Farnor ft-1

by Roger Taylor

  Rannick had not appreciated being contradicted, but Nilsson had managed to persist. ‘If we can gently constrain the villagers as we build up our strength, then they’ll soon become used to us. And by the time they find out we’re not who we say we are – if they find out – they’ll be divided in their opinions about us. That’ll give us even greater strength to deal with such of them as wish to object.’ He had concluded, ‘Arbitrary violence against them now would be to foul your own nest; mar at the outset the future that is your destiny. There’ll be little joy in their abasement if your greater intent is spoiled because of it. And does it matter whether they know of your greatness now or later? Isn’t there an added relish to be gained in watching them doing your will without them realizing it? In watching them become your grovelling lackeys rather than your cowed slaves?’

  In the end he had succeeded, although Rannick’s displeasure and dissatisfaction still rumbled danger-ously close to the surface. And, though he kept it from his face, Nilsson was as pleased as he was relieved at this outcome. If Rannick accepted his guidance now, it would help entrench him further as his closest aide and thus, in due course, greatly increase his rewards and his own personal power. It was good.

  The night, however, had been draining, and Nilsson now searched desperately for a reply to this renewed complaint; one that might end this debate once and for all. Then, suddenly, he felt afraid. A warning voice came from within: leave it – leave it alone – you’ve been lucky so far. Who knows what drives such a man as this? Who knows what powers he possesses? To be of value to him was one thing, but the slightest hint that he was dependent on you and…

  ‘Master, I can say no more than I have,’ he said with carefully modulated humility. ‘Your will is my com-mand. I am but your servant.’

  The anger faded from Rannick’s face, though the unreadable, cold impassiveness that replaced it was, if anything, more frightening. He nodded then turned back to the window.

  Despite himself, Nilsson fidgeted nervously with the papers on the table in front of him.

  There was a long silence.

  Then Rannick was behind him.

  Nilsson tried to react naturally, but he felt his body stiffening in anticipation of some act of violence. The memory of his first encounter with Rannick and the ease with which he had been hurled from his saddle was still vividly with him. And older memories of the use of the power rose to chill him further.

  A hand closed about his shoulder. Nilsson took a slow, deep breath. Then, to his horror, he found he could not breathe out. His fingers curled claw-like, nails squealing along the wooden table. Rannick’s hand patted his shoulder affectionately.

  ‘Destroying the village is more the province of you and your men than mine, is it not, Captain?’ Rannick said softly. ‘Some other time, then.’

  Abruptly, Nilsson breathed out, though it was as if the air had been torn from him rather than released by his own need. He slumped forward, gasping as if he had burst through the surface of some deep and drowning lake. His face almost struck the table. Through the sound of his pounding heartbeat and rasping breath, he heard Rannick’s voice, now low and resonating, like something from the echoing bowels of a great pit.

  ‘Good…’ it said.

  * * * *

  Gryss rode away from the castle in a daze. His mind was in turmoil. He gazed down the valley. Grey sheets of rain were swirling across it, so that familiar landmarks came and went, their ancient solidity now made ephemeral.

  The scene echoed his own tumbling thoughts and feelings: bewilderment, defiance, anger, despair and, ever-present, guilt.

  He let the reins hang slack, though his hands were gripping them tightly.

  ‘Grief,’ he heard himself say after a long, timeless interval. Rain ran into his mouth.

  That’s what it was.

  ‘Grief.’

  Through his long life he had seen many die includ-ing, inevitably, many that he had loved. And he recognized the symptoms he was suffering from. Grief. Grief for the sudden, almost brutal, loss of a precious thing. He guided his horse to a small headland and stopped there. Looking back, he saw the castle. Once no more than part of the landscape, old and affectionately familiar, it seemed now to be new and utterly different, alive with menace and threat. And in the other direction the valley came and went under the shifting curtains of rain.

  Like tears, he thought.

  He knew only too well that his distress would have to run its course. Grief was an incurable condition. Time and release alone would ease it.

  And yet, that very thought seemed to clear his mind. This was not a death; no one had been lost. This was change, and he could either beat his breast about it or make the best of it. He turned his face towards the grey sky. Despite the rain falling on him, he felt a little easier.

  Perhaps after all it was more self-indulgence than true grief he was feeling. He abandoned the debate. It was of no real importance. What was important was this brief time alone. It would at least give him the chance to begin to come to terms with what had happened and to clarify how it could best be presented to the villagers.

  A tinge of humour entered the cold grey of his thoughts. The Council meeting that he would have to call would be very interesting.

  The humour did not survive long, however, as he tried to anticipate what the various responses of his fellow Councillors would be, and then he heard the question that would be asked by someone who was not a Council member: Marna.

  ‘How do we know they’re not just bandits?’ she would ask.

  He patted his horse’s neck. Foolishness, he thought. But his denial was not as convincing as he would have wished. Marna’s observations about the appearance and conduct of Nilsson’s men were accurate, and – some-thing that had not occurred to Marna, yet – Gryss had to concede that he had seen no document identifying them as who they claimed to be.

  He grimaced with self-reproach.

  And then there was the suddenness of this decision to use the castle as a permanent garrison. Hitherto there had been not the slightest mention of such a develop-ment. Now, following what, according to Farnor, had been some fearful confrontation in the woods with… that creature… and defeat by it, they suddenly decide that they’ll stay here.

  Unable to leave to the north, unwilling for some reason to leave to the south, they’ve got to remain, he thought suddenly.

  He stared back at the castle, his concerns now dou-bled. Who were these men?

  He could turn his horse about and ask, of course, but the very thought made his stomach tighten with fear. Nilsson might simply produce some document of authorization.

  But he might not, and then what?

  A knife in his ribs? And, all pretence set aside, the village open and defenceless against whatever Nilsson and his men might then choose to do? Gryss knew the villagers could not stand against such a crew. Yet there was some comfort in this thought. If they were other than the King’s gatherers, they wished it to remain unknown. They had reasons of their own for remaining quiet and secret. Gryss felt some relief. Such reasoning would legitimately excuse him from the direct approach he had just contemplated.

  Yet what was he to say to the Council?

  He wiped the rain from his face. His every instinct was to tell them of his doubts, but what end would be served by that? There would be a rare commotion as it was and, despite any pleas for discretion, the idea would not only be all over the valley within the day, it would be grievously misrepresented; quite stripped of any subtle reservations he might have included in his telling. And who could say what the consequences of that might be? And, too, he could not avoid the feeling that, Marna having voiced her doubts, the same thoughts might be lying unspoken in many hearts, just waiting for the slightest encouragement to bring them noisily to the fore.

  But he could not stay silent. Encouraging the people to submit to the will of these men who might be…

  Might be what?

  It was the word ‘might’ on
which his thinking foun-dered.

  Apart from confronting Nilsson personally, the only other way to resolve this was for someone to go over the hill. To go to the capital and the King’s palace and seek out some official who could confirm, or otherwise, the credentials of these men.

  But who could be sent on such an errand? Who, with sufficient wit to find the way, to contend with the difficult journey and to make the necessary inquiries, could be sent without their absence also being noticed about the village within the day?

  No one.

  Gryss clicked his horse forward again. He would compromise. He could do nothing else. He would give the Council a simple statement, without comment, relating what he had been told by Nilsson. But when the meeting was over he would voice his doubts to the few that he could rely on.

  Garren, certainly. Yakob too. And Jeorg? He pon-dered this. Jeorg was not a Councillor and he was pugnacious and outspoken when he chose, but he was reliable and trustworthy if handled correctly. Then there was Harlen, Marna’s father. Again this was debatable. Harlen was good-natured and easy-going, a gentle man. Should he be burdened thus? Yet he was shrewd and patient, given to thinking before he spoke – a rare trait. And too, Marna had already been drawn into events more deeply than Gryss would willingly draw any of his other chosen confidants, and it was not inconceivable that she would be drawn in further. Harlen should be at least aware that matters were amiss. And though, like Jeorg, he was not a Councillor he could reasonably be invited to the meeting as an observer. Other names came to mind, equally appropriate. Reliable, sensible men. But too many, he realized. It would be best if his worries were shared by as few as possible. He would confine it to those four.

  And Farnor and Marna. It was more imperative than ever now that Marna be told to keep her doubts about Nilsson’s men to herself. He would seek an opportunity to meet both Marna and Farnor soon. In fact today, he decided; before the Council meeting.

  Farnor, however, had made a prior decision of his own. Somewhat to his surprise, he had slept well and risen early. He had woken with a clear resolve in his mind and had finished his morning tasks with un-wonted speed, though carefully avoiding his father’s attention lest more be found.

  He had then slipped away and sought out Marna.

  Thus it was that the two of them ambushed Gryss as he returned from the castle.

  ‘You’re soaked,’ were Marna’s first words as she and Farnor stepped out of the shelter of a large tree. ‘Why on earth didn’t you put your hood up?’

  Taken aback by her sternly maternal manner, Gryss found himself gaping. Reflexively he began an excuse, ‘I…’ but it faltered before her gaze and other reflexes sent him running to another male for sanctuary.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, turning to Farnor. ‘Has anything else happened?’

  ‘No,’ Farnor replied. ‘I told Marna about yesterday and last night and she insisted on coming to talk to you about it.’

  Awkwardly Gryss dismounted. ‘How did you know where I was?’ he asked.

  ‘I saw you riding past earlier,’ Farnor replied off-handedly. Then, anxiously, he returned Gryss’s own question. ‘Has anything happened during the night?’

  Gryss frowned. Marna was correct, he was soaked, and cold, and, insofar as he had thought about it at all, this was not how he would have preferred to meet these two to explain the latest developments. However, the chance having arisen, nothing was to be gained by delay. Besides, he could use the two of them to send out notice of the emergency Council meeting for tonight.

  ‘Walk with me to my cottage,’ he said. ‘I’ve a lot to tell you.’

  * * * *

  As Gryss had surmised, the Council meeting was indeed, ‘interesting’. Full Council meetings were rare affairs, and not noted for their strict formality at the best of times. This one, at what was probably the worst of times – certainly within anyone’s memory – proved to be almost continuous uproar.

  Throughout, however, Gryss gave no indication of his doubts about Nilsson and his men, and was relieved when none was raised by anyone else. The discussion rambled freely and at length over a great many topics, all of which were repeated several times by different individuals and most of which were quite irrelevant. Deliberately, Gryss made no real effort to control the meeting, deeming it better that the effects of the first shock on the leaders of the community be well aired within the tiny Council Hall before being announced publicly. He was also anxious to avoid the development of any serious, coherent thought.

  It was thus some considerable time before any sem-blance of a conclusion appeared, though, inevitably, it was quite simple when it did.

  ‘Well, I suppose there’s nothing we can do about it,’ they agreed.

  Gryss nodded sagely, hoping that he had at last finished repeating his tale. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘It was announced to me and I’ve announced it to you.’ He sought finally to allay once again the predominant fear that had been expressed. ‘The Captain did say he’d no interest in our local affairs and that he expected us to continue as normal. I suppose as matters develop, he’ll let us know what he wants in the way of supplies or helpers. I’m sure we’ll be able to work together with a little goodwill and common sense.

  Eventually the meeting broke up and the Council members dispersed to their homes, carrying with them the last rumbling echoes of the debate. Discreetly, and separately, during this scattering, Gryss dispatched Garren, Yakob, Jeorg and Harlen to his cottage on one pretext or another.

  Thus, after being met at the door by his dog wearing the indignant expression of one sorely taxed, he was greeted by a puzzled quartet of friends waiting in his back room.

  ‘I’m sorry for the small deception,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that I needed to talk to you away from the others.’

  The puzzled expressions turned to concern at this strange admission, and the concern in turn deepened as Gryss added his own doubts to the tale he had told and retold several times to the assembled Councillors.

  Unlike the full Council, his listeners were silent when he had finished speaking, with the exception of Jeorg who swore softly under his breath.

  ‘Grim thoughts, Gryss,’ Garren said at last. ‘What prompted them?’

  Gryss shrugged. He had made no mention of Farnor and the creature, nor of Marna’s involvement. His friends had enough to contend with as it was. ‘They’ve been brewing for some time, I think,’ he lied. ‘Treating those injured men last night and the shock of Nilsson’s news suddenly seemed to bring them to the fore.’ He looked down. ‘I feel very responsible for not finding out who they were in the first place.’

  Yakob, a tall, dignified man, always smartly dressed and, in many ways the very antithesis of Gryss, laid his hand on Gryss’s arm. ‘Don’t reproach yourself,’ he said. ‘If there’s blame to be allocated, then we’re all at fault. We were so surprised to see them at first, then so concerned about our precious tithe, that it never occurred to any of us to ask them for credentials.’

  Nodding heads around the small circle confirmed this conclusion.

  ‘It’s perhaps as well we didn’t ask,’ Jeorg said. ‘If they’re not what they seem they might have turned on us right away.’

  ‘I think Gryss is worrying unnecessarily,’ Yakob said. ‘They’re a rough-looking crowd for sure, but if they’re not soldiers, gatherers, then who could they be? Where could such a large armed troop have come from? How could it have come into being?’

  Gryss found no reassurance in this. ‘It’s a big world over the hill,’ he said bleakly. ‘I saw enough of it when I was younger to know that I hadn’t seen a fraction of it. And I saw enough to learn the value of this place here. They could have come from anywhere, believe me. Deserters from some lord or king, mercenaries, just plain robbers and bandits. Anything. They are foreign-ers, after all. More to the point, I suspect, is not who are they but what do they want?’

  ‘Is there anything else you haven’t told u
s?’ Garren asked.

  ‘I haven’t told you anything,’ Gryss equivocated. ‘I just wanted to discuss these concerns with you, quietly and without fuss away from the Council. I might be fretting about nothing, but…’

  He left the sentence unfinished and the room be-came silent.

  Jeorg blew out a noisy breath. ‘Well, we can talk ourselves hoarse here without being any the wiser,’ he said. ‘It seems to me, like you said, that the only way we’ll find out for sure is for one of us to go to the capital and ask someone in authority. And to go quickly, before they put up their… guard post or whatever it is.’

  Harlen made to speak, but Jeorg, gathering momen-tum, ploughed on, ‘You can tell me the way, Gryss, and I can get the wife to say that I’m sick with…’ He shrugged. ‘Something. I’ll leave that to you as well, you’re the healer. Then…’

  Harlen coughed and waved his hand. Jeorg scowled at the interruption.

  ‘It might be too late,’ Harlen said, his round, genial face, uncharacteristically lined. ‘I was some way down the valley this morning, early on, by the river, and about a dozen or so riders came through. They had pack horses with them.’

  Gryss swore.

  Jeorg bridled. ‘Only a dozen?’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ll sneak past them. They can’t watch the whole of the valley.’

  Gryss waved him silent. ‘No, no,’ he said deter-minedly. ‘It’s too risky. You’ll need a horse, amongst other things, and you’re not going to be able to sneak anywhere with that.’ He frowned. ‘Whatever else he might be, our Captain knows his job. Makes sure we can’t leave even before he tells us about it.’ He swore again.

  The others watched awkwardly. Gryss was not given to such outbursts.