Farnor

by Roger Taylor

  'Let me go,’ Gryss said furiously, but Harlen, easy-going though he might be normally, had no such intention. Without speaking he tightened his grip about Gryss's arm and forcibly marched him ahead of the column, at the same time signalling to his waiting daughter. Without hesitation, Marna turned and ran off into the fields.

  'For pity's sake, Gryss, don't antagonize them,’ Harlen said urgently as he bundled the elder along. ‘They're quiet now, but they were very different when I first saw them. Something's happened while they were away. They're not the same men that arrived here at Dalmas.'

  Gryss shook his arm free, but kept up with Harlen's fast pace. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, looking back at the column, still maintaining its leisurely pace.

  'They were noisy. Singing, shouting, laughing,’ Harlen said. ‘They've been up to something and something bad, if I'm any judge. And they've got more horses and baggage than when they left.'

  Gryss turned to him. ‘But Jeorg,’ he said. ‘We can't just leave him.'

  Harlen's face was pained. ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘But frankly I wanted Marna out of the way first. I don't want them anywhere near her, the kind of mood they're in. And how are we going to stop them if they don't want to stop? You nearly got kicked in the head for your trouble. Let's do as he said: get back to the village and try again there.'

  Gryss could not argue, but Harlen was setting a pace which was barely short of running. ‘Slow down, slow down,’ he pleaded, breathlessly, after a little while. ‘I can't carry on at this speed.'

  Harlen cast a glance backwards towards the column and then across the fields. Marna was nowhere to be seen. ‘She's gone over the fields to get Yakob,’ he said. ‘He'll meet us at the green.’ Then he slowed. Gryss put a grateful hand on his shoulder and leaned on it freely. Harlen put his own hand over it, at once supportive and apologetic. He did not speak.

  When they reached the centre of the village it was raining more heavily, and Marna was standing with Yakob under a tree at the edge of the green.

  'What's happening?’ Yakob asked anxiously as Gryss and Harlen approached. Harlen explained, while Gryss recovered his breath.

  Yakob frowned at the news that Jeorg had been hurt, but Gryss spoke before he could ask any questions.

  'We'll try again here,’ he said. ‘See if we can get them to let me look at Jeorg.’ His distress was almost unmanning him. ‘This is awful,’ he said. ‘Poor Jeorg.’ He gazed up at the leaden grey sky. ‘Well at least the weather'll keep people in their homes,’ he went on. ‘The fewer who see Jeorg the better.'

  It was little consolation to the four as they waited under the dripping tree for the column to arrive, though it was not long before the lead riders came into view. Gryss, Yakob and Harlen stepped forward together.

  This time, Nilsson reined his horse to a halt. The column came to an untidy stop behind him. He held up his hand.

  'We caught this man trying to sneak out of the valley, after my express instruction that that would not be allowed,’ he said. ‘You have to understand that you're all under military law now, and that if you choose to disobey orders the consequences will be severe.'

  Gryss however, was more concerned for his friend than for an explanation and he moved to his side even while Nilsson was talking. After testing Jeorg's pulse, he gently lifted his head.

  His face was badly bruised and bloodstained.

  'What the devil have you done to him?’ he demanded bluntly. Nilsson looked at him angrily, but before he could speak, Gryss's frustration and rage boiled over, and he began tugging at the ropes that bound Jeorg to the horse. There was a commotion among the riders nearby.

  'And you said nothing of the kind,’ Gryss burst out furiously. ‘You said we'd need your permission, that's all. Jeorg's been planning to go to the capital for months. When he heard what was happening he decided to go now before the garrisoning got under way. Damn it, he was only riding after you to ask your permission. Didn't you even give him time to speak?'

  He gave an angry cry as the ropes defeated him, and then reached into his cape. When his hand emerged there was a knife in it.

  On the instant, there was the rasping hiss of half a dozen swords being drawn.

  Marna let out a scream of alarm, and Yakob and Harlen shouted, ‘No!’ simultaneously and moved to intervene.

  Gryss himself froze, his face suddenly pale and with much of his anger turned to fear as he looked at the ring of points and grim, purposeful eyes that he now centred. Slowly he turned to Nilsson.

  'To cut the ropes,’ he said weakly.

  Nilsson stared at him for a moment and then nodded to one of the riders. Without taking his gaze from Gryss, the man leaned across and, by pulling a single cord, released the ropes that were securing Jeorg.

  With difficulty, because his hand was shaking so much, Gryss replaced the knife in his belt.

  The swords around him gradually withdrew, and Yakob and Harlen came forward hastily to help him lift down the unconscious Jeorg.

  'Gently, gently,’ Gryss said, fussily, dithering now and obeying some deep instinct to make himself seem innocuous and innocent while he tried to recover from the shock of the sudden response of Nilsson's men. Their clear intent had terrified him, not least because of its simple casualness. There had been no hesitation. He knew that he would have been given no opportunity to plead a case had he made any reckless movements; no chance to smile and shrug the incident off with the good humour that was his stock in trade with everyone in the valley. These men were stony-eyed strangers, quite indifferent to the fate of some stupid old country bumpkin. Katrin's words rang loud in his head: ‘They're fighting men. Used to brutality, to stabbing and killing ... There's none in the whole valley could stand against any of them and hope to live.'

  Jeorg groaned. The sound gave Gryss something to focus on, and his fear began to fade. ‘What have you done to him?’ he asked again, though more circumspectly.

  'Shown him the consequences of disobeying an order,’ Nilsson said, starkly summarizing his previous reply. ‘He can consider himself more than fortunate that he's not dead. Make sure that everyone understands this, Har Grysstson. We'd prefer to work with your friendship and cooperation, but it's not essential by any means and a few dead by way of example will be of no consequence in the design that's being worked here.'

  And without further comment he spurred his horse on.

  The three men, supporting the limp form of their friend, stood motionless as the column passed, like a grim parody of royal dignitaries receiving a formal military salute. Indeed, some of the riders did offer mocking salutes as they rode by.

  Gryss was chilled not only by Nilsson's callousness but by the aura that seemed to pervade the whole troop.

  'They're not the same men that arrived here at Dalmas,’ Harlen had said, and Gryss understood now what he meant. Those men had been broken and dispirited, these were alive and vigorous, though there was a quality to their vigour which repelled him—an unnaturalness.

  Almost demonic.

  The thought startled him, but he realized it was accurate.

  'Bandits.'

  The whispered word was Marna's. She had come out from the shelter of the tree and was looking after the retreating column. ‘Not in a mountain's age could they ever have been King's men,’ she added. She wrapped her arms about herself fearfully and shivered.

  'Come on. We shouldn't be standing here. Jeorg's in a bad way. Let's get him home and seen to, quickly.’ Harlen's words cut through the paralysis that seemed to have gripped the little group.

  Gryss started a little. ‘No. My cottage is nearer,’ he said. ‘I can look after him better there.'

  'Who's going to tell his wife what's happened?’ Yakob asked, awkwardly.

  'I will,’ Gryss replied reluctantly, after some hesitation. ‘But not yet.'

  He glanced around the green. Nilsson's men had both entered and left in comparative silence, and no one had ventured into the rain to discover them. Jeorg'
s return had apparently gone unnoticed.

  That, at least, was fortunate, Gryss thought.

  That same dark good fortune remained with them as they made their way to Gryss's cottage and they reached it without being observed, softly whispering words of support and encouragement to their injured and occasionally conscious friend.

  As they entered the cottage, Gryss's old dog, as if sensing the mood of the group, remained silent, confining its welcome to an encouraging wag of its stump of a tail.

  Despite his burdens, Gryss bent down and stroked its head affectionately. Then he motioned Yakob and Harlen to a room at the front. ‘Take him in there, get those wet top clothes off him carefully and put him on the bed,’ he said. ‘I'll get my things.'

  That done, Gryss set about his examination of the injured man. The others, having done all that was asked of them, could do no more than sit and wait in the back room.

  It was a difficult, restless interlude: Yakob and Harlen silently pondering the implications of what had happened and beginning to assess the extent of their own responsibility for Jeorg's condition; Marna oscillating between the childish urge to flee to safety that the presence of her father invoked, and the adult will which responded to the secret compact she had with Gryss and Farnor. A compact in which she had found a new sense of purpose even as she had watched Nilsson's men standing, menacing and alien, by the village green. Despite her own fears, an awful resolution was beginning to grow within her that sooner or later she would have to oppose these men.

  And hanging like a grim spectre in all their thoughts was the sudden and shocking appearance of swords in response to what could only have been an innocent gesture by an old man. Violence in the valley was rare, and when it did occur it was usually due to over-indulgence at the inn and confined to incompetent fisticuffs. Not infrequently it contained no small element of outright farce for the onlookers. The possibility of using knives and swords against people existed only in the distant safety of Yonas the Teller's tales. It was unthinkable in the real world where people tended and slaughtered their own meat; everyone knew only too well what keen, sharpened edges did to flesh and sinew.

  Eventually the vigil ended and Gryss came in to them. He struck a sunstone to reveal them all blinking in its sudden light.

  'How is he?’ Yakob and Harlen asked together.

  Gryss motioned Harlen out of his favourite seat and sat down heavily, at the same time waving an apologetic hand for his discourtesy. He looked tired and grim.

  'How is he?’ Harlen asked again, softly, as if fearing the answer he might receive. ‘What did they do to him?'

  'He'll be all right ... I think,’ Gryss replied. There was a tremor in his voice, as if he wanted either to weep or to roar with anger. ‘There are bruises all over his body,’ he went on. ‘All shapes and sizes. His arm's broken and two of his ribs. I won't know what happened to his insides for a day or two, but there's no sign of any damage there at the moment.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘I can't believe it,’ he said. ‘They must have beaten him with fists and feet and sticks and ... who knows what? Why, for pity's sake? Why? All they had to do was send him back.'

  'They did it to frighten us. To show us they have the power to do whatever they want to us.’ It was Marna speaking. ‘And they did it because they like doing things like that,’ she added.

  The three men turned to her. ‘Don't be ridiculous, girl,’ Yakob said, though his sternness was shot through with uncertainty.

  Marna glowered at him. ‘There's nothing ridiculous about it,’ she burst out. ‘If they'd wanted to kill him, they'd have done it and left him out there, over the hill. No one here would ever have found him. They wanted ...'

  'Can we speak to Jeorg?’ Harlen asked Gryss, loudly, at the same time raising his hand to end his daughter's angry tirade before it took full flight. Yakob looked both indignant and relieved.

  'You can have a look at him,’ Gryss replied, ignoring the tension in the room. ‘But we mustn't disturb him too much. He's in a lot of pain and I've given him something to ease it and something that should be sending him to sleep soon. The more time he can put between now and being fully conscious again the better.'

  Jeorg was mumbling to himself as the four of them trooped cautiously into his room. Marna gasped in dismay. Jeorg's eyes and mouth were puffed and swollen, while the rest of his face was scarred with bruises and deep, livid cuts.

  'Rings,’ Gryss said, proffering his clenched fist and answering the question before it was asked. ‘Heavy rings.'

  Yakob and Harlen shared Marna's dismay and looked from Jeorg to Gryss and to each other. Already powerless to do anything to help their friend, they now suffered the further indignity of not even knowing what to say to one another.

  'He's trying to speak,’ Yakob whispered, angling his head to catch meaning from the apparently incoherent noises that Jeorg was making. ‘Did he tell you anything before? What they did, or why they did it?'

  Gryss shook his head. ‘He's been mumbling and muttering the whole time,’ he said. ‘Most of it's been meaningless, although I did get the feeling he was trying to tell me something important. I doubt he'll have anything to say now. A few more minutes and he'll be fast asleep, and likely to remain that way until this time tomorrow.'

  Then, as if to give him the lie, Jeorg's swollen eyes opened painfully and searched the room. For an instant they were full of fear then they fell on Gryss and the fear became relief. It was followed by a look of urgency. Jeorg's hand slowly raised itself to reach out to the old man, and his cracked lips began to open.

  Gryss pushed Harlen to one side and moved to the bedside. He took the hand gently. ‘Lie quiet, Jeorg,’ he said softly. ‘It's over. It's all over. You're back with your friends. You're safe.'

  But the urgency did not leave Jeorg's face and his hand clutched at Gryss's sleeve, trying to pull him downwards. Gryss bent and brought his ear close to Jeorg's mouth.

  Then Jeorg's hand went limp, and Gryss straightened up.

  'What did he say?’ Yakob asked.

  Gryss shrugged his shoulders, and began fussily adjusting Jeorg's pillows. ‘I couldn't catch it,’ he said. ‘And he's fast asleep now, so we'll have to wait until he wakes tomorrow. See if he remembers what it was then.’ He turned to Yakob. ‘He can't tell dream from reality at the moment, anyway,’ he said.

  But Marna caught his eye and he flashed her a swift and mute appeal. Say nothing. For she had seen his face when he was affecting to adjust Jeorg's pillows; he had been struggling to compose his features.

  She had not heard Jeorg's message, though.

  'It's Rannick, Gryss. It's Rannick. He's leading them. He's leading Nilsson's men.'

  * * *

  Chapter 28

  Later that night, Gryss sat drowsing in a chair by the side of Jeorg's bed. He stirred and muttered something as a subdued knocking drifted into his vague dreams. It was followed by a low, dutiful bark from his dog.

  The knocking came again, followed this time by a more querulous bark. Gryss's dreams wavered and began to slip back into the echoing inner darkness from whence they had come. His eyes opened uncertainly.

  The knocking was turning into a persistent tattoo, though it was still subdued and discreet. For a timeless moment, the sound mingling confusingly with the fading remnant of his dream, Gryss decided that Jeorg was trying to rise from his bed. The prospect brought him sharply to wakefulness. As both his vision and his mind cleared, however, he saw that Jeorg was still asleep and motionless.

  The knocking intruded again. It was coming from the front door and, though soft, it was quite relentless. Frowning, Gryss levered himself up out of the chair and stiffly made his way along the hallway.

  Well, he thought, whoever it was, at least they had wit enough not to go clanging the bell with a sick man in the house. His frown deepened at the thought even as he opened the door. Who knew there was a sick man in the house? Apart from...

  'Marna! What are you doing here at this ti
me of night?'

  Marna ignored the welcome and stepped in, easing Gryss to one side. ‘What did he say? What did Jeorg say?’ she demanded, bluntly, at the same time reaching down to stroke the dog.

  Gryss's frown turned to unhappy confusion as it invariably did whenever he had to deal with Marna in one of her ‘forthright’ moods.

  'Come in,’ he said, unnecessarily, as he closed the door.

  She looked at him impatiently. He motioned her towards the back room. ‘Answering your question about how he is, he's still asleep,’ he said caustically. ‘As was I,’ he added darkly, endeavouring to regain a little authority. ‘And he's no different now than he was when you left, whereas I am markedly more weary.'

  Marna coloured at the rebuke, but her demeanour remained unchanged. ‘What did he say?’ she insisted, though less stridently. ‘It upset you, I could tell that. And you lied to my father and Yakob about it.'

  A memory returned to Gryss of Farnor once complaining that Marna could ‘talk a hole in a stone’ the unrelenting way she would pester and badger to gain information when she was so inclined.

  'Sit down, Marna,’ he said, with increased firmness. ‘And tell me the reason for this urgency.'

  Marna did as she was told, folding her hands in her lap demurely. The action was entirely unconscious and the incongruity of it made Gryss smile.

  Marna scowled at him in response, and he raised a defensive hand before she spoke. ‘You reminded me of your mother for a moment,’ he said, then he waved the matter aside. ‘Tell me why you've come back to torment me with your curiosity tonight instead of waiting until tomorrow?'

  Marna looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable. ‘I don't know,’ she said. ‘I just had to. I've got the feeling that all the time we do nothing, they ...’ She hesitated, and flicked her hand roughly northwards. ‘... up there, will get stronger and stronger. They'll be able to do anything they want to us. Turn us out of our houses, destroy our fields, turn us into slaves ... anything. And we'll be powerless.'

  Gryss could not keep the distress from his face. ‘That's a stark vision, Marna,’ he said. ‘And nothing they've done so far indicates they'd want to do that. Don't forget, for all our suspicions, they may still be King's men.'