by Roger Taylor
Aaren’s comments, however, had come from a deeper insight.
‘You don’t carry a weapon unless you’re fully pre-pared both to use it and to account for using it,’ she had said quietly, but with a look that transfixed Marna. ‘And you don’t ever rely on it, or you’ll be robbed of your will if it fails you, and it’ll probably be taken from you and used against you.’ Naked doubt had filled Marna’s face but Aaren had continued. ‘Someone once told me that being a true warrior did not lie in knowing how to use weapons, but when to use them. And that relying on weapons and technique can stop you learning how to watch and to listen and develop the wisdom to judge that moment truly. Very wise advice, I realize now, though I didn’t take it with too good a grace at the time.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Marna had replied, herself a little miffed at this unexpected lecture.
‘You understand better than you realize,’ Aaren had said encouragingly. ‘You’ve never been trained to fight, I imagine, but when you needed to today, you – your body – acted as wisely as any hardened soldier.’
The remark had torn at Marna for some reason. Of the many thoughts she had had about the slaying of her attacker, not one had identified it as an act of wisdom.
And yet…?
Aaren had become purposeful. ‘Still, these are dan-gerous times and this is a particularly dangerous place now, whatever it’s been in the past. If you must arm yourself, get yourself a good sharp knife, one that’s comfortable to wear and to handle. Make sure you can draw it easily but not so easily that it’ll tumble out of its scabbard if you have to jump over anything, or roll about. But…’ She had been emphatic. ‘… above all, don’t rely on it. Just think about what wearing it means, and think about it honestly. And don’t be afraid of whatever conclusions you reach. Trust your judgement, Marna. It’s very sound, I know.’
‘How should I use it?’ she had asked.
Aaren’s brow had furrowed in distress, but her voice was calm as she replied, ‘Straight, fast and without warning, when your decision’s been made.’ Her hand had come up. ‘No more,’ she had said. ‘Just think about what I’ve said.’
The brief conversation kept returning to Marna, at once a warning and a guiding light.
The clothes took little finding. A loose, rather bulky tunic would hide her shape, and scruffy cap would contain her hair and obscure her face. The knife presented more of a problem, though only because she was spoilt for choice. This particular shed was the one which housed Farnor’s grinding bench, and over this hung a large army of very sharp knives in their leather and stiff cloth scabbards.
Marna’s hands closed about a machete and she hefted it menacingly so that its blade glinted silver wet in the dull morning light that was filtering through the window. It was comfortable all right, but not something she could reasonably conceal, let alone carry easily. With some reluctance, she put it aside. Eventually she decided on carrying three in her belt; one either side and a short one at the back, as she had noted Yehna wearing. She tried one up her sleeve like the one she had seen Engir carrying, but it kept tumbling out. And her attempt to wedge one into the top of her boot proved not only unsuccessful but also quite painful.
She frowned. There was a great deal she had missed when she had thought she was studying those soldiers and their weapons. She could have learned much more had she had the wit to watch and listen more carefully. Still, all being well, they would meet again soon and she would be more attentive next time. She slid over the interim period.
‘Are you comfortable?’ she muttered to herself, giv-ing her clothes and weapons a final check. A little self-consciously she jumped up and down twice to see if any of her knives bounced out of their hastily rigged scabbards. Then, as quietly as she had come, she was across the farmyard and moving over the fields towards a tree-lined hillock from which, as she had agreed with Gryss, she would be able to watch both the farm and the castle.
Her immediate instinct had been to keep to the edge of the fields, but it was much lighter now and, should anyone be observing, she knew that a figure skulking along the hedgerows would be more conspicuous than one wandering leisurely across the fields. It proved a little more nerve-racking than she had envisaged however, and as soon as she reached the trees, she scurried to find herself a good, well-hidden vantage point.
As she waited, she tried again to emulate the quiet stillness of the four soldiers. It was not easy. She found herself drifting off into daydreams, or seized with cramp brought on through sitting too stiffly. Also, on occa-sions, as during the night, she was once again suddenly, horribly, back in the woods, fending off her attacker, her hands warm and sticky. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ Aaren had said. ‘It’s got to come out of your system one way or another. Just remember that you won.’ The words helped, but the incidents still left her shivering and wiping her hands down her tunic.
However, the forging of the last few days also began to make itself felt and, without realizing it, she achieved a quietness that would have been quite beyond her only a week previously, as she turned her mind to the needs of the valley and its four would-be deliverers, and forced herself to watch the castle attentively.
As usual, little seemed to be happening, except for the guards, whom she could just make out, patrolling the walls. Occasionally however, her eye was drawn to the tallest of the towers, as strange lights flashed from the windows of its highest room. It was Rannick’s room, she knew, with its plundered furniture and its ambiva-lent memories for her. As the lights came and went, she eased herself further into the shade, as if they were in some way seeking her out.
She tried to ignore a part of her which felt slightly injured that, following her unequivocal rebuff of his proposal, an infuriated Rannick had not come looking for her in person, or at least sent out a larger, more determined, search party. She was sure that he had been hot enough for some such precipitate action. On the other hand, she was relieved that neither of these had happened. She remembered Nilsson’s surreptitious warning about the eerie, clinging, little breeze that had fluttered about her head as she had left the castle, and her stomach tightened as she thought about what it implied.
As she recalled this gossamer touch, something brushed lightly against her check. She started violently and almost cried out. But it was only a leafy branch touched by the breeze. She dashed it aside angrily, and returned to her vigil, scowling grimly.
As the morning wore on, people began to arrive at the farm below, a few, unusually, on horseback. They milled around for a little while, until eventually, and at a very leisurely pace, they began cleaning up the debris in the farmyard.
Marna watched them idly for some time and then turned back to the castle. Even as she turned, the castle gates swung open and a column of men began to emerge. Her heart started to pound with both fear and anticipation. A search party was being sent to look for her, after all. Or was it just another raiding party? Other thoughts came. Would whoever was leading them notice the crowd at the farm? Would they start asking ques-tions? She was glad that Gryss had decided to tell no one about her apart from Jeorg.
She frowned. The column was turning away. It was heading north. Count, girl, count, came an urgent thought from somewhere; an echo of the frequent questions from Engir and the others about the numbers of men, and horses, and wagons, and prisoners, and… everything… that was currently inside the castle; questions that for the most part she had only been able to answer with remorseful vagueness.
The column kept on coming. There were a few mounted men, several loose horses, and what, she decided, must be nearly all their wagons. Her frown deepened. What was happening? She knew that Nilsson had expressed an interest in the north when he had first arrived, but there hadn’t even been any talk in the village of a raiding party in that direction.
‘Marna!’
The soft voice made her freeze.
‘Marna,’ it came again.
Cautiously she peered around the trunk of the tree she had been lean
ing against. It was Gryss, gazing around fretfully.
‘You frightened me to death,’ she hissed, stepping out from behind the tree.
Gryss started violently. ‘And you, me, Marna,’ he snapped back, banging his fist on his chest. ‘Jumping out like that. I didn’t see you.’
Marna, still shaking a little, was about to argue the point when she recalled why she was there. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, taking Gryss’s arm. ‘Look.’ She pointed towards the castle. As Gryss leaned forward, the end of the column emerged from the gate, which slowly closed.
As Marna had done, Gryss frowned. ‘Where are they going?’ he asked.
Marna shrugged. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ she said. ‘But I think they’ve taken all the wagons, most of their horses and nearly all the men.’
‘And Rannick, has he gone as well?’ Gryss asked.
As if in answer to that question, a light flared livid in the upper window of the tower. ‘No,’ Marna answered coldly.
Slowly the column disappeared from view around the shoulder of the hill. Gryss shook his head. ‘They must have learned about your friends,’ he said. ‘They’re going hunting for them.’
Marna clenched her fists. ‘No, no,’ she said despair-ingly. ‘No one knew. No one knew. It can’t be.’
Gryss did not reply. Marna turned on him. ‘You didn’t tell anyone else, did you?’ she demanded.
Gryss shook his head. ‘Only Jeorg, that’s all,’ he said. ‘And Jeorg’d have his tongue cut out before he’d give away such knowledge.’
Marna looked at him questioningly for a moment, then put her hand to her head. ‘Then what’s happened?’ she said futilely. ‘And what can we do?’
Gryss reached out to put a supporting arm around her shoulder as he had done many times in the past. Then he lowered it. It seemed to be an inappropriate gesture now. This girl – woman – did not need that kind of support now. ‘What we set out to do,’ he said. ‘Watch and be ready for whatever happens. We’ve enough work down at the farm to keep us looking busy for some time if we take it easy. We mustn’t be impatient. We’ve no idea what your… friends… are intending, for all they seem to think the matter’s urgent.’ He nodded towards the castle. ‘And there’s no point even conjecturing what’s going on up there now. Perhaps they’re looking for these people, perhaps not. We’ll just have to wait and see.’ He let out a noisy breath. ‘I’ll send our “official” watchers to that copse over there as we agreed, but I’ll come back every now and then, to see if you’re all right. Or I’ll send Jeorg; it’s a bit of a pull for me.’ He paused, then took out a kerchief. ‘If you see anything unusual, hang this…’ He searched around for a moment. ‘… there, on that branch, and one of us will come up straight away. It’ll take a little time as we’re going round the back so that no one’ll notice.’ He looked at her. ‘You’re sure you’re all right up here on your own?’ he asked uncertainly.
Marna smiled and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a lot to think about.’ Then she lowered her eyes. ‘How’s my father?’ she asked.
A look of reproach passed over Gryss’s face, but there was none in his reply. ‘He’s better for knowing you’re well and still in the valley,’ he said. ‘But it wasn’t easy refusing to tell him where you were.’ He looked as if he wanted to say more, but instead he clenched his fist and waved it at the castle. ‘Damn you, Rannick,’ he said. ‘Damn you to hell.’ Then he turned and left.
* * * *
The day passed without anything else of note happening other than Gryss meticulously changing his ‘official’ watchers to lend credence to the ostensible purpose of the activity at the farmhouse. Marna spent the time thinking, with varying degrees of agitation, about everything that had happened since Dalmas. And, at times, daydreaming. And trying not to fall asleep.
She was more than thankful when Jeorg appeared towards evening and declared that he would watch through the night. Rather than risk being seen walking back to Gryss’s cottage, she surreptitiously made her way back to the now-deserted farm, and made herself comfortable in a corner of the barn.
Ironically, unlike the previous night when she had been restless after an exhausting day, following her motionless day watching the castle she went to sleep almost the moment she lay down and scarcely moved during the night.
Some instinct woke her before dawn again and, after splashing herself into shivering wakefulness at one of the water butts, she returned up the hill through the cold morning darkness to take up her vigil.
Jeorg, unshaven, stiff and surly, relinquished his post without any expression of regret.
‘Anything happened?’ Marna asked.
Jeorg shook his head. ‘Only lights coming and going at that tower window,’ he replied.
‘Rannick,’ Marna said.
Jeorg glowered at the tower. ‘They felt bad,’ he said. ‘Unnatural, somehow. I’ve never seen a lantern that could make light like that.’
Marna confined herself to nodding at this observa-tion. There was nothing to be gained by adding her own comments about the possible nature of that light. Jeorg needed no further incentive to focus his anger against Rannick. She commandeered some food that he had left.
‘If you’re not going home, don’t sleep in the barn,’ she said, with a mocking smile, as Jeorg yawned noisily and picked up his bag. ‘That’s my room.’
Jeorg pulled the brim of her hat down over her face and left with a grunt. He was soon lost in the gloom and, straightening her hat, Marna turned her attention once again to the castle. It was barely visible against the bulk of the mountains, although a few torches in the courtyard illuminated its interior dully and threw a feeble and sickly yellow light part way up the walls of the towers, making them look jagged and incomplete. The upper window of the highest tower continued to flicker alive with light from time to time, however; waxing and waning to an unheard rhythm and giving the impression of a malevolent, watching and incon-stant star floating above the tainted remains of some noxious pit. Marna stared at it fixedly for a while then deliberately pulled her gaze away from it. There was a quality in it that stirred something deep within her, which she knew, instinctively, would only serve to hinder her, though whether it repelled or attracted her she could not have said.
The day passed largely as had the previous one. Figures appeared down in the farmyard, and pairs of lookouts began their own observation of the castle at Gryss’s command. Marna watched and waited fretfully, her mood more uncertain than before, but still domi-nated by a feeling of urgent expectation. Yet nothing happened. The mysterious column that had moved off to the north did not return, and there was little or no activity around the castle itself. ‘Where are you? What are you doing?’ she began to mutter to herself from time to time.
Towards midday, sheets of fine rain began to blow across the valley. Shifting and changing like a thin grey mist, they now revealed the castle, now obscured it. Marna swore softly. The tree under which she had lodged herself would keep the rain off her for some time, but eventually it would come seeping through the canopy and she could look forward to a damp and chilly afternoon.
Her enthusiasm drained to its lowest point as the thought of a warm haven at home rose to tempt her. Then she swore loudly and angrily into the damp air and banged her fist against the rough bark of the tree until it hurt. There was no haven in this valley for her now. Her father’s house could no longer protect her, nor could anyone else’s. She had taken herself beyond the pale with her defiance and flight. Her place was here, no matter how grim and dismal it became. She had chosen sides. Chosen the side of those who had come in pursuit of Nilsson but who stayed now in order to make an attempt to slay Rannick and free the valley. They would be as cold and miserable as she, but she knew that they would stay here, in this alien valley, far from their own homes, until that attempt had been made and they were either successful or dead.
Her lip curled back and exposed her clenched teeth in unconscious mimicry of Nilsson’s familiar t
ic as her resolve renewed itself. She stamped her feet and rubbed her hands together, not so much because they were cold, but to remind herself to be alert, to let no part of her fall asleep.
And the action did indeed seem to clear her mind. The scents in the air became sharper, the noises of the dripping trees about her more distinct. As she took a deep breath she caught a slight movement in the corner of her eye. She turned towards it. A powerful hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her cry.
* * * *
Nilsson looked around sourly as he emerged from his tent into the dull morning. He would have preferred to leave this task to Saddre or Dessane but Rannick had insisted that he oversee it personally, so he could look forward to at least the next few days under canvas and living off camp fare.
He smiled grimly to himself. Had he really adjusted to his changed circumstances so quickly? Only a few weeks ago, such a life had been all that he had known in years, and was all that he could look forward to until some random fortune favoured him, or one of his own men ended his concerns with a silent knife blade. And while that prospect had lain ahead of him, behind him had lurked the will of those against whom he and his men had fought. Fought cruelly, treacherously, and treasonably. And that will would be seeking for them always, he knew. It was the way of his people. All must account for their misdeeds, and neither distance, time, nor the shielding hand of others would diminish the demand for that accounting, or the resolution with which it would be sought.
The reflection made him feel better. No one would dare to test his right to leadership now; he had brought his men prosperity, and, too, as he had been before, he was the only one who truly had the ear of the power that underwrote their ambitions. And as for those who pursued him, let them come. They were as naught now. They would soon discover that events had come full circle and that what they had thought conquered was risen to challenge them again.
