by Roger Taylor
* * * *
Gryss started violently as he heard the door of his cottage open and close quickly. It had been his sad practice of late to lock his door at night, but it was far from being a habit yet. ‘There was an uncertain rumbling from the dog and some rustling in the hallway while, with no small trepidation, he levered himself up out of his chair. Before he could reach the door, however, it opened.
'Marna!’ he exclaimed, as she stepped hastily inside and closed the door behind her. ‘Where have you been? What's been happening? Why ...'
Marna signalled silence as she motioned him vigorously back towards his chair. Gryss retreated under this assault, but he was not so lightly silenced. ‘Your father's frantic with worry, Marna,’ he said in a low, urgent whisper, for some reason feeling the need to keep his voice down. ‘What ...’ His chair nudged him behind the knees and he sat down abruptly.
Marna dropped to her knees in front of him and seized his hands. ‘There are people here, Gryss. People from over the hill. Come to kill Rannick,’ she announced.
Gryss gaped at her, but before he could speak she was recounting the story of her decision to flee the valley and her meeting with the four strangers, though she made no mention of the man she had killed. When she had finished, Gryss closed his eyes and put his hands to his head. For an awful moment, Marna thought that her impetuous entry had been too severe a shock for the old man.
But his eyes were sharp and attentive when he opened them. ‘Tell me all that again, but more slowly,’ he said, lifting her up from her knees and pointing her to a chair opposite.
For a little while the room was filled with the soft murmur of her half-whispered tale and Gryss's intermittent questions. The two of them leaned towards one another, their faces almost touching, like a tentative arch. When she had finished her second telling, Gryss closed his eyes again and leaned back in his chair. ‘This will take me a moment or two, Marna,’ he said.
Marna tapped her fingers impatiently on her knee as she waited.
'How did you get here?’ Gryss demanded suddenly.
'They watched until the search party went back to the castle, then they brought me to where I could reach the top fields on my own,’ Marna replied.
'Where are they now?’ Gryss asked.
Marna shook her head. ‘I don't know,’ she said. ‘They wouldn't tell me. They said it was in case Nilsson found me and I told him about them.'
Gryss looked at her closely. ‘You don't seem too offended by that,’ he said, gently taunting.
Marna grimaced. ‘A day or two ago I might have been, but not now,’ she said. Then, with an effort, ‘More's happened than I've told you about.'
Gryss frowned. The comment confirmed the pain that he could feel underlying her every word. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ he asked.
Marna shook her head vigorously. ‘Perhaps one day,’ she said. ‘When this is all over.'
'Whenever you want,’ Gryss said. ‘But it may be some time before that happens. What can four people do against Rannick and Nilsson? Storm the castle?'
Marna's manner changed and she looked at him like a parent about to admonish a child for an offence that was so serious that shouting and summary punishment were out of the question. ‘I was with them, Gryss,’ she said. They're real soldiers. Real.’ She slapped her stomach to confirm the depth of her inner certainty about this declaration. ‘And they move like shadows. They brought me, and the horses, through ways over the tops that I never dreamed existed. And they'd never been here before. They just ... see things. And they pay attention to such details.’ She nodded reflectively to herself, then, with quiet, but deep assurance, ‘I told you, they know about the power that Rannick has. It frightened them more than it ever has us, and still they've gone on to fight him. Gone, on their own, because they knew they hadn't the time to get the help they needed. But they'll do something that'll be neither foolish nor futile, and, at the least, they'll hurt him badly in some way.’ She leaned forward and her voice became urgent. ‘And they'll do it soon. Very soon.'
'I don't suppose they told you what they were going to do, either, did they?’ Gryss said.
Marna shook her head. ‘No, but they were very interested when I told them that Rannick sometimes rides out alone to the north. I think if they get the chance, they'll try to ambush him.'
'They made quite an impression on you, I gather,’ Gryss said.
'Yes,’ Marna replied simply.
'And?’ Gryss caught the note in her voice.
'And whatever it is they're going to do, we can't let them do it alone,’ she said.
Gryss looked at her, almost fearfully. There was no youthful petulance or impatience here. He could still sense the presence of a frightened and lost young girl, but this was fluttering at the edges of a stern resolve. She was unequivocally not the Marna of even a few days ago. He resisted the temptation to question her about those parts of her journey that he knew she had kept from him. ‘What can we do?’ he asked, trying to keep any hint of defeatism from his voice.
Despair flared into Marna's eyes momentarily, only to be swept aside. ‘Be ready,’ she said, clenching her fists. ‘Just be ready to help them, protect them, if anything starts to happen. Not be frightened of the unknown.’ Before Gryss could interject any reservations, she ploughed on. ‘I've been thinking. Everyone who we're certain is with us can go up to Farnor's place tomorrow. If we're asked, we can say we're starting to rebuild it for whoever it's to be granted to. There's plenty to do there that'll warrant a crowd carrying axes and hammers and the like, without causing any alarm. And from there, we can arrange to watch the castle. And to move, if we have to, if anything starts to happen. We don't even need to tell anyone why we're really there.’ She hesitated. ‘In fact we mustn't tell anyone else why we're there. We've too few good liars.’ She frowned thoughtfully. ‘We'll tell everyone it's just what it is. A ploy to watch the castle. To see if we can find out how well they guard it, how many new people are arriving, whether they ever send patrols to the north; anything that might be useful later on!’ She nodded her head, satisfied.
Gryss's eyes widened in surprise. His mind filled with doubts and hesitations but they foundered against both Marna's determination and the simple practicality of her suggestion. He felt a long-suppressed anger and resentment bubbling up through the confusion of his thoughts. And too, guilt. Had he acted with such plain common sense at the very outset and, say, questioned Nilsson and his troop, perhaps none of this horror would ever have come to pass. It was no new thought, but it tormented him no less for that. Indeed it had grown worse with time, as, rippling out from that first wrong action, had come so many others: small, day by day acts of appeasement and quiet acquiescence to Nilsson's and thus Rannick's will. Even though such deeds were done ostensibly as a cover for the organizing of more forthright action, they distressed him profoundly, not least because of the example they set to the other villagers.
'Yes,’ he said. ‘You're right. It's a good idea. I'm sick of doing nothing except fret over ever more futile plans.’ He stood up. ‘Jeorg, I think, should know what's happened. But I agree, none of the others. I'll tell your father you're safe but not where you are. And you'd better keep well out of sight.’ He lifted down his cloak from a hook. ‘I'll start things moving right away. Delays have won us nothing in the past, and with a bit of effort I should be able to get a ... working party ... to the farm before noon tomorrow.'
When he had gone, Marna locked the door behind him and doused all the lanterns. Then she curled up in the chair and waited.
* * *
Chapter 22
The following day was cloudy and overcast, but to Marna's considerable relief it did not rain. Where a group of people working in the sunshine might not have been unduly conspicuous, a group working in the pouring rain would be highly so.
She was awake before dawn after a night tormented by confused desire-laden dreams of Rannick and terrifyingly vivid images of her struggle with the man
she had killed. The latter in particular had started her upright, sweating and gasping, and they came sometimes even when she simply closed her eyes. It helped only a little that Aaren had told her to expect such a reaction to her ordeal.
Moving silently about the cottage, she packed some food, left a note for Gryss, and then used the morning twilight to cover her journey to the Yarrance farm. Studiously she tried to move the way that the four newcomers moved, for despite the danger and urgency of their mission, they had made a point of instructing her where they could.
While her endeavours were hardly skilled, she had instinctively picked up some of their sense of inner stillness, and she found that she both saw and heard many things on the short, familiar journey that she had never noted before.
Despite the horror of the destruction of the Yarrance farm, the ancient momentum of the valley's ways had seen the livestock rapidly moved to several different farms for care until such time as Farnor might return, or a decision be made by the Council about the disposition of the property and goods. No one, however, had known what to do with the various household items that were immediately salvageable from the wreckage of the farmhouse, and, with a strange mixture of care and embarrassed haste, they had been put into one of the undamaged store sheds.
Marna paused as she reached the open gate to the farmyard. In the dawn gloaming, the scarred and broken farmhouse looked both sinister and vengeful, with its charred rafters dark against the dull sky and its shadowed windows like sightless eyes. She hesitated for a moment, nervously, then, avoiding looking at the house, she slipped quietly across the yard to the shed.
Her nervousness eased a little as, after a brief struggle with the wooden latch, she closed the door behind her, gently. The interior of the shed was dark and it took some time for her eyes to adjust.
Though she had chosen dull and nondescript clothing for her journey, she felt the need now for clothes that would disguise her even more effectively. Then she would need some weapons. One thing that she had noticed while she had been with the four outsiders was the extent to which they were armed. And, she was sure, what she had seen was by no means all that they carried.
Tentatively, she had touched on the subject of carrying a knife ... or something ... for her protection, in the vague hope of receiving advice of some kind about how she should use one.
Aaren's comments, however, had come from a deeper insight.
'You don't carry a weapon unless you're fully prepared both to use it and to account for using it,’ she had said quietly, but with a look that transfixed Marna. ‘And you don't ever rely on it, or you'll be robbed of your will if it fails you, and it'll probably be taken from you and used against you.’ Naked doubt had filled Marna's face but Aaren had continued. ‘Someone once told me that being a true warrior did not lie in knowing how to use weapons, but when to use them. And that relying on weapons and technique can stop you learning how to watch and to listen and develop the wisdom to judge that moment truly. Very wise advice, I realize now, though I didn't take it with too good a grace at the time.'
'I don't understand,’ Marna had replied, herself a little miffed at this unexpected lecture.
'You understand better than you realize,’ Aaren had said encouragingly. ‘You've never been trained to fight, I imagine, but when you needed to today, you—your body—acted as wisely as any hardened soldier.'
The remark had torn at Marna for some reason. Of the many thoughts she had had about the slaying of her attacker, not one had identified it as an act of wisdom.
And yet...?
Aaren had become purposeful. ‘Still, these are dangerous times and this is a particularly dangerous place now, whatever it's been in the past. If you must arm yourself, get yourself a good sharp knife, one that's comfortable to wear and to handle. Make sure you can draw it easily but not so easily that it'll tumble out of its scabbard if you have to jump over anything, or roll about. But ...’ She had been emphatic. ‘... above all, don't rely on it. Just think about what wearing it means, and think about it honestly. And don't be afraid of whatever conclusions you reach. Trust your judgement, Marna. It's very sound, I know.'
'How should I use it?’ she had asked.
Aaren's brow had furrowed in distress, but her voice was calm as she replied, ‘Straight, fast and without warning, when your decision's been made.’ Her hand had come up. ‘No more,’ she had said. ‘Just think about what I've said.'
The brief conversation kept returning to Marna, at once a warning and a guiding light.
The clothes took little finding. A loose, rather bulky tunic would hide her shape, and scruffy cap would contain her hair and obscure her face. The knife presented more of a problem, though only because she was spoilt for choice. This particular shed was the one which housed Farnor's grinding bench, and over this hung a large army of very sharp knives in their leather and stiff cloth scabbards.
Marna's hands closed about a machete and she hefted it menacingly so that its blade glinted silver wet in the dull morning light that was filtering through the window. It was comfortable all right, but not something she could reasonably conceal, let alone carry easily. With some reluctance, she put it aside. Eventually she decided on carrying three in her belt; one either side and a short one at the back, as she had noted Yehna wearing. She tried one up her sleeve like the one she had seen Engir carrying, but it kept tumbling out. And her attempt to wedge one into the top of her boot proved not only unsuccessful but also quite painful.
She frowned. There was a great deal she had missed when she had thought she was studying those soldiers and their weapons. She could have learned much more had she had the wit to watch and listen more carefully. Still, all being well, they would meet again soon and she would be more attentive next time. She slid over the interim period.
'Are you comfortable?’ she muttered to herself, giving her clothes and weapons a final check. A little self-consciously she jumped up and down twice to see if any of her knives bounced out of their hastily rigged scabbards. Then, as quietly as she had come, she was across the farmyard and moving over the fields towards a tree-lined hillock from which, as she had agreed with Gryss, she would be able to watch both the farm and the castle.
Her immediate instinct had been to keep to the edge of the fields, but it was much lighter now and, should anyone be observing, she knew that a figure skulking along the hedgerows would be more conspicuous than one wandering leisurely across the fields. It proved a little more nerve-racking than she had envisaged however, and as soon as she reached the trees, she scurried to find herself a good, well-hidden vantage point.
As she waited, she tried again to emulate the quiet stillness of the four soldiers. It was not easy. She found herself drifting off into daydreams, or seized with cramp brought on through sitting too stiffly. Also, on occasions, as during the night, she was once again suddenly, horribly, back in the woods, fending off her attacker, her hands warm and sticky. ‘Don't be afraid,’ Aaren had said. ‘It's got to come out of your system one way or another. Just remember that you won.’ The words helped, but the incidents still left her shivering and wiping her hands down her tunic.
However, the forging of the last few days also began to make itself felt and, without realizing it, she achieved a quietness that would have been quite beyond her only a week previously, as she turned her mind to the needs of the valley and its four would-be deliverers, and forced herself to watch the castle attentively.
As usual, little seemed to be happening, except for the guards, whom she could just make out, patrolling the walls. Occasionally however, her eye was drawn to the tallest of the towers, as strange lights flashed from the windows of its highest room. It was Rannick's room, she knew, with its plundered furniture and its ambivalent memories for her. As the lights came and went, she eased herself further into the shade, as if they were in some way seeking her out.
She tried to ignore a part of her which felt slightly injured that, following her unequivocal rebuff of his propo
sal, an infuriated Rannick had not come looking for her in person, or at least sent out a larger, more determined, search party. She was sure that he had been hot enough for some such precipitate action. On the other hand, she was relieved that neither of these had happened. She remembered Nilsson's surreptitious warning about the eerie, clinging, little breeze that had fluttered about her head as she had left the castle, and her stomach tightened as she thought about what it implied.
As she recalled this gossamer touch, something brushed lightly against her check. She started violently and almost cried out. But it was only a leafy branch touched by the breeze. She dashed it aside angrily, and returned to her vigil, scowling grimly.
As the morning wore on, people began to arrive at the farm below, a few, unusually, on horseback. They milled around for a little while, until eventually, and at a very leisurely pace, they began cleaning up the debris in the farmyard.
Marna watched them idly for some time and then turned back to the castle. Even as she turned, the castle gates swung open and a column of men began to emerge. Her heart started to pound with both fear and anticipation. A search party was being sent to look for her, after all. Or was it just another raiding party? Other thoughts came. Would whoever was leading them notice the crowd at the farm? Would they start asking questions? She was glad that Gryss had decided to tell no one about her apart from Jeorg.
She frowned. The column was turning away. It was heading north. Count, girl, count, came an urgent thought from somewhere; an echo of the frequent questions from Engir and the others about the numbers of men, and horses, and wagons, and prisoners, and ... everything ... that was currently inside the castle; questions that for the most part she had only been able to answer with remorseful vagueness.
The column kept on coming. There were a few mounted men, several loose horses, and what, she decided, must be nearly all their wagons. Her frown deepened. What was happening? She knew that Nilsson had expressed an interest in the north when he had first arrived, but there hadn't even been any talk in the village of a raiding party in that direction.
