by Roger Taylor
'But the fabric can be rent,’ Farnor heard himself saying.
There was a great sigh of relief. Farnor felt again the fear of some terrible ancient and profound flaw bubbling to the surface of his mind, but again it was taken from him.
'Yes,’ came the simple answer. ‘But that which is torn can be sealed; can be made whole again.'
'And this I can do?’ Farnor asked.
'This you have done,’ the voice replied.
Farnor recognized the truth in this declaration, and the memory of his inadvertent interference with Rannick's fiery demonstration in the courtyard returned to him. As, too, did the sense of complete inadequacy that he had felt in the face of the torrent of wrongness that had swept over him as he had dashed across the fields to find his parents slaughtered and his home destroyed. What could he possibly do against such as that? ‘But how?’ he demanded. ‘How do I do it?'
Silence.
Farnor clenched his teeth. ‘You realize that I might get killed if I oppose Rannick?’ he said angrily.
'We know a little of the pain of separateness, but it is not as yours. We grieve for you.'
'Thanks a lot!'
'But you will die a different, crueller death if you turn away from him. This you know too.'
There were so many meanings in this that Farnor's only response was to swear. ‘I have to face him—him and that creature—on my own, then?’ he asked.
There was a hint of amusement in the answer. ‘You're not that separate, Far-nor. We will be there. And we will help where I can.’ The amusement faded. ‘But where it is Mover against Mover, you are correct. There is little we can do. But you are stronger than you know. Have no fear.'
A caustic reply began to form in Farnor's mind, but he kept it to himself. ‘Fear will keep me alive,’ he said, without thinking.
There was a pensive silence. ‘I shall think about that,’ the voice replied eventually.
Farnor rode on.
Behind him, the armed men from Marrin's lodge followed, silent as only Valderen hunters could be.
* * *
Chapter 19
Marna stood motionless, gaping at the approaching riders. For a moment, the sight of them approaching, with long, leaf-strewn shadows cutting through the sunlit air ahead of them, held her spellbound. They looked magnificent; they might have been riding straight out of some magic fireside tale by Yonas.
Only when they were almost upon her did she recover her wits.
Nilsson's men!
Her heart jolted. Hastily she bent down to pick up the knife.
'Leave it, girl,’ one of the riders said, stopping a little way in front of her. Marna, crouching, tightened her grip on the knife despite the command. She squinted up into the streaming light in an attempt to see the features of the speaker but she was unsuccessful. The rider seemed almost to blend with the shadows. Her thoughts raced; this couldn't be a search party looking for her, surely? Not so soon. It must be a random patrol of some kind, though she'd never noted such being undertaken before. But it didn't matter. What mattered was that she must get away. Should she slash out at this man and flee? She'd probably make better progress on foot through these trees than the others would on horseback. And they'd have to tend their injured companion, wouldn't they? Or should she stay and hover near the truth? She had been out looking for special woods for her father when she had been attacked by this man, and so on.
No, there were too many problems with this, she decided quickly. Too many questions to be answered later. Why was she out so early? Why was she carrying such a well stocked pack? And the maps? And, though she was too agitated to see its irrelevance, there were few woods about here that her father could use.
She would have more chance if she fled. Affecting a casualness she did not feel, she stood up.
Even as she made her decision, however, one of the other riders edged a little closer and said simply, but in a tone that was beyond argument, ‘Don't.'
Marna's eyes widened in both alarm and surprise. Not so much at this seeming anticipation of her actions, but because though, like the rider who had spoken first, the voice was heavy with the accent that characterized Nilsson's men, this speaker was a woman.
She dismounted, and Marna felt herself being examined by searching eyes, even though she still could not make out the woman's features with the low sun shining in her face. The eyes moved to the disturbed ground, the dead man, and the steaming vomit.
'What happened?’ the woman asked, returning her gaze to Marna. There was an unexpected gentleness in the voice.
'They attacked me,’ Marna replied, without pausing to consider anything more elaborate.
'They?’ There was an urgent edge to the first speaker's voice, and he leaned forward in his saddle anxiously.
'Two men,’ Marna said, looking up at him. ‘Outsiders. On their way to the castle. They ...'
'Where's the other one?’ the man demanded sternly before she could finish.
'He ran off,’ Marna said. She waved a hand vaguely towards the dead man. ‘He stabbed him by accident when I was struggling with him, then I did—that. Then he ran off.'
The other two riders dismounted rapidly. ‘Which way?’ one of them asked. It was another woman. Marna pointed. Her hand was shaking.
'There's blood here. And a trail,’ said the fourth rider, a man. He was bending down by the tree that the injured man had leaned against.
There was no further talk, but the two of them disappeared silently into the trees in the direction that Marna had indicated. Their sudden departure seemed to cut through Marna's bewilderment. Questions tumbled through her mind, not the least of which was how women came to be riding with Nilsson's men, but she pushed them to one side. Whoever they were and however they came to be there, there were only two of them now. She must make her dash for freedom quickly, before the others returned.
Yet somehow she could not blindly lash out with the knife at another woman.
But she could push her into the rider. That would cause enough confusion for her to escape. And they wouldn't abandon the other horses to give chase.
As inconspicuously as she could, she took several deep breaths to steel herself to this venture.
Then, as she thought, without warning, she spun round and with a cry, hurled herself at the unsuspecting woman. The impact she anticipated, however, did not happen. Instead she found herself caught up in some way and spinning round a great deal more than she had intended. Then, abruptly, she was once more firmly pinned face downwards on the ground, gasping for breath.
Before she could properly register what had happened, she felt the knife being gently prised from her grip.
A low chuckle came down to her from the rider above, and a word she did not understand, but which was plainly an oath, hissed out softly under the breath of the woman who had effected this sudden change in her posture. The chuckle became a laugh. ‘Language, language, Aaren,’ the man said.
Then she was being helped up. She was shaking. ‘Stay where you are,’ Aaren said, her voice firm but not unkind. ‘No one's going to hurt you, providing you don't do anything silly like that again.’ She pointed towards the dead man with the knife. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ she asked.
'I didn't mean to kill him,’ Marna blurted out.
Aaren glanced at the vomit and nodded. ‘It happens,’ she said, though her tone was far from casual. ‘And he was trying to strangle you.'
'How...?'
'You've got muddy handprints around your neck,’ Aaren answered, before the question was asked, her hands reaching out in a motherly gesture to brush the offending stains. ‘Don't fret. People who do things like that can expect to be killed.'
The strange mixture of callousness and compassion in the woman's voice seemed to unhinge Marna, and suddenly she was sobbing again, while at the same time cursing herself for her weakness.
Supporting arms lowered her gently to the ground. She covered her face with her hands. No one spoke
as Marna's sobs ran their course. ‘I keep thinking, maybe he had parents somewhere, a wife, children. It's awful. I can see their faces. What've I done?’ she said eventually.
'Is any of this blood yours?’ Aaren asked, crouching down and taking one of Marna's crimsoned hands.
A little bewildered by this question, Marna looked at her interrogator as if she had misheard, before she shook her head.
'Then you've survived,’ Aaren said bluntly, returning Marna's gaze intently. ‘He may well have had people unfortunate enough to love him, somewhere. But so do you, I'm sure. And I doubt you came into these woods to kill him, did you? He was the one who brought death here, not you. It was him or you. His loved ones or yours. Take a deep breath. Be glad you're alive. For yourself and for them.'
Marna turned away from her as if cold water had been dashed in her face. ‘That's just ... words,’ she said, gasping and wrapping her arms about herself.
Aaren reached out and took Marna's face in her hands. Turning her head she looked into her eyes. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘Believe me, I do. You must feel as you feel. Deny nothing. Words are all we've got. Be thankful at least that they're true.'
Marna met her captor's gaze uncertainly. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.
The return of the other two however, prevented any answer to this question. ‘We couldn't catch him,’ the man said. ‘We'd have had to go out of the trees. But he's bleeding badly. I doubt he's going to last long.'
The rider nodded. ‘Even so, we'll have to move this.’ He pointed to the dead man. ‘And the camp they'd made. Take it all well down, and cover the tracks. Give him the knife, Aaren. Make it look like a quarrel between the two of them. We don't want to encourage anyone to come prowling about up here.’ He turned to Marna. ‘You did say they were outsiders, didn't you, girl?'
Caught in a momentary spasm of self-pity, Marna snapped angrily. ‘Don't call me girl.'
The two women looked up at the rider and smiled knowingly. He cast a brief glance upwards and tried again. ‘They're not ... Nilsson's men, are they, young woman?’ he said.
Marna stared at him, her face puzzled. ‘No,’ she replied, repenting her outburst a little. ‘They said they'd come here to join Rannick's army.'
The rider nodded to his companions and they set about gathering together the remains of the camp. ‘No, that's my pack,’ Marna cried out, as the man took hold of it. He watched her as she stood up and walked towards him, arm extended. While there was no animosity in his gaze, there was a quality about him that made her want to shiver. ‘Thank you,’ she managed to say as she took the pack from him. Then he was picking up the dead man.
As the two disappeared once more into the trees, the man carrying his dreadful burden, Marna turned back to the rider. Increasingly bewildered by what was happening, she asked again, ‘Who are you?'
'More importantly, who are you?’ Aaren asked her. ‘And what are you doing in the woods at dawn with a large travelling pack, when there's a perfectly good road along the bottom of the valley?'
Marna considered a variety of answers, then forced herself to ask another question. ‘Are you with Nilsson?'
Aaren and the rider exchanged glances. ‘No,’ the rider replied after a pause.
'But you're from the same country,’ Marna said, an inadvertent note of accusation in her voice. ‘You speak the same way as he does.'
'That's nearly true,’ the rider acknowledged. ‘And that's why we're here. But we're not with him, believe me. Now tell me why you're here. It's important. We don't want to stay here too long, it's dangerous for us.'
Marna looked from him to Aaren standing beside her. Aaren nodded encouragingly. She took the chance. ‘I was trying to get to the capital to tell the king about what was happening here. About Nilsson, and Rannick and ... everything.'
The rider nodded. Though his face revealed little, Marna felt his approval in this acknowledgement. ‘I'd like you to come with us,’ he said. ‘We've a camp higher up, and we could use your help.'
'I ... I don't know,’ Marna stammered. ‘I don't know who you are or ...’ Her voice tailed off.
The rider looked at her thoughtfully, then he bent forward and spoke in a kindly voice. ‘You're right to be uncertain,’ he said. ‘Especially after what's just happened to you.’ He pointed south. ‘That's the way you need to go to get out of the valley. It won't be easy to reach the capital. Your ... Rannick ... has done a great deal of harm hereabouts and there are a great many unpleasant people gravitating to this place as a consequence. You might be able to make it, judging by how you've handled yourself here. But it won't be easy.’ He paused. ‘The choice is yours. We need your help here, but if you want to go on, we'll give you what advice we can, and we've got messages of our own that we'd like you to carry to the king for us.'
Marna barely registered the reference to the king. The encounter with the two men had shaken her profoundly, and the hint about conditions beyond the valley that she had just been given had a truthful and unwelcome ring about it. She turned to Aaren, but this time the woman's face was expressionless. ‘Your choice,’ it said.
The journey ahead unfolded before her, as she had so often studied it, though now the uncertainties that had hovered about it had doubled and trebled and they had an all too real vividness about them. And these people intrigued her. There was something disturbing ... frightening even ... about their quiet, purposeful intensity, and their seeming indifference to what had happened. And they were from Nilsson's country, without a doubt. Yet...?
If they'd wanted to kill her they'd have done it by now; she had no idea how she had finished up helpless on the ground after she had attacked Aaren, but she knew that she could have done nothing to prevent it.
Then her practical nature advised her that she could always sneak away from them later if need be. ‘I'll come with you,’ she said.
'Good,’ the rider said. ‘I'm glad. There's a great deal we need to know about this place and what's been happening here. Give Aaren your pack and mount up behind me.'
As Aaren cupped her hands to help her on to the horse, Marna noticed that the tip of one of her fingers was missing. It was another small question to add to those that were still tumbling around her head.
'What about your friends?’ she asked, as she wriggled herself comfortable.
'They'll follow us,’ the rider replied. ‘And they'll hide our tracks. Don't worry.'
Marna raised her eyebrows in surprise. It had never occurred to her to consider hiding her tracks.
A little while later, after a silent and predominantly uphill journey, Marna found herself in the strangers’ camp. To her, it seemed that they came upon it very suddenly, and it was only when she looked around that she realized how simply and yet how cunningly it had been hidden by the careful positioning of a few branches.
The rider introduced himself. ‘I'm Engir,’ he said. ‘This is Aaren. The others are Levrik and Yehna.’ He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
'Marna,’ came an awkward reply.
Engir smiled and motioned her towards a grassy bank. ‘Do you want anything to eat, Marna?'
Marna shook her head. ‘I'm thirsty, though,’ she said, taking the water bottle from her pack.
'Eat,’ Aaren ordered, when Marna had finished drinking. An apple was thrust into her hand. ‘You'll need it, you left most of your breakfast back there.'
Marna looked at the apple for a moment, her stomach rumbling, before hesitantly biting into it. Only then did she realize that she had not eaten since some time before Nilsson had made his fateful visit the previous day. She finished it noisily.
As she ate, Aaren and Engir talked, in their own language. Marna listened unashamedly, though she could understand nothing of what was said. There was a sonorous beauty about their speech that enthralled her, however. Could these people really be from the same country as Nilsson and his men?
'Why are you here?’ she asked abruptly, interrupting them.
'There's a litt
le stream just over there,’ Aaren said, ignoring the question, and pointing. Go and clean yourself up, you look a mess.'
Slightly affronted, Marna did as she was bidden. It took her some time to wash all the blood from her hands in the cold water and she was shivering when she returned to sit on the grassy embankment. She looked at her new companions. Both of them were lying idly on the sunlit grass as though they were on some leisurely picnic. It appeared, however, that they were simply waiting for the return of their companions, for as Levrik and Yehna arrived, Marna found herself the focus of their attention. ‘Tell us about Nilsson, Marna,’ Engir asked, smiling. ‘And this ... Rannick ... person we've been hearing about.'
Marna would rather they had told her about themselves first, but she could not but respond to this pleasant albeit determined asking. A little self-consciously at first, she told them what had happened since the arrival of Nilsson and his men on Dalmas Morrow. Even as she spoke, she found it hard to imagine that so much had occurred in so short a time. She also found her listeners almost disconcertingly attentive. They sat still and silent throughout, only interrupting on those occasions when she knew herself that she was repeating herself or rambling.
The atmosphere in the small camp changed as she spoke, however, becoming noticeably more uneasy particularly as she spoke about Rannick and his strange metamorphosis. And when she concluded with the details of her own decision to flee the valley, the unease became open concern.
Engir put his hand to his forehead, while the two women both spoke at once, in their own language. Levrik leaned back on the grass, but Marna could feel a tension in him.
After a moment Engir spoke to the two women and nodded towards Marna. Yehna protested a little, but Engir replied, ‘No. Speak her language. If we're going to ask her to trust us, then we'll have to trust her.'
'What's the matter?’ Marna asked, concerned by this sudden agitation.
'Will this Rannick come looking for you?’ Engir asked.
