by Roger Taylor
‘So we must confine ourselves to simple practicali-ties,’ he went on. ‘You two will take another patrol north tomorrow. Same men as before and as many again.’
Dismay filled Yeorson’s face and Storran’s eyes became smaller than ever at this news, but Nilsson ignored their silent protest.
‘You’ll tell the men you’re going out again to do two, maybe three, things,’ he continued. ‘You’re going to find Meirach who’s probably sick. You’re perhaps going to hunt the animal that killed the horse but mainly you’re going to get through the valley and see what lies to the north.’ He stood up and, resting on the table, he loomed over the two men as ominously as the great rock face had done earlier that same day. ‘And get through you will, if you’ve got to cut down every tree that stands in your way.’
‘What about this Rannick?’ Yeorson asked.
‘If you come across him deal with him as the fancy takes you,’ Nilsson replied. ‘But don’t leave any evidence that could cause problems back here; the silence of these villagers is important. It’s as good as having a regiment guarding our rear.’ He levelled an emphatic finger at the two men. ‘And don’t waste any time searching for him. You’ve more pressing matters to attend to than chasing some village oaf who’s probably safely back in his hovel by now.’
Nilsson’s tone precluded any further debate and the two men rose to leave just as Saddre entered the room.
‘They look less than pleased,’ he said, as the door closed behind them.
‘How are the men?’ Nilsson asked, disregarding the comment.
Saddre scratched his cheek. ‘Not good,’ he said. ‘No one’s happy about Meirach being left, especially with this horse-killing animal on the loose.’
Nilsson nodded. ‘And?’ he prompted, detecting re-luctance in Saddre’s voice.
‘And this Rannick seems to have… unsettled them,’ Saddre said, eventually.
‘In what way?’ Nilsson asked.
Saddre’s eyes moved about the room almost frantic-ally. ‘Some of them say he reminds them of…’ He stopped and his eyes finally came to rest on Nilsson’s in mute appeal. Nilsson did not press him.
Very quietly, but with that menacing purpose that had made him the leader of these men, he reached out to calm this seething unease and to crush any rebellion before it found shape.
‘I will attend to Rannick myself,’ he said.
* * * *
Garren Yarrance looked up in surprise as the sound of the dogs in the yard reached him. The insistence of their barking told him that someone was coming.
Farnor, however, was first to the door, throwing it open and stepping out into the yard almost before Garren could hoist himself from his comfortable chair.
He ordered the dogs to silence as the shape of a horseman appeared at the gate. The barking fell to a rumbling growling.
‘It’s the Captain,’ Farnor said to his father, who was standing in the lighted doorway.
The rider was leaning forward and struggling with the latch on the gate. ‘I’ll do it for you,’ Garren called, striding forward. ‘It’s a little awkward until you get the knack of it, and that’s a big horse you’re on.’
‘It’s all right,’ Nilsson shouted back, abandoning his task. ‘I was only calling on you to find out where Gryss lives.’
‘I’ll show you,’ Farnor said, before his father could speak. ‘I’ll come with you if you want. It’ll be difficult for you at night.’
Nilsson hesitated for a moment then looked inquir-ingly at Garren.
‘It will be easier in the dark if he’s with you,’ Garren said. ‘Have you someone sick again?’
Nilsson, taken aback by this unexpected concern, frowned before almost stammering out, ‘No… I need to talk to him about… a tithe matter.’
‘So late?’ Garren remarked, with undisguised sur-prise.
Nilsson managed a smile. ‘I’m used to city hours,’ he said.
Garren chuckled. ‘Gryss isn’t,’ he said.
Nilsson gave an apologetic shrug. ‘We’ve a lot to do, I’m afraid.’
Farnor clambered over the gate.
‘Get on behind me, boy,’ Nilsson said, anxious to avoid further conversation.
Farnor did as he was bidden, rather self-consciously putting his arms around the big man for support. Seeing his son’s embarrassment Garren chuckled again, but Nilsson allowed him no time to give his amusement voice; with a wave of acknowledgement he pulled his horse’s head around and urged it forward into the darkness.
The journey to Gryss’s cottage passed in silence except for Farnor’s occasional instructions. Not that that distressed Farnor in any way. Being seated astride this horse, which like all the gatherers’ horses was larger than any that had ever been seen in the valley, and hanging on to a King’s man, more than compensated for the slight of being referred to as ‘boy’.
For a while he imagined himself galloping over the rolling valley fields on the great horse in search of bold adventures. But rather to his annoyance it soon palled, causing him to muse ruefully that his imaginings of late seemed to have less power, to hold less interest for him, since…
Since when?
Since little more than two or three weeks ago, he realized quite suddenly. Not since his encounter with Rannick had he found the old excitement in his daydreams.
He felt the patient, powerful movement of the horse beneath him carrying him relentlessly on.
I must be growing up, he thought. The notion caught him unawares and, surreptitiously, he glanced from side to side into the darkness as if concerned that some unseen eavesdropper might have mysteriously caught wind of this uncomfortable admission.
‘What’s the matter?’ Nilsson asked.
Farnor started. How could this man have noticed such a slight movement?
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘We’re nearly there.’ He leaned to one side and pointed to a light shining through the trees. ‘That’s it, over there.’
The light came from a small lantern that, like most of the valley dwellers, Gryss lit every night. The origins of the practice had long passed from memory. Certainly the lights were rarely of any value as anyone who was likely to be about at night tended to carry his own small sunstone lantern. Farnor, in fact, found the practice annoying. Living away from the village, he was used to walking about in the darkness, and the presence of bright lights destroyed his night vision. As far as he was concerned, they obscured more than they illuminated.
As Nilsson drew his horse to a halt, Farnor slithered down and walked to the door of the cottage. Nilsson dismounted and followed him. At the door Farnor tugged on the iron ring. The small bell tinkled cheer-fully.
Then the ring was taken from his hand. He released it without any resistance but turned, curious. Nilsson was examining the ring intently. But his face was a mask: its heavy lines etched so deeply by the light of the lantern that it seemed as though the night itself had carved them.
A surprised and slightly indignant bark from the other side of the door forestalled any questions that Farnor might have been considering and, almost immediately, the door was opened.
‘Where did you get this ring from, old man?’
Nilsson’s question was asked abruptly, and none too pleasantly. Farnor looked at him sharply, shocked by this unexpected rudeness.
‘Good evening, Captain, Farnor,’ Gryss said, wilfully courteous. ‘What brings you here so late? One of your men sick? Someone injured?’ He leaned forward. ‘You look a little pale yourself, actually.’
Nilsson seemed to recollect himself. He made no apology for his sudden question but he gently lowered the ring so that the bell did not sound. The dog barked again however.
‘No,’ Nilsson said, a little awkwardly. ‘I…’
‘Do come in, Captain,’ Gryss said, cutting across the hesitation. Nilsson stooped unnecessarily as he stepped into the cottage. Uncertain what was expected of him, Farnor followed and quietly closed the door.
‘I bought the ring many years ago
from a trader when I was away over the hill,’ Gryss said with forced amiability as he shuffled down the hallway. ‘Have you seen something like it before? I’d be interested to know where it came from.’
‘No, no,’ Nilsson said hastily, as he narrowly avoided tripping over the dog which was lumbering along in front of him. ‘It just… caught my eye.’
Gryss nodded and grunted but did not pursue the matter.
He led Nilsson into the back room and offered him the wicker chair opposite his own. Nilsson, however, sat down on the bench by the long table and leaned forward on to his folded arms. Farnor hovered in the doorway, seemingly forgotten by both men.
Gryss settled himself into his chair then looked at Nilsson purposefully.
‘How can I help you, Captain?’ he asked.
Nilsson was direct. ‘Do you know a man called Ran-nick?’
Farnor’s attention sharpened.
‘Yes,’ Gryss replied.
‘Tell me about him,’ Nilsson said, straightening up and looking at the old man directly.
‘Is he in trouble?’ Gryss asked.
‘He might be.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘Just tell me about him,’ Nilsson persisted.
Gryss shrugged. ‘There’s nothing much to tell,’ he said. ‘He’s a general… labourer, I suppose you’d call him. Has a cottage just outside the village and a small piece of land, which he assiduously neglects. He earns his keep by doing odds and ends about the place. He’s capable enough when the mood takes him. Very intelligent, I suspect. But he’s got a surly, not to say downright unpleasant disposition. Seems to think that someone owes him a living. He’s not one of the most popular people in the valley.’ He paused briefly then repeated his question. ‘What’s he done?’
Nilsson again did not answer. ‘Can you show me where he lives?’ he asked instead.
‘Certainly,’ Gryss replied. ‘But he’s not there at the moment, nor has been for the last few weeks.’
A flicker of annoyance passed over Nilsson’s face. ‘Where can I find him then?’ he asked.
Gryss leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said. ‘Rannick often disappears for days, sometimes weeks, on end. No one knows where he goes, no one asks.’
‘And no one cares, I gather,’ Nilsson added.
Gryss nodded. ‘If you’ll tell me why you’re interested in him I might be able to help in some way,’ he offered.
Nilsson thought for a moment. ‘Some of my men met him when they were exploring the valley beyond the castle,’ he said. ‘They were concerned about him.’
Gryss could not keep the surprise from his voice. ‘They met him to the north of the castle?’ he said, his eyes wide with surprise, yet oddly piercing.
‘Some considerable way to the north,’ Nilsson re-plied, watching Gryss carefully.
The old man shook his head. ‘I can’t think what he was doing up there,’ he said. ‘As far as I know, no one from the valley has been beyond the castle within living memory.’ He gave Nilsson a stern look. ‘But it’s no crime to wander the countryside as far as I’m aware. Why should he be in trouble?’
Nilsson seemed to be taken unawares by this ques-tion. His answer was hesitant. ‘There’s some kind of vicious animal out there,’ he said awkwardly. ‘A large dog gone wild, I imagine. Or perhaps a pack. We lost one of our horses to it.’
Standing behind him, half in the room and half in the hallway, Farnor felt his insides go cold. The memory of his contact with the creature that had been worrying the sheep had faded since the abandoning of the night watch and he had deliberately turned his thoughts away from it, though it lay in the background of his life like a storm cloud on a far horizon. Now, however, in the wake of Nilsson’s words it returned in all its horror and the storm clouds were dark and ominous, and overhead. For a moment he felt nauseous and dizzy. He steadied himself against the door jamb.
‘A horse?’ Gryss gasped, lurching upright in his chair. ‘You had a horse killed?’ He was almost shouting. ‘Whatever killed our sheep was big, but… a horse!’ He stared at Nilsson, genuinely alarmed. ‘And you think Rannick’s up there, in the same area as this… crea-ture?’
Nilsson waved the question aside almost irritably.
‘Is there something strange about Rannick?’ he asked abruptly, blurting out the question.
Farnor stood very still.
‘Strange?’ Gryss queried, momentarily taken aback.
Nilsson shifted uneasily on the bench. ‘Has he any unusual… skills? Ways with… animals, people? Anything…?’ He left the word hanging.
Gryss’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not that I’ve ever seen,’ he replied straightforwardly. ‘But I don’t really know what you mean. Rannick’s an awkward and unpopular character. The kind of man who lives in bitterness and who dies miserable and alone or on the end of some-one’s sword through a quarrel he’s provoked. That’s all I can tell you.’
Nilsson looked as if he had further questions to ask, but he remained silent.
Gryss watched him closely. ‘I did caution you that the valley to the north has an evil reputation,’ he said. ‘Maybe old women’s tales, maybe not. But has anything happened up there that might bring problems to the rest of us here in the valley?’
Farnor, his unease persisting grimly, tightened his grip on the door jamb, as Nilsson stood up suddenly. His bulk dominated the room and ended any further debate.
‘No,’ he said bluntly. ‘Nothing’s happened that con-cerns you, but I do need to find this Rannick. Will you show me where he lives?’
Farnor shrank back into the hallway. What had begun as a small excitement, escorting this king’s man through the night, had abruptly begun to turn into a nightmare, and his dominant wish now was to return home in the hope that the resurgent memories would once again fade away.
‘He won’t be there,’ Gryss said.
‘Nevertheless,’ Nilsson insisted.
‘Whatever you wish,’ Gryss said, standing up with a disclaiming wave of his hands. ‘I’ll show you with pleasure.’
As the trio emerged from the cottage, Gryss issued his customary command, ‘stay’, to his sleeping dog, and gave Farnor’s arm a sustaining squeeze. Catching his eye, he flicked a glance towards Nilsson’s back and raised his forefinger to his lips. Farnor nodded an acknowledgement. He had had no intention of saying anything anyway, but Gryss’s silent injunction was comforting.
‘It’s not far,’ Gryss said, as Nilsson made to untether his horse. ‘We can walk.’
Rannick’s cottage was a countryman’s ‘not far’ how-ever, and it took them some time to reach the narrow, twisting lane that led to it. The lane was bounded by overgrown hedges. Long brambles snaked out of the undergrowth to catch on clothes, and branches hung low brushing the heads of the passers-by. Gryss’s lantern threw a tunnel of light through the darkness that was brought alive by the moths and night insects dancing in it. The odd small animal scuttled away in a flurry and, beyond the light, tiny bright green or red eyes occasionally shone briefly and then blinked out.
Nilsson swore softly as a large bramble tangled in his long coat.
‘Rannick’s neglect, I’m afraid,’ Gryss said. He looked regretful. ‘He could have done very nicely out of this little plot if he’d wanted, but…’ He let out a small sigh and left the sentence unfinished.
Eventually they reached a gate at the end of the path. Like the path, it bore signs of long neglect and as Gryss tried to open it it slipped from his hand and fell over with a weary groan. He shook his head as he stepped over it. The small garden it led into was as overgrown as the path.
‘Mind where you put your feet,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t like to hazard what might be lying about under this lot.’
He held up his lantern and the light from it illumi-nated the cottage. The thatched roof was battered and dishevelled, the walls were stained where rainwater had seeped through the thatch and run down them. One window was crudely boarded up while the others
, and the door, were unpainted and obviously rotten.
Nilsson picked up a stick and began beating aside the straggling plants that were growing across the remains of a once ornamental path that led to the door. Reaching it, he struck it violently with the edge of his clenched fist.
The sound fell flat in the dense foliage of the garden.
There was no reply.
‘He’s not there,’ Gryss said with some impatience.
Nilsson tried the latch. The door swung open. He stepped back hastily as if suspecting an ambush. ‘It’s not locked,’ he whispered to Gryss.
‘Why should it be?’ Gryss asked, moving past him and going into the cottage. Nilsson followed.
‘Rannick,’ Gryss shouted. ‘It’s Gryss. There’s some-one wants to see you.’
Again there was no reply. ‘I told you,’ Gryss said. ‘He’s not here.’
Nilsson began wandering around the cottage, casu-ally inspecting the many odds and ends that were littered about. Farnor, who had discreetly followed the two men inside, felt an unexpected sense of outrage at this intrusion, though at the same time he felt reassured by the substantial presence of this soldier amid the unpleasant aura that pervaded Rannick’s home.
And there was something unpleasant about it, he decided. Something other than the dirt and squalor. Something… Gryss’s word for Rannick’s family came back to him. Something tainted.
He stayed near the door.
Abruptly Nilsson wrapped his arms about himself and shivered. He muttered something in his own language and then, without further comment, strode out of the cottage and across the garden. Gryss and Farnor followed hastily.
Nilsson did not speak as they walked back to Gryss’s cottage, other than to issue a terse command to the effect that if Rannick was seen he was to be detained.
‘Detained!’ Gryss exclaimed. ‘I can’t do that, I ha-ven’t…’ He flapped his arms ‘… the authority.’
‘You’ve mine now,’ Nilsson said starkly. ‘See it’s done. And send me word at once.’
Gryss did not argue, but his posture as they walked on showed that he was deeply disturbed.
‘I’ve some work needs doing tomorrow, Farnor,’ he said as Farnor clambered up on to Nilsson’s horse. ‘If your father can spare you first thing?’
