Valderen [The Second Part of Farnor's Tale]

by Roger Taylor

  For a moment there was silence. Then Saddre was screaming. The four watchers stared, unable to move, so horrific was the sight.

  And, just as suddenly, the screaming stopped. Saddre pivoted with an eerie grace to face Rannick. ‘Lord?’ he said, his voice oddly calm through the clamouring flames.

  Rannick's face contorted with rage. His arm swung out and struck the blazing figure sideways with appalling force. The floor shook with the impact as Saddre struck the wall, and the flames about him flared angrily. Then he crashed forward on to the floor and lay still.

  Staring through the flames still rising from his erstwhile lieutenant, Rannick's appearance was hypnotically terrifying. The four warriors stood motionless, transfixed.

  The shimmering light appeared once more, but, abruptly, it flickered uneasily. Rannick cocked his head on one side, as if he had heard a far-distant sound. The action seemed to waken the watchers. ‘He's only a man!’ Engir shouted hoarsely. ‘And there are four ...'

  Before he could finish however, a furious cry of rage and desperation filled the passage. It was Rannick. He made a wild gesture and, with a great roar, the shimmering light burst along the ceiling of the passage to join the flames in the blazing ball. The four hurled themselves flat on the floor as the flames passed over them, but, the immediate danger passed, Engir's command still carried them forward, intent on the destruction of Rannick at any cost.

  But Rannick was gone and the sounds of his screaming flight were echoing up the staircase as the four reached it.

  'What happened?’ Yehna shouted.

  'It doesn't matter,’ Levrik replied. ‘It's not finished yet.’ Then his eyes widened in horror and he pointed along the passage. As the others turned, it was to see the flames that Rannick had released, licking over the walls and ceiling like living creatures.

  They were consuming the very stones.

  * * * *

  When he had arranged with Aaren a diversion to keep the castle gates open, Gryss had deemed blundering incompetence to be their best ally. It had certainly not been his intention to have his few trustworthy volunteers become involved in actual combat with Nilsson's men. There were several reasons for this, not least being the fact that none of them were fighters, and most of them were past their most vigorous youth.

  Jeorg however had precipitated events, when the weeks of simmering anger could be contained no more and he felled the gate guard. Two more swift blows had stunned two other men, and, to their credit, Gryss's impromptu force had read the situation with considerable alacrity; rage is not the sole province of the young man. Soon the courtyard around the gate was a mass of struggling bodies and flailing wooden staves.

  Nilsson's men, however, were experienced enough not to be afraid to retreat when caught by surprise, and this they did remarkably quickly. A lull developed. Gryss managed to keep his men together, blocking the gate and waving their staves menacingly, while Nilsson's men were strung out in a thin semi-circle at a safe distance. Some of them were calling out abuse, but most of them were just watching silently. Gryss had seen several of them run towards the buildings across the courtyard. They'll be armed when they come back, he thought. We won't stand a chance.

  He looked up anxiously at the tower that housed Rannick's eyrie. The high window was black and dead. Had Aaren and the others succeeded in killing him? Or had he killed them and was even now coming to take vengeance on those who had abetted the attempted assassination?

  Before he could ponder these alternatives however, a cry brought his attention back to the immediate fray. His heart sank. Several figures were emerging from the darker reaches of the courtyard. Sheer weight of numbers could overwhelm them now, even without weapons, or Rannick's aid.

  'Keep together,’ he shouted to his companions. ‘It's our only chance.'

  But there was something unusual about these new arrivals.

  'They're women,’ a surprised voice said nearby, answering Gryss's unspoken question.

  And, as if in confirmation, a shrill voice rang out, and the women released by Yehna began to launch themselves at Nilsson's men. Gryss and the others watched in bewilderment for a moment until they realized that many of the women were armed and that several of the men, taken by surprise again, had been badly injured.

  Impulsively Gryss's impromptu force broke ranks and charged forward into the battle. No combat was engaged, however, for even as they were running forward, part of the castle roof burst open with a tumultuous crash, and blazing timbers were hurled high into the night sky. All fighting in the courtyard ceased, as friend and enemy stood open-mouthed, gazing at this spectacle.

  But terrifying though it was, this was as nothing compared to what followed. For as further sections of the roof burst into flames, a terrible screaming began to fill the air.

  Someone struck Gryss's arm. He turned to see Yakob, dishevelled and bleeding, his eyes wide and his hand pointing. He was shouting too, but even standing so close, Gryss could scarcely hear him above the noise. He looked in the direction that Yakob was pointing.

  Galloping towards them across the courtyard was Rannick on his demented steed. His mouth was gaping wide but the scream that was coming from it seemed too awful to have been created inside any living thing. Worse than the noise, though, were the bright flames flowing around him and dancing in his wake. They ran like dust devils along the ground, leaving glowing, smouldering trails until they struck the walls and blossomed upwards and outwards like grotesque flowers.

  Gryss, however, barely noted this. His dominant concern was the dreadful focus of Rannick's will that he could feel. ‘Run,’ he shouted, unheard and unnecessarily, for even the oldest among them had suddenly rediscovered the agility of their youth at the sight of this monstrous charge.

  But Rannick's intent lay elsewhere, and he ignored the scattering figures as he rode through them. At the gate, his horse leapt over the broken cart effortlessly, flames tracing out his passing, arcing behind him like some fearful rainbow.

  As his scream faded into the distance, it was overtopped by the noise of the flames in the courtyard. Almost the entire castle roof was now ablaze, flames and smoke cascading up into the night. But so too, it seemed, were the very walls of the castle, as flames which should have spluttered into nothingness against their cold stone clambered eagerly over them, their sinister light spreading and devouring.

  None of the combatants lingered to watch however. Those who were still standing, dashed past the cart and through the gate to form a silent, watching group out in the darkness, all of them too stunned to pursue their original intentions. As they watched, the cart and its scattered contents in the gateway burst into flames, but this was of little note against the sight of Rannick's unnatural fire, crawling along the walls and rising up the towers.

  Something buffeted Gryss.

  'Where are they?’ an urgent voice shouted at him. He turned round to find himself looking into Marna's distraught face as she leaned forward from the saddle of a large horse. She was holding three other horses by a long rein.

  'Who?’ he said.

  'Aaren and the others,’ Marna shouted angrily. ‘This wasn't meant to happen. Where are they?'

  The other wheel of the cart collapsed, sending up a great shower of sparks. Gryss gesticulated helplessly. ‘I don't know,’ he shouted back. ‘I haven't seen them. If they got in, then ...’ He waved towards the inferno.

  'And Rannick?’ Marna shouted, reaching out and shaking Gryss's shoulder as if he were some inattentive child. ‘Is he dead?'

  Gryss pointed. ‘No. He rode off. It was awful. Didn't you hear him?'

  Marna straightened up and gazed at the blazing gateway, flame-shadowed lines of pain and doubt etched deep into her face. Then she leaned forward again and put her arm around Gryss's neck dragging him off balance with a passionate embrace.

  'Tell my father I love him, and I'm sorry,’ she said, then with a loud cry she drove her heels into the horse.

  Before Gryss could protest,
the four horses had leapt past him and were charging towards the burning gateway, Marna frantically urging them on. He found voice only as he saw them silhouetted against the flames lighting the gateway.

  'Marna! No!’ he cried, though his voice cracked as all four horses leapt the blazing remains of the cart and disappeared into the brightness beyond.

  Scarcely a horsewoman, let alone a jumper, Marna released the rein leading the other three horses, and clung on to her own mount with both arms as it leapt through the gateway. The impact of the landing jolted her, but the sight that greeted her set such discomfort at naught. The light in the courtyard was brighter than a summer's day, and it seemed that not one part of the castle's stonework was free from the clamouring flames. The heat was suffocating and terrifying. She felt herself gasping for breath.

  Even as she gazed about her, the walls of one of the buildings collapsed with a ground shaking impact, amid a triumphant roar of flames. Somehow she recovered the leading rein of the three horses before their burgeoning panic overcame whatever will it was she had inspired them with. She gazed around desperately, calling out at the top of her voice. But she could hardly hear herself above the din.

  Her horse spun round and round and began to rear, almost unseating her, but she managed to cling on to both it and the rein of the others. She could feel the heat scorching her skin however, worse than anything she had ever known through working too long in the summer fields, and it came to her that she had committed a folly that would probably kill her.

  But despite the awful scream forming inside her, she couldn't leave. Not yet. Surely, they couldn't be dead. Not such people...

  Then through the glaring heat she saw four figures come tumbling out of a doorway. Without any bidding from her, the horses turned towards them. Faces blackened, and clothes smouldering, the four warriors clambered on to their horses, Levrik mounting Marna's horse and taking the reins. She offered no resistance.

  As she looked at the gateway however, she saw that the flames were all around it and that it was changing shape.

  She knew that Levrik's horse was driving forward, urged on by the enigmatic soldier's cold unhindering will and she was aware of the other three beside them, moving as one. But as they galloped towards the gate it seemed to her that it was retreating from them, so slow was their progress. Then they were leaping over the remains of the burning cart, and the air was full of the sound of the blazing stones of the great arch crashing down behind them.

  The cold night, with its scents and its normality, folded itself magically about her. Many hands reached out to support her as she slithered down from the horse, but she struggled free from them.

  'Which way did Rannick go?’ she heard Levrik asking.

  A hand touched her shoulder. As she turned, an arm encircled her neck and she felt her hot cheek pressed against an even hotter one. It was Aaren, leaning down precariously from her horse.

  'Bravely done. Bravely done,’ she said simply, her voice hoarse with smoke and her eyes shining wet in the light of the burning castle. ‘We're in your debt.'

  Before Marna could reply, however, she had pulled away, and the four were galloping off into the darkness.

  * * *

  Chapter 26

  Derwyn peered into the darkness at the men around him. The sound of the horns had succeeded in extricating most of them from the carnage of the camp but, dimly lit by the distant glow of the campfires shining through the trees, they were milling about him in considerable disorder. Their behaviour vividly reflected the emotions that were tumbling through him: a numbing mixture of shock, fear, and choking guilt; and an urge to flee from this now terrible fringe of the Forest, back to the safety of his lodge and the ways he knew and had always known. Yet, it was combined with an equally powerful urge to charge back amongst the men who had done such harm, to work some dreadful vengeance on them.

  But, despite this turmoil, the qualities that had made him the quiet leader of his people were subtly asserting themselves, calming the ancient racial frenzy in which he and his men had tried to hide from the alien strangeness of the quest that Farnor had brought on them. In its wake came a clearer, if no less troubling, knowledge. Warrior he was not, nor any of his men. But they were hunters, and their ancient ancestors had been warriors. It was surely not beyond their resources to find some way of dealing with these intruders?

  It occurred to Derwyn briefly that, Farnor's assessment of these men having been so fearfully accurate, his assessment of the creature was probably no less so, and that they might indeed find themselves contending with it as well as Nilsson's men. And, of course, there was the man, Rannick, with his mysterious powers.

  With an effort, he set the thoughts aside. One thing at a time. He had first to bring his men back into some semblance of order. Standing high in his stirrups he bellowed out, ‘Be quiet, all of you!’ His powerful voice rose above much of the noise, but he had to call out twice more before it was quiet enough for him to speak and be heard.

  He wanted to ask who had been injured, who killed, who had gathered around the frantic horn calling, who scattered into the trees, but a panic-stricken voice nearby focused his thinking sharply. ‘This is dreadful. Let's get away from here while we can.’ It was a young voice, but echoes of it sprang up in the darkness.

  His eyes reflecting the distant lights of the camp, Derwyn turned grimly towards the speaker. He could not allow time for the leisurely niceties that normally decorated their decision making.

  'No!’ he shouted. ‘Maybe it was a madness that drew us into that reckless charge, but it would be a greater madness if we forgot our duties as Valderen. If we fly now, how can we ever look to the protection of the Forest again? And how could any of us sit at peace by our hearths knowing that we betrayed both our ancient obligations and those who've just fallen to these outsiders?’ He waited for no reply. ‘Like it or not, we're warriors now, and we stay here until this evil's been driven from the Forest.'

  'It was that black-haired devil of an outsider who brought this on us,’ someone shouted.

  Derwyn pushed his horse forward in the direction of the voice. ‘That black-haired devil was chosen to visit the most ancient, I'd remind you,’ he replied furiously. ‘It was he who warned us about these people, if we'd had the wit to listen. And without him, who can say how much harm they'd have done before we knew of them?'

  There was no answer. Derwyn seized back his people.

  'Melarn,’ he shouted. ‘Take a dozen men and move back towards that camp, carefully. We need to know what they're doing.'

  * * * *

  Nilsson leaned forward earnestly, hoping to catch some indication of what the distant shouting meant, but it was too far away and there was too much noise about him. The blasting horn calls that had drawn the riders back into the trees had startled him. Were there reinforcements out there? Was there indeed some infantry force making its way towards them right now? And, again, who were these people?

  He dashed aside the persistent question. It didn't matter who they were. His first impression remained: whatever else they were, they weren't fighters, and that was what mattered. But they'd still have to be dealt with, and dealt with tonight; there was little point in forming a defensive enclave and holding, as he definitely had no reinforcements to draw upon. And any delay might prove disastrous if indeed some other force were heading towards him. He must move out and attack before matters deteriorated.

  Few changes were needed to the positions that his men had already taken up, and he noted with some satisfaction that many of them, anticipating a return by the riders, were hacking down long branches to use in lieu of pikes.

  Within minutes of his decision, his men were moving into the darkness in the direction that the riders had taken. They retained their small, tight groupings, and many were carrying burning brands.

  * * * *

  The news reached Derwyn almost immediately and he suddenly found himself the centre of a fear-laden silence. He knew that all eyes
were turned towards him in the darkness. He watched the lights of the enemy moving towards him; a flickering, firefly tide, spreading out from the fires of the distant camp. Fighting men, Farnor had called them, and for the first time in his life Derwyn felt the peculiar terror of knowing that someone was intent upon seeking his life; his life.

  Yet he must lead his men against them, or they would be scattered about the fringe of the Forest here and perhaps lost for ever, and who knew what consequences would flow from that? Images of Angwen and Edrien and the other women they had left at their camp came to him, chilling him.

  But what did he know about fighting? Nothing.

  But...

  'Do as they did,’ he shouted urgently. ‘Do as they did. Stay in small groups. Six, eight. Keep moving. And keep together, whatever happens. Protect one another. Drop your lances if you're pressed and use your machetes.'

  'And if you're downed, then climb. They won't be able to do that like we can.’ It was Marken who finished Derwyn's hasty battle order. Derwyn felt his men's spirits lift as some strained laughter greeted this.

  Thus it was that the Valderen began to avenge their first fallen. Guided by the brands that Nilsson's men were carrying, they burst out of the darkness, sharp-pointed lances and keen-edged machetes taking their toll, until they vanished as suddenly as they had appeared.

  Almost all of the groups of Nilsson's men took some losses, but while one or two broke and scattered, to be cut down or trampled underfoot, the majority closed about their injured companions and held.

  Nilsson swore silently to himself, but no sign of his feelings showed on his face except his characteristic snarl. Had these people launched their initial sacrificial charge just to lure him into an ambush? Surely not. It made no sense. But the alternative held little comfort for him: they had learned from their first mistake.

  'Retreat to the camp,’ he ordered, his voice icy. ‘We'll see how well they fight when we can see them coming.'

  As the groups withdrew, the Valderen pressed on with their swift assaults, though these became increasingly less effective and more dangerous as they drew nearer to the bright glow of the fires illuminating the camp. Then there was silence, save for the sound of the fires and the awful cries of the wounded and dying.