by Roger Taylor
Farnor remembered a soft, incomplete conversation between his mother and father overheard one night when he had crept down the stairs to eavesdrop on that mysterious world of adult life that awoke only as the children went to sleep.
'Rannick has his grandfather in him, I'd swear. He knows and sees more than the rest of us.’ His father's voice, muffled.
Ear close to the door, Farnor had sensed his mother nodding in agreement. ‘It's to be hoped not,’ she said. ‘Not with that dark nature of his. It'll do neither him nor anyone else any good.'
And that had been all. But unspoken meanings had permeated the words, and something deep in Farnor's unease about Rannick had resonated to them.
'I'm tending the sheep,’ he replied to Rannick's question.
'Not doing such a good job, are you?’ Rannick retorted, nudging the dead sheep with his foot and making the flies swarm upwards again. This time they did not travel far, but settled back to their noisome business almost immediately.
Farnor grimaced but said nothing. He looked at Rannick's angular, unshaven face, his unkempt black hair and his generally soiled appearance. He was like someone that Yonas might have described as a bandit or some other kind of a villain in one of his tales.
And yet, even as he watched Rannick examining the sheep, he felt that the man was not without a quality of some kind: a strange, inner strength or purposefulness. And, too, he noted almost reluctantly, that with a little cleaning up he might even be quite handsome; that he could perhaps serve as much as a hero as a villain in such a tale.
Abruptly the flies flew up again, surrounding Rannick. He swore profanely and Farnor's new vision of him disappeared. Then Rannick snapped his fingers. Or at least that was what Farnor thought he did, though the movement he made was very swift and the sound was odd ... strangely loud, and yet distant. Almost as if it were in a different place.
For an instant Farnor felt disorientated: as though he had been suddenly jolted awake as sometimes happened to him when he was hovering halfway between sleep and waking. As he recovered he found Rannick gazing at him, his eyes searching him intently.
'What's the matter?’ Farnor heard him say.
'Nothing,’ Farnor replied as casually as he could, waving a hand vaguely. ‘I ... don't like the flies.'
Rannick sneered dismissively and, muttering something to himself, turned back to the sheep. Farnor noticed, however, that the flies were gone from both the corpse and Rannick. They were hovering in a dark shifting cloud some way away, almost as if they were being constrained there or were too fearful to venture closer. And he sensed that Rannick was observing him in some way, even though he seemed to be totally occupied by his examination of the sheep. Briefly, his disorientation returned.
'What are you looking for?’ he ventured after a moment in an attempt to recover himself. Rannick did not reply, but bent forward and retrieved something from the sheep's fleece. He looked at it closely and then he lifted it to his nose and sniffed at it. It was a peculiarly repellent action. Farnor grimaced.
'I ... I'll have to get back,’ he stammered, stepping back as he felt his stomach beginning to heave. Only the fear of Rannick's mockery prevented him from vomiting there and then.
Again, Rannick did not reply. Instead he stood up and moved his head from side to side like an animal searching for a scent. Farnor felt the unseen observation pass from him.
'I'll have to get back,’ he said again, continuing to retreat. ‘Tell my father what's happened. He'll need to know. And the others ... they'll want to hunt this thing ...'
Still Rannick said nothing. He was looking to the north, still, so it seemed, scenting the wind.
Farnor turned and began to run. Not so fast as to appear to be frightened, he hoped, but sufficient to emphasize the urgency of his message. He needed the movement and the wind in his face to quieten his churning stomach. He did not look back until he knew he would no longer be able to see Rannick on the skyline.
* * * *
The farmhouse of Garren and Katrin Yarrance was little different from any other in the valley, though its stone walls were somewhat thicker than most and its thatched roof a little steeper, in deference to the fact that it was the highest farm up the valley and tended to receive more of the winter snows than those lower down.
The Yarrance family land was not particularly good but it was quite extensive, having grown through the generations as less able, or less fortunate, families had gradually given up the struggle to eke a living from those farms that were then even higher up the valley.
Land ownership, however, was not a matter of great sensitivity to the valley dwellers. Not much was fenced, and cattle, sheep and people roamed fairly freely. The valley was big enough to feed everyone who lived in it and that was all that really mattered.
In any event, technically, the land belonged to the King, being let on lease and liable to the payment of an annual tithe. This was calculated from an ancient and very arcane formula, which approximated (very roughly) to one seventeenth of the dairy produce, a nineteenth of all grains and harvestable grasses, and a sixteenth of all meat produce on alternate years except in the year of a coronation or in the event of invasion or eclipse. (There were also exemptions for some produce and special levies for others during those years in which the King and his family, to first cousin, were blessed with children or diminished by death). Root crops were exempt, as were strawberries and apples (except where grown for purposes of barter), but not raspberries or pears. All individual tithings were doubled in respect of any produce used in the making of spirituous liquors (of any character, save those used medicinally).
After that, matters became complicated.
How this fiscal wisdom had been so succinctly distilled was beyond anyone's current knowledge, and, indeed, there were only a few left in the valley who could even attempt to calculate the due tithe. And they rarely agreed on the final answer.
Not that any of this was of great concern, for just as Garren Yarrance's farm was at the extremity of the valley, so the valley itself was at the extremity of the kingdom, and not only did little or no news of kingly affairs ever reach them, neither did the tithe gatherers. Or at least they had not done so for many years.
Views were divided on this benison.
'The tithe should be collected,’ said some. ‘It is the King's due and if the gatherers come and there's nothing prepared, then the penalty could be harsh.'
This could not be denied and was a cause of much furrowing of brows amongst those advocating this course. Others, less cautious, thought differently.
'The King's got no need for our small offering, else the gatherers would have been around fast enough,’ they declared. ‘And in any case, we haven't had a tithe master in living memory. How are we supposed to know what's due? We can't prepare for collection what we don't know about, can we?'
This was a telling point and invariably provoked much sage nodding, even amongst their opponents.
'Nevertheless ...’ came the final rebuttal, uttered with great significance but never completed. It needed no completion. The penalties for non-payment of the tithe were indeed severe, and not something to be risked lightly, especially as the tithe, calculated by whatever method, was not particularly onerous.
The debate had reached the status now of being an annual ritual, and so too had the conclusion. On the due date, Dalmas Eve, the estimated tithe would be ceremoniously prepared in the tithe barn for collection by the King's gatherers and the barn officially sealed by the senior village elder.
Although many matters relating to the tithe were contended amongst the villagers, all, both ignorant and knowledgeable, knew for certain that the gatherers having failed to appear on Dalmas Day or Dalmas Morrow meant that the King had munificently returned the tithe to his loyal subjects.
Thus, three days into Dalmastide, no gatherers having appeared, the seals would be solemnly broken and the barn opened.
With continued solemnity, a short speech of gratitude would be made to
the generosity of the absent monarch and then a portion of the tithe would be distributed to those whose crops had fared least well and those who could not properly fend for themselves from whatever cause. That done, the solemnity faded rapidly and the barn would become a market place filled with loud haggling and bartering over the remaining produce. This would be followed by a large and usually raucous banquet.
During the fourth day of Dalmastide the village—indeed the whole valley—was invariably unusually quiet.
It was the approach of Dalmas, rather than any concern about sheep worrying, that had prompted Garren Yarrance to send his son out to check on the sheep, and he was leaning on a gate pondering the extent of his contribution to the tithe this year when Farnor came into sight over the top of a nearby hill.
Garren clicked his tongue reproachfully as he watched his son running and jumping down the steep hillside.
How many times had he told the lad not to run? ‘You stumble and fall, break a leg, then where are we, your mother and me? Tending you and doing your work, that's where. Or getting into debt paying someone else to do it.’ He would pause. ‘That's always minding we find you, or that old Gryss can put you together again if we do.'
It was a litany that he himself had learned, from his own father, as doubtless he in his turn had from his. And Farnor ignored it similarly.
Garren changed the emphasis somewhat as Farnor reached him, sweating and breathless. ‘Very good, son,’ he said. ‘You save ten minutes by risking life and limb to bring me an urgent tale, then I have to wait for ten minutes before you can speak.'
But the reproach faded from his voice even while he was speaking as Farnor's agitation became apparent. ‘What's the matter?’ he asked, as much man to man as father to son.
Farnor told his tale.
Garren scowled. He had hoped that, the last attack having been some months ago, the dog responsible would have moved on, but now there would have to be a hunt. There was always the risk that there might be more than one dog and that raised the spectre of their breeding and thus turning a problem into a nightmare.
'What was Rannick doing out there?’ he asked absently as his mind went over what was to be done next.
'I don't know,’ Farnor replied. ‘I didn't ask.’ He shied away from describing Rannick's behaviour. ‘I don't like him. He's strange.'
Garren wrinkled his nose. ‘He's not the most pleasant of men, that's true,’ he said. ‘But some people are like that. Never content with what they have. Always wanting something else, then still miserable when they've got it. He's probably quite a sad soul at heart.'
Farnor curled his lip in dismissal of this verdict. ‘Well he can be sad on his own, then,’ he said. ‘It wouldn't disturb me if he went on his wanderings and never came back. He makes my skin crawl sometimes.'
Garren looked at his son again, considering some reproach for his harsh tone, but the simple openness of Farnor's response forbade it and instead he reached out and patted him sympathetically on the arm.
'Not a nice sight, is it, a mangled sheep,’ he said. ‘Go inside and make yourself presentable then we'll go into the village and see old Gryss.'
* * * *
Old Gryss was the senior elder of the village: the one who got things done. He mended broken limbs and cracked heads, cured sick animals, extracted teeth, settled quarrels and generally organized the villagers whenever organization was needed. He was also one of the few villagers who, when younger, had travelled beyond the valley; been over the hill, seen towns and even, it was said, cities.
'Noisy, smelly, and too crowded,’ was all that he would say about such places however, whenever he was asked directly. Though, in his cups, he would sometimes regale his audience with tales of his adventures, albeit somewhat incoherently.
The sun had fallen behind the mountains when Garren and Farnor reached Gryss's cottage, and the few clouds drifting overhead were slowly turning pink. The cottage was not unlike its occupant, having a thick but rather scruffy thatch lowering over two sparklingly bright, polished windows and a hunched and slightly skewed appearance due to its original builder having been both wall-eyed and too fond of his ale.
An iron ring hung from a chain by the door. It was attached to a small bell. Garren took hold of it but did not pull it immediately.
'He brought this back from his travels, you know,’ he said. ‘Heaven knows how many people have tugged on it through the years, but it's not shown a scrap of wear. I'd give something for a plough made of the same.'
Farnor, familiar with this oft-repeated parental wish, gave the ring a casual glance for politeness’ sake. Gryss had many relics of his wandering days and, over the years, Farnor had been made tediously familiar with all of them.
Then, on an impulse, he took the ring from his father and looked at it more closely. As if for the first time, he saw the finely etched rows of tiny figures that decorated it. They were warriors, some on horseback with lances and some on foot carrying long spears. They were amazingly detailed and lifelike and, as Farnor moved the ring to examine it further, it seemed to him that they were alive with movement. For a moment he felt he was inside the scene. It was a lull in a terrible battle. A waiting for a final, brutal onslaught from an enemy who...
'It's a lucky charm.'
Gryss's familiar, authoritative voice made Farnor jump. The old man had opened the door silently and was standing watching Farnor's scrutiny of the ring. Startled, Farnor let it fall. The chain rattled as the ring bounced then swung to and fro, and the bell rang slightly. Thus summoned, an old, sleepy-eyed dog emerged from behind Gryss's legs, gave a desultory bark into the evening and then turned back into the cottage.
Garren laughed at his son's discomfiture.
'You'd think he'd never seen it before,’ he said.
'Where did you get it from?’ Farnor asked, almost rudely. His father raised his eyebrows and was about to intervene when Gryss answered the question.
'From over the hill, young Farnor,’ he said. ‘Off a trader from a land far, far away. Could hardly understand a word he said, though he managed to wring a rare price from me for it. Said it would protect me ... I think.’ He chuckled at his youthful folly, then lifted up the ring and gazed at it. ‘Worth it, though. It took my fancy and it's a fine piece of work.'
'And a fine piece of iron,’ Garren added, reverting to practicalities. ‘Those lines are as sharp as they ever were.'
Gryss nodded. ‘Indeed they are,’ he said, his voice suddenly distant.
A brief awkward silence hung over the group, then Gryss said, ‘Anyway, what brings you to my humble cottage, with the prospect of a dark journey home ahead of you? No broken limbs by the look of you. And you're not a man for picking quarrels with your neighbours.’ He hunched forward and stared at Farnor. ‘Toothache, perhaps?’ he said.
Farnor edged behind his father a little.
Before Garren could reply, however, Gryss stepped back and beckoned them inside. As they followed him through a small hallway and into a room at the back of the cottage, the old dog trundled forward again, sniffed at each of them and gave another dutiful bark before retiring, apparently for the evening by its demeanour, to a basket in the corner.
Gryss waved his visitors towards a bench by a long, well-scrubbed table. He sat down opposite them and looked at them expectantly.
'Farnor was checking the sheep for the tithe when he found another one worried,’ Garren said, without preamble. ‘I think we'll have to get a hunt together.'
Gryss frowned. ‘Tell me exactly what you found,’ he said to Farnor.
Farnor told his tale for the second time.
Gryss's frown darkened. ‘It sounds like the others and it sounds bad,’ he said. ‘It's something big all right, and it looks as if it intends to stay. I'll have a word with Rannick when he appears, see if he saw anything that Farnor might have missed, then we'll have to organize a hunt as you say.'
As they left Gryss's cottage Farnor let his hand run over the iron ring
again. Though he could not see them clearly in the dying daylight, he could feel the etched lines, fine and hard; the strange touch of the world over the hill. Heroic deeds captured in fine craftsmanship. Perhaps not everything out there was darkness and suspicion, he thought, unexpectedly.
Gryss's parting words to his father interrupted his reverie. ‘Don't send him out alone again, Garren,’ he was saying. ‘And don't go out alone yourself.'
* * * *
Deep in the cold darkness, a black-in-black shadow stirred uneasily.
Mingling with the scents that had returned with it was one it had known before. Long before ... if it had ever known what time was.
With it came the desires that it had known before. Desires that it had long forgotten ... if it had ever known what memory was. Ancient, black desires that fulfilled its heart and made it whole ... it understood desires.
The scent came.
And went.
Elusive. Tormenting.
Deep in the darkness came a low, menacing growl that had not been heard for countless generations.
* * *
Chapter 3
The prospect of a hunt might have been a source of some irritation to the adults of the valley, but to the young men and the boys it offered the prospect of considerable excitement although the former affected a haughty indifference to it.
And even the men were making little effort to keep their faces stern as they gathered a few mornings later at Garren's farm with their various dogs and a motley assortment of weapons. There were pitchforks, spades, hatchets, billhooks, even a rusty old sword or two and, of course, the inevitable bows. There were also more than a few ale jugs in evidence.
Gryss looked at them dubiously and then laid down the law sternly.
'No bows,’ he declared.
There were injured protests.
Gryss gave his reasons without any concession to the finer feelings of his audience.
'There's not one of you could hit a cottage end from ten paces, sober. The last time bows went out on a hunt we lost the dog we were after and brought down two beaters and three ewes.
