by Roger Taylor
Such as he, did nothing unless it served his own end. Such as he, Haral mused, struck by the turn of his thoughts. He no longer saw Rannick as a petty village trickster, and though he found it hard to imagine that the man had the power of his former lord, he nevertheless had a great deal. And he had the will to use it. He was, beyond debate, someone to be either obeyed or fled from.
Of course, there was always the alternative of killing him, but Haral had seen the fate of others who had thought similarly in the past, and he had no desire to share any part of it. He shuddered at the memory.
Wholly pragmatic, Haral shifted his stance without any qualms. He had followed and obeyed someone all his life: his Lord, Nilsson, Rannick, it did not really matter. Let them have their grandiose plans; just so he knew where he stood. He had only modest ambitions, and so long as he got what he wanted he didn't really give a damn who he followed. And getting what he wanted was generally not too difficult once he had a measure of his leaders.
And the clear measure he had of Rannick now was that he wanted the group to remain at the castle instead of heading north. Wanted it to the extent that he was prepared to kill some of them for it. Further, he had some control over the fearful animal that had attacked them. Haral had no measure of that thing except that it was to be avoided at all costs.
Perhaps the reasons for Rannick's wish that they remain at the castle would become apparent in time but, for now, Haral knew enough. ‘You go north and you die,’ Rannick had said, meaning, ‘You go north and I will kill you.’ And having had that demonstrated, Haral needed to know nothing further. All he had to do now was give a good account of today's happenings, suitably praising Lord Rannick for his timely intervention, then he would do what was expected of him and confirm that the valley was too dangerous to risk any more ventures. After that he would stand back and await events.
A noise from the head of the column interrupted his planning.
For a moment his insides turned to ice. Had Rannick decided to make a real example of them by sending the animal after them to destroy them all? He laid his hand on his sword hilt in readiness for action.
But soon the noise identified itself as other riders, sent by Nilsson to act as rearguard to the group. Haral spurred his horse forward to greet them.
The journey back to the castle was uneventful, though it was dark when they arrived and, gallopers having been sent ahead with the news, the courtyard was crowded with men and ablaze with flickering torches.
Nilsson cursorily examined the seriously injured. ‘Send someone for that leech, Gryss,’ he said. ‘Tell him ... ask him ... to come and look at these men.'
He turned to Haral, his face grim and questioning. Haral told his tale as he had determined, laying suitable emphasis on the role played by Rannick and duly declaring that the passage to the north was too dangerous.
The telling was received in silence by the encircling men. Despite the losses, there were fewer reproaches than Haral had anticipated. A congress had been held and each man had made his own decision freely. Those who had stayed, for the most part, considered themselves fortunate rather than wise in their choice, and those of Haral's men who had survived considered themselves both wiser now and fortunate.
Nilsson and others shrewd enough read Haral's true message: ‘Do as Rannick says, or he'll kill you. And he can do it.'
It was no great surprise. They had all known the power in the past and, whatever questions they had about how Rannick came to wield it, they knew its force. There was some resentment about being held in thrall by this new leader, but it found little or no voice, and indeed, most were beginning to look to the future for the first time in many years, reflecting into it the lives they had led under their former master.
There were some questions about the creature but they petered out as it became apparent that neither Haral nor any of the others could give any indication as to what it might be.
'What about Mirek and the others?’ Dessane asked.
'Dead, beyond a doubt.’ Haral's face wrinkled in distaste. ‘And probably eaten by now.'
Nilsson looked round to see if there was any enthusiasm for a search and found none. Loyalty was loyalty, but this wasn't worth the risk.
He nodded. ‘Now we wait,’ he said.
* * * *
Gryss was in no sweet mood when he arrived. He had been preparing to go to bed when Nilsson's messenger had filled the house with his noisy banging; and the journey to the castle had been too fast for his taste.
'I'm too old for this rattling round,’ he complained as Nilsson greeted him.
'Why's the boy here?’ Nilsson asked brusquely, indicating Farnor, hastily collected by Gryss as he had passed the farm.
'He helps me,’ Gryss lied, equally irritably, handing a large leather bag to Farnor.
Nilsson said nothing, though he looked as if he wished to object to Farnor's presence. After a moment, however, he gave a curt nod, then pointed to the building in which the injured were being housed.
'I hope you've managed to find somewhere more wholesome than the last place,’ Gryss said in an attempt at conversation as Nilsson led them into a long, arched corridor.
The martial tattoo of the Captain's heels on the stone floor was the only reply.
Eventually they stopped outside a heavy wooden door which Nilsson threw open. He motioned Gryss inside. As the old man went into the room he grimaced. It was clean enough, but it needed no physician's eye to see the pain racking the men lying there. They made little sound, though the subdued hiss of tightly controlled breathing was more distressing to Gryss than any amount of groaning.
'What happened?’ he asked, turning to Nilsson.
'Just tend them,’ Nilsson replied coldly.
Gryss began to protest. ‘I'll need to know if ...'
'Just tend them,’ Nilsson replied, before he could finish.
The two men held each other's gazes for a moment, then Gryss nodded.
'Very well,’ he said. ‘I'll do what I can.’ He took his bag from Farnor. ‘There's no point you staying, Captain. This is going to take some time. I'll see you before I leave and tell you what I've done.'
'His tune's changed,’ Gryss murmured to Farnor when Nilsson had left.
Farnor had other concerns on his mind. ‘I can't help you,’ he whispered in some alarm. ‘I don't know anything about sick people.'
'Just do as I say, and look confident,’ Gryss said, rooting through his bag. ‘It's the confidence that does most of the healing anyway.’ Despite the grim surroundings, a brief twinkle of amusement shone in his eyes as he looked at Farnor's anxious face. ‘This'll be interesting for you.'
'What've you brought me here for, anyway?’ Farnor went on.
'I want another pair of eyes and ears about this place,’ Gryss answered. ‘We need to learn as much as we can about these men, in case ...’ He stopped.
'In case what?'
'Just in case,’ Gryss said shortly.
A groan from one of the injured men ended this subdued conversation, and Gryss turned his attention to their needs.
Farnor did not enjoy what followed, but he obeyed Gryss's instructions scrupulously and tried to appear confident as the old man poked and prodded, moved limbs, issued instructions to breathe in, breathe out, move your toes, move your fingers, look this way, look that.
When it came to manipulating bones however, Farnor gave up all attempt at confidence, and simply clenched his teeth and concentrated on doing as he was told. This consisted mainly of mopping brows and giving the patients a thick leather thong to bite on as Gryss heaved and tugged at reluctant limbs. Some of the clicks and cracks that ensued made his entire skin crawl, but it was the eye contact that distressed him most: seeing the fear, the young boys within, risen anew, being grimly, angrily, fought back by the men.
'What happened?’ Gryss asked each man in turn.
'A horse kicked me,’ came the standard, and truthful reply.
Gryss wanted to raise a di
sbelieving eyebrow, but the nature of the injuries forbade it.
'And I suppose a horse kicked you as well,’ he said, pulling back the sheet from the last bed. Farnor caught his breath and turned away. The man's hand, clutching a bloodstained rag, fell away from a deep, raw wound in his thigh.
Visions of the slaughtered sheep returned to Farnor at the sight of the torn flesh, and he felt his gorge rising.
'Slow, deep breaths,’ he heard Gryss whispering urgently in his ear, as a surprisingly powerful hand gripped his arm. ‘Slow deep breaths. Start throwing up when the wound's in your leg. You'll be surprised how much pain in other people a good healer can take.'
The sternness and the dark, cynical humour in Gryss's voice jolted Farnor into self-control and he returned to his role as healer's assistant.
The old man pursed his lips as he viewed the damaged leg, then he burrowed in his bag again. He emerged with a small bottle, the contents of which he emptied on to a pad. Farnor's nose twitched uncertainly as a heavy, sweet, smell struck it. Then, unhurriedly, but very quickly, Gryss placed the pad over the man's mouth and nose. The man struggled a little then went limp.
'What's that?’ Farnor asked in amazement.
'Just something to put him to sleep for a few minutes,’ Gryss replied. ‘Here, tie him down.'
A length of stout rope appeared from the bag.
'Tie him down?’ Farnor gaped.
'Tie him down,’ Gryss confirmed insistently. ‘I've got to probe this wound, and if he wakes up before I've finished he's not going to enjoy it. And neither am I when he tries to take my head off.'
Unhappily, Farnor did as he was told, trussing the man to the bed as expertly as if he were tying a cover over a wagon. Even as he was doing so Gryss was delving into the wound.
'Look,’ he said, beckoning Farnor down. He had struck a small sunstone lantern and its bright light brought out every stark detail of the wound. Farnor clenched his teeth and somehow managed to bring his face next to Gryss's. Rather to his surprise, his unease began to pass as Gryss, using two thin metal probes, confidently lifted back layers of damaged tissue, explaining to the best of his knowledge what each one was: muscle, sinew, blood vessels and the different layers of skin.
The man stirred and mumbled something unintelligible. Farnor glanced at him anxiously but Gryss shook his head reassuringly.
He nudged Farnor. ‘Bone,’ he said, tapping a white streak at the bottom of the wound. Farnor rubbed his own thigh feelingly. Then Gryss was peering intently into the wound and, tongue protruding, probing further.
'What's the matter?’ Farnor whispered.
Gryss shushed him.
The man stirred again, and then Gryss was busy cleaning and sewing, all the time humming softly to himself. Farnor had seen Gryss stitching wounds before and was able to watch this a little more calmly.
At last Gryss stood up.
'Why haven't you sewn it all up?’ Farnor asked.
'Too deep,’ Gryss replied. ‘It'll have to heal from the inside out.'
Farnor shook his head in some wonder. ‘How do you know all this?’ he asked.
Gryss turned his head from side to side and wriggled his shoulders to ease the stiffness out of them. He smiled broadly. ‘Horses, mainly,’ he said. ‘And some cows.'
He intercepted Farnor's growing look of horror. ‘We're not all that much different,’ he said, chuckling darkly. ‘Why do you think I don't eat much meat?’ Then he became serious. ‘But I've done similar for people as well. You can get a nasty wound off a scythe or a sickle.’ He paused. ‘But I'd like to know what's happened here.'
Farnor started. He had been so preoccupied with watching Gryss that only now did he realize that he knew the answer to this. But it could not be told here. He would have to wait until they had left the castle.
'Horses, they say,’ Gryss muttered. ‘And it could well be, most of them. But this one ...’ He nodded towards the wounded man, whose eyelids were now beginning to flicker. ‘This one's been wounded by a sword thrust, or a spear. The bone was chipped by a sharp point of some kind. I'll ask Nilsson when we see him, although I doubt he'll tell me anything.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Untie him, please, Farnor,’ he said. ‘I'll need to talk to him when he wakes up properly. I'm afraid he's not going to enjoy the next few days.'
Later, as he had promised, Gryss sought out Nilsson and told him what he had done. ‘I'll have to examine them again every day for some time,’ he concluded.
Nilsson shook his head. ‘We'll tend them,’ he said bluntly.
Gryss seemed about to debate this decision, then he slumped a little and gave a slight shrug. ‘As you wish, Captain,’ he said. ‘They're your men. But please at least let me tell you how to tend them. The man with the wound in his leg needs particular attention if he's not going to lose it.'
Nilsson seemed unconcerned by the news. ‘It's not much,’ he said. ‘I've seen men recover from worse lying in the field.'
'Yes, and you've seen men dying screaming and burned up with fever as their limbs rotted on them as well, I'll wager,’ Gryss said, his voice uncharacteristically savage. ‘But, as I said, they're your men.’ He turned as if to leave.
There was a brief flash of anger across Nilsson's face at this outburst, but it was followed by an equally brief flicker of doubt. ‘Very well,’ he said, in a voice that gave no concession to Gryss's argument. ‘Come tomorrow. After that, we'll see.'
Gryss nodded. ‘I'll get myself back to my bed, then,’ he said. ‘And Farnor here has to be up early.’ Nilsson gave him a cursory nod, but did not seem inclined to offer the thanks that Gryss's comment had been designed to elicit. As Gryss reached the wicket, he turned back as if he had just remembered something. ‘Why've you no healer of your own, Captain?’ he asked. ‘King's men ranging the country and far from their home base. You should have been given someone, surely?'
Nilsson stared at him, then wrenched his thoughts back from the events of the day. Damn this old fool, he thought. But he needed him still. The present pretence must be maintained unless Rannick reappeared and determined otherwise. ‘There were none available at the time we left,’ he said. ‘One of those things. You know the army.'
'No, I don't, really,’ Gryss admitted. ‘But I'd have thought that someone somewhere would have been ordering affairs better than that. Still, I don't imagine anyone would be expecting you'd be getting involved in combat, would they?’ He shook his head pensively. ‘Your man's been lucky. If the point hadn't struck the bone it could've severed a vessel that would have emptied the blood out of him in minutes. How did he come by such a wound?'
Nilsson smelt the trap coming. Damn this crafty old fool, he reminded himself. ‘It was a training accident,’ he said blandly. ‘These things happen. But that's a soldier's lot. As we used to say in my own country, if you can't stand the cold don't sit in the snow.'
'It was worth a try,’ Gryss said to Farnor as they walked across the courtyard to their horses. ‘But I suppose he's used to guarding his tongue, whether he's a King's man or one of Marna's bandits.'
Farnor ignored the observation. Away from the urgency of his unexpected night journey and the tension of the sick room, his own concerns returned.
'I've something I need to tell you when we're away from the castle,’ he said simply. ‘It's about all this.'
Gryss shot him a quick glance, but said nothing.
As he mounted up, he looked round the courtyard. There was a great deal of activity going on for this time of night, he thought. Though much of it consisted of groups of men talking. And there was an air of ... expectancy. As if they were waiting for something.
Once clear of the castle, Farnor told Gryss what had happened that day as he had been in the work-shed. Gryss listened in silence, and remained so for a long time after he had finished. ‘So many questions,’ he said, half to himself. ‘And there's no point asking you for more than you've already told me, is there?’ He gave Farnor a school-masterly look. Farnor shook his head.
He had omitted no details. Gryss reached over and laid a hand on his arm comfortingly. ‘How are you?’ he asked in a voice full of concern.
'Better, I think,’ Farnor replied. ‘A little more prepared to wait things out.’ He paused. ‘But I don't know how long I can stay like this.'
Gryss patted his arm. ‘You'll be all right. Having learned to do that, it'll be with you for as long as you need. That's the nature of things. You'll be burdened with no more than you can bear.'
The next day, his mind full of Farnor's strange tale and the evidence of panic that could be read in the damage that had been wrought to the injured men, Gryss returned alone to the castle. The rain that had been confined to the upper part of the valley the previous day had moved to occupy the whole of it and, coupled with a blustering wind, made it more like winter than spring.
There was an almost eerie silence about the castle as Gryss plied his fist to the wicket door. A solitary guard eventually opened it and beckoned him in with a surly grunt.
Gryss attempted some small talk about the weather as they trudged across the deserted courtyard, but the man merely hitched up his dripping leather cape irritably.
'The sick room's over there,’ Gryss said, pointing as the man led him in an entirely different direction.
'Captain wants to see you,’ came the reply.
Gryss knew that asking, ‘What about?’ would yield no answer, so he followed in silence.
He was, however, beginning to feel increasingly uneasy as the journey took him into a part of the castle that he had not been in before. But it was the stillness pervading the place that was disturbing rather than the place itself. The guard stopped and knocked discreetly on a door.
There was a reply from within and the guard pushed the door open and ushered Gryss in.
Though uncarpeted and barely furnished, the room was made almost homely by a large fire burning in an ornately decorated fireplace. Nilsson was seated at a table writing something, while another figure stood with his back to the room gazing out of the window.
