by Roger Taylor
He looked up at the trees. These would do splen-didly. Tall, large-girthed and straight, they would provide ideal timbers for the siege machines, the wagons, the barracks, the fortifications, and all the other paraphernalia that would be needed for the army that was already forming about the nucleus of his own men. The army which, with him at its head and Rannick at its heart, would strike out from the valley to sweep aside the distant king and his feeble rump of an army and thence use the entire land as a base for the conquest of its neighbours and beyond.
The camp was already alive with noise and clamour, not to mention the smoke and smell of cooking fires.
‘A good site, Captain.’ Nilsson turned. The speaker was Yeorson, his naturally supercilious expression heightened by a crooked smile. ‘Plenty of fine trees here. It’ll be some time before we’ve stripped this place bare. And it’ll only take a week or so to cut a decent road back to the castle.’
Nilsson nodded. ‘We’ll use our new recruits to do most of the dirty work. We can make it part of their… initial training. It’ll also get the men used to command again. We’ve a long way to go in every sense and we’ve been neglectful of discipline lately. These new people need to learn our ways if they’re going to be any use to us.’
Yeorson’s smiled broadened. ‘I’ll set them to making a gallows, then,’ he said. Nilsson chuckled darkly. This was going to be a good day.
There being nothing to be gained by delay, working parties were busy clearing the camp site and preparing it for more permanent occupation within the hour, while others were set to work on removing the trees that stood in the way of an easier route back to the castle. The woods rang to the sounds of axes and saws, the groaning crashes of falling trees, and the cries of raucous, commanding voices. The smoke of a dozen or more fires blowing hither and thither, like frightened animals, before finally finding escape out into the dull morning air, gave testimony to the destruction of undergrowth and leafy branches and other unwanted timbers.
Within that same hour, Nilsson also casually stretched two of the new ‘recruits’ full length on the ground as that part of their ‘initial training’ that related to injudicious remarks about the distribution of labour within the hierarchy he was beginning to build.
He breathed in the smoky air, listened to the ringing din about him, and pensively rubbed his bruised knuckles. It was going to be a good day, indeed.
Chapter 23
‘Don’t scream,’ a voice whispered commandingly in Marna’s ear. ‘It’s me, Aaren. Do you understand?’
Marna nodded and mumbled behind the hand clamped over her mouth. Aaren slowly released her. Marna turned on her. ‘What did you do that for?’ she demanded. ‘You frightened me to death.’ She held out her hands; they were trembling. ‘And what are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were up past the castle somewhere. Did Nilsson’s men find you?’
Aaren offered no apology and answered only one of the questions. ‘I didn’t know it was you until I was on top of you,’ she said. ‘It’s the old man, Gryss, I wanted to see. He’s on his way up now and I couldn’t risk you – whoever you were – raising an alarm if I suddenly appeared. It is Gryss coming, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, probably, but…’
Aaren waved her silent. ‘Answers when he arrives,’ she said curtly, lifting a finger to her lips. ‘Right now, I need a little rest. That charade at the farm cost me some heart-searching before I saw what you were up to, I can tell you. It was well done.’ She crouched down and leaned back against the tree. She closed her eyes, and Marna saw her wilfully relaxing. ‘Keep watch,’ she said.
‘But…’
‘Ssh.’
Marna snorted and, still trembling a little, leaned back against the tree next to the resting figure. After a moment, she realized that she was pouting and made a deliberate effort to compose her features. Then all was quiet for a while save for the splashing of the rain through the trees.
Aaren’s eyes opened abruptly. ‘Someone’s coming,’ she said, cocking her head on one side. ‘It’ll be the old man.’ She stood up. ‘Introduce me to him.’ A gentle but definite push propelled Marna from the shelter of the tree.
‘Ah. You won’t make me jump this time, young woman,’ Gryss said, smiling.
Marna held out her arm towards the emerging Aaren. ‘This is Aaren, one of the four soldiers from Nilsson’s country,’ she blurted out, without preamble. ‘She wants to meet you.’
Gryss gaped while he took in this unexpected devel-opment, then his natural courtesy carried him forward. He extended his hand and smiled.
Aaren stepped forward and took his hand in both of hers. She bowed slightly. ‘We need your help, sir,’ she said, before Gryss could speak.
Gryss, still recovering himself, stammered slightly. ‘Of course,’ he said unthinkingly. ‘Marna’s told me everything about you. But I thought – Marna thought – you’d gone up past the castle to catch Rannick alone.’
Aaren gave a little smile and nodded an acknowl-edgement to Marna. Then she flicked an inquiring glance towards one of the knives visible in Marna’s belt. ‘Everything?’ her eyes inquired. Marna gave a slight, fearful, shake of her head. No, not everything. Not that she was a murderer. Aaren understood.
‘So we had, sir,’ she said, turning back to Gryss. ‘But matters have…’
Gryss wrapped his other hand about both of hers. ‘Please don’t call me sir,’ he said. ‘I feel old enough as it is. Just call me Gryss, like everyone else.’
Aaren’s smile broadened, but, if anything, it high-lighted the strain on her face. ‘As you wish,’ she said.
Gryss released her. ‘We’re none of us fighters… Aaren… but we’ll help you if we can,’ he said.
Aaren looked back towards the castle as she spoke. ‘Marna was right,’ she began. ‘We were going to wait for Rannick to make one of his lone trips to the north. But circumstances have changed. Nilsson and almost all of the troop have moved out and are setting up a work camp in the woods.’
‘A work camp?’ Marna echoed, puzzled.
Aaren nodded. ‘They’re felling trees.’ She gesticu-lated vaguely. ‘Almost certainly it’s for the equipment and machinery that they’ll need as an army on the move. It means that they’re getting ready to move out on a major expedition.’
‘And you want to get Rannick before they start?’ Marna interjected excitedly.
‘Yes,’ Aaren replied coldly. ‘But mainly we want to kill him while we can.’
Her blunt, but casual use of the word, kill, cut through Marna’s momentary exhilaration. The proprie-torial glow she had felt in presenting this strange woman to Gryss evaporated, and she was brought back brutally to her damp look-out post and the cruel circumstances of the valley.
‘What do you mean?’ Gryss asked unhappily.
Aaren hesitated. ‘We have some experience of the power that Rannick uses,’ she said eventually. ‘A great deal, unfortunately. Having seen what we’ve seen these last couple of nights, and… felt… what we’ve felt, we think that Rannick may be reaching a stage where his skill will render him almost invulnerable to a normal physical assault.’
She looked into Gryss’s openly doubting face. ‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘Marna’s told me what you’ve seen yourself: the wind that was guarding the castle yard, the fire that he conjured out of nothingness. We think that by now he’s probably passed far beyond such tricks. And the greater his skill becomes, the faster it will grow.’ She paused, as if she did not want to continue. ‘Soon, he’ll be scarcely human, and beyond anything we might be able to do to him.’ She turned to Marna. ‘I think you’ve got some measure of this in that he didn’t come looking for you particularly hard after you rejected him.’
Marna tried to meet her gaze with studied indiffer-ence, but she had to turn away from the pain in it. ‘I was… surprised,’ she conceded uncomfortably. ‘He was all too… human… when I parted from him.’ She felt herself colouring at the memory of Rannick’s last gentle kiss and t
he promise that had lain behind it. ‘But he was like two people when he drew that strange fire out of nowhere.’
Aaren turned to Gryss again. ‘If he reaches that stage, then nothing – nothing in this land – can stop him. And by the time we could marshal resources against him, his power, his following, and his conquests would be a hundred times what they are now.’
Gryss shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I can’t begin to take all this in.’ He wanted to ask why all this should be happening to him, to the valley. Why Rannick? Why now? Why…? But he had asked the questions many times and he knew that, for all her knowledge, this woman would have no answers for him. ‘Just tell me what you want us to do,’ he said, clinging to the simplicity of practicalities.
‘What we have to do, Gryss, is kill him as quickly as possible,’ Aaren said starkly. ‘We can’t risk waiting until he decides to come out on his own. There’s no saying when that might be.’ She hesitated, then, ‘We’re going to try and get into the castle tonight. While most of the men are away. And…’
‘Do you have to kill him?’ Gryss interrupted. His voice was as full of judgement as it was question. In spite of all that had happened, he had known Rannick all his life and he found Aaren’s quiet purposefulness deeply disturbing.
Momentarily however, Aaren’s emotions broke through on to her face. Gryss started back at the mixture of anger, fear and desperation he read there. ‘Yes,’ she said, through clenched teeth, as she struggled to control herself. ‘The power corrupts and will tolerate no restraint. It’s him or us.’ She waved a hand across the rain-swept valley. ‘All of us. All of you. And beyond. Be under no illusions about that.’
‘But…’
‘No buts, Gryss,’ Aaren said, angrily wiping a tear from her eye. ‘Knowing what we know, we’ve no choice. While he can still be stopped by such as us, we have to try. If we fail – then…’ She stopped and let out a nervous breath. ‘The future you have now will probably be unchanged.’ She looked at Marna. ‘But we’ll leave you with messages to carry to the king… in case…’
Gryss closed his eyes. Arguments tumbled through his head. And questions; still so many questions. And Aaren’s doubts were contagious. But there was one certainty, above all: he must not betray the valley and its people again. The memory came to him of the cruelly slaughtered bodies of Garren and Katrin Yarrance. There lay the future as sure as it was the past. And Farnor, wherever he might be now. And all the pain that had come to his friends, his charges. And could he accept the responsibility of this being repeated over and over?
He remembered Farnor fingering the simple iron ring that swung from its chain by his door. A memento of his youth, of times and places far away. A memento finely and skilfully carved with lines of warriors, waiting.
For what, did not matter. They were a people pre-pared.
He opened his eyes and looked at Aaren. She was one such, surely. Armed with knowledge to see what had to be done, and perhaps the skill to do it. And there was Marna too; Marna Harlenkind; made by circumstance into a grim-faced fugitive, with knives in her belt.
And they were both waiting. ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.
* * * *
‘Is none of this familiar to you?’ Derwyn asked, trying to keep the incredulity from his voice.
Farnor shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘All the Forest north of the castle was unfamiliar, and when I came through here, it was at some speed and for most of the way with my eyes closed.’ This answer, uttered with exaggerated self-deprecation, caused a little more laughter than it should have done, reflecting the growing nervousness of the Valderen as they moved steadily into what they kept referring to as the fringe.
‘The trees are… smaller… more compact… less happy,’ Derwyn had explained uncertainly, when Farnor had asked what they meant.
‘They look fine to me,’ Farnor replied, a little defen-sively. ‘But I don’t suppose I’ve got your eye for such things. I’ve always thought that all trees were fascinat-ing.’
Derwyn beamed. ‘Your eye’s fine, Farnor. And so are your trees,’ he said, without patronizing. ‘They’re just different.’ He looked at Farnor archly. ‘And you’ve probably got Valderen blood in your veins somewhere. Perhaps there used to be a lot more movement between the valley and the Forest once upon a time.’ And he had laughed.
But it had been a different sound to that which greeted the admission that Farnor just made. Indeed, everything about the group seemed to be different now. Farnor had the impression that they were riding into a deepening darkness. In part, this was actually true: the weather was overcast and gloomy, and the enclosing mountains made their shading presence felt even when they could not be seen through the canopy. Sunset would come earlier and dawn later. But also, he sensed an inner darkness beginning to pervade the group; a darkness that brought the riders closer together and made them even more silent than usual.
It came from the trees, he was sure. ‘Everyone Hears a little,’ he remembered someone saying, and they would not have to Hear much to be affected by the fear and uncertainty that was quivering through the trees all around them. He himself was having to exert a continu-ous effort to keep the din from his mind. As if sensing his concerns, Marken came alongside him. ‘It’s dreadful, isn’t it?’ he whispered. ‘I’ve never Heard anything like it. It’s bad enough during a fire, but at least then they seem to understand in some way, seem to be able to cope. Here, it’s like a mindless panic. What can we do?’
Farnor puffed out his cheeks. The Hearer, wiser than him by far, was looking to him for help. It was a strange sensation, both frightening and exciting. ‘Stay by me. And listen,’ he said on impulse.
Reluctantly, he opened his mind to the trees. A fear-ful confusion cascaded over and through him and for a moment he swayed in his saddle. Then, suddenly angry, he shouted at them furiously. ‘Shut up!’
The noise faltered.
He shouted again, his anger growing. ‘Shut up, damn you. You cloud all our minds with your clamour. If you want our help you must ride with us, not against us.’
The noise faded, and Farnor felt as though he were in the presence of a group of children caught in some misdeed; both guilt and relief filled the silence. In the distance he could Hear the noise continuing, and he realized that his command had somehow made a pool of calm amid a torrent of confusion.
Having obtained this calm, however, he was uncer-tain what to do with it. He could sense the single presence of the Forest, but it was fragmented into a myriad individual voices. Abruptly he had an image of himself as a child, looking at a piece of metal lying on the anvil in the village forge. What had been a magically glowing yellow had faded through orange and red into a dull grey brown even as he watched it, and he had wanted to know why. He remembered how he had reached out to touch it and how his fingers had snatched themselves away almost before he felt the dreadful pain.
He remembered, too, Gofhern the blacksmith lifting him bodily away from the anvil and plunging his hand into a bucket of cold water in one swinging, head-spinning arc. ‘Your fingers have more sense than your head, young Farnor,’ he had chuckled, though only after he had determined that the injury was not too serious.
And was it thus here? Were the individual trees responding to some pain that he could not feel, and confusing his perception of the will of the whole? ‘What do you do when there’s a fire?’ he asked without thinking why.
The listening silence shifted awkwardly. He had the feeling that he had asked an embarrassing question.
‘Well?’ he insisted.
‘If I have the time, then we move,’ came a slightly injured reply, eventually.
‘Explain,’ Farnor persisted.
Then he felt the presence of the most ancient; dis-tant, but quite distinct. It coloured the answering voice. ‘I withdraw that which is private to each… home… and it remains amongst us, sharing… homes… until the seedlings come again and a new… home… can be made.’ The images that filled Far
nor’s mind with each mention of the word, home, were deep, personal and intimate, with a poignancy far beyond even the feelings that he had for his own home. ‘But the pain is great, Far-nor, and the leaving of a… home… is no light thing. There is always pain in the loss of what we are attached to. Even to speak thus distresses us.’
Farnor became more gentle. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But we must learn to understand such things. What happens when your… homes… die, or are felled by the Valderen to make their lodges and to fulfil their other needs ‘
He could feel puzzlement and debate at this ques-tion, then an amused realization. ‘I do not… die, Far-nor. This we told you.’ Again Farnor felt a brief touch of the dizzying, time-spanning perspective that he had felt on occasions before. ‘But our… homes… change, and fall back to whence they came, to become eventually… homes… again, renewed. These we leave at our leisure. It is the way of things. As for the Valderen, they perceive our needs, albeit dimly, and they respect them. They ask, and time is granted for the leaving. And their needs are slight within the endless falling and renewing that occurs within our vastness. We can withstand a little pain for the sake of our friends from time to time.’ There was almost a chuckle. ‘Besides I do not dwell too deeply in those… homes… that lie near to the Valderen.’
Farnor rode on in silence for a while, thinking about the words and the nuances behind and beyond them. ‘But this fear around me is not the fear of fire?’ he asked tentatively, after a while.
‘Fire is both ancient and frequent, Far-nor. It is not welcomed, but it is known and understood and thus not truly feared. It, too, is in the way of things and a part of my nature. But the power that threatens here, though known and ancient, is nevertheless not understood. And it is unfettered and greater by far than when you first came. We fear to stay, and we fear to leave.’ The voice was full of regret, shame even.
