Farnor ft-1

by Roger Taylor

  The papers flapped noisily in the wind as Saddre took them and carefully thumbed through them. He maintained a sage expression throughout and, after a moment, he pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Seems reasonable,’ he said. ‘But show me what you’ve done as we examine the tithe in detail.’ His voice had a rasp to it that seemed to fit his sharp features.

  ‘As you wish,’ Gryss said. He gestured to Garren, who stepped forward and deftly untied the decorated rope. Then, producing a large key, he unlocked the barn door.

  Such dignified formality as there was in these pro-ceedings ended with this act, as several hands were needed to control the large doors in the wind as soon as Gryss began to open them. After a brief but noisy struggle they were fastened back against the wall and, urged on by the wind, Gryss, flanked by Nilsson and Saddre, scurried into the barn. The villagers moved forward to fill the doorway but, following Gryss’s prior instruction, they remained outside.

  Decorative ribbons and floral displays fluttered and danced as if in welcome as the wind ignored protocol and surged inquisitively around the inside of the barn, performing its own audit of the contents. The high-timbered roof creaked ominously.

  Standing next to his father in the doorway, Farnor looked at the carefully piled barrels and sacks of produce, the elaborate displays of fruits and vegetables, the rows of kegs and bottles. For the first time the enormity of what was about to happen struck him. All that, going to outsiders. And foreigners at that! His outward expression of this outrage, however, was mild.

  ‘What a shame,’ he said quietly.

  ‘It is indeed,’ Garren agreed. ‘Just try to think of it as a hail storm flattening the corn, or a wind like this costing us most of our fruit. One of those things, and quite beyond our control.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Farnor said. ‘But it’s not really the same.’

  ‘True,’ his father replied. ‘But it’s the best I can offer to stop it hurting so much.’ There was an unexpected humour in his voice that caught Farnor’s attention. ‘It’s not without its funny side,’ he seemed to be saying. ‘Gathering this, ostensibly for the King but really for ourselves, and finding that the King really wants it after all.’

  The unexpected lightness shifted Farnor’s percep-tion of the event. There’d be other years. It wasn’t that bad.

  ‘It’s bad enough…’ Farnor started as a surly voice behind him muttered this contradiction of his unspoken thought. ‘… them taking all our stuff. But manhandling it up to the castle is the sodding limit. And in our own carts at that!’ Farnor glanced over his shoulder to confirm the speaker. It was Jeorg.

  ‘The King’s stuff,’ Garren corrected with an unchar-acteristically malevolent chuckle at Jeorg’s petulance. He offered him the same consolation he had offered his son. ‘Just imagine that the barn’s been struck by lightning.’

  Jeorg almost growled. ‘I can just about cope with losing the tithe, Garren, but your good humour is too much.’

  To Gryss’s surprise, Saddre made no comment on the way in which the tithe had been calculated. To each of Gryss’s, ‘We’ve never been quite sure about this, so…’ he nodded indulgently and waved a dismissive hand, concluding finally that, in the absence of a tithe master, the villagers had made a remarkably accurate assessment. ‘It’s an excellent piece of work. Your diligence is to be commended.’ He went on to say that there might be one or two minor adjustments after he had had an opportunity to examine the calculations and inventory at his leisure, and he was about to say more when he caught Nilsson’s eye and, instead, closed the ceremony quite abruptly.

  The rest of the blustering day was spent in trans-porting the produce to the castle. Despite Gryss’s best urgings to look cheerful, it was done for the most part with a very ill grace, although this was confined to sullen attitudes and nothing overtly unpleasant was said within earshot of the gatherers.

  And then the barn was empty. Bits of paper and torn sacks and the remains of floral displays scurried hither and thither about the dusty floor as the wind continued its own relentless search. Farnor gazed round at the echoing emptiness. It looked as it always looked after tithe day, but now it seemed sad and empty whereas previously he realized now, it had always seemed happy in some way… contented at a task well done, perhaps. He watched the whirling, wind-inspired dance of dust and litter about the floor for a while then half-heartedly reached for a brush.

  ‘Leave it, Farnor,’ Gryss said. ‘It’ll be there tomor-row.’ A logic that could not be disputed, Farnor thought, though he had never been able to make his mother see it on similar occasions. Deferring to the elder’s wisdom, he conscientiously put the brush down.

  There was another short but alarming struggle to wrest the doors from the wind until they were finally shut and locked, then the few remaining villagers wandered off down the road. There was little conversa-tion.

  At the castle, however, there was a great deal of conversation, and even more mirth as the entire complement gathered in a dining hall and proceeded to ‘assess’ the tithe by eating and drinking it – mainly drinking it.

  ‘Here’s to you, tithe master,’ Nilsson said, raising a tankard to Saddre.

  ‘Clerk of the tithe, Captain,’ Saddre corrected, rais-ing his own tankard in return. ‘I’m army, you know, not civilian. Co-opted and specially trained.’

  ‘Trained to pick pockets and cut throats,’ Dessane intervened raucously. This shaft, sharpened by the ale, made the trio relapse into uncontrollable laughter.

  ‘This is rich,’ Nilsson said, wiping his eyes and still laughing. ‘All this!’ He pointed to the piles of produce occupying one end of the hall. ‘We’ve raided bigger villages and come away with less on more than a few occasions. And delivered to us as well.’

  ‘They didn’t enjoy it, judging by their faces,’ Des-sane said.

  ‘They’d have enjoyed it a damn sight less if we’d collected it the usual way,’ Nilsson said.

  ‘Maybe I should tell them that not enjoying paying their taxes is an offence against the dignity of the King, and fine them for it,’ Saddre declared. ‘In my capacity as…’

  ‘Clerk of the tithe,’ Nilsson and Dessane said simul-taneously.

  Again, the laughter that greeted this was dispropor-tionate to the humour of the remark, but it went unnoticed in the general uproar that was filling the hall.

  None of the three, though, was truly drunk. The presence of the other revellers forbade that. To lead such meant that to be without control around them was to risk death.

  Saddre pursued his thought. ‘Perhaps I could fine them a few women,’ he said, leering lasciviously. ‘For the entertainment of the King’s officers in the field. I saw some tasty ones in that crowd.’

  Nilsson chuckled but his eyes were cold as he looked at his lieutenant. ‘No,’ he said categorically.

  Saddre, abruptly possessed by his idea, protested. ‘Just a few,’ he pleaded. ‘For crying out, we can’t…’

  ‘You can and you will.’ Nilsson’s voice was icy, and all trace of humour had gone from his face. Recognizing the change, both Dessane and Saddre sobered. Dessane eased his chair back, ready to move quickly, and Saddre held out his hands. ‘Just my joke, Nils,’ he said, smiling desperately. ‘Just my joke. No harm meant. You know I wouldn’t…’

  The crash of a table falling over and a sudden shout-ing rose above the din to cut across Saddre’s plea. Nilsson turned away from him and scanned the hall. He focused on the source almost immediately. Like a whirlpool suddenly appearing in a turbulent river, a circle of hastily moving bodies was forming around two struggling figures. Its power drew other bodies to it and soon it would occupy the whole hall.

  Nilsson swore and stood up clumsily. His chair clattered over behind him. Without pausing, he strode into the melee. Saddre and Dessane looked at one another with expressions of open relief and Saddre drew the back of his hand across his mouth nervously. He let out a trembling breath.

  The object of his alarm was gone however, plough-
ing violently through the crowd, at times lifting men bodily off their feet and throwing them effortlessly to one side.

  When he reached the centre Nilsson’s face was a mask of fury. The inner circle widened to reveal two men rolling about the floor amid a mess of food, ale and broken dishes. They were pummelling one another mindlessly. With a snarl, Nilsson reached down and seized them both by the hair. Then he hoisted them upright and brought their heads together with a resounding thud. Some of the spectators winced at the impact while others, the majority, laughed, always glad to see other than themselves being hurt. Nilsson released the two men who slumped unconscious to the floor.

  ‘You’d no call to…’ a drunken voice began behind Nilsson’s back. Before it could finish however, Nilsson had spun round and, using the momentum of his turn, delivered a punishing blow to the protester’s face. The man crashed backwards, taking several others with him as he fell. Blood was streaming from his nose and mouth.

  As those felled with him crawled hastily away, the man struggled into a sitting position, his face livid with rage. He reached inside his jacket. A bystander’s foot kicked him over and planted itself on his chest. Nilsson stepped forward and looked down at the bleeding man. Gently he motioned the owner of the foot to one side, then he held out his hands, to the fallen man, palms upwards. His eyes were wide with a mixture of rage and exhilaration.

  ‘I’d every call, Avak,’ he said. ‘That was summary field punishment. You know the rules. No fighting amongst ourselves. Pain of death if weapons are drawn. And my word is law until you elect yourselves another leader.’ He leaned forward. ‘Are you thinking of running for office?’

  Avak’s mouth worked, but no sound came.

  The man who had kicked him spoke up tentatively. ‘I think he was reaching for something to wipe his face with, Captain,’ he said. ‘And I’m sure he’s just wonder-ing how to apologize for disturbing you when you were administering discipline. I’m afraid this good ale you’ve won for us today has addled the remains of his wits.’

  Nilsson kept his eyes fixed on his victim throughout this respectful intervention, and acknowledged it only with a slight inclination of his head. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  Avak, rage now gone from his face and replaced with sheer terror, nodded frantically. His lips were trembling, but from somewhere he found his voice. ‘That’s so, Captain,’ he said. ‘An ill-considered remark… the ale…’ His tongue seemed to stick to the top of his mouth.

  Nilsson placed his own foot on Avak’s chest and tapped it thoughtfully.

  The hall became very silent.

  Then, settling his weight on to his foot, Nilsson turned and stared at the spectators.

  There was nothing but fear all around him.

  He turned back to the pinioned Avak then, with a final tap of his foot, abruptly released him. Avak scuttled away frantically. No one moved to help him.

  ‘The celebration’s over, gentlemen,’ Nilsson said. ‘These villagers with their ale have nearly cost us as many men as if we’d raided them.’

  He began walking back to the table where Saddre and Dessane were standing waiting. The crowd parted before him.

  ‘Listen carefully, all of you,’ he said as he walked. ‘We’ve fallen lucky with this place and I’ll personally disembowel anyone who makes any trouble for us here, because of ale, women, anything.’ He stopped and looked intently at his audience. ‘As far as these villagers are concerned we’re soldiers, tax collectors of some kind. As a result of that, they’ve voluntarily given us enough supplies to last us for months. I needn’t tell any of you what a gift that is. You’ve all had to risk getting killed for a damn sight less in your time. Tomorrow Yeorson and Storran are going north with a patrol to find a way through the valley and to see what lies beyond. When they come back, we’ll load up our supplies and slip away. If this is done quietly, it’ll be months before…’ He paused and his jaw stiffened. ‘Before… anyone… finds out where we’ve gone. In fact, it’s a possibility they’ll never find out; this place is so far from anywhere.’ His shoulders hunched, and his voice became menacing. ‘I’m an easy-going man, you know that. I don’t interfere with your pleasures normally. But this time it’s too important. If these villagers begin to suspect we’re not who they think we are, we’ll have the whole countryside down on us. So this is the way it’s going to be. None of you are to go near the village. None of you are to have contact with any of the villagers. Any of them come to the gate on business, send for me.’ He raised his voice. ‘Do any of you need to hear that again?’

  There was a general muttering of, ‘No.’

  ‘Do any of you disagree with this strategy?’ He lifted his hand before anyone could speak. ‘I give you fair warning that once you’ve agreed to these orders, it’ll be death for any man who disobeys them. I’ll kill him instantly… or worse.’ There was a long silence before he spoke again. ‘Now, does anyone disagree?’

  This time the voices were louder. Nilsson looked slowly over his audience once more, then, with a wave of his hand, dismissed them.

  As they dispersed, Nilsson returned to his table. ‘That includes you two as well,’ he said to Dessane and Saddre. ‘Whatever chance has thrown this our way, it won’t happen again and I’ll allow no one – no one – to jeopardize it. Do you understand?’

  Both men nodded, well sober by now.

  ‘How long do you think we’ve got here?’ Saddre asked, anxious to redirect his leader’s menacing mood.

  ‘Quite some time, I’d think,’ Nilsson replied. He indicated Dessane. ‘According to the tales we’ve both heard, hardly anyone ever comes to this valley and no one ever leaves. They seem to have everything they want here.’ He paused and became pensive for a moment as if the remark had stirred something within him.

  ‘And what if the real tithe gatherers arrive?’ Dessane asked.

  ‘It’ll be the first time in living memory, according to that old healer,’ Nilsson replied dismissively.

  ‘But…?’ Dessane let the doubt hang in the air.

  As each of them knew, Dessane’s remark about the tithe gatherers was in reality a reflection of another, rarely spoken-of concern.

  Nilsson screwed up his face as if in pain. As he him-self had acknowledged, the chance that had brought them to this valley and to this reception verged on the miraculous, and the benefits should not be lightly risked; indeed they should not be risked at all. ‘I suppose we could mount lookouts down the valley,’ he said, almost reluctantly. ‘It’s just that I’d rather keep all the men here, where we can see them. Once they’re out there they’ll do something stupid for certain.’

  ‘Small groups. Three or four. Good men,’ Dessane suggested. ‘We’ve enough for that.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Nilsson said, then motioned the two men away.

  After they had left, Nilsson sat for a long time in the deserted hall. Around him lay the debris of the celebra-tion like the aftermath of a small riot. The ale he had drunk lay heavy on his stomach and he knew that it fogged his perceptions to some extent. It did not worry him too much; he had many years ago learned to drink heavily and still maintain his lethal fighting capacity. Indeed, as a protection against former ‘companions’ he had trained himself to become more savage and unrestrained in drink than he was when sober. And as he had tempered this with heightened cunning, a fearful reputation had grown up about him.

  What he had not trained himself to cope with was the dark melancholy that would sometimes seep into his thoughts when, as now, he was alone after such revelries.

  A melancholy that would turn everything about him into so much dross, and whose bitter taste would rule him utterly until such time as it chose to pass. Only the lethargy that it brought to his limbs prevented him from purging himself of this clinging inner miasma by some act of monstrous violence; a fact of great benefit to his companions, had they known it, for Nilsson was not of a suicidal or even a self-reproaching disposition.

  Now darkness reigned inside
his motionless form. Darkness full of anger and bitterness at the one he had followed and who had betrayed him; at the chain of violence and mayhem that he had forged and that had led him here; at those pursuing him. From this jaun-diced perspective, even the chance turning that had brought him so fortuitously to this valley, with his men on the verge of mutiny, was seen as being little more than his rightful deserts, an ordained reward as acknowledgement of simply the rightness of his being.

  His dead eyes drifted over the scene around him, sullying it even further: scattered tables, overturned chairs, smoking lamps, the whole strewn with uneaten food and splattered with spilled ale and vomit.

  Not even the stacks of produce so easily taken from the village brought a respite to his soured vision. Rather they tarnished it further with their silent implication of effort and toil: assiduous, willing, patiently applied toil to gain a desired and beneficial end.

  He put his head in his hands. The patient, if wary, good nature of Gryss and Garren and the others he had met, the well-tended fields and animals, the well-built and cared-for houses and cottages rose like gorge in his throat.

  All this should be his. Yet he did not want it; knew he could not have it. For though it could be destroyed on a whim it was not such as could be given; it was something derived from within and through years of quiet endeavour.

  He did not want it.

  He could not have it.

  The thoughts circled maliciously, taunting him, seeing themselves and knowing themselves to be both true and false.

  Many sounds drifted through the echoing corridors of the castle that night. Shuffling, restless, creaking, muttering. Men talking, crying, laughing in their stupefied sleep. Men groaning with surfeit. Men disgorging surfeit.

  No one heard the solitary cry that came from the dining hall as Nilsson saw briefly into his own soul.