Farnor ft-1

by Roger Taylor

  Gryss chuckled. ‘Let’s have a look round,’ he said.

  ‘Suppose he comes back?’ Farnor said, suddenly conscious of what they were doing. Doors were invariably open in the valley, but deliberately nosing around someone’s house was another matter.

  ‘I’ll have plenty to ask him, don’t worry,’ Gryss re-plied tartly, as he headed for the kitchen.

  Farnor followed him about, growing progressively more uneasy.

  ‘There is something… unpleasant… about the place,’ he decided eventually as he retreated from the bedroom. ‘Apart from the general mess and decay. There’s a…’

  The front door of the cottage opened.

  Chapter 17

  Nilsson had little or no recollection of the remainder of his journey back to the castle. It was a swirling mael-strom of fears and doubts, of re-awakened and burning ambition, of elation and black despair, the whole interwoven with long-dead memories risen anew and richly lit by the fire of the promise that had been kindled in him.

  ‘What did you find out, Nils?’

  The question reached out to draw him from his deep preoccupation. He looked at the speaker vacantly for a moment. It was Dessane.

  ‘What did you find out?’ The question came again, Dessane concerned at his leader’s abstractedness. ‘About Rannick?’ he prompted. He stepped back a pace. The light of his torch illuminated both rider and horse. ‘Ye gods!’ he exclaimed. ‘What have you been doing to your horse? It’s in a lather, and it’s petrified.’

  Nilsson ignored the questions but swung slowly down from the horse. His face was still intensely preoccupied and he held up his hand for silence.

  Despite this unspoken injunction, however, Dessane confronted him urgently.

  ‘Nils,’ he hissed. ‘What’s happened? Did you run into trouble in the village?’

  Nilsson’s eyes focused on him eventually. ‘What’s happened, Arven?’ he echoed. ‘A great deal’s happened. Things that were ended are begun again. From tonight we go in a different direction.’

  Dessane scowled in bewilderment at this enigmatic reply. He was half inclined to ask his captain if he had been drinking, but apart from the intrinsic risk in such a question it was patently obvious that he had not. Nilsson when drunk was either dangerously jovial or savagely, coldly, cruel.

  Nilsson ended his quandary for him.

  ‘Tomorrow, Arven,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow. He’ll be here tomorrow, then your questions will be answered.’

  ‘Who? Who’ll be here?’ Dessane asked in frustration. ‘And what questions?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Nilsson repeated. ‘Leave me now. I need to think, to sleep. I’ll need a clear head when he arrives.’

  Dessane opened his mouth to ask, ‘Who?’ again, then gave up. Whatever had affected Nilsson thus, there was no indication of any immediate danger to the group in his behaviour, and it could prove as dangerous to press him in this strange mood as when he was drunk.

  ‘As you wish, Nils,’ he said, taking the reins from the Captain’s hands and stroking the frightened horse. ‘As you wish. I’ll tend your horse for you.’

  But Nilsson made no answer, he was striding pur-posefully away into the darkness.

  The morning did not bring Nilsson the clarity he would have preferred, however. He had spent the remainder of the night tossing and turning fitfully, unable to control the uproar in his mind and, indeed, for much of the time unable to tell whether he was awake and imagining or asleep and dreaming.

  Nevertheless he was quieter and his thoughts were to some extent more ordered when daylight struck through the narrow window and finally lured him, aching, from his bed. The leader in him rose to the fore as he dashed cold water in his face and began to repair some of the ravages to his appearance the fretful night had wrought.

  Had it been a dream?

  No. Beyond a doubt, no. Cautiously he flexed his back and felt the stiffness and bruising of his fall, an all-too-tangible confirmation of the night’s event.

  Had it been some trickery by Rannick? Nilsson had told the truth when he said that he had seen many wondrous things apparently miraculously conjured into existence which transpired to be no more than base trickery by equally base fraudsters.

  Unlikely, a quiet – not to say awed – part of him declared. Apart from some subtle, familiar quality in the man’s very presence, there was the vivid memory of being lifted from his horse and hurled effortlessly through the night at the very moment when his knife should have been ending Rannick’s life.

  That had been the power. He had known and felt it before. And Rannick it had been who had wielded it as he stood there motionless in the darkness.

  And, too, there was that other, sinister, presence that had touched him briefly. Nilsson shivered. That he had not known before, and whatever it had been he had no desire to know it again.

  Yet, though his convictions were more solid in the morning light, his doubts and questions too, were stronger. Where and how could this man have acquired his skills if, as Gryss had said, he had lived in the valley all his life? And how truly adept was he? Nilsson could not begin to answer the first question, and found it impossible to conceive that anyone could have the same awesome ability as his erstwhile lord, but…?

  The schemer and tactician in him began to take control. He would have to watch and measure Rannick’s power; watch and measure his skill in dealing with men; discover and direct to his own ends whatever plans this mysterious valley dweller had. Because, unless he learned more about him, that was all Rannick could be: another valley dweller, presumably simple and unlet-tered. Almost certainly he would be, in some ways, as gullible as the rest of the people here.

  Nilsson ran his wet hands through his hair and drew himself up straight, pleased with his conclusion. Whatever happened today, he must be seen to be in authority either as Rannick’s indisputable second in command or as his executioner. He checked his various knives and, taking out his favourite, tested its edge. He replaced it with a nod of satisfaction. Whatever hint I gave you last night I’ll not give again, he determined. If a thrust is necessary it’ll be after a smile of support, in your back, and fast.

  There was always the possibility, of course, that Rannick would not appear. That presented problems. He could easily fabricate some yarn to explain the previous night’s conduct to Dessane, but future plans would be thrown into confusion.

  He pondered various alternatives. He could post-pone Yeorson and Storran’s second exploration of the valley, but that would cause awkward questions as everyone knew that, sooner or later, they would have to leave here. Or he could send it out as he had intended. But what danger was there in that? Why had Rannick chosen to intercept the first group? It occurred to him suddenly, that it might have been solely for the purpose of kidnapping Meirach, or someone – anyone. And the implications of this? Rannick now knew everything about Nilsson and his men; or at least as much as Meirach knew, and that was enough. Adept or crafty faker, it would give him no small advantage in their future dealings.

  Too many alternatives and too little information for detailed planning, he decided. He must deal with each thing as it happened, as in battle. The strategy, after all, would be no different: first his personal survival, second his best personal interests.

  The morning passed for him in a disjointed, spas-modic manner, punctuated as it was by intervals of unreality as he drifted occasionally into deep reveries, plans and schemes forming and re-forming in his mind while the castle pursued its morning routine.

  Not that there was a great deal of routine to be pur-sued. As usual, those who had risen too late for the communal breakfast made their own or did without. The rest did nothing apart from those detailed to guard the walls and the gate, and those who were preparing to leave with Yeorson and Storran.

  These latter were acting with commendable effi-ciency. Generally callous in their dealings with other than their own, and typically brutal with one another, Nilsson’s men had an almost incongruously chivalro
us horror of abandoning each other and there had been no shortage of volunteers to join the patrol in its search for Meirach.

  Feelings were mixed however, as the tale brought back by the first patrol was told and retold, wilfully exaggerated and embellished, inevitably misunderstood and generally allowed to assume a significance far greater than its original reality. Nilsson, assisted by his aides, poured icy scorn on such of these excesses as reached their ears, but it was obvious that a serious morale problem was developing and would continue to develop unless positive action was taken to stop it.

  Looking down from the castle walls, Nilsson watched the comings and goings of his men. Like eddies in a stream, they had a rhythm and a pattern seemingly full of purpose but with no discernible cause or conclusion. Yet the movement was too fast, too erratic. To his experienced eye, there were ripples present that betokened the onset of a sudden and dangerous flood.

  And, like a flood, a timely intervention would be needed to divert its energies if harm was to be avoided.

  He turned to Dessane. ‘Call a congress,’ he said.

  Dessane stared at him in surprise. ‘Now?’ he asked, eyebrows raised. ‘The patrol will be ready to leave shortly.’

  ‘Now,’ Nilsson confirmed.

  Dessane did as he was bidden. The procedure was simple and devoid of formal ritual. He walked to the stairs that led down to the courtyard and shouted, ‘Congress!’ at the top of his voice.

  The hubbub in the courtyard faltered momentarily before returning with renewed vigour and a quite different character. The cry ‘Congress!’ was taken up by whoever heard it and was soon echoing around the smaller yards of the castle, along corridors and into every inhabited room and hall.

  Within minutes, almost the entire company was gathered in the courtyard gazing expectantly at their leader.

  Nilsson walked slowly down the stairs and stopped on the first landing next to Dessane. Saddre emerged from the crowd and came up the stairs to join him.

  The gathering gradually fell silent.

  ‘I’ll keep this simple, men,’ Nilsson shouted.

  There was a murmur of surprise and almost alarm from the crowd as his voice boomed round the court-yard, magnified many times by some feature in the shape of the walls or quality in the stonework.

  ‘You can keep it quieter too,’ someone shouted, to general laughter.

  Nilsson smiled and acknowledged the jest with a wave of his hand. That was useful; the laughter alone would remove much of the tension that had built up.

  He lowered his voice and found that it carried ade-quately over the entire courtyard.

  ‘I’ll keep this simple,’ he said again. ‘I’ve been hear-ing some rare tales this morning.’ He exaggerated, mockingly. ‘Tales of fire-breathing warlocks invading our campfire. Tales of monsters wakened from their ancient sleep to snatch away our men and devour our horses.’ He shook his head and laughed. ‘For months we’ve lived hand to mouth, scratching the meagrest living from this country. Now we find this cosy billet, with shelter made for us and food thrust upon us, and what happens? You’ve so little to do you begin to rave.’

  He did not wait for a response but shouted, ‘Now!’ and clapped his hands together loudly. It had the effect he had desired, as the noise boomed back off the walls, startling all present.

  He continued without pause, his voice normal again. ‘We can tolerate such children’s tales for a little while, but no longer. What we have is an injured, perhaps feverish man who’s wandered off into the forest and a horse killed probably by a small pack of wild dogs. Just that. Nothing more. No irate locals marching out on the hue and cry, no groups of mercenaries, no so-called bandits looking to ambush us. One lost man and a wild dog or two.’

  Delivered with a carefully judged measure of scorn and fatherly amusement, the brief speech brought the gathering to foot shuffling hesitation almost immedi-ately.

  ‘What about Rannick?’ someone ventured, though not too loudly.

  What about him indeed? Nilsson thought. Time to prepare the ground for his coming… or his not coming as the case should prove.

  ‘A local character,’ he replied with a dismissive shrug. ‘That’s all.’ He paused, then continued, ‘Though from what I’ve heard there may be more to him than meets the eye. On the whole, I think we’ll benefit more from his friendship and local knowledge than from his enmity. He’s to be treated well if those of you going out on patrol come across him. Give him every courtesy and my best wishes and tell him he’s welcome to visit the castle and sup with us whenever he wants to.’

  Yeorson and Storran were standing a little way up the first flight of stairs. Nilsson nodded to them significantly to confirm this change from his earlier orders. Then he put his hands on his hips and moved towards the edge of the landing. His presence filled the courtyard.

  ‘I’ll tell you this, men,’ he said. ‘No idle chance brought us here. My guts tell me that we’re at the start of something new: something big. Something that’ll mean an end to our looking over our shoulders all the time.’ He paused to let this unfamiliar optimism seep into his listeners. ‘Whatever it proves to be, I want us to be ready for it. Opportunities don’t come to people who aren’t ready to seize them. We’re banded together by common consent, but we’re still soldiers so let’s behave like it. Those of you who’re going out on patrol, put your best face to it. No moaning, no malingering. Those of you who’re staying here, get yourselves and this place cleaned up. Check your weapons, check your kit, check your horses. Check everything that needs to be checked for us to begin a new beginning.’

  Some of the men were actually open-mouthed at this declamation but the balance of the gathering was beginning to show marked signs of enthusiasm for Nilsson’s new vision. Before any of them could mar it with injudicious questions however, he raised his hand.

  ‘No questions, men,’ he said with a knowing look to indicate that he knew more than he could say at the moment. ‘Not yet. Our first job is to find Meirach and look to his needs, our second is to find out what lies to the north and our third is to get this place operational. Let’s have all efforts directed to those ends.’

  He stepped back and dismissed the congress. One or two camp-fire lawyers amongst the men muttered that a congress was only supposed to be held when an important decision was to be made, and that such a decision should be made by acclamation after a free discussion. But the mood of the meeting was too buoyant for their grumblings to be listened to, and they held their peace.

  Nilsson smiled to himself as the meeting dispersed. He motioned to Yeorson and Storran and they joined him on the landing.

  ‘I can’t tell you everything yet,’ he said, quietly, ‘but I don’t want any misunderstanding. If you come across Rannick, then do as I ask. Give him every courtesy and tell him he’s welcome here, as I said. Do you under-stand?’

  Both men nodded, though with some reserve. ‘Some of the men won’t be happy,’ Yeorson said. ‘They think he was responsible for Meirach getting burned.’

  The anger in Nilsson’s voice was barely concealed. ‘I appreciate it’s a change of direction,’ he said. ‘But it is necessary. I don’t even want him put on the wrong end of anyone’s tongue, let alone their knife. Explain it to the men in whatever fashion you feel’s most effective, but warn them that if they seek to deal with him in their own way in the hope that they can leave him dumped in the undergrowth somewhere, I’ll know about it and the consequences for them will be singularly unpleasant.’

  There being nothing else to be discussed after this lucid exposition, the two men left. As they walked down the stone steps Dessane moved closer to Nilsson, drawing Saddre with him. ‘Do you mind telling us what’s going on?’ he said. ‘All this talk about a new beginning. And what the devil happened to you last night? When you came back you looked like…’

  A loud banging on the castle gate interrupted him.

  * * * *

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘What a
re you doing here, is more to the point, Far-nor. You’ve gone as white as a sheet.’

  ‘You frightened the daylights out of me, bursting in like that,’ Farnor protested vehemently, his face colouring red as quickly as it had blanched.

  ‘And you frightened the daylights out of me, jump-ing like that, you ninny,’ Marna countered fiercely.

  ‘Ninny?’ Farnor’s jaw jutted.

  Gryss interposed himself between the two antago-nists. ‘We were looking for Rannick, Marna,’ he said. ‘We haven’t seen him for quite a time and were getting worried. What have you come here for?’

  Marna’s truculence faded. ‘The same,’ she said.

  ‘Since when have you been interested in Rannick?’ Farnor taunted.

  Marna rounded on him. ‘For mercy’s sake, Farnor, don’t be so…’ She flailed about for a word. ‘Dense,’ she decided, after considering several less charitable alternatives. ‘I’ve no great liking for the man, but he doesn’t normally disappear for this length of time, does he? He could be lying injured somewhere, for all we know. Ye gods, we’d be more bothered about a missing sheep! I came here because I thought I should…’ She shrugged her shoulders and her anger fizzled out. ‘… do something.’

  Gryss gave Farnor a look of amused reproach, but Farnor could only manage one of injured indignation.

  ‘You put us both to shame, Marna,’ Gryss said, put-ting a hand on her arm. ‘But I think I can set your mind at rest, or at least partly so. Apparently some of the gatherers met Rannick when they were exploring up past the castle.’

  Marna’s eyes widened. ‘Past the castle!’ she ex-claimed, in some alarm. ‘What was he doing up there?’

  Gryss shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘But I think perhaps you needn’t concern yourself about him any more. At least he’s not lying hurt somewhere, and if he’s survived this long he’s not going to starve to death.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Marna said. ‘I needn’t have bothered then, need I?’ She gave an awkward little smile. Gryss was about to commend her again for her concern when she frowned and wrinkled her nose. The state of the room had begun to impinge on her. ‘This place is disgusting,’ she announced. ‘I’ve seen cleaner stables.’