Valderen [The Second Part of Farnor's Tale]

by Roger Taylor

  The presence of the creature was growing stronger. He looked at his two horses. They would be no further use to him now, clattering and unsteady across the rain-slicked rocks. And, not knowing when, or if, he would be back, he could not tether them somewhere, like sacrifices. He would have to abandon them and carry such as he needed himself. Besides, they were becoming increasingly unhappy, as if they too could sense the nearness of the creature.

  Wiping the rain from his eyes, he went over to the pack pony to remove the various weapons he had snatched up for this expedition. There was a Valderen bow, quite unlike anything he had ever seen in the valley: not big, but very powerful—if he could draw it. And there were the vicious, barbed-headed arrows. He was no bowman, but he was sure he could hit a large animal at a range that would be safely out of jaws’ reach, and that was where he intended to remain. Nevertheless, he had chosen also a large machete on which he had managed to hone a reasonable edge.

  As he began loosening the straps that secured its pack, the pony slithered sideways into him nervously, knocking him off balance. He grabbed at it hastily but missed his footing on the wet rocks and staggered heavily against it. With a startled neigh, the pony began prancing anxiously. The noise of its scrabbling hooves on the rocks rose into the silent air to startle it further.

  Still unbalanced, Farnor flailed out blindly in an attempt to catch hold of the pony and restrain it. His hand closed around something just as the pony decided to bolt. Panicking as he felt himself beginning to be dragged along, Farnor tightened his grip but, fortunately for him, the object tore free from the loosened straps as the animal gathered speed. He was still gripping it tightly as he went sprawling painfully on the rocky ground.

  He lay there for some time, absorbed in the new discomforts that were putting fresh life into his older aches and pains. Then, as his senses began to clear, he realized that he was listening to the flight not only of the pony but of his horse as well; it had seemingly concurred with its fellow's judgement and also fled. Struggling to his feet, he stared into the darkness in dismay, until the last faint echoes of the fleeing horses had died away completely. For a moment rage overcame him. He wanted to rant and scream after the demented animals, to hurl rocks into the darkness, to rend the very air with his fury. But the mood faded as quickly as it had come, displaced by an odd fatalism. Briefly, the memory of Uldaneth returned to him. What had happened had happened and nothing he could do would remedy it now. And he still had no alternative but to go on and to deal with events as they developed and with whatever came to hand.

  He reached into his pocket and retrieved the small sunstone lantern that Angwen had given him as a gift. Carefully he checked that the shutter was closed before he struck it, then he eased it open very slightly; he still had sufficient wit to realize that the last thing he needed now was his night vision destroyed for minutes on end by the lantern's brightness.

  With the aid of the thin, rain-streaked sliver of light he examined himself to see if any serious damage had been done in his fall. Eventually satisfied that he had suffered only yet more bruising, he sat down on a rock to think. As he did so, the faint light from the lantern caught the object that he had grabbed hold of when the pony bolted. It was the staff that Marrin had given him.

  He clicked the lantern shut as he bent to pick up the staff. This was going to be invaluable, he thought caustically as he hefted it. He felt a hint of disapproval about him, but it was gone almost before he noted it, and he did not pursue it. Then the fatalism that had quietened him earlier gave way to anger and despair. What use was he going to be now even if he found the creature; alone, unarmed and benighted.

  'Not alone, Far-nor.’ The voice of the trees filled his head. He waved a pointless acknowledgement. ‘No,’ he conceded. ‘But unless you've suddenly learned to walk and fight, then I'm afraid you're going to be nothing more than a silent witness to what happens if that creature awakes.'

  'No. We can touch it a little. We did before. Turned it from you in confusion.’ There was a plaintive quality in the voice that did not inspire confidence, however.

  I was on a desperate, charging horse then, Farnor thought, but he did not articulate it so that the trees could Hear.

  What a mess! Some rearguard he was going to make for Derwyn now. What had possessed him to think he could tackle the creature on his own? What was he, after all? Just a stupid boy, stuck up a mountain with an ornamental lantern, his mother's carving knife in his belt, and an old man's stick. He sneered at the image.

  Then, the atmosphere about him changed. ‘Far-nor,’ the trees whispered fearfully. ‘It wakes.'

  * * * *

  Derwyn's mood shifted violently as he rode steadily southwards through the fine, damping, rain. The ancient mistrust of the Valderen of outsiders was deep and powerful. It provoked a response that could not easily be set aside by reason, least of all by the Koyden-dae, with their almost total inexperience in dealing with such people. And these outsiders were doing that which, said tradition, outsiders had always done; they were wantonly, cruelly, destroying the Forest. It was, beyond a doubt, the duty of the Valderen to drive away such people.

  And yet, Farnor's response disturbed him. The young man was seemingly a Hearer such as there had never been before; one before whom Marken bowed without reserve. He should be accorded respect and, above all, listened to. But too, he was barely a man yet. He could not possibly have the soundness of judgement of an older man, an experienced leader of men. And he was not Valderen.

  But he had been called to the place of the most ancient—a hitherto unknown occurrence. And that strange old bird Uldaneth had expressed a great interest in him. Uldaneth: an unrepentant outsider, who knew more about the Valderen than they themselves, who vanished for years on end and then just appeared again, wandering freely from lodge to lodge. He shook his head. He had problems enough without fretting about Uldaneth. She was an enigma even deeper than Farnor.

  'You're troubled.'

  Marken's voice broke into Derwyn's milling thoughts. He nodded. ‘Farnor's troubling me,’ he replied. ‘He seemed so certain. And so angry. And sneaking off on his own like that. I can't help wondering if I should've listened to him more.'

  Marken put his hand to his head, his face troubled. He could barely keep from his mind the terrible sound of the trees struggling to escape the depredations of Nilsson and his men. And he, too, was torn. Farnor's leaving had drawn a cloudy veil over his own new-found contact with the trees. He wanted to go after him, find out what was happening, ask him what he was going to do. Yet he was the lodge's Hearer. His place was here, by Derwyn, riding to destroy these invaders. And whether the decision to ride against them was right or not, it had been made, and Derwyn had to be supported. Doubt would serve only to cripple him. ‘He's not Valderen,’ he said. ‘He doesn't truly understand. Your judgement's sound in this, Derwyn. But he can be trusted too. Don't forget, this is more his land than ours, and these raiders more his problem, until now. Wherever he's gone and whatever he's doing, it'll be to help us.'

  'I hope so,’ Derwyn called out ruefully as their horses drifted apart. But Marken's words had heartened him. This was Farnor's land and whatever he had chosen to do, it would be as an ally. He would do no harm, even though he might do little good. For a moment he heard Farnor warning him again about the creature. He shrugged the memory aside. For all his own unease about this strange animal, he'd always thought Farnor's concerns exaggerated; a farmer's response, not a hunter's.

  He could have been right about this Nilsson and his men, though. Men who would hack down trees without due ceremony and delay were vicious and savage beyond doubt. And as for burning them...

  Anger filled him.

  Still, it would be folly to go charging among them, knowing nothing of how many there were, or how they were situated. What was it Farnor had said about them? ‘They're brutal fighting men ... If you go against them rashly, they'll hack you down without a thought.'

  The light was fadi
ng. They should slow down, send out scouts to see where these people were, and how many. Yet these thoughts merely bubbled and frothed on top of the great swell of his Valderen heritage. Though unHeard by him, the small skill in Hearing that he possessed in common with all the Valderen was responding to the panic and terror of the trees about him and clouding the rational thought that normally ordered his judgement. His hands twitched uncertainly at the reins of his horse.

  * * * *

  The branch sailed over the battlements again. It was wrapped in a cloth to reduce the noise that it would make against the stonework. For the third time, Levrik cautiously pulled the rope that was attached to it, ready to jump back quickly if it suddenly went slack. This time, however, the branch wedged in the embrasure. Levrik pulled on it again and then allowed it to take his full weight. There was a springiness in it that disturbed him a little; the branch was not as strong as he would have liked, but had it been any stouter it would have been almost impossible to throw it high enough.

  He nodded to Yehna, the lightest of the group. Taking the rope from him, she tested it herself and then, satisfied, began clambering up it. The other three looked up into the darkness after her, even when she had disappeared from view. Eventually, the rope stopped shaking. They waited for a signal.

  Instead, an angry, challenging voice floated down to them. Before any of them could react, however, there was a thud, and the voice stopped abruptly.

  There was a brief, tense pause, then the signal came. Aaren went up the rope next, to help Yehna support the branch while the two men climbed after her.

  * * * *

  Jeorg lurched towards the castle gate and began to bang on it. ‘Open up. Open up,’ he shouted, his speech slurred.

  After a while, and more banging, the wicket gate opened and a guard emerged, torch in hand. Jeorg gazed at the flickering flame and swayed uncertainly. ‘It's here,’ he said, smiling inanely and pointing into the darkness.

  'What's here?’ the guard demanded, scowling angrily.

  Jeorg bent towards him precariously. The guard turned away from his breath with a grimace. ‘The wood,’ Jeorg said, pointing again into the darkness.

  The guard followed the wavering hand. He was just debating whether to give Jeorg a beating for this disturbance when a shape as unsteady as its herald formed in the darkness and moved towards him. He stepped back, alarmed, but as the shape neared, it became a horse-drawn cart. Leading the horse was Gryss, and there were a few men behind it. Gryss stepped up to the guard and cast an apologetic look at Jeorg. ‘I'm sorry about this,’ he said confidentially. ‘I'm afraid he's been celebrating Whistler's Day a little too well.’ He beamed suddenly and waved an arm towards the men by the cart. ‘In fact we've all been celebrating a little.’ He swayed slightly.

  'What?’ the guard asked, frowning. ‘Celebrating? What the devil are you blathering about? And what's all this?’ He gestured towards the cart.

  Gryss looked at him in exaggerated surprise. ‘Celebrating. Whistler's Day,’ he said, as if stating the obvious. ‘You know, the Whistler who comes from over the hill and between the dreams.’ The guard stared at him vacantly. ‘Lures all the ills of the valley away with his playing. Plies them with drink then dances them up into the mountains.'

  'I whistle away—oops!’ Jeorg's tuneless song ended as he bumped into the gate and slithered to the ground. He laughed ridiculously.

  'I don't know what you're talking about, you old fool,’ the guard shouted, pushing Gryss aside roughly. ‘Get this clown out of here unless you want me to run him through. And this as well.’ He waved his torch at the cart.

  'It's the wood the captain asked for,’ Gryss said, taken aback. ‘Said he wanted it urgently. That's why we worked on Whistler's Day to get it for you. It's supposed to be a holiday, you know. And I've brought some lads to unload it as well.'

  'No-one's told me anything about any wood,’ the guard said. Others were emerging from the wicket gate. ‘Do you know anything about this?’ he asked, turning to them. There was universal denial.

  Gryss shrugged. ‘All I know is that the captain said he wanted this lot urgently. So it's here. It's taken some work, I can tell you. Do you want to ask him about it or shall we take it back?'

  The guard hesitated. ‘It's urgent, you say?’ he asked.

  Gryss nodded.

  The guard blew out a resigned and fretful breath then he motioned the others back through the wicket gate and stepped after them. After a muffled but obviously heated debate, there came the sound of bolts being drawn and the two great leaves of the gate began to open, causing Jeorg to tumble over backwards. This was greeted by raucous applause and cheering from the men who had accompanied the cart.

  Gryss, still smiling broadly, began to lead the horse slowly forward. The cart creaked ominously as the horse took the strain. The guard cast an impatient glance skyward. ‘Come on, come on. Move it,’ he urged.

  As the cart reached the gate however, there was a pause while Jeorg struggled unsteadily to his feet. Several of the men stepped forward to help him up and guide him out of harm's way. They were milling about the cart as Gryss began to drag the horse forward again.

  Suddenly there was an ominous crack and those around the cart jumped back with cries of alarm, tumbling over one another. With a weary creak, followed by another crack, one of the cart's wheels fell off, narrowly missing the watching guard. The cart crashed down on one side bringing the horse with it, and the bundles of staves that it was carrying slid off and blocked the gateway.

  * * * *

  Four shadows moved silently along the battlements at the north end of the castle, leaving a second dead sentry behind them. Coming to the top of one of the stairways they paused, studying the buildings about them and looking in particular at those from which the highest tower rose. Then they moved down into the dimly lit courtyard and headed towards a doorway. A clamour from the far end of the castle held their attention momentarily, then they were through the door.

  It opened into a passageway lit by a few widely spaced lanterns. The only information the four had about the interior of the castle had been gleaned from Marna and, to some extent, from Gryss. It had not been particularly helpful, however. Both Gryss and Marna knew only cottages and small houses, and were confused by the complexity of the passages and stairways along which they had been led on their few visits to the castle.

  The consequences of this had thus been discussed and faced by the four attackers before their present venture had been set in train and they scarcely spoke as they moved quickly and silently along the passage.

  'We'll follow our noses, reduce the odds on the way, if we can, and hack our way out if we have to,’ was the agreed summary.

  And there were two less already.

  Some of the doors along the passage stood open, revealing disordered and deserted living quarters, and at the end was a stair well. Steps went both up and down, and Engir signalled upwards. Just as they were about to move, however, a sound drifted up the other flight. Yehna signalled a halt, then, without speaking, seized one of the wall lanterns and ran down the steps. Engir threw a nervous, inquiring glance at Aaren, who shrugged and set off after her.

  At the foot of the stairs was a single heavily barred door. Yehna held the lantern by her face and, shading her eyes, peered through a small grill. Then, with a grimace of anger, she thrust the lantern into Aaren's hands, lifted the timber balk that secured the door, and pushed it wide open. Snatching back the lantern, she stepped inside.

  The light illuminated what must once have been a storeroom but was now a dormitory. A women's dormitory. Bodies lying on crude bunks turned to look at the intruders and the faint sobbing that had caught Yehna's ear redoubled itself fearfully. Aaren's eyes widened in dismay, but Yehna's narrowed and her lip curled viciously. She put the lantern on the floor. ‘Most of the men have gone for the time being,’ she said, her voice icy with restraint, and her accent heavy. ‘You'll probably find some weapons in the rooms along th
e passage at the top of these stairs.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, ‘Some of the villagers are doing their best to hold the gate open. They're as much captives here as you are. Mind you don't kill any of them on your way out.'

  Then she and Aaren were running up the stairs and motioning the two men forward with gestures that forbade any questions. As they reached the top of the stairs, the sound of voices and shuffling feet came up from below, followed by the crash of breaking glass. They were a long way away before the fire started by the broken lantern began to send smoke up the stairs.

  * * * *

  Though the guard was speaking predominantly in his own language, it was quite apparent that he was deeply dismayed by what had happened. Gryss was both flustered and placatory, fussing around him, picking up odd pieces of timber here and there and then dropping them again, promising to have the gateway cleared immediately and asking where the staves should be stacked.

  The other villagers, after having, amid a great deal of confusion and noise, righted the horse and calmed it, were wandering around equally vaguely. Some were examining, with much head shaking, the broken cart and its scattered contents, while others were hurling recriminations at no one in particular about why the cart had been so heavily loaded, and how it should have been stacked this way, not that, and how two carts would have been better...

  Jeorg remained leaning against the gate mumbling happily to himself.

  Attracted by the noise, more of Nilsson's men began to gather. The jeering from some of them increased the guard's agitation to the point where he began to lash out at those villagers nearest to him. Those who were half-heartedly beginning to move the staves dropped them and scattered, causing further mockery from the watchers.

  Infuriated, the guard drew his sword and waved it menacingly. ‘Get this lot moved, now!’ he bellowed. ‘Put them over there. Now! Move!'