Farnor ft-1

by Roger Taylor

  He took her hands and, as simply and concisely as he could, he told her what had happened at the castle, together with his own thoughts about what… who… might be causing it.

  She withdrew her left hand to nurse her right upper arm as he told of the gate closing to trap Farnor, but otherwise she remained motionless and silent.

  Though patently shocked and bewildered by the tale, she asked no questions about why and how when he had finished, but struck to the heart of the matter.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ she asked.

  He offered her his only conclusion.

  ‘Watch and wait. And hope that Jeorg reaches the capital safely.’

  ‘And Farnor?’ she said, with unexpected indignation.

  ‘Oh, his arm’ll be sore for some time, but he’ll be able to use it well enough in a few days,’ Gryss said, reassuringly.

  Her face clouded. ‘Not his arm,’ she protested fiercely, omitting to add, ‘You silly man,’ though it rang clearly through her intonation. ‘All these… things… that are happening to him. He probably thinks he’s going insane.’

  That’s why it was right to tell you, Gryss thought almost exultantly. You’re his generation. You under-stand him. That alone would sustain Farnor in his trial. The vision of their youthful strength and courage guided by his knowledge and experience rose before him.

  And with it a black thought bubbled up from deep inside him: it’s always the old that guide the young to war.

  It struck him with an impact like that of a clenched fist. He felt himself gaping.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Marna asked. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a tithe gatherer.’

  Her inadvertent use of the old village saw, with its now dark irony, made Gryss smile involuntarily. It released him from the chilling spell of the awful thought.

  ‘Nothing,’ he answered. ‘Just a bit of reaction, probably, thinking about it all again.’

  Marna seemed unhappy with the explanation, but Gryss ploughed on. ‘Farnor’s well enough,’ he said. ‘As far as I know, he’s told me everything, and he tells me how he feels about things. I think while he’s doing that he’ll be all right. And you knowing as well, Marna, and being his friend will help him also, even though none of us knows what’s really happening. Go and see him today if you can. Just a social call, as it were. Following on Pieter’s florid tales.’

  Marna nodded. Her mouth twisted into a slightly bitter smile. ‘And I suppose all Pieter’s nonsense will keep people’s minds off Jeorg being missing,’ she said. Gryss started. He had not expected such a calculated observation.

  Then Marna half rose from her chair. ‘Someone’s coming,’ she said. ‘Running.’

  Scarcely had she spoken than the front door of the cottage was flung open.

  ‘Marna!’ a voice called urgently. It was Harlen. His footsteps paused briefly in the hallway, then he burst into the room. His face was anxious and flushed and in his hand he held Marna’s cape which he proffered to her.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Marna asked in alarm, as she stepped forward to greet him. Harlen looked at her then at Gryss, surprise and relief mingling with his concern.

  ‘Marna, go to Yakob’s now and wait,’ he said breath-lessly, thrusting the cape into her arms and ushering her to the door. ‘Gryss, come with me.’

  He had pushed them both from the cottage before either had a chance to speak.

  ‘Father!’ Marna protested ferociously, wrenching her arm free from his grasp.

  Sensing that a spontaneous and irrelevant family quarrel was about to intrude on what was obviously urgent news, Gryss entered the fray, laying gently restraining hands on the arms of the two potential antagonists.

  ‘Put your cape on, Marna,’ he said, as quietly and calmly as he could. Then, to her father, ‘What’s happened, Harlen?’

  Harlen looked anxiously at his daughter who glow-ered at him in reply, still young enough to be indignant at his cavalier handling of her, not least because it had been in front of Gryss.

  ‘Let her hear,’ Gryss intervened again. ‘She’s no child any more. And nothing happens here but what we all hear about it within the day. Spit your news out, for pity’s sake.’

  Harlen pointed down the valley. ‘They’re coming back,’ he said. His voice dwindled to a whisper. ‘They’ve got Jeorg with them.’

  ‘What?’ Marna demanded, craning forward.

  ‘Marna, I’d really prefer it if you went into the vil-lage,’ Harlen said, his tone placating.

  But Marna’s manner indicated that she had rooted herself to the spot.

  ‘They’ve got Jeorg?’ Gryss said, ignoring Harlen’s concern for his daughter, and hoping fervently that he himself had misheard the whispered message.

  Harlen reluctantly gave up on Marna. ‘Yes,’ he re-plied, his voice pained. ‘And it looks as if he’s been hurt.’

  Marna’s hand went to her mouth to stifle a cry. Gryss’s stomach tightened in fear and a cascade of future events poured into his mind, dominant amongst which was the face of Jeorg’s wife.

  ‘How badly?’ he managed to ask.

  Harlen cast another glance at his daughter. ‘I couldn’t tell,’ he said. ‘He was draped over a saddle.’

  Gryss’s eyes widened in horror. Jeorg brought home like a sack of potatoes! Like a dead sheep! The future events faded before the grim present.

  ‘Where are they?’ he asked.

  ‘Only a few minutes away,’ Harlen replied, pointing again. ‘They’re not hurrying.’

  Without a word, Gryss set off towards the road. Harlen and Marna ran after him. The trio walked on in silence through the thin rain. When they reached the road, Gryss turned downland.

  As Harlen had indicated, they did not have long to wait. Very soon the swaying forms of advancing riders appeared ahead. Faced head on, in the misty light, the column could not be discerned as such, but rather appeared to be a single, giant figure of grotesque and unstable proportions. It remained so until it was quite close and the individual riders could be seen.

  As they neared, Harlen stopped and took Marna’s arm but Gryss continued marching towards the advancing column purposefully, his shoulders hunched and his head craning forward. He heard an order being given and passing down the line, though he could not make it out.

  Harlen spoke to Marna and then set off after him, leaving her standing alone.

  At the head of the column rode Nilsson, with Saddre and Dessane beside him. They made no effort to stop when Gryss reached them, though Nilsson looked straight at him.

  ‘You have one of our friends, I believe,’ Gryss said to him, falling into step by the side of his horse. ‘He’s been hurt.’

  Nilsson gave a flick of his head towards the horse immediately behind him. Gryss stared at it. What he had at first taken to be a pack horse was, in fact, bearing Jeorg, draped across its saddle.

  Anxiety lit Gryss’s face. ‘Stop a moment,’ he shouted, stopping. ‘Let me have a look at him.’

  But Nilsson took no heed, and the column plodded on. Gryss had to catch the horse’s bridle to prevent himself from falling.

  ‘Let go of the horse,’ came a rough voice from be-hind. It was accompanied by a none-too-gentle push with a boot that made Gryss stagger again.

  He did not look to see who the culprit was, but scur-ried back to Nilsson’s side. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked. Again Nilsson did not reply. Gryss went cold. ‘He’s not dead, is he?’

  ‘He’s not dead. Go to the village.’ Nilsson’s voice was stark and commanding.

  Gryss tried again, more insistently. ‘Please stop. If he’s hurt he shouldn’t be carried like that.’

  Still there was no reply. Nothing was to be heard except the sound of clinking harness and the clatter of the horses’ hooves on the occasionally metalled roadway.

  The healer in Gryss overrode his judgement and he became angry. ‘Damn it, will you stop and let me tend him!’ he shouted, seizing Nilsson’s reins.

  Nilsson turne
d to him sharply, his eyes ablaze. He raised his foot to kick Gryss, but before the blow could be delivered Harlen appeared by Gryss’s side and dragged him away hastily.

  ‘Let me go,’ Gryss said furiously, but Harlen, easy-going though he might be normally, had no such intention. Without speaking he tightened his grip about Gryss’s arm and forcibly marched him ahead of the column, at the same time signalling to his waiting daughter. Without hesitation, Marna turned and ran off into the fields.

  ‘For pity’s sake, Gryss, don’t antagonize them,’ Har-len said urgently as he bundled the elder along. ‘They’re quiet now, but they were very different when I first saw them. Something’s happened while they were away. They’re not the same men that arrived here at Dalmas.’

  Gryss shook his arm free, but kept up with Harlen’s fast pace. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, looking back at the column, still maintaining its leisurely pace.

  ‘They were noisy. Singing, shouting, laughing,’ Har-len said. ‘They’ve been up to something and something bad, if I’m any judge. And they’ve got more horses and baggage than when they left.’

  Gryss turned to him. ‘But Jeorg,’ he said. ‘We can’t just leave him.’

  Harlen’s face was pained. ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘But frankly I wanted Marna out of the way first. I don’t want them anywhere near her, the kind of mood they’re in. And how are we going to stop them if they don’t want to stop? You nearly got kicked in the head for your trouble. Let’s do as he said: get back to the village and try again there.’

  Gryss could not argue, but Harlen was setting a pace which was barely short of running. ‘Slow down, slow down,’ he pleaded, breathlessly, after a little while. ‘I can’t carry on at this speed.’

  Harlen cast a glance backwards towards the column and then across the fields. Marna was nowhere to be seen. ‘She’s gone over the fields to get Yakob,’ he said. ‘He’ll meet us at the green.’ Then he slowed. Gryss put a grateful hand on his shoulder and leaned on it freely. Harlen put his own hand over it, at once supportive and apologetic. He did not speak.

  When they reached the centre of the village it was raining more heavily, and Marna was standing with Yakob under a tree at the edge of the green.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Yakob asked anxiously as Gryss and Harlen approached. Harlen explained, while Gryss recovered his breath.

  Yakob frowned at the news that Jeorg had been hurt, but Gryss spoke before he could ask any questions.

  ‘We’ll try again here,’ he said. ‘See if we can get them to let me look at Jeorg.’ His distress was almost unmanning him. ‘This is awful,’ he said. ‘Poor Jeorg.’ He gazed up at the leaden grey sky. ‘Well at least the weather’ll keep people in their homes,’ he went on. ‘The fewer who see Jeorg the better.’

  It was little consolation to the four as they waited under the dripping tree for the column to arrive, though it was not long before the lead riders came into view. Gryss, Yakob and Harlen stepped forward together.

  This time, Nilsson reined his horse to a halt. The column came to an untidy stop behind him. He held up his hand.

  ‘We caught this man trying to sneak out of the val-ley, after my express instruction that that would not be allowed,’ he said. ‘You have to understand that you’re all under military law now, and that if you choose to disobey orders the consequences will be severe.’

  Gryss however, was more concerned for his friend than for an explanation and he moved to his side even while Nilsson was talking. After testing Jeorg’s pulse, he gently lifted his head.

  His face was badly bruised and bloodstained.

  ‘What the devil have you done to him?’ he de-manded bluntly. Nilsson looked at him angrily, but before he could speak, Gryss’s frustration and rage boiled over, and he began tugging at the ropes that bound Jeorg to the horse. There was a commotion among the riders nearby.

  ‘And you said nothing of the kind,’ Gryss burst out furiously. ‘You said we’d need your permission, that’s all. Jeorg’s been planning to go to the capital for months. When he heard what was happening he decided to go now before the garrisoning got under way. Damn it, he was only riding after you to ask your permission. Didn’t you even give him time to speak?’

  He gave an angry cry as the ropes defeated him, and then reached into his cape. When his hand emerged there was a knife in it.

  On the instant, there was the rasping hiss of half a dozen swords being drawn.

  Marna let out a scream of alarm, and Yakob and Harlen shouted, ‘No!’ simultaneously and moved to intervene.

  Gryss himself froze, his face suddenly pale and with much of his anger turned to fear as he looked at the ring of points and grim, purposeful eyes that he now centred. Slowly he turned to Nilsson.

  ‘To cut the ropes,’ he said weakly.

  Nilsson stared at him for a moment and then nod-ded to one of the riders. Without taking his gaze from Gryss, the man leaned across and, by pulling a single cord, released the ropes that were securing Jeorg.

  With difficulty, because his hand was shaking so much, Gryss replaced the knife in his belt.

  The swords around him gradually withdrew, and Yakob and Harlen came forward hastily to help him lift down the unconscious Jeorg.

  ‘Gently, gently,’ Gryss said, fussily, dithering now and obeying some deep instinct to make himself seem innocuous and innocent while he tried to recover from the shock of the sudden response of Nilsson’s men. Their clear intent had terrified him, not least because of its simple casualness. There had been no hesitation. He knew that he would have been given no opportunity to plead a case had he made any reckless movements; no chance to smile and shrug the incident off with the good humour that was his stock in trade with everyone in the valley. These men were stony-eyed strangers, quite indifferent to the fate of some stupid old country bumpkin. Katrin’s words rang loud in his head: ‘They’re fighting men. Used to brutality, to stabbing and killing… There’s none in the whole valley could stand against any of them and hope to live.’

  Jeorg groaned. The sound gave Gryss something to focus on, and his fear began to fade. ‘What have you done to him?’ he asked again, though more circum-spectly.

  ‘Shown him the consequences of disobeying an order,’ Nilsson said, starkly summarizing his previous reply. ‘He can consider himself more than fortunate that he’s not dead. Make sure that everyone understands this, Har Grysstson. We’d prefer to work with your friendship and cooperation, but it’s not essential by any means and a few dead by way of example will be of no consequence in the design that’s being worked here.’

  And without further comment he spurred his horse on.

  The three men, supporting the limp form of their friend, stood motionless as the column passed, like a grim parody of royal dignitaries receiving a formal military salute. Indeed, some of the riders did offer mocking salutes as they rode by.

  Gryss was chilled not only by Nilsson’s callousness but by the aura that seemed to pervade the whole troop.

  ‘They’re not the same men that arrived here at Dal-mas,’ Harlen had said, and Gryss understood now what he meant. Those men had been broken and dispirited, these were alive and vigorous, though there was a quality to their vigour which repelled him – an unnatu-ralness.

  Almost demonic.

  The thought startled him, but he realized it was accurate.

  ‘Bandits.’

  The whispered word was Marna’s. She had come out from the shelter of the tree and was looking after the retreating column. ‘Not in a mountain’s age could they ever have been King’s men,’ she added. She wrapped her arms about herself fearfully and shivered.

  ‘Come on. We shouldn’t be standing here. Jeorg’s in a bad way. Let’s get him home and seen to, quickly.’ Harlen’s words cut through the paralysis that seemed to have gripped the little group.

  Gryss started a little. ‘No. My cottage is nearer,’ he said. ‘I can look after him better there.’

  ‘Who’s going to te
ll his wife what’s happened?’ Ya-kob asked, awkwardly.

  ‘I will,’ Gryss replied reluctantly, after some hesita-tion. ‘But not yet.’

  He glanced around the green. Nilsson’s men had both entered and left in comparative silence, and no one had ventured into the rain to discover them. Jeorg’s return had apparently gone unnoticed.

  That, at least, was fortunate, Gryss thought.

  That same dark good fortune remained with them as they made their way to Gryss’s cottage and they reached it without being observed, softly whispering words of support and encouragement to their injured and occasionally conscious friend.

  As they entered the cottage, Gryss’s old dog, as if sensing the mood of the group, remained silent, confining its welcome to an encouraging wag of its stump of a tail.

  Despite his burdens, Gryss bent down and stroked its head affectionately. Then he motioned Yakob and Harlen to a room at the front. ‘Take him in there, get those wet top clothes off him carefully and put him on the bed,’ he said. ‘I’ll get my things.’

  That done, Gryss set about his examination of the injured man. The others, having done all that was asked of them, could do no more than sit and wait in the back room.

  It was a difficult, restless interlude: Yakob and Har-len silently pondering the implications of what had happened and beginning to assess the extent of their own responsibility for Jeorg’s condition; Marna oscillating between the childish urge to flee to safety that the presence of her father invoked, and the adult will which responded to the secret compact she had with Gryss and Farnor. A compact in which she had found a new sense of purpose even as she had watched Nilsson’s men standing, menacing and alien, by the village green. Despite her own fears, an awful resolution was begin-ning to grow within her that sooner or later she would have to oppose these men.

  And hanging like a grim spectre in all their thoughts was the sudden and shocking appearance of swords in response to what could only have been an innocent gesture by an old man. Violence in the valley was rare, and when it did occur it was usually due to over-indulgence at the inn and confined to incompetent fisticuffs. Not infrequently it contained no small element of outright farce for the onlookers. The possibility of using knives and swords against people existed only in the distant safety of Yonas the Teller’s tales. It was unthinkable in the real world where people tended and slaughtered their own meat; everyone knew only too well what keen, sharpened edges did to flesh and sinew.