Valderen ft-2

by Roger Taylor

  Before he could offer any resistance to this sugges-tion, Farnor found himself the recipient of several baskets laden with bread, pies and fruit, and bottles.

  ‘Just water,’ Marrin said paternally. ‘We know you’ll be needing your wits about you. And you’re already quite a faller from what we’ve heard.’

  Farnor could do no other than laugh at the old man’s tone. The action felt strange to him, almost hurting his face. ‘I’m afraid I am,’ he agreed, as he turned to the packhorse and began searching for space for the gifts.

  The crowd, happy and smiling, milled around him, holding things for him, offering him things, and generally making his task last twice as long as it would have if he had been left alone. Several times he had to pause while he was introduced to various people, whose strange names he immediately forgot, and several times, too, he had to bend low in order to let young children touch his black hair before they ran away giggling.

  Eventually, however, he finished. The crowd parted as he mounted, but just as he was about to move off, Marrin emerged again. He was holding a staff. ‘Take this, Farnor,’ he said. ‘It’s good ash. Tight, straight grain. Very strong. Very old. It might even have come from…’ He left the sentence unfinished, but inclined his head significantly towards the north. ‘It’s been in my family for years.’

  The last remark made Farnor withdraw his hand from the offered staff. ‘You’ve all been very generous to me,’ he said. ‘But I can’t take this if it’s precious to you. I may never be back here.’

  Marrin shook his head, and thrust the staff under a strap on the packhorse’s back. ‘Take it,’ he said briskly, slapping the pack. ‘Let’s have no foolishness, sapling. It’s only a good sturdy staff. And you being such a faller and all…’ He pursed his lips and looked knowingly at Farnor. ‘Besides,’ he said. ‘You’ll be back. Without a doubt.’

  His manner allowed no argument, and Farnor gave a rather self-conscious nod of acceptance. Then, as he was searching for the words with which to make an appro-priate farewell, his horse set off without any command, obliging Farnor to grab the reins hastily and bring it to a halt. ‘A moment, if you don’t mind,’ he said indignantly, but silently, to the trees. A faint air of apology sur-rounded him and the horse became still again. He turned to Marrin. ‘They’re anxious for me to be on my way,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I can feel it,’ Marrin replied, excited again. ‘I’m sorry you can’t stay. I’ve so many questions to ask you.’ A look of sadness passed briefly over his face but with a little shake he transformed it into a smile. ‘But there’ll be some other time, I’m sure.’ He slapped Farnor’s horse. ‘Travel well, Hearer. As Uldaneth would say, light be with you.’

  The horse set off again, walking for a little way, then breaking into a trot. Farnor turned in the saddle and waved to the watching crowd.

  As he rode through the lodge, many other people appeared out of the trees to encourage him on his way, some of the younger ones running alongside him for a while. The crowd around Marrin, however, remained stationary, as if waiting for something.

  Farnor had scarcely disappeared from view when Marrin’s smiling face sobered. Nodding grimly to himself he raised his hand and beckoned. Several riders emerged from the trees. They were all heavily armed. At another signal from Marrin, they turned and rode in the direction that Farnor had taken.

  * * * *

  Spared much of the effort of his journey by the silent guidance being given to his mount, Farnor found himself almost hypnotized by the steady drumming of its hooves over the forest turf. The release he had found on the mountain was still with him, but though much of his inner torment had gone, the way ahead remained ominous and forbidding, and he was reluctant to dwell on it too deeply.

  But it could not be avoided. Each step of the horse took him nearer to whatever destiny lay in wait for him and when he considered his position it gave him no comfort. Now, despite the pain he felt at the loss of his parents, and his determination to see that some kind of justice was done, he had no desire to die at Rannick’s hands – and still less at the jaws of that fearful creature – as a result of some reckless confrontation. The lofty declarations he had made when he returned down the mountain seemed to be increasingly hollow as vivid memories of his beating by Nilsson and his pursuit by the creature returned to give him a measure of his skill as a fighter. It was a measure that turned his stomach to lead.

  ‘You must help me,’ he said eventually to the trees. ‘Tell me what you do know about the power that Rannick has, that I have. You speak of worlds between worlds, but I’ve had only giddy visions of what you mean. Tell me clearly.’

  There was an amused despair in the voice that an-swered. ‘I would if we could, Farnor,’ it said. Despite his grim preoccupation, Farnor smiled as he noted the return of the confusion between the one and the many now that he was some distance from the place of the most ancient.

  ‘What are these worlds of yours that I… walk in, then?’ he asked.

  ‘They are what they are,’ came the unhelpful, but apologetic reply. ‘You are there now. They lie at the edges of the world where we are many. And because we are many, and there, we have the strength to reach them to become one. But how you reach them to be with us, is beyond us.’

  At the edges of the world? Farnor frowned. The words made no sense to him, nor did the strange, flickering images that hung about them. He returned to his first question. ‘The worlds between the worlds. What are they?’ he insisted. ‘And why are you so afraid of them?’

  ‘This you know.’

  Farnor felt the power of the most ancient reaching out to him in this reply. The words drew from his mind his memories of the wrongness he had felt in his contact with Rannick and the creature. The wrongness of something brought to this world from another place: something that did not belong here and which, by virtue of that alone, could be ferociously destructive. There were also fleeting images of a terrible imbalance and appalling chaos, but they were torn from his mind with such force that his hand came to his head as if he had been struck. He knew that to pursue this would be futile.

  ‘The worlds lie between the worlds. Lie in the infi-nite spaces between the…’ Farnor strained for the word. Again a strange flickering pervaded it. Was it heartbeats? ‘… of this world. As we lie between the…’ Again the word eluded him. ‘… of theirs. And they are beyond number. But they do not belong here, nor our world there.’

  ‘But the fabric can be rent,’ Farnor heard himself saying.

  There was a great sigh of relief. Farnor felt again the fear of some terrible ancient and profound flaw bubbling to the surface of his mind, but again it was taken from him.

  ‘Yes,’ came the simple answer. ‘But that which is torn can be sealed; can be made whole again.’

  ‘And this I can do?’ Farnor asked.

  ‘This you have done,’ the voice replied.

  Farnor recognized the truth in this declaration, and the memory of his inadvertent interference with Rannick’s fiery demonstration in the courtyard returned to him. As, too, did the sense of complete inadequacy that he had felt in the face of the torrent of wrongness that had swept over him as he had dashed across the fields to find his parents slaughtered and his home destroyed. What could he possibly do against such as that? ‘But how?’ he demanded. ‘How do I do it?’

  Silence.

  Farnor clenched his teeth. ‘You realize that I might get killed if I oppose Rannick?’ he said angrily.

  ‘We know a little of the pain of separateness, but it is not as yours. We grieve for you.’

  ‘Thanks a lot!’

  ‘But you will die a different, crueller death if you turn away from him. This you know too.’

  There were so many meanings in this that Farnor’s only response was to swear. ‘I have to face him – him and that creature – on my own, then?’ he asked.

  There was a hint of amusement in the answer. ‘You’re not that separate, Far-nor. We will be there. And we wil
l help where I can.’ The amusement faded. ‘But where it is Mover against Mover, you are correct. There is little we can do. But you are stronger than you know. Have no fear.’

  A caustic reply began to form in Farnor’s mind, but he kept it to himself. ‘Fear will keep me alive,’ he said, without thinking.

  There was a pensive silence. ‘I shall think about that,’ the voice replied eventually.

  Farnor rode on.

  Behind him, the armed men from Marrin’s lodge followed, silent as only Valderen hunters could be.

  Chapter 19

  Marna stood motionless, gaping at the approaching riders. For a moment, the sight of them approaching, with long, leaf-strewn shadows cutting through the sunlit air ahead of them, held her spellbound. They looked magnificent; they might have been riding straight out of some magic fireside tale by Yonas.

  Only when they were almost upon her did she re-cover her wits.

  Nilsson’s men!

  Her heart jolted. Hastily she bent down to pick up the knife.

  ‘Leave it, girl,’ one of the riders said, stopping a little way in front of her. Marna, crouching, tightened her grip on the knife despite the command. She squinted up into the streaming light in an attempt to see the features of the speaker but she was unsuccessful. The rider seemed almost to blend with the shadows. Her thoughts raced; this couldn’t be a search party looking for her, surely? Not so soon. It must be a random patrol of some kind, though she’d never noted such being undertaken before. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that she must get away. Should she slash out at this man and flee? She’d probably make better progress on foot through these trees than the others would on horseback. And they’d have to tend their injured companion, wouldn’t they? Or should she stay and hover near the truth? She had been out looking for special woods for her father when she had been attacked by this man, and so on.

  No, there were too many problems with this, she decided quickly. Too many questions to be answered later. Why was she out so early? Why was she carrying such a well stocked pack? And the maps? And, though she was too agitated to see its irrelevance, there were few woods about here that her father could use.

  She would have more chance if she fled. Affecting a casualness she did not feel, she stood up.

  Even as she made her decision, however, one of the other riders edged a little closer and said simply, but in a tone that was beyond argument, ‘Don’t.’

  Marna’s eyes widened in both alarm and surprise. Not so much at this seeming anticipation of her actions, but because though, like the rider who had spoken first, the voice was heavy with the accent that characterized Nilsson’s men, this speaker was a woman.

  She dismounted, and Marna felt herself being exam-ined by searching eyes, even though she still could not make out the woman’s features with the low sun shining in her face. The eyes moved to the disturbed ground, the dead man, and the steaming vomit.

  ‘What happened?’ the woman asked, returning her gaze to Marna. There was an unexpected gentleness in the voice.

  ‘They attacked me,’ Marna replied, without pausing to consider anything more elaborate.

  ‘They?’ There was an urgent edge to the first speaker’s voice, and he leaned forward in his saddle anxiously.

  ‘Two men,’ Marna said, looking up at him. ‘Outsid-ers. On their way to the castle. They…’

  ‘Where’s the other one?’ the man demanded sternly before she could finish.

  ‘He ran off,’ Marna said. She waved a hand vaguely towards the dead man. ‘He stabbed him by accident when I was struggling with him, then I did – that. Then he ran off.’

  The other two riders dismounted rapidly. ‘Which way?’ one of them asked. It was another woman. Marna pointed. Her hand was shaking.

  ‘There’s blood here. And a trail,’ said the fourth rider, a man. He was bending down by the tree that the injured man had leaned against.

  There was no further talk, but the two of them dis-appeared silently into the trees in the direction that Marna had indicated. Their sudden departure seemed to cut through Marna’s bewilderment. Questions tumbled through her mind, not the least of which was how women came to be riding with Nilsson’s men, but she pushed them to one side. Whoever they were and however they came to be there, there were only two of them now. She must make her dash for freedom quickly, before the others returned.

  Yet somehow she could not blindly lash out with the knife at another woman.

  But she could push her into the rider. That would cause enough confusion for her to escape. And they wouldn’t abandon the other horses to give chase.

  As inconspicuously as she could, she took several deep breaths to steel herself to this venture.

  Then, as she thought, without warning, she spun round and with a cry, hurled herself at the unsuspecting woman. The impact she anticipated, however, did not happen. Instead she found herself caught up in some way and spinning round a great deal more than she had intended. Then, abruptly, she was once more firmly pinned face downwards on the ground, gasping for breath.

  Before she could properly register what had hap-pened, she felt the knife being gently prised from her grip.

  A low chuckle came down to her from the rider above, and a word she did not understand, but which was plainly an oath, hissed out softly under the breath of the woman who had effected this sudden change in her posture. The chuckle became a laugh. ‘Language, language, Aaren,’ the man said.

  Then she was being helped up. She was shaking. ‘Stay where you are,’ Aaren said, her voice firm but not unkind. ‘No one’s going to hurt you, providing you don’t do anything silly like that again.’ She pointed towards the dead man with the knife. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ she asked.

  ‘I didn’t mean to kill him,’ Marna blurted out.

  Aaren glanced at the vomit and nodded. ‘It hap-pens,’ she said, though her tone was far from casual. ‘And he was trying to strangle you.’

  ‘How…?’

  ‘You’ve got muddy handprints around your neck,’ Aaren answered, before the question was asked, her hands reaching out in a motherly gesture to brush the offending stains. ‘Don’t fret. People who do things like that can expect to be killed.’

  The strange mixture of callousness and compassion in the woman’s voice seemed to unhinge Marna, and suddenly she was sobbing again, while at the same time cursing herself for her weakness.

  Supporting arms lowered her gently to the ground. She covered her face with her hands. No one spoke as Marna’s sobs ran their course. ‘I keep thinking, maybe he had parents somewhere, a wife, children. It’s awful. I can see their faces. What’ve I done?’ she said eventually.

  ‘Is any of this blood yours?’ Aaren asked, crouching down and taking one of Marna’s crimsoned hands.

  A little bewildered by this question, Marna looked at her interrogator as if she had misheard, before she shook her head.

  ‘Then you’ve survived,’ Aaren said bluntly, return-ing Marna’s gaze intently. ‘He may well have had people unfortunate enough to love him, somewhere. But so do you, I’m sure. And I doubt you came into these woods to kill him, did you? He was the one who brought death here, not you. It was him or you. His loved ones or yours. Take a deep breath. Be glad you’re alive. For yourself and for them.’

  Marna turned away from her as if cold water had been dashed in her face. ‘That’s just… words,’ she said, gasping and wrapping her arms about herself.

  Aaren reached out and took Marna’s face in her hands. Turning her head she looked into her eyes. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘Believe me, I do. You must feel as you feel. Deny nothing. Words are all we’ve got. Be thankful at least that they’re true.’

  Marna met her captor’s gaze uncertainly. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  The return of the other two however, prevented any answer to this question. ‘We couldn’t catch him,’ the man said. ‘We’d have had to go out of the trees. But he’s bleeding badly. I doubt he�
��s going to last long.’

  The rider nodded. ‘Even so, we’ll have to move this.’ He pointed to the dead man. ‘And the camp they’d made. Take it all well down, and cover the tracks. Give him the knife, Aaren. Make it look like a quarrel between the two of them. We don’t want to encourage anyone to come prowling about up here.’ He turned to Marna. ‘You did say they were outsiders, didn’t you, girl?’

  Caught in a momentary spasm of self-pity, Marna snapped angrily. ‘Don’t call me girl.’

  The two women looked up at the rider and smiled knowingly. He cast a brief glance upwards and tried again. ‘They’re not… Nilsson’s men, are they, young woman?’ he said.

  Marna stared at him, her face puzzled. ‘No,’ she replied, repenting her outburst a little. ‘They said they’d come here to join Rannick’s army.’

  The rider nodded to his companions and they set about gathering together the remains of the camp. ‘No, that’s my pack,’ Marna cried out, as the man took hold of it. He watched her as she stood up and walked towards him, arm extended. While there was no animosity in his gaze, there was a quality about him that made her want to shiver. ‘Thank you,’ she managed to say as she took the pack from him. Then he was picking up the dead man.

  As the two disappeared once more into the trees, the man carrying his dreadful burden, Marna turned back to the rider. Increasingly bewildered by what was happening, she asked again, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘More importantly, who are you?’ Aaren asked her. ‘And what are you doing in the woods at dawn with a large travelling pack, when there’s a perfectly good road along the bottom of the valley?’

  Marna considered a variety of answers, then forced herself to ask another question. ‘Are you with Nilsson?’

  Aaren and the rider exchanged glances. ‘No,’ the rider replied after a pause.