Forest to mingle with the first.

  There was a joyous quality about them that but the previous day would have jarred and offended, stirred him to black anger. But no longer. Now the sounds passed into him unhindered, ringing, and sonorous, moving amid the grey emptiness that waited there.

  The light around him grew brighter and, still gazing down, he became aware of every small detail of his soiled and scuffed boots. The sight unfolded before him their entire history, commonplace and familiar, yet poignant and intense. His vision blurred as the memories mingled with the sound of the horns and brought unforced tears to his eyes.

  'Mother, Father,’ he heard himself saying, softly and hoarsely, through an aching throat, and out into the morning stillness.

  A warmth touched him.

  He looked up.

  Into the full glory of the rising sun.

  He could do no other than stand as the dazzling sea of light washed over the vastness of the Forest to engulf him. His eyes blurred again, splintering the sunlight into bright, shifting shafts as tears ran down his face.

  And, though they were distant, and should have been faint, the echoing horn calls became part of the light and rose up to fill his entire world with a tumultuous paean of thanksgiving; of joy at being.

  And he was one with it.

  'Thank you, Mother, Father,’ every part of him cried out over and over.

  Over and over.

  * * * *

  Slowly, and in the natural way of things, the exaltation faded, leaving in its wake only golden echoes that would probably ring on for ever, and a young man alone on a mountain top aching and stiff, not untroubled, but more whole. And, though transformed, himself again.

  Farnor held out his arms wide to embrace the risen sun. Then he turned and began to walk down the mountain.

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  Uncharacteristically, Nilsson swallowed as he took the sealed note from Harlen. It needed no great perception to read the messenger's demeanour; fear and distress radiated from him, shot through with a raging anger that was struggling against its enforced silence.

  That damned girl's run away, Nilsson diagnosed. He felt his stomach churning.

  Rannick's power and ambition he could live with and, with care, use to his own ends. It followed a simple, brutal logic. But a woman on the scene was like a crazed horse in a cavalry charge: capable of causing unknown mayhem. Who could say which way Rannick's dark malice would strike if he'd truly become infatuated with this stupid bitch?

  Harlen's fear leaked directly into him as he fingered the letter. Whoever delivered this message was at no small risk. But equally, it was not a message that he could give to some underling. ‘When did she go?’ he demanded.

  Harlen started. He had said nothing about Marna's flight, merely confining himself to delivering the letter which had greeted him when he rose that morning, together with a note saying what she intended to do and to the general effect that he should, ‘Not worry, and please take this letter to Rannick.'

  'I ... I don't know,’ he stammered. ‘Sometime during the night. I was awake a long time myself, but I didn't hear her go.’ Despite himself, his anger tore through. ‘What in Murrel's name did that...?'

  'Shut up,’ Nilsson snapped savagely, but it was the look on his face that stopped Harlen. ‘Your life's hanging on the thinnest of threads. Ask no questions, make no demands, if you value it in the slightest.’ He looked about the courtyard, his forehead furrowed and his eyes narrowed in concentration. ‘Lord Rannick's not here,’ he said, almost offhandedly. ‘He went riding ... north ... after your daughter left last night. There's no telling when he'll be back, but it'll be this evening at the latest, I'd imagine.’ He turned sharply back to Harlen. ‘It's in both our interests to find your daughter and have her ready and amenable for him whenever he chooses to return.'

  Harlen's jaw tightened and his eyes blazed, but Nilsson seized the front of his shirt with a single hand and, lifting him casually up on to his toes, pushed him violently against the castle gate. ‘Spare me your fatherly wrath, weaver,’ he said. ‘I've seen it too often to waste my time discussing it other than with the edge of my sword. Understand this, Lord Rannick will have whatever he wants. And nothing you or any of us can do will stop him. He wants your daughter, and whether you're alive or dead means even less to him than it does to me. The choice is yours. Stay silent and helpful, and perhaps you'll be there for her when he's finished. Argue the point, and you certainly won't. Now, where's she likely to have gone? The valley can't have that many hiding places.'

  'She's not in the valley, damn you,’ Harlen shouted, shaking himself free from Nilsson's grip. ‘She's gone over the hill. I've no idea where she is.’ He retrieved a crumpled paper from his pocket and thrust it under Nilsson's face.

  Nilsson took it and read it. Harlen stepped back, appalled by the emotions that surged into Nilsson's face and by the ruthless cruelty that crushed them.

  'She's gone to the capital?’ Nilsson asked rhetorically. ‘Gone to tell the king about us?’ He held up the sealed letter. ‘And she's told Lord Rannick as well? Is this some kind of a joke?'

  Harlen shook his he
ad. ‘I doubt it,’ he replied unnecessarily. ‘She knows there's nowhere to hide here. And she's taken plenty of food and clothing.'

  Again a range of emotions fought for control of Nilsson's face, and again he crushed them until he was left with a vicious, humourless grimace, his lips curled to reveal his clenched teeth. He looked at Harlen. ‘I've seen things and faced dangers that you couldn't begin to imagine, weaver. And I can't begin to tell you what I feel at having my life jeopardized by some ignorant farm girl who's so stupid she thinks she can escape from this valley, and, even stupider, leaves a note saying what she's going to do.’ Then, menacingly, ‘I presume you've had no part in this?'

  Harlen quailed at the restrained fury in Nilsson's voice, and though somehow he held his ground, he could not reply except to shake his head weakly. Contrary to Marna's instructions, he had in fact spent some time searching for her, shocked and stunned, and then he had delayed even longer before carrying her message to the castle. In the end, however, he had realized that he had been left with no alternative but to deliver the message. And, in honesty, despite his love for his daughter, and his distress at her sudden, foolish flight, he had not been without some reproach for her for leaving him in that position.

  Now, however, he could do no more. He was more than relieved that Rannick was away, envisioning more accurately than his daughter what his probable response would be. And, for the rest of this day at least, he had a common interest with this foreign captain. Though he could not have admitted it, he felt the strange companionship of the co-conspirator.

  'Saddre! Dessane! To me!’ Nilsson's booming voice rose above the noise in the courtyard. Within minutes, some twenty or more riders burst through the castle gates and galloped off towards the village.

  Harlen, waiting, forgotten, watched them until they were out of sight, his face unreadable. Then he turned and began to walk after them.

  * * * *

  Marna breathed a sigh of relief. She was through. She dropped down on to the ground heavily and leaned back against a tree. As Gryss had suspected, Marna had been quietly plotting ‘some foolishness’ for a long time. She had studied the maps and notes that she had stolen from the bottom of Jeorg's pack and, accompanying her father on his trips downland she had reacquainted herself with the now heavily guarded terrain that had once been part of her childhood playground.