Valderen [The Second Part of Farnor's Tale]

by Roger Taylor

  Had he paused to look at the bridge, however, he would have seen timbers large and small, trimmed, jointed, carved and decorated with a skill and knowledge far beyond those exhibited in the gate to the castle, which but weeks ago had held him awe-stricken with its massive solidity.

  Apart from the tracks that he encountered from time to time, the main evidence of the Valderen was to be heard rather than seen. At dawn each morning he would hear horn calls ringing out in the distance. Sometimes two or three different calls would mingle in a confusing but not unpleasant clamour. The affirmation, the confident assuredness of the calls irked him.

  Only once did he actually encounter people, finding himself one day passing through a lodge. It was oddly quiet after what he had experienced at Derwyn's, and such inhabitants as were to be seen were all men, sitting, apparently casually, on the lower branches of the trees. They watched him silently as he passed by, but for the most part he avoided their gaze, sensing that they would be only too ready to intervene should he show any sign of halting his journey there. Though he was not in any way menaced, the experience was frightening, renewing in him as it did, the fear of strangers that was his natural heritage and which had been so vividly justified by the arrival of Nilsson and his men.

  Despite his dark preoccupation however, this reception offended him. ‘Did they know who I am?’ he asked of the trees that night in some indignation. ‘And that I'm here because of your will, not my own?'

  'Hearers Hear,’ was the only response he got, despite several further askings.

  He was still feeling puzzled, and not a little bruised by this encounter several days later, and he was reliving his surly march through the lodge as he stared into the flames of his campfire. He could not have said what whim made him go to the trouble of lighting a fire when the sunstones that Derwyn had given him would have been sufficient for such heat and light as he needed, but he had done it. Patiently he had searched around for dry twigs and branches, sorted them, broken them into convenient lengths and, with the flint that he had brought from home, eventually ignited them.

  He had sensed whisperings of alarm from the trees as the flames had flared up and sent sparks wheeling and dancing into the night air. ‘Not keen on fire, I suppose?’ he had asked.

  There had been no specific reply, but the whisperings became louder and began to fill with images which he could not understand, but which were distinctly unpleasant. His first inclination was to tell the trees to sod off, they'd brought him here, they could take the consequences, but instead he said, ‘I understand. Don't be afraid. I'll cause you no harm.'

  The whispering faded.

  He sat for a long, timeless interval, staring into the fire. Memories of happier times hovered at the edges of his mind, just as the darkness hovered at the edges of the firelight. But he would not allow them closer. There was nothing to be gained in dwelling on such times; they were gone and could never be again.

  Yet, paradoxically, it still disturbed him that he had not been greeted at the lodge he had passed through, as he had been by Derwyn and his family and friends. He could not see himself as the dark-haired, lowering outsider that he so obviously was. Nor as the centre of a strange, unsettling upheaval. He was Farnor Yarrance, popular and loved by any who knew him, forced by cruel circumstance to do what he had to do. He was no man's enemy, save Rannick's. Why should anyone fear him, watch him as though he were a dangerous animal?

  And it had been fear in that lodge, without a doubt, he realized, as he threw some more wood on the small blaze. And fear begets anger and hatred. He frowned. The firelight etched out the lines in his face, ageing him.

  The silent watchfulness that had greeted him at the lodge lingered more menacingly with him than the open antagonism he had received from EmRan. They must be different from place to place, these Valderen, he thought. Just as someone from over the hill would be different from us.

  He prodded the fire with a long branch. The darkness beyond the firelight seemed to deepen and his thoughts took an ominous turn. They were hunters, these people. Forest hunters. Silent, skilful movers through the shadows. And could not they, like he, decide that that which they feared should be destroyed?

  Even as the thought occurred to him, a sound that was not a sound of the night, impinged on him. A soft rustling.

  He moved his head slightly, idly turning the branch in his fingers. Then with a cry of terror he jumped to his feet and swung the branch at the dark shadow standing close behind him.

  * * * *

  Harlen sat in the doorway of his cottage. One hand held a short-bladed knife while the other periodically reached down to pick up a willow rod from a bundle lying beside his chair. With swift, practised strokes he stripped the bark from each rod and transferred it to another bundle on the other side of his chair. He was scarcely watching what he was doing, and his progress gradually slowed as his attention settled on the lurid red sky that was filling the western horizon since the sun had dipped behind the mountains. It had been a fine warm day and it would be a fine warm evening, but the bloody sky and the jagged black teeth that the mountains had become seemed to make the day and its ending into a metaphor for his own life. He shivered slightly.

  'Do you want any help with those?'

  Marna's voice at once dispelled his momentary gloom and heightened his deeper concern. Gryss, Yakob and Jeorg were growing increasingly resolute in their determination to do something to bring Rannick down. And he, Harlen, a basket weaver, was helping. There were times when the enormity of what he was doing welled up inside him and threatened to choke him.

  Surreptitiously, he was checking on the guards downland: their numbers, their routines. He noted the strengths of the armed columns that passed along the road a little way from his door, how long they were away, how many returned, and, interestingly, were any of them injured. He had even taken to engaging in conversation some of the unsavoury characters who entered the valley with a view to joining Rannick's growing army. From such casual encounters he had learned a great deal about what was happening over the hill, and such knowledge he passed on to the others. This was consistently grim, though no clear picture of Rannick's intentions could yet be discerned.

  But, worse than the implications of his own involvement, was that of Marna's. Dutifully she listened, as Gryss had asked her. Listened to the chatter of the women, of her friends, of the children. Listened, thought, told, so that the conspirators’ knowledge could grow still further.

  There was surely no risk in what she did?

  But she was his daughter, a brightness in his life upon which he knew that he could not look and expect to see with true clarity, and without which he judged he would be nothing. And there was such awful darkness about.

  And, too, if something happened to him, what then?

  He twitched away from the question, and, almost angrily, tore the bark from the rod in his hand. ‘No thanks,’ he replied. ‘I was just looking at the sunset.'

  Marna moved to his side, and leaned against the door frame, her arms folded. Neither of them spoke for some time. Harlen continued to peel the rods, though now very slowly, absentmindedly, and Marna stared fixedly at the slowly darkening sky. Incongruously pink clouds were forming around some of the peaks.

  Then Marna turned away and went back into the cottage. ‘Nothing looks the same, nothing smells the same,’ she said quietly, as she passed him. ‘Everything's tainted.'

  Harlen turned and looked back at his daughter. He wanted to find some words that would tell her that all was well, that everything would be again as it had been. But there were none. Nor could there ever be. Whatever the future held, be it either the rise or the fall of Rannick, Nilsson's intrusion from outside the valley and Rannick's corruption from inside it would leave a scar which no span of time could completely obliterate.

  He looked down at the rod he had just stripped. He had done this year after year. Nothing is the same, he thought, inwardly echoing his daughter's words as he ran his hand
along the smooth, damp wood. It looked the same, it felt and it smelt the same, but...?

  Not the same.

  Yet...

  It was the same. How could it be otherwise?

  In the texture under his hand he felt the willows growing before men had come to the valley, and growing perhaps when they had all gone. It was a long perspective.

  'I'm afraid all that's happened is that we've learned more,’ he said, laying the rod down. ‘What we need to do now is become wise enough to live with our new knowledge. To see that Rannick and Nilsson touch us, not the sunset. And whether that touch is a taint or not depends only on us.'

  There was a short silence. ‘What we need to do is take that stripping knife of yours and cut Rannick's throat,’ came the bitter reply from the shady interior of the cottage.

  Harlen grimaced at the savagery in his daughter's voice, though his hand tightened about his knife compulsively. ‘We're doing what we can,’ he said.

  'It's not enough,’ Marna replied.

  'We're doing what we can,’ he said again.

  Marna did not bother to reply this time, but he heard her fist come down on the table, and he knew what the expression on her face would be. A spasm of distress and anxiety shook him. Part of him said, ‘Do as you're told. Don't make trouble. Co-operate. Don't attract attention.’ But another part of him rejoiced at Marna's anger. ‘Scream and shout. Slash and hack at the desecration they'd wrought to life in the valley. Let them know the same fear that they've brought with them.'

  Cut Rannick's throat!

  Again his hand tightened about the stripping knife.

  Perhaps one day there would be such a chance.

  But...

  And for now? They must do what they could.

  'Someone's coming.’ Marna was by his side again, and pointing up the valley. Harlen lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the still-bright sky as he peered into the red-tinted dusk. Slowly his eyes adjusted, and the swaying figure of a rider emerged from the shadows. Unusual at this time of day, he thought. Whatever task it was that the occasional lone rider performed, they usually set out early in the day. Still, it was probably only a random visit to the guards downland. They happened quite frequently and their random character was a constant irritation to Gryss as he tried to build up a picture of the men's routine. ‘They've been proper soldiers in their time, these people,’ he mused. ‘Nilsson knows how to keep his men alert.'

  And this time it was Nilsson in person, Harlen decided with a frisson of alarm as the figure came nearer. He was about to stand up and go into the cottage when it occurred to him that it would be a conspicuous act and might provoke the very contact he would rather avoid. ‘Go inside, Marna,’ he said quietly, bending over his work again.

  Marna hesitated briefly, then, sensing the seriousness of his mood, she slipped casually back into the cottage.

  Harlen started to whistle softly to himself as he began peeling the rods again. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Nilsson drawing closer. By bending over the arm of his chair to pick up the rods, manifestly concentrating as he peeled them, and bending over the other arm to stack them, he should be able to avoid even casual eye contact with Nilsson as he passed along the road in front of him. Then he would be able to go into the cottage himself to avoid the same problem on Nilsson's return.

  But Nilsson did not ride past. Instead, he turned off the road and on to the pathway that led to the cottage. Harlen felt his throat tighten with fear. Had Gryss's scheming been discovered? With an effort he forced himself to look up. As if he had only just seen the new arrival, he stood up to greet him. Nilsson nodded to him as he reined his horse to a halt and dismounted. He looked down at the piles of willow rods and, with the toe of his boot, nudged the strips of damp bark that were littering the ground around Harlen's chair.

  Harlen watched him nervously. Slip and break your neck, he thought.

  Nilsson bent down and picked up one of the unstripped rods, then, without speaking, held out his hand and nodded towards the knife in Harlen's hand. Despite himself, Harlen's hand was trembling a little as he handed it over.

  Nilsson took the knife and began peeling the bark from the rod. To Harlen's surprise he performed the task quite proficiently, though there was a quality in the way he worked that Harlen found oddly repellent.

  'Interesting tree, the willow,’ Nilsson said, flexing the now stripped rod. ‘Fine, straight grain. Splits into the flimsiest strips with a good knife. Weave it damp and it stays that way when it's dry.’ He looked straight at Harlen. ‘You know how the willow survives, don't you?’ he asked, but he did not wait for an answer. ‘It bends as need arises. This way. That way. Offers no opposition. Just accepts what's required of it, and thus lives on.’ He bent the rod one way then the other as he spoke. ‘Of course, should it choose not to ...’ He slid his hands together along the rod, and bent it slowly until the white wood began to tear apart wetly.

  Harlen swallowed. He knew that Nilsson could read the fear that his manner, even his presence, awoke in people, but he tried to keep his voice calm as he spoke. ‘What can I do for you. Captain?’ he asked.

  Nilsson dropped the broken rod and kicked it casually to one side. He spun the knife in his hand and offered it back to Harlen, handle first.

  Harlen saw that the blade was almost touching Nilsson's wrist.

  A sudden twist and slash, and Rannick's chief lieutenant would be mortally wounded; his arm opened from wrist to elbow. Images flooded over Harlen of the bull-like figure careening about his cottage, desperately trying to staunch the unstoppable flow that his very desperation would be pumping with increasing force from the long gaping wound. Flailing red skeins filled the air, splattering everything ... everyone.

  Harlen swallowed again and, involuntarily, his hand twitched to his face as if to wipe off the blood.

  Yet there was such confidence in the man, standing there, proffering the weapon. Not the confidence of a young man daring a challenge, but the confidence of a man vastly experienced in imposing his will on others, and restrained by few, if any, physical fears or moral strictures.

  Harlen reached out to take the knife. His hand was still trembling.

  Casually, as if weary at the delay, Nilsson let his arm fall and dropped the knife on the chair. Harlen's hand hovered futilely in the space that the knife had occupied.

  'Lord Rannick wants to see your daughter, weaver,’ Nilsson said, looking into the cottage. ‘Now.'

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  As Farnor swung the branch around, the figure seemed to disappear. He felt a rush of air seize him. His campfire flew into the air, twisted round, and vanished from view, then two bone-shaking blows on his back knocked the wind out of him.

  It took him some time to recover his breath, and quite a lot more to realize that he was on his back on the Forest turf some way away from the fire and that the two body shaking blows had been him landing, and bouncing.

  As the realization dawned however, he let out a panic-stricken cry, struggled unsteadily to his feet and looked around frantically.

  The figure, hooded and eerie, was crouching low, prodding the campfire with the branch that Farnor had just attacked it with. Farnor gave another cry and, wrenching the knife from his belt, charged wildly towards the silent ambusher.

  The figure gave an impatient sigh as Farnor drew nearer, then casually lifted the branch and pointed it at his face. The timing of the movement was such that Farnor could neither focus on, nor dodge around the branch, and as his head flinched backwards to avoid the inevitable impact, so his legs and body continued forward, and he fell flat on his back again. The knife floated from his hand in a graceful arc, glittering in the firelight.

  Some reflex in him struggled on, despite the lack of air in his lungs, and his hand banged petulantly about the turf in an attempt to recover his weapon. Noting this tattoo, the figure stretched out the branch and casually drew the knife towards its feet. A hand reached down and picked it up
. Still gasping, Farnor made an effort to rise, but the branch flicked out and, with unexpected gentleness, brushed away his supporting arm, dropping him back on to the ground again.

  'Do you always attack defenceless old women when they come to your camp for a little warm, young man?’ the figure asked, sitting down by the fire.

  The words slowly penetrated the noise of Farnor's pounding heart and rasping breathing. The voice was that of an old woman, though it was remarkably free from any hint of frailty. Further, she was none too pleased, by her tone. As Farnor eventually managed to lift his head to examine his interrogator, the end of the branch hovering menacingly in front of his face confirmed this conclusion.

  'Well?’ the voice insisted. The figure's hood turned towards him, and he could feel himself being intensely scrutinized. Then there was a soft sigh of recognition, and the branch was withdrawn. ‘You are the outsider, then,’ the figure said, returning to poking the fire with the branch. ‘I thought you must be, lighting a fire like that. It's unusual in the Forest. They don't like it, you know.'

  Farnor watched the figure warily, but made no attempt to renew his attack. He had no idea how this ... woman ... had done what she had done, but she had tossed him through the air seemingly with even less effort than had Nilsson, and, the falls having apparently awakened every fading bruise in his body, he was loath to risk any more. And too, she now had his knife.

  How had she come on him so quietly? Why hadn't the horses given some indication of her approach?

  The woman motioned him to rise. ‘I'm sorry if I startled you, approaching you like that,’ she said. ‘I didn't realize you were so engrossed. Are you all right?'

  Farnor was still wide-eyed and panting as he clambered to his knees, however, and he ignored both the apology and the inquiry. He pointed to the spot where he had landed previously and asked the question that was uppermost in his mind. ‘How did you do that?’ he said, his voice hoarse.