Farnor ft-1

by Roger Taylor

  ‘Horses, they say,’ Gryss muttered. ‘And it could well be, most of them. But this one…’ He nodded towards the wounded man, whose eyelids were now beginning to flicker. ‘This one’s been wounded by a sword thrust, or a spear. The bone was chipped by a sharp point of some kind. I’ll ask Nilsson when we see him, although I doubt he’ll tell me anything.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Untie him, please, Farnor,’ he said. ‘I’ll need to talk to him when he wakes up properly. I’m afraid he’s not going to enjoy the next few days.’

  Later, as he had promised, Gryss sought out Nilsson and told him what he had done. ‘I’ll have to examine them again every day for some time,’ he concluded.

  Nilsson shook his head. ‘We’ll tend them,’ he said bluntly.

  Gryss seemed about to debate this decision, then he slumped a little and gave a slight shrug. ‘As you wish, Captain,’ he said. ‘They’re your men. But please at least let me tell you how to tend them. The man with the wound in his leg needs particular attention if he’s not going to lose it.’

  Nilsson seemed unconcerned by the news. ‘It’s not much,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen men recover from worse lying in the field.’

  ‘Yes, and you’ve seen men dying screaming and burned up with fever as their limbs rotted on them as well, I’ll wager,’ Gryss said, his voice uncharacteristically savage. ‘But, as I said, they’re your men.’ He turned as if to leave.

  There was a brief flash of anger across Nilsson’s face at this outburst, but it was followed by an equally brief flicker of doubt. ‘Very well,’ he said, in a voice that gave no concession to Gryss’s argument. ‘Come tomorrow. After that, we’ll see.’

  Gryss nodded. ‘I’ll get myself back to my bed, then,’ he said. ‘And Farnor here has to be up early.’ Nilsson gave him a cursory nod, but did not seem inclined to offer the thanks that Gryss’s comment had been designed to elicit. As Gryss reached the wicket, he turned back as if he had just remembered something. ‘Why’ve you no healer of your own, Captain?’ he asked. ‘King’s men ranging the country and far from their home base. You should have been given someone, surely?’

  Nilsson stared at him, then wrenched his thoughts back from the events of the day. Damn this old fool, he thought. But he needed him still. The present pretence must be maintained unless Rannick reappeared and determined otherwise. ‘There were none available at the time we left,’ he said. ‘One of those things. You know the army.’

  ‘No, I don’t, really,’ Gryss admitted. ‘But I’d have thought that someone somewhere would have been ordering affairs better than that. Still, I don’t imagine anyone would be expecting you’d be getting involved in combat, would they?’ He shook his head pensively. ‘Your man’s been lucky. If the point hadn’t struck the bone it could’ve severed a vessel that would have emptied the blood out of him in minutes. How did he come by such a wound?’

  Nilsson smelt the trap coming. Damn this crafty old fool, he reminded himself. ‘It was a training accident,’ he said blandly. ‘These things happen. But that’s a soldier’s lot. As we used to say in my own country, if you can’t stand the cold don’t sit in the snow.’

  ‘It was worth a try,’ Gryss said to Farnor as they walked across the courtyard to their horses. ‘But I suppose he’s used to guarding his tongue, whether he’s a King’s man or one of Marna’s bandits.’

  Farnor ignored the observation. Away from the urgency of his unexpected night journey and the tension of the sick room, his own concerns returned.

  ‘I’ve something I need to tell you when we’re away from the castle,’ he said simply. ‘It’s about all this.’

  Gryss shot him a quick glance, but said nothing.

  As he mounted up, he looked round the courtyard. There was a great deal of activity going on for this time of night, he thought. Though much of it consisted of groups of men talking. And there was an air of… expectancy. As if they were waiting for something.

  Once clear of the castle, Farnor told Gryss what had happened that day as he had been in the work-shed. Gryss listened in silence, and remained so for a long time after he had finished. ‘So many questions,’ he said, half to himself. ‘And there’s no point asking you for more than you’ve already told me, is there?’ He gave Farnor a school-masterly look. Farnor shook his head. He had omitted no details. Gryss reached over and laid a hand on his arm comfortingly. ‘How are you?’ he asked in a voice full of concern.

  ‘Better, I think,’ Farnor replied. ‘A little more pre-pared to wait things out.’ He paused. ‘But I don’t know how long I can stay like this.’

  Gryss patted his arm. ‘You’ll be all right. Having learned to do that, it’ll be with you for as long as you need. That’s the nature of things. You’ll be burdened with no more than you can bear.’

  The next day, his mind full of Farnor’s strange tale and the evidence of panic that could be read in the damage that had been wrought to the injured men, Gryss returned alone to the castle. The rain that had been confined to the upper part of the valley the previous day had moved to occupy the whole of it and, coupled with a blustering wind, made it more like winter than spring.

  There was an almost eerie silence about the castle as Gryss plied his fist to the wicket door. A solitary guard eventually opened it and beckoned him in with a surly grunt.

  Gryss attempted some small talk about the weather as they trudged across the deserted courtyard, but the man merely hitched up his dripping leather cape irritably.

  ‘The sick room’s over there,’ Gryss said, pointing as the man led him in an entirely different direction.

  ‘Captain wants to see you,’ came the reply.

  Gryss knew that asking, ‘What about?’ would yield no answer, so he followed in silence.

  He was, however, beginning to feel increasingly uneasy as the journey took him into a part of the castle that he had not been in before. But it was the stillness pervading the place that was disturbing rather than the place itself. The guard stopped and knocked discreetly on a door.

  There was a reply from within and the guard pushed the door open and ushered Gryss in.

  Though uncarpeted and barely furnished, the room was made almost homely by a large fire burning in an ornately decorated fireplace. Nilsson was seated at a table writing something, while another figure stood with his back to the room gazing out of the window.

  Gryss smiled. ‘I see you’ve found yourself some more comfortable quarters,’ he said. ‘The fire’s wel-come. It’s an unseasonable day today.’

  Nilsson said nothing, but gestured to a chair on the opposite side of the table. Gryss sat down and waited. He cast a covert glance at the man by the window. There was something familiar about him, but he was silhouet-ted against the grey daylight and Gryss could not see him clearly enough to identify him.

  ‘Did any of my patients have any problems in the night?’ he asked the still-writing Captain, hoping for a reply that might enable him to discover more of what had happened to the men. He had no doubt that Farnor had told him the truth about what he had… felt. But…

  Nilsson laid down his pen after a moment. ‘Don’t worry about the men, Gryss,’ he said. ‘We’ll attend to them.’ His manner was easy and casual, but before Gryss could respond it became serious; grim, even. ‘A great many things have changed since last night, and I…we…’ He nodded towards the figure by the window. ‘… are going to need your help in explaining them to the villagers.’

  Gryss frowned. Images of invading armies marching down from the north returned to him again, to displace his immediate worry about the injured men and the mystery of Farnor’s tale. What had these people done with their prying to the north? He brought his attention back to Nilsson sharply. He was still speaking; and hurriedly, as if to get the matter over.

  ‘It’s been decided that the castle here will become a permanent garrison. It’s to become a… training centre… and local headquarters for the army, to help strengthen what has become a very weak north-eastern border.’

&
nbsp; Gryss’s mind reeled. Of the many things he had thought might happen since the arrival of these men, this had not been one.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he blurted out. ‘Why now, all of a sudden? Who’s made this decision? What’s it going to mean to the village…?’

  Nilsson raised a hand for silence. ‘Listen, Gryss,’ he said, a sterner note in his voice. ‘I’ll tell you what I can, but I’m speaking to you now in your capacity as one of the village’s senior elders; probably its most influential. So listen, because you’ll have to explain it to the others. I’ve neither the time nor the inclination to do it myself.’

  With an effort Gryss held back his questions.

  Nilsson continued. ‘The why of all this is neither yours nor mine to question,’ he said. ‘Such decisions are made by the King and his ministers, for whatever reasons they think fit. The who is of no relevance. Suffice it that the order is the King’s and that I’m both obliged and empowered to put it into effect.’

  Despite the admonition however, Gryss could not contain himself. ‘Why didn’t you tell us sooner?’ he interjected, without waiting for the answer to his third question.

  Nilsson scratched his cheek impatiently and his lips slipped back to bare his teeth. ‘Because we didn’t know,’ he said. ‘The tithe had to be collected and certain other matters determined before the decision was finalized.’

  ‘What other matters?’ Gryss demanded.

  The figure by the window stirred. Nilsson shot it a nervous glance then glared at Gryss. ‘Matters which don’t concern you,’ he said bluntly.

  It brought Gryss back to his third question. ‘What’s it going to mean to the village?’ he asked again.

  Nilsson thumbed through some of the papers in front of him. ‘Probably very little,’ he said. ‘Technically you’ll be under military law because of your nearness to the castle, but for the most part that’ll only affect anyone who wants to enter or leave the valley. You can rest assured that we want nothing to do with your routine daily squabbles. You can continue to deal with those as you do at present, providing they don’t interfere with our work here or the security of the valley.’

  Gryss frowned. Few either entered or left the valley so, apparently, this new regime would indeed have little effect. But somewhere deep inside, a part of him rebelled against this unasked-for and unwanted constraint. He held it in check; his head was still spinning with this unwelcome news.

  ‘And you’ll feed the garrison, of course,’ Nilsson added, almost as an afterthought. ‘And supply servants… tradesmen and the like… as they’re needed.’

  Gryss latched on to a practicality to try and calm his confusion. ‘Feed you?’ he queried. ‘How many will there be? We’re only a small village.’

  Nilsson raised his open palms and shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he admitted. ‘But the valley’s big and fertile, much of it lying fallow. I’m sure it’ll present no problems.’

  Gryss put his hand to his head. ‘This is all rather a surprise,’ he said. ‘Not to say a shock. You’ll have to allow me a moment to take it in.’

  ‘I understand,’ Nilsson said, now almost avuncular. ‘But please don’t be too concerned. I’m sure there’ll be virtually no disruption to your village life if everyone does as they’re told. And such few problems as might arise will probably be nothing that can’t be sorted out with a little goodwill and common sense on both sides.’

  Gryss felt the manipulation behind the words, but he also felt suddenly very old. Momentous events were happening which were utterly beyond his control. Beyond even his comprehension, he began to realize. He had the feeling that he was running faster and faster down a hillside that was becoming steeper and steeper, and that soon he would be hurtling over the edge of some abyss.

  The villagers had tended their own affairs for count-less generations without aid from anyone beyond the valley, and they could continue thus for as many generations into the future. They lived simple yet rich lives, living off yet sustaining the fertile land that surrounded them. He knew that the intrusion which Nilsson had just outlined to him would destroy this ancient harmony more effectively than if his men had fired the village, and that such destruction would be tantamount to an atrocity.

  Why? he cried out to himself, but he left it unspo-ken, following Nilsson’s earlier remark. The why, like the who, was indeed irrelevant. He could do nothing. The villagers could do nothing. They were defenceless. Not merely in the matter of having no weapons to oppose such an imposition should they have so chosen, but in their entire outlook and way of thought. Now the isolation that they cherished and fostered had left them with no one to whom they could turn for help and advice. The word cut through him: defenceless. Totally defenceless, save for their wits and their words.

  His mind plummeted into black depths for a seem-ingly interminable moment and he saw that, despite their quiet but proud assumption of freedom, the villagers had always been the merest touch away from slavery, and would have always remained so, until…

  Until…?

  Until it was too late. As now.

  He rebuked himself. There had been no suggestion of such a fate for the village as slavery. What in the world was he thinking about?

  But, suggestion or not, the word would not leave him, and the truth of his revelation about the village’s weakness could not be denied. And though perhaps they were not to be slaves, were they not to be held prisoner? There was a profound difference between choosing not to leave the valley and being forbidden.

  Then Gryss felt a dark tide of guilt overwhelming him.

  He was a senior elder. In many ways the village’s chief guide and adviser. But he had never even turned his mind to the possibility that the world from over the hill would so intrude, even though he had travelled in that world and had learned enough to know that by its nature such a world would intrude everywhere, sooner or later.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Nilsson’s voice made him start. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Just a little… bewildered…’

  Nilsson shrugged again. ‘It’s the way of things,’ he said.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Gryss asked, awk-wardly, after a short pause.

  ‘Just tell your people what’s going to happen,’ Nils-son said, gathering together the papers in front of him. ‘And reconcile them to it,’ he added coldly. ‘Everything can carry on as usual providing anyone who wishes to leave notifies me first.’ He looked at Gryss almost menacingly. ‘That’s important. We’ll be putting a guard post at the end of the valley. Anyone who tries to leave without permission will be punished. Perhaps even killed. Make sure everyone understands that.’

  When Gryss, bowed and fretful, had left, the figure by the window turned to Nilsson.

  It was Rannick, and his face was angry.

  Chapter 23

  Rannick had appeared at the castle in the middle of the night to receive the acclaim of the entire troop following his ‘saving’ of Haral’s group.

  Like Haral, Nilsson had no illusions that the ambush had somehow been arranged by Rannick. But, also like Haral, he had no intention of voicing such an accusa-tion. Whatever he or any of his men might think about Rannick and the fate of Haral’s group, all sensed that Rannick would have to be followed; and that life would be easier, not to say longer, if he were followed willingly rather than otherwise.

  And, chillingly, Nilsson knew now the nature of the strange other presence he had felt at their first encoun-ter: it had been the awesome creature that had hunted and savaged Haral’s group. Rannick’s dreadful familiar had been waiting in the darkness for the command to kill him.

  Struggling to remain composed, he turned to face his angry master as Gryss left the room.

  ‘It irks me to waste such time toying with that old fool,’ Rannick said through clenched teeth. ‘People are like animals, they only truly understand power. And I have power enough, and you men enough, to make the villagers do whatever we need. Don’t let me regret choosin
g you.’

  Nilsson avoided his direct gaze, but watched him carefully. It was essential, he knew, that he obtain a true measure of this man: a complete catalogue of whatever human weaknesses he possessed. But it was proving to be no light ordeal. And this particular conversation had been going on in various forms ever since Rannick had returned.

  It had not taken Nilsson long to find the worm that was gnawing at his new master’s heart. It was oddly disconcerting. Something in Rannick demanded the humiliation and oppression of this valley and its people.

  Bewilderingly to Nilsson, Rannick seemed to have no conception of the consequences of such petty malice against what must necessarily be his home base for some time to come. Nilsson had had to spend a long, difficult and at times terrifying night attempting to persuade him to a more benign subduing of the community.

  ‘It’s troublesome and unnecessary,’ Rannick had averred. ‘I doubt there’s a score of weapons in the whole valley, and I know there’ll be no will to oppose us. We can do what we want, take what we want, with impu-nity.’

  Cautiously, Nilsson had pointed out that while it was possible that a demonstration of force to bring the villagers to their knees might perhaps be achieved without the loss of any of his men, in his experience, ‘Force generally is best avoided, if possible. Chance rides high in such affairs, Lord. Good men get killed. Messengers slip past guards to carry the news abroad. Many things happen other than was intended.’

  Then would follow years of slow, sullen opposition from the apparently defeated villagers, draining the morale of the men and drawing them to use more and more brutal means of control. Means that would turn the surly opposition of the many into the active opposition of a few, and lead in turn to yet bloodier repression and an almost inevitable escape of the news from the valley. ‘It’s a mistake to misjudge both the resolve and the power of execution of the seemingly weak and helpless,’ he had insisted. ‘The absence of weapons is a measure of past folly not a measure of future willingness to fight.’ And there would be fighting enough in due course, if Rannick’s ambitions were to be fulfilled. What was needed now was a secure base from which to operate. And that needed willing workers, or at least keeping workers willing for as long as possible.