Valderen [The Second Part of Farnor's Tale]

by Roger Taylor

  But what was Rannick up to? What could be the purpose of such a force? He obviously did not need it just to hold sway over the village. Gryss dismissed the questions before they began to lead him astray. They were irrelevant, at the moment. Whatever Rannick's intentions were, all that mattered now was that they be frustrated.

  He returned to his favourite chair. It creaked welcomingly as he sat down and settled himself comfortably.

  A dark measure of his position came to him first. He could do little or nothing alone. Further, whatever opposition he decided upon, he would have to persuade an increasingly large number of the villagers to accept and follow it as time passed. But who was to be trusted? There was no reason to suppose that the doubts and fears which were assailing him were not assailing everyone else, and, in all conscience he could not reproach anyone for throwing in their lot with the new masters of the valley. Yet this was only an intellectual conclusion; despite the truth of it, deep within himself he felt his benevolence fighting a stern battle with a powerful, emotional, reaction of anger and revulsion at such behaviour.

  Still, he flattered himself that at least he could identify those most likely to succumb to this, and keep them away from any plans that he might instigate. He reverted to his original question, and amplified it. Who was to be trusted? And who was going to be any use?

  The first names that came to him were Garren and Farnor, and the shock of the emptiness that followed in their wake made him grimace. Tears started to his eyes again and he brushed them away roughly. The dead were dead, and should be buried, he shouted inside his head, so that he could pass this momentary crisis under cover of the noise. He forced himself to think of the living. Yakob he could trust, certainly. Harlen too, though he found it hard to imagine him as any great tower of strength. That would be the role of Jeorg, of course. His heart was full of a black and awful rage at Rannick and Nilsson and his various injuries were healing well, though it would be some time before he had the full use of his arm again. The only real problem with Jeorg would be keeping his tongue under control. Also, Gryss knew to his cost, it would be politic to keep Jeorg's wife well away from any plotting and scheming. She was unequivocally of the opinion that what was happening was ‘none of their business’ and that it should be left to those ‘better suited to such matters’ or ‘no good would come of it'. To her mind, the logic of her husband's cruelly beaten body was more than sufficient to sustain her argument, and she never elaborated on who such others ‘better suited’ might be. It would be a brave man who attempted to take her to task on such details.

  It was not an uncommon view in the village, and, in her case, Gryss could sympathize completely.

  There were others who could be relied on: Gofhern the blacksmith, Kestered the valley's finest leatherworker, Bellan the school teacher. Gryss weighed them all carefully. None of them was a fighter, of course, but they were men who could hold their peace, and who were not afraid to ponder intractable problems. And, as with himself in his capacity as a healer, their skills brought them into contact with more people than most. This alone would keep him better informed of the attitude of the villagers than if he were alone.

  Then Marna's name came to him. He frowned. Much as he would have preferred to, he could not exclude her from any plans, as she would inevitably scent them out. And despite Farnor's beating and subsequent mysterious disappearance, she was still quite capable of undertaking some wild venture of her own if she thought that nothing was being done. Whatever he decided to do, he would somehow have to find a way of involving her that offered her no danger.

  He settled on the group that he should approach initially: Yakob, Harlen, Jeorg and, reluctantly, Marna. Perhaps Gofhern, Kestered, Bellan and others later but, he realized, that would not be solely his responsibility by then.

  He stood up, stretched, and went to stand for a while at the front door of the cottage. It was a fine summer's day and everything about him was as it should be: birds singing, bright flowers everywhere, the air alive with rich scents, and all manner of small creatures bustling through the hedges and long grasses. Subtly marring it, though, was the darkness of the unexpected that now lay over everything like a clinging miasma. Throughout the years since his return, he had walked down into the village, knowing that while no two days were ever the same, he would meet nothing and no one that he would not have wished to meet. That had been such a truth in his life that it had never actually occurred to him before. But now, who could say what might lie around the familiar bends in the road? One of Nilsson's men? Oddly restrained but arrogant and unpleasant for all that, and not infrequently drunk on ale ‘freely given’ at the inn. Or some sharp-eyed stranger seeking the way to the castle? Guards returning from duty downland? Or perhaps even another column of armed men returning from a raid over the hill and bringing with them more captives.

  He picked up the carved iron ring and examined it thoughtfully. The soldiers etched into its surface seemed to reproach him. They were waiting too, but they were armed and ready; at some time in the past they had seen their destiny and prepared themselves for it. He found himself making an ironical inventory of all the weapons that he knew lay in the valley: a handful of rusty swords that had accumulated over the generations from who knew what sources; an equally small handful of bows which, like the swords, were a greater danger to the users and their immediate neighbours than to any enemy they might be levelled at; and, incongruously, he seemed to remember having seen two old pikes lying in a barn somewhere, though he could not recall now whether or not they hadn't been made into pitchforks.

  The fate of the pikes, however, was of little consequence. Not in his wildest imaginings could he envisage disciplined, serried ranks of villagers marching resolutely up to the castle to face Nilsson's men; that, indeed, was a task for others ‘better suited'.

  Which still left Gryss with his original problem. What could he, and his potential co-conspirators, do?

  He put the ring down gently but the bell tinkled faintly, invoking a cursory rumble from the dog somewhere in the cottage. Closing the door behind him, he set off towards the village. The darkness of everything that Rannick and Nilsson had brought to the valley was still with him, but for the first time in many weeks he felt almost at ease with himself. It was a feeling that grew as he visited first Yakob, then Jeorg—‘Just to see how he's getting on,’ he said, smiling excessively at Jeorg's wife—and finally Harlen. He gave no indication of his intentions, simply asking them to come round to his cottage that evening, ‘Just to talk about a few things.'

  The only threat to his unexpected euphoria was the absence of Marna. It took him some time to turn the conversation so that he could ask, casually, where she was. Harlen smiled and shrugged. Gryss had a brief vision of the young woman crawling along ditches and hedgerows in order to avoid the guards who were now permanently on duty down the valley. He dismissed it as calmly as he could. ‘Bring her with you, Harlen,’ he said as they parted. ‘There're things I want to talk about that she'll be interested in.’ Then he turned on his heel and left quickly before Harlen could summon up any questions.

  Thus, in the early evening, all his would-be allies were gathered in his cottage.

  He made no preamble, but set out his ideas immediately. There was a silence when he had finished. Yakob eventually broke it. His initial reaction was the same as had been Gryss's own. ‘All very fine, Gryss,’ he said. ‘We'd all like to do something. But what can we do? We can't throw them out of the castle. We can't get out of the valley.’ He threw up his hands. ‘We don't even know what it is that Rannick and these people are up to.'

  'And they are leaving us alone,’ Harlen added, reluctantly reciting the growing response of the villagers. ‘Who knows what they'll do if we start to make trouble?'

  Gryss nodded. He suspected that this careful treatment of the villagers was Nilsson's tactic, and that it had been adopted quite specifically to disarm troublesome local opposition. Rannick, he was sure, would not have hesitated to
wreak havoc on the village had the whim so taken him.

  He submitted this to his friends. ‘Just discussing it like this, now, makes me think that perhaps Rannick's fully occupied on some greater design of his own,’ he concluded. ‘I can't see that he's leaving us alone because he regrets ...’ He hesitated. ‘What he did to Katrin and Garren.'

  Yakob scowled and shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But whoever's idea it is, it's a good one, and it'll work. Everyone's seen those other poor souls being hauled in, and everyone knows it could be them next if they make trouble.’ Anger and regret filled his face. ‘It's horrible to talk like that, I know,’ he went on. ‘But it's true. Those people are suffering on our behalf.’ He brought his hand down on the table. ‘If only we'd seen them off when they first arrived.'

  Gryss was no more indulgent with Yakob than he had been with himself a few hours ago. ‘Well, we didn't,’ he answered curtly. ‘And we can't be wasting our time breast-beating and howling over what we should have done. We did what we did because it seemed right at the time. That could be anyone's epitaph. Now the harm's been done and what we have to do is make sure we don't perpetuate that mistake by letting Rannick and Nilsson get away with whatever it is they're doing without any hindrance.'

  Yakob made to speak again but Gryss lifted a hand to stop him. ‘Do you agree or don't you?’ he demanded. ‘It's that simple.’ He paused briefly. ‘If you don't, then fair enough. I'll involve you no further. All I'll ask of you is that you keep quiet about this meeting.'

  There was a brief, injured silence, then Yakob said heatedly, ‘You've no call to speak like that. Of course we want to do something.’ Harlen and Jeorg both nodded in agreement. ‘But I presume we'll be allowed the odd moment to speak about our regrets, won't we? It's not as if anything springs immediately to mind that we can do, does it?'

  Gryss bridled a little at this rebuff but he fought back a scowl and managed to look appropriately contrite. ‘You're right, Yakob. I'm sorry,’ he said, insincerely. ‘I've no doubt I can rely on you to guard against my impetuosity.’ This time it was Yakob who bridled at the sarcasm that Gryss had failed to keep out of his voice, but Gryss continued quickly. ‘As for what to do, I'm afraid we must succeed in what we failed to do before. We must get news of what's happening to the capital.'

  For the first time since she had sat down at the long wooden table, Marna looked up. She did not speak, but she leaned forward a little. Gryss noted the movement. ‘There'll be plenty for you to do here, Marna,’ he said, partly to reassure Harlen, but mainly in an attempt to forestall any folly that she might be contemplating.

  Unexpectedly she nodded understandingly and said, ‘Of course, Gryss.'

  Gryss looked at her narrowly and made an immediate resolution to watch her very carefully. When they were alone, he would speak to her a little more bluntly.

  Yakob reverted to practicalities. ‘I suppose it's all we can do,’ he said. ‘But how? There are far more guards downland than there were when Jeorg tried to leave, and if anyone's lucky enough to get past them, there's no saying how far over the hill these raiding parties of theirs are reaching now.'

  'I'll go again,’ Jeorg said resolutely. ‘If Rannick's in the castle, I'll take my chance on dodging his men.’ He tapped his head. ‘I go through the route continually in my mind, and I've still got the maps and notes we prepared, wrapped up safe and sound at the bottom of my pack.'

  Yakob and Harlen looked unhappy, but Gryss nodded. ‘You're still the best choice for the job,’ he said. ‘But we've got to be far more careful this time. They'll kill you without a doubt if they catch you again, and who knows what reprisals they might take against the rest of the village?'

  'I know,’ Jeorg replied, his voice untypically soft. He tapped his head again. ‘I go through that continually as well. And don't think I relish the prospect of trying again. The whole idea frightens the breeches off me.’ He paused, and then almost spat out, ‘But doing nothing's rotting me. And it's no guarantee of safety for the village. Rannick'll turn on us sooner or later, I'm sure. You all know what he's like.’ He looked around the table. His pain was reflected in the faces of his listeners, but no one disagreed.

  Despite the grimness of this assessment, Gryss was strangely heartened by the fact that they had all apparently reached the same conclusion as himself about Rannick's probable future conduct.

  Jeorg continued. ‘And talk around the matter as much as you like, it comes to the same in the end. We can't fight them. That's a job for soldiers. So someone has to tell the King what's happened so that the army can be sent to get rid of them.'

  A long silence followed this pronouncement. ‘We must work out when and how, then,’ Gryss said eventually, his voice a little hoarse.

  'I can watch the guards downland,’ Marna said.

  'No!’ Both Gryss and Harlen spoke together sharply. Gryss deferred to her father.

  'You keep away from them,’ Harlen said. ‘You don't need to be told why they're bringing women back from their raids, do you?'

  Marna's face coloured in a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Such directness from her father was unusual. ‘Just keep away from them,’ he said again, quietly but with powerful authority. The other men around the table nodded. Marna's face became stony, but she did not speak.

  'I'll keep an eye on the guards,’ Harlen went on, turning back to Gryss. ‘They're used to me wandering about down there. It shouldn't be too difficult to find out how many there are and how they come and go.'

  Gryss nodded. ‘I suppose we'll have to think like soldiers ourselves,’ he mused. ‘We must watch all of them all the time. Find out exactly how many there are, what they do, who's in charge, and so on.’ He grimaced. ‘I suppose we'll have to get to know them. Find out their names. Find out who likes to drink, who likes to gamble, who likes to gossip. As we learn about them, perhaps other ways of quietly causing them problems will come to light.'

  Marna's restraint broke. ‘And what am I supposed to do,’ she demanded, ‘If I'm to keep away from them?'

  With unexpected inspiration Gryss said, ‘You can do as you've already been doing. Find out what the young people are thinking.’ Marna's eyes became menacing. ‘And the women,’ Gryss added hastily and with some earnestness. ‘It's important, Marna. Only Jeorg here's married now, and his wife's views are all too well known. But sooner or later, there's going to have to be a lot more than us involved in this, and we can't do anything if the women are against us.'

  Slightly mollified, Marna sat back in her chair and surveyed her fellow conspirators. Gryss added to his resolve to watch her carefully; he would have to give her plenty to do as well. He had seen the look of resolute determination that flickered briefly in her eyes, and it alarmed him.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  'This must be the cause of all the fuss.'

  A booted foot prodded cautiously.

  'Careful, it might be dangerous.'

  'No, surely not, it's only ...'

  'No.’ A respectful but definite interruption. ‘Be careful. Something's disturbed them profoundly. I told you, I Heard it clearer than I've ever Heard anything. And this must be the cause of it all. Just look at it. It might be more than it seems. We must be careful.'

  Insistent. ‘But it might be injured. Its face is badly bruised.'

  Female, newly arrived, and impatient. ‘For pity's sake, the two of you. If it doesn't die of its hurts, it will die of old age while you stand around debating matters.’ She laid a heavy and scornful emphasis on the word it.

  The young woman pushed the two men aside and knelt down by the object of their attention. ‘Go and tend that horse, Marken, if you're bothered about this one. I'll let you know if it suddenly turns into a tree goblin and tries to drag me to its lair.'

  The older of the two men looked briefly at his companion for support, but found only an anxious preoccupation with their discovery. Scowling, he set off across the clearing towards the quietly grazing horse that the girl
had indicated.

  The other man abandoned his momentary reverie. ‘Edrien, that's no way to talk to Marken,’ he said to the girl. ‘He's our Hearer, child. You should show more respect.'

  The girl frowned impatiently. ‘I know, Father,’ she said, a little repentantly. ‘But he fusses so, at times.'

  'He fusses because he Hears and we don't, Edrien,’ her father persisted. ‘And I've never seen him so agitated about a Hearing before.’ A note of annoyance came into his voice. ‘And what he Hears he notes, which is more than you've ever done. You just apologize to him when he comes back.'

  Edrien's frown deepened and her mouth formed a reply which she noticeably pondered and then rejected before saying, ‘Oh. very well,’ with a great lack of conviction. ‘But is it all right if I see if this thing is alive or not?'

  The man allowed his daughter this last sarcastic barb, then he crouched down beside her and nodded. ‘Take care though,’ he said, softly but firmly. ‘There's something odd about him, to say the least. Look at his clothes. And his hair, for pity's sake—it's black! And so's his horse. Wherever he's from, it's beyond the Forest, for sure.’ Surreptitiously, and keeping his hand well out of the sight of his daughter, he drew a knife.

  Edrien reached out and gently held her fingers against the throat of the motionless figure lying on the sunlit grass. ‘He's not dead, anyway,’ she said after a moment.

  'That may not necessarily be good news.’ It was Marken, returned, leading the horse uncertainly.

  Edrien looked up, her face angry, but catching her father's eye she swallowed her intended reply. ‘I'm sorry I was ... a little short ... Marken,’ she said flatly, her jaw taut.