Farnor

by Roger Taylor

  Gryss smiled. ‘I see you've found yourself some more comfortable quarters,’ he said. ‘The fire's welcome. It's an unseasonable day today.'

  Nilsson said nothing, but gestured to a chair on the opposite side of the table. Gryss sat down and waited. He cast a covert glance at the man by the window. There was something familiar about him, but he was silhouetted against the grey daylight and Gryss could not see him clearly enough to identify him.

  'Did any of my patients have any problems in the night?’ he asked the still-writing Captain, hoping for a reply that might enable him to discover more of what had happened to the men. He had no doubt that Farnor had told him the truth about what he had ... felt. But...

  Nilsson laid down his pen after a moment. ‘Don't worry about the men, Gryss,’ he said. ‘We'll attend to them.’ His manner was easy and casual, but before Gryss could respond it became serious; grim, even. ‘A great many things have changed since last night, and I ...we ...’ He nodded towards the figure by the window. ‘... are going to need your help in explaining them to the villagers.'

  Gryss frowned. Images of invading armies marching down from the north returned to him again, to displace his immediate worry about the injured men and the mystery of Farnor's tale. What had these people done with their prying to the north? He brought his attention back to Nilsson sharply. He was still speaking; and hurriedly, as if to get the matter over.

  'It's been decided that the castle here will become a permanent garrison. It's to become a ... training centre ... and local headquarters for the army, to help strengthen what has become a very weak north-eastern border.'

  Gryss's mind reeled. Of the many things he had thought might happen since the arrival of these men, this had not been one.

  'I don't understand,’ he blurted out. ‘Why now, all of a sudden? Who's made this decision? What's it going to mean to the village...?'

  Nilsson raised a hand for silence. ‘Listen, Gryss,’ he said, a sterner note in his voice. ‘I'll tell you what I can, but I'm speaking to you now in your capacity as one of the village's senior elders; probably its most influential. So listen, because you'll have to explain it to the others. I've neither the time nor the inclination to do it myself.'

  With an effort Gryss held back his questions.

  Nilsson continued. ‘The why of all this is neither yours nor mine to question,’ he said. ‘Such decisions are made by the King and his ministers, for whatever reasons they think fit. The who is of no relevance. Suffice it that the order is the King's and that I'm both obliged and empowered to put it into effect.'

  Despite the admonition however, Gryss could not contain himself. ‘Why didn't you tell us sooner?’ he interjected, without waiting for the answer to his third question.

  Nilsson scratched his cheek impatiently and his lips slipped back to bare his teeth. ‘Because we didn't know,’ he said. ‘The tithe had to be collected and certain other matters determined before the decision was finalized.'

  'What other matters?’ Gryss demanded.

  The figure by the window stirred. Nilsson shot it a nervous glance then glared at Gryss. ‘Matters which don't concern you,’ he said bluntly.

  It brought Gryss back to his third question. ‘What's it going to mean to the village?’ he asked again.

  Nilsson thumbed through some of the papers in front of him. ‘Probably very little,’ he said. ‘Technically you'll be under military law because of your nearness to the castle, but for the most part that'll only affect anyone who wants to enter or leave the valley. You can rest assured that we want nothing to do with your routine daily squabbles. You can continue to deal with those as you do at present, providing they don't interfere with our work here or the security of the valley.'

  Gryss frowned. Few either entered or left the valley so, apparently, this new regime would indeed have little effect. But somewhere deep inside, a part of him rebelled against this unasked-for and unwanted constraint. He held it in check; his head was still spinning with this unwelcome news.

  'And you'll feed the garrison, of course,’ Nilsson added, almost as an afterthought. ‘And supply servants ... tradesmen and the like ... as they're needed.'

  Gryss latched on to a practicality to try and calm his confusion. ‘Feed you?’ he queried. ‘How many will there be? We're only a small village.'

  Nilsson raised his open palms and shrugged. ‘I've no idea,’ he admitted. ‘But the valley's big and fertile, much of it lying fallow. I'm sure it'll present no problems.'

  Gryss put his hand to his head. ‘This is all rather a surprise,’ he said. ‘Not to say a shock. You'll have to allow me a moment to take it in.'

  'I understand,’ Nilsson said, now almost avuncular. ‘But please don't be too concerned. I'm sure there'll be virtually no disruption to your village life if everyone does as they're told. And such few problems as might arise will probably be nothing that can't be sorted out with a little goodwill and common sense on both sides.'

  Gryss felt the manipulation behind the words, but he also felt suddenly very old. Momentous events were happening which were utterly beyond his control. Beyond even his comprehension, he began to realize. He had the feeling that he was running faster and faster down a hillside that was becoming steeper and steeper, and that soon he would be hurtling over the edge of some abyss.

  The villagers had tended their own affairs for countless generations without aid from anyone beyond the valley, and they could continue thus for as many generations into the future. They lived simple yet rich lives, living off yet sustaining the fertile land that surrounded them. He knew that the intrusion which Nilsson had just outlined to him would destroy this ancient harmony more effectively than if his men had fired the village, and that such destruction would be tantamount to an atrocity.

  Why? he cried out to himself, but he left it unspoken, following Nilsson's earlier remark. The why, like the who, was indeed irrelevant. He could do nothing. The villagers could do nothing. They were defenceless. Not merely in the matter of having no weapons to oppose such an imposition should they have so chosen, but in their entire outlook and way of thought. Now the isolation that they cherished and fostered had left them with no one to whom they could turn for help and advice. The word cut through him: defenceless. Totally defenceless, save for their wits and their words.

  His mind plummeted into black depths for a seemingly interminable moment and he saw that, despite their quiet but proud assumption of freedom, the villagers had always been the merest touch away from slavery, and would have always remained so, until...

  Until...?

  Until it was too late. As now.

  He rebuked himself. There had been no suggestion of such a fate for the village as slavery. What in the world was he thinking about?

  But, suggestion or not, the word would not leave him, and the truth of his revelation about the village's weakness could not be denied. And though perhaps they were not to be slaves, were they not to be held prisoner? There was a profound difference between choosing not to leave the valley and being forbidden.

  Then Gryss felt a dark tide of guilt overwhelming him.

  He was a senior elder. In many ways the village's chief guide and adviser. But he had never even turned his mind to the possibility that the world from over the hill would so intrude, even though he had travelled in that world and had learned enough to know that by its nature such a world would intrude everywhere, sooner or later.

  'Are you all right?'

  Nilsson's voice made him start. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Just a little ... bewildered ...'

  Nilsson shrugged again. ‘It's the way of things,’ he said.

  'What do you want me to do?’ Gryss asked, awkwardly, after a short pause.

  'Just tell your people what's going to happen,’ Nilsson said, gathering together the papers in front of him. ‘And reconcile them to it,’ he added coldly. ‘Everything can carry on as usual providing anyone who wishes to leave notifies me first.’ He looked at Gryss alm
ost menacingly. ‘That's important. We'll be putting a guard post at the end of the valley. Anyone who tries to leave without permission will be punished. Perhaps even killed. Make sure everyone understands that.'

  When Gryss, bowed and fretful, had left, the figure by the window turned to Nilsson.

  It was Rannick, and his face was angry.

  * * *

  Chapter 23

  Rannick had appeared at the castle in the middle of the night to receive the acclaim of the entire troop following his ‘saving’ of Haral's group.

  Like Haral, Nilsson had no illusions that the ambush had somehow been arranged by Rannick. But, also like Haral, he had no intention of voicing such an accusation. Whatever he or any of his men might think about Rannick and the fate of Haral's group, all sensed that Rannick would have to be followed; and that life would be easier, not to say longer, if he were followed willingly rather than otherwise.

  And, chillingly, Nilsson knew now the nature of the strange other presence he had felt at their first encounter: it had been the awesome creature that had hunted and savaged Haral's group. Rannick's dreadful familiar had been waiting in the darkness for the command to kill him.

  Struggling to remain composed, he turned to face his angry master as Gryss left the room.

  'It irks me to waste such time toying with that old fool,’ Rannick said through clenched teeth. ‘People are like animals, they only truly understand power. And I have power enough, and you men enough, to make the villagers do whatever we need. Don't let me regret choosing you.'

  Nilsson avoided his direct gaze, but watched him carefully. It was essential, he knew, that he obtain a true measure of this man: a complete catalogue of whatever human weaknesses he possessed. But it was proving to be no light ordeal. And this particular conversation had been going on in various forms ever since Rannick had returned.

  It had not taken Nilsson long to find the worm that was gnawing at his new master's heart. It was oddly disconcerting. Something in Rannick demanded the humiliation and oppression of this valley and its people.

  Bewilderingly to Nilsson, Rannick seemed to have no conception of the consequences of such petty malice against what must necessarily be his home base for some time to come. Nilsson had had to spend a long, difficult and at times terrifying night attempting to persuade him to a more benign subduing of the community.

  'It's troublesome and unnecessary,’ Rannick had averred. ‘I doubt there's a score of weapons in the whole valley, and I know there'll be no will to oppose us. We can do what we want, take what we want, with impunity.'

  Cautiously, Nilsson had pointed out that while it was possible that a demonstration of force to bring the villagers to their knees might perhaps be achieved without the loss of any of his men, in his experience, ‘Force generally is best avoided, if possible. Chance rides high in such affairs, Lord. Good men get killed. Messengers slip past guards to carry the news abroad. Many things happen other than was intended.'

  Then would follow years of slow, sullen opposition from the apparently defeated villagers, draining the morale of the men and drawing them to use more and more brutal means of control. Means that would turn the surly opposition of the many into the active opposition of a few, and lead in turn to yet bloodier repression and an almost inevitable escape of the news from the valley. ‘It's a mistake to misjudge both the resolve and the power of execution of the seemingly weak and helpless,’ he had insisted. ‘The absence of weapons is a measure of past folly not a measure of future willingness to fight.’ And there would be fighting enough in due course, if Rannick's ambitions were to be fulfilled. What was needed now was a secure base from which to operate. And that needed willing workers, or at least keeping workers willing for as long as possible.

  Rannick had not appreciated being contradicted, but Nilsson had managed to persist. ‘If we can gently constrain the villagers as we build up our strength, then they'll soon become used to us. And by the time they find out we're not who we say we are—if they find out—they'll be divided in their opinions about us. That'll give us even greater strength to deal with such of them as wish to object.’ He had concluded, ‘Arbitrary violence against them now would be to foul your own nest; mar at the outset the future that is your destiny. There'll be little joy in their abasement if your greater intent is spoiled because of it. And does it matter whether they know of your greatness now or later? Isn't there an added relish to be gained in watching them doing your will without them realizing it? In watching them become your grovelling lackeys rather than your cowed slaves?'

  In the end he had succeeded, although Rannick's displeasure and dissatisfaction still rumbled dangerously close to the surface. And, though he kept it from his face, Nilsson was as pleased as he was relieved at this outcome. If Rannick accepted his guidance now, it would help entrench him further as his closest aide and thus, in due course, greatly increase his rewards and his own personal power. It was good.

  The night, however, had been draining, and Nilsson now searched desperately for a reply to this renewed complaint; one that might end this debate once and for all. Then, suddenly, he felt afraid. A warning voice came from within: leave it—leave it alone—you've been lucky so far. Who knows what drives such a man as this? Who knows what powers he possesses? To be of value to him was one thing, but the slightest hint that he was dependent on you and...

  'Master, I can say no more than I have,’ he said with carefully modulated humility. ‘Your will is my command. I am but your servant.'

  The anger faded from Rannick's face, though the unreadable, cold impassiveness that replaced it was, if anything, more frightening. He nodded then turned back to the window.

  Despite himself, Nilsson fidgeted nervously with the papers on the table in front of him.

  There was a long silence.

  Then Rannick was behind him.

  Nilsson tried to react naturally, but he felt his body stiffening in anticipation of some act of violence. The memory of his first encounter with Rannick and the ease with which he had been hurled from his saddle was still vividly with him. And older memories of the use of the power rose to chill him further.

  A hand closed about his shoulder. Nilsson took a slow, deep breath. Then, to his horror, he found he could not breathe out. His fingers curled claw-like, nails squealing along the wooden table. Rannick's hand patted his shoulder affectionately.

  'Destroying the village is more the province of you and your men than mine, is it not, Captain?’ Rannick said softly. ‘Some other time, then.'

  Abruptly, Nilsson breathed out, though it was as if the air had been torn from him rather than released by his own need. He slumped forward, gasping as if he had burst through the surface of some deep and drowning lake. His face almost struck the table. Through the sound of his pounding heartbeat and rasping breath, he heard Rannick's voice, now low and resonating, like something from the echoing bowels of a great pit.

  'Good ...’ it said.

  * * * *

  Gryss rode away from the castle in a daze. His mind was in turmoil. He gazed down the valley. Grey sheets of rain were swirling across it, so that familiar landmarks came and went, their ancient solidity now made ephemeral.

  The scene echoed his own tumbling thoughts and feelings: bewilderment, defiance, anger, despair and, ever-present, guilt.

  He let the reins hang slack, though his hands were gripping them tightly.

  'Grief,’ he heard himself say after a long, timeless interval. Rain ran into his mouth.

  That's what it was.

  'Grief.'

  Through his long life he had seen many die including, inevitably, many that he had loved. And he recognized the symptoms he was suffering from. Grief. Grief for the sudden, almost brutal, loss of a precious thing. He guided his horse to a small headland and stopped there. Looking back, he saw the castle. Once no more than part of the landscape, old and affectionately familiar, it seemed now to be new and utterly different, alive with menace and threat. And in the
other direction the valley came and went under the shifting curtains of rain.

  Like tears, he thought.

  He knew only too well that his distress would have to run its course. Grief was an incurable condition. Time and release alone would ease it.

  And yet, that very thought seemed to clear his mind. This was not a death; no one had been lost. This was change, and he could either beat his breast about it or make the best of it. He turned his face towards the grey sky. Despite the rain falling on him, he felt a little easier.

  Perhaps after all it was more self-indulgence than true grief he was feeling. He abandoned the debate. It was of no real importance. What was important was this brief time alone. It would at least give him the chance to begin to come to terms with what had happened and to clarify how it could best be presented to the villagers.

  A tinge of humour entered the cold grey of his thoughts. The Council meeting that he would have to call would be very interesting.

  The humour did not survive long, however, as he tried to anticipate what the various responses of his fellow Councillors would be, and then he heard the question that would be asked by someone who was not a Council member: Marna.

  'How do we know they're not just bandits?’ she would ask.

  He patted his horse's neck. Foolishness, he thought. But his denial was not as convincing as he would have wished. Marna's observations about the appearance and conduct of Nilsson's men were accurate, and—something that had not occurred to Marna, yet—Gryss had to concede that he had seen no document identifying them as who they claimed to be.

  He grimaced with self-reproach.

  And then there was the suddenness of this decision to use the castle as a permanent garrison. Hitherto there had been not the slightest mention of such a development. Now, following what, according to Farnor, had been some fearful confrontation in the woods with ... that creature ... and defeat by it, they suddenly decide that they'll stay here.