by Roger Taylor
Yeorson and Storran led the patrol away from the castle as the rising sun was beginning to throw long shadows on the mountain turf, and late morning saw them travelling at less than foot pace as they threaded their way between the trees. Some had chosen to dismount, preferring to lead their horses rather than contend with the frequent low-hanging branches. At intervals they would hack gashes into the trunks of the trees to mark their route through this deceptively treacherous terrain. Sap oozed from the cuts.
In places the trees grew close together, and the canopy overhead became so dense that it shut out much of the sunlight. The riders fell silent as they passed through these dark and gloomy canyons, and there was always a marked air of relief when they emerged into the light again.
Eventually, reaching a small clearing, Yeorson called a halt and cast about for a suitable tree to climb. Finally selecting one, he stretched up like some grotesque, unfolding creeper and, seizing a branch, disappeared into the foliage with an easy heave. Storran stared up after him for a while, but he was soon lost from sight and his progress could only be measured by the sound of the disturbed branches. Then there was a brief period of silence until the sound of his descent began.
'Anything?’ Storran asked as the long figure emerged from the lower branches.
'Not much,’ Yeorson said. ‘Same as last time. Trees north and south for as far as I can see.’ He pointed. ‘But there's a cliff obscuring the view further along. It looks as though the valley turns east. If we can reach the edge of the trees we might be able to get part way up it and get a better view from there.’ A few grumbling minutes later the patrol was under way again, leaving behind it its extending trail of hacked and weeping markers.
It proved impossible to reach the edge of the trees on horseback as the forest rose steeply up the valley sides in most places. However, by moving some way up from the valley floor, the patrol was able to follow a line quite near to the edge and which gave them occasional views across or along the valley. At each of these panoramas Yeorson's lip curled in dissatisfaction, enhancing his naturally supercilious expression.
'I don't like this place,’ he said quietly to Storran. ‘It still feels bad.'
Storran nodded. He, too, was uneasy about the seemingly deserted woodland they were travelling through, though he had no words to define his unease clearly.
'We'll just have to carry on,’ he said. ‘It's probably because it's so still.'
Yeorson curled his lip again, but offered no reply.
Towards evening, they reached the rock face that had obscured Yeorson's view. It came on them like an ambush, appearing suddenly and towering above them, massive and rugged against the darkening sky as they entered a clearing full of fallen trees and tangled undergrowth.
Studiously unimpressed, Storran concentrated on their immediate surroundings. ‘Rock fall,’ he said, simply.
Looking at the eminence above gave the patrol no comfort. The trees rose up it some considerable way and it would be no easy task struggling through them to reach the rock face proper. Certainly there would be no question of taking the horses. Then there was no way of assessing how negotiable the cliff would be when they got there.
Storran shook his head. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said.
No one demurred. Most of the men had shaken off the effects of the previous night's revelries, but none of them seemed to be able to muster any enthusiasm for the task in hand.
As the light faded, the horses were tethered, undergrowth was cleared to make a camp, wood was collected, a fire was lit and food cooked—all efficiently enough, but with an untypical and wary silence. Even the customary insults about the cooking were either left unsaid, or larded with unusual viciousness.
In an attempt to break this strange and growing tension, Yeorson repeated Nilsson's remarks as they sat around the fire. ‘The sooner we find a way through here, the sooner we get out of this place,’ he said. ‘And the quicker and quieter we leave, the longer it will be before anyone finds out.'
A burning log collapsed noisily, sending a cascade of sparks dancing and weaving high into the darkness. Yeorson's words went with them, unheeded and futile.
'This place gives me the creeps,’ someone said as the small disturbance faded.
His words hung ominously in the air and the ill mood of the group seemed to congeal about them. Yeorson and Storran glanced at one another, puzzled, and uncertain as to what was about to happen. Dangerous though the men were, to a man they had a loyalty to each other borne of mutual need that bound them far tighter than even their own sworn oaths. And there had been no particular signs of discontent on the journey so far. But...
Yeorson and Storran were excellent trackers because they listened to and trusted their instincts. Needing no reason other than this inner prompting, both of them simultaneously and surreptitiously moved their hands towards their knives.
Even as they did so however, they felt the mood about them suddenly change, then they saw that most of the men were staring at something.
Yeorson followed the gaze.
Only a few paces from them, and well within the circle of the firelight, stood a solitary, motionless figure.
Yeorson swore softly to himself. How had this intruder come so close without being heard?
Before he had time to issue any orders several of the men were on their feet, knives and swords drawn. They made no attempt to advance on the figure, though, and it remained still and silent for a long, oddly timeless interval. There was an eerie unreality about the whole scene as if the figure were in some other place. Then, it extended its arms slowly and spoke. ‘I apologize if I startled you, gentlemen,’ it said.
'Who the hell are you?’ Yeorson demanded, his voice harsh, and disregarding the easy manner of the apology. ‘And what are you doing creeping about out here?'
'My name's Rannick,’ the figure replied calmly. ‘I've been hunting. I was concerned when I saw the flames through the trees. I thought I was going to get caught in a forest fire.'
Yeorson looked at him narrowly. ‘You move quietly, Rannick,’ he said. ‘Sneaking up on an armed camp like that could get you killed.'
Rannick remained where he was and extended his arms again, this time accompanying the gesture with a leisurely shrug. ‘I've said I was sorry for disturbing you. I'll leave.'
He turned.
'Stay where you are!’ Yeorson shouted.
Rannick stopped, his head bowed and half-turned towards the fire.
With a series of short, sharp gestures, Yeorson dispatched several of the men into the darkness.
'Are you alone?’ he asked.
'Yes.'
'Come here,’ Yeorson said curtly. ‘And keep your hands in sight. I warn you, if this is some trick to ambush us you should know you're not dealing with village clods this time. And you'll be the first to die.'
Rannick walked towards the fire, seemingly unperturbed by Yeorson's threatening manner.
'You must be the gatherers,’ he said as he stopped a few paces away from Yeorson. His tone and his smile were mildly ironic.
'This amuses you?’ Yeorson asked menacingly. The men casually surrounded the new arrival.
'A little,’ Rannick admitted.
A knife appeared at his throat. ‘How would another smile across your face amuse you, farm boy?’ its holder asked viciously.
Rannick looked at his assailant calmly. ‘Put the knife away,’ he said, very quietly. ‘I'm no danger to you.'
The man did not move but, to Yeorson, it seemed for a moment that he was immobilized by Rannick's gaze rather than by any determination to stand his ground.
There was a long silence.
Yeorson's voice broke it. ‘Let him be, Meirach,’ he snapped, pushing the man away none too gently. There was a flicker of relief on Meirach's face as Yeorson's blow tore him away from Rannick, and he gave only a cursory indication that he wanted to return to the fray.
As Yeorson watched Meirach the men he had sent out began to reappear from
the darkness. They shook their heads as Yeorson looked at them. The man was alone, then.
He studied Rannick carefully. Under normal circumstances, a lone traveller encountering a group under his charge would have little likelihood of surviving, but the prospect of Nilsson's bloody retribution rose before him if such a deed were to cause problems with the villagers. And, almost certainly, someone, somewhere, would be keeping a discreet eye on this oaf, for all the protestations that no one ever came up here. They would surely know where he was and when he would be back. He decided; there would be no sport from this one tonight.
'Sit down and join us ... Rannick,’ he said, gesturing to the others to do the same. ‘I'm sorry for the welcome, but it's the way we are. You're lucky you weren't killed on sight.'
Rannick came forward, but made no response to this remark. As he sat he looked from Yeorson to the other men around the fire. After a moment, he nodded.
'I understand,’ he said, eyes wide. ‘You're soldiers. Your life must be full of adventure and excitement. I suppose you're always ready for danger.'
There was awe and sincerity in his voice and manner that no one in the village would have recognized. The mood around the fire relaxed almost palpably. Just another village simpleton was the unspoken consensus. There was some laughter, though in anticipation of the torments that would most likely befall their visitor before long rather than at his seeming naivety. Yeorson made no effort to hide his disdain from Rannick. ‘We'd been told that no one ever comes here,’ he said.
'Nor do they,’ Rannick said. ‘I only come here because the rabbits and the birds aren't as shy as they are in the valley.'
'Where's your catch?’ Yeorson asked.
Rannick shrugged self-deprecatingly. ‘I've not done too well so far, but I'll give it another day or two.'
He looked expectantly at the food that was lying about the fire.
'Do you know these woods well, Rannick?’ The speaker was Storran. He picked up a piece of meat and offered it to him.
Rannick's eyes widened as he took the meat but as he raised it to his nose and sniffed at it, he closed them.
'Yes,’ he said. ‘I know them very well.’ He bit into the meat. It had only been lightly cooked, and a trickle of blood ran slowly down his chin. At the same time, Yeorson applied his foot vigorously to the fire. It flared up brightly and for an instant, in its ancient light, Rannick, with his hand clawed around the meat, his bloodstained teeth bared and his eyes turned into black shadowed orbs, looked like the spirit of some terrible predator from an age long dead, had any there had the wit to note it.
'Very well,’ he repeated, as the flames died down.
Yeorson nodded approvingly at Storran; a little local knowledge could save them a great deal of time and effort.
'How far do these woods go north?’ Storran asked.
Rannick stopped chewing. ‘Up to the Great Forest,’ he said in some surprise. ‘Anyone could have told you that.'
Storran's mouth forced itself into a smile. ‘They did,’ he said. ‘But they never come here, do they? So how can they know? They could be wrong. We've had it before. People not knowing what's on the other side of their own mountain. But you're here. You know this place.'
'Oh, yes. I'm very familiar with this place,’ Rannick said, his voice enigmatic as he looked around the makeshift camp.
'You've actually been through the valley? Seen this ... Great Forest?’ Storran persisted.
'Why do you want to know?’ Rannick asked.
Yeorson started slightly at this sudden reversal in roles. ‘We need to know,’ he said brusquely. Then, tempering his reply, he added, ‘It's the ... King's orders. We have to find out what lies beyond the borders of his land.’ His invention began to amuse him. ‘And if you can help us, then we'll tell him how you helped. There might even be a ... reward ... for it. A medal, perhaps.'
With the hand away from Rannick's gaze, he beat down the rising sniggers of his companions.
Rannick's eyes widened innocently. ‘A reward?’ he said, then his shoulders slumped.
'What's the matter?’ Yeorson asked in genuine surprise.
'You can't go through to the Great Forest,’ Rannick replied.
'What do you mean?’ Yeorson demanded. ‘We can't go through. Are there bandits or something? Or a river or a gorge we can't cross?'
Rannick shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You just can't go. It's too dangerous.’ He lowered his voice and looked around as if someone in the surrounding shadows might be listening. ‘It's cursed. It's an evil place. Guarded by demons.'
In sharp contrast to Rannick's almost whispered concern, the listening men, ignoring Yeorson's restraining hand, broke into raucous laughter.
'Stretch him over the fire,’ someone said amid the din. ‘Show him what we do to demons.'
'Or anyone else,’ another added.
The idea gathered momentum and Rannick looked at Yeorson fearfully.
'Shut up,’ Yeorson roared. ‘Captain Nilsson won't appreciate us treating him badly. Him having friends in the village and all.'
Nilsson's instructions of the previous evening had been quite unequivocal and, as all present knew, his response to disobedience would be equally so. The mention of Nilsson's name and the reference to the village thus had the desired effect, and the laughter faded into a mixture of scornful sneers and surliness. Yeorson looked round the group angrily, to ensure that all had understood the full import of his remarks.
Rannick turned to the man who had called for the roasting. It was Meirach, still smarting from his earlier rebuke. ‘You shouldn't say things like that,’ he said, almost plaintively. ‘Even as a joke. You're liable to bring them down on yourself.'
Meirach, half lying by the fire, glared at him, but a gesture from Yeorson stifled any reply. Irritably he extended his foot and kicked some smouldering branches back into the fire.
There was an awkward silence.
Rannick turned back to the fire, his eyes squinting as if disturbed by its brightness. Then he looked up into the darkness.
The unseen tree tops around them began to rustle as if a breeze had caught them. Rannick returned his gaze to Meirach. Their eyes met.
Suddenly part of the fire collapsed and a large burning log tumbled out of it and fell across Meirach's legs. He pulled them back immediately with an oath, but a branch on the log tangled in his long jacket and as he jerked his legs the log bounced into his lap almost as if it were alive.
Seeing his plight, his companions started to laugh, though a couple of them kicked out at the log in an attempt either to dislodge it or perhaps to harass him further. Frantically Meirach struggled to his feet, but the log remained entangled in his jacket and the flames, in continuing to rise upwards, began to play over his chest and face. Some of the laughter increased in intensity, but cries of alarm also began to make themselves heard.
As Meirach started to flail his arms about in an attempt to free himself from the burning log, a gust of wind blew through the camp. The fire roared and flared violently, and flames, sparks and glowing embers blew in every direction. The men sitting and lying around the fire scattered in confusion, leaving only the fire itself and the thrashing figure of Meirach at the centre.
Then someone ran forward, hurled the struggling man to the ground and beat out the flames with a jacket. It was Storran.
The wind fell as quickly as it had arisen and the fire became quiet again.
Although the flames had been extinguished however, Meirach was still rolling about on the ground, beating desperately at smouldering portions of his clothes. The laughter returned.
At last Meirach realized that he was free of his blazing burden and he scrambled to his feet. His beard and eyebrows were singed and there were black smudges and red weals on his face that would doubtless become painful in due course, but apart from this he was remarkably undamaged. His appearance, however, made his indignation appear incongruous, and the laughter redoubled.
He sp
un round, glowering at his companions, then he fixed on Rannick. He levelled a hand at him and, his face contorted with rage, spoke rapidly and loudly in his own language.
The laughter faded.
'What's he saying?’ Rannick asked, nervously.
'He's saying that you did that,’ Yeorson answered after a moment.
'Did what?'
'Set fire to him,’ Yeorson replied irritably. His irritation, however, was at Meirach, not Rannick. ‘Shut up, Meirach,’ he shouted above the man's complaints. ‘It's your own damn fault for sitting too near the fire. You're lucky Storran bothered to put you out. I'd have left you there. It would've saved us collecting more firewood.'
Meirach swore at him. Without pause or comment Yeorson strode forward and, lifting his clenched fist high as if to strike a blow, swung his leg up and caught Meirach squarely in the stomach. The man doubled over and staggered back, but managed not to fall. Even through his pain he knew that to fall was to risk being kicked to death by this long, sneering individual who had been given charge over him.
Yeorson indeed seemed set to pursue just this course when he remembered the presence of Rannick. With a conspicuous effort he stepped back and returned to his position by the fire. ‘Go and clean yourself up, Meirach,’ he said. ‘And get the cook to put some grease on those burns. Nilsson's going to be less than pleased if you go sick on us now.'
Several hands grabbed Meirach and dragged him away before he could compound his initial folly in abusing Yeorson. ‘Discipline has to be stern,’ Yeorson said to Rannick as he watched the departing figure. ‘That kind of carelessness and wild behaviour could get us all killed.'
'How could I have moved that log?’ Rannick said, affecting still to be shocked at such a bizarre and impossible accusation. ‘I was nowhere near it. The fire collapsed. You saw it ...'
Yeorson gazed skywards. A part of him wished dearly that Nilsson's instructions no longer constrained him and that he could have pursued Meirach's suggestion and roasted this dolt. A larger part, however, accepted both Nilsson's reasoning and his cruel authority. And, too, a half-burned Meirach had been quite an amusing diversion.
