Roger Taylor - The Return of the Sword

Reluctantly he reined his horse to a halt and, after a final glance towards where the smoke had been, he began hurriedly preparing a camp in what was left of the light.

As had been the case since he left home, he slept well.

He woke to rain, fine and vertical. It hid much of the valley while the peaks above were completely hidden by cloud. Oddly enough, the cold greeting roused Farnor to action more than sunlight streaming through the entrance to his tent would have done. Years of living on a farm had made him an early waker and comparatively brisk and orderly in the execution of morning duties, but sunlight always seemed to fan his idleness while a colder kiss made him resolute, if a touch grim. And today, of course, there was the added incentive that he was now very near to catching Marna and the others.

Thus he had tended the horses and broken both the camp and his fast – albeit with cold fare – within a very short time of waking. Bearing in mind the implicit strictures of Marken, he examined his camp site carefully to ensure that he too would ‘leave no sign’.

As he mounted his horse and pulled his hood forward he began to plan the pending meeting. It was very early and it was unlikely his prey would be choosing to break their camp with the same alacrity as he had. With luck he might be able to surprise them before they even woke. He did not hurry however. The valley floor rose a little and he could see sheets of rock jutting through. He would have to walk over these. Whatever the rights and wrongs of his journey, it would become a disaster if he or one of his horses were injured trying to negotiate such terrain too quickly.

Nevertheless, for a while he was buoyed up at the prospect of at least reaching his goal. He tried to envisage their reactions. Marna almost certainly would be abusive, but he found that he could not begin to guess how the others would respond. Yengar would probably greet him with a smile, Olvric would be as silent and enigmatic as ever. As for the two women, he had no idea.

He was still thinking about this when he came to the top of a rise and found himself looking down on their camp. It was nestling discreetly between two rocky shoulders and he did not notice it at first. Suddenly, and chillingly, it occurred to him that perhaps this camp might not be the one he was seeking. There was no reason why there should be only him and them in the valley. Had not Nilsson and his men roamed all over before stumbling on the village? What if this was the camp of others of his ilk? It was a bad thought.

Then, between two tents of an unusual design, he saw a smaller one that he recognized as Marna’s. He let out a sigh of relief and his previous excitement returned. It was mixed with smugness as he surveyed the still and silent scene. Whatever their reactions were going to be, they would be surprised at least. Perhaps he could start a fire for them. That would be a welcoming gesture for them. On the other hand, he might be left looking extremely foolish as they woke to find him wet and dismal as he struggled to light one in this rain.

He decided against any firm plans and, carefully leading his horses, began to make his way down the slope.

He reached the bottom without incident and was again debating how he should announce himself when a hooded figure emerged silently from behind a rock, sword in hand.

The thoughts he had had when he first sighted the camp tumbled into Farnor’s mind. What if Marna and her companions had been waylaid by a group such as Nilsson’s? Was he walking into the aftermath of a new horror, into a new danger?

‘An ill way to approach a camp, my friend.’ The figure’s voice cut across his sudden alarm. It was a man’s, soft and calm, but with a quality in it that, while not directly menacing, nevertheless made Farnor feel cold and defenceless.

Even so, he had to make a deliberate effort to stop his hand flicking towards the knife in his belt. It was not a gesture he would even have contemplated making a few weeks ago, but then he had not been the person he was now. He made the movement into an adjustment of his robe and took a slow, unobtrusive pace backwards. If necessary he should be able to mount and flee.

The man seemed to be aware of this brief inner conflict for his sword moved slightly as if it too were debating. Then his head tilted to one side and he leaned forward a little.

‘Farnor?’

Awkwardly, and taking another discreet step backwards, Farnor yanked back his hood. Slowly, the figure did the same, to reveal Olvric. He gave a hint of a smile, sheathed his sword, and offered his hand. ‘Whatever’s brought you here, it’s good to see you, young man. But for the future you’d be advised to give a hail when you approach a camp if your intentions are friendly.’ An eyebrow was raised to accompany the faint smile. ‘And if they’re not friendly, you’ll need to go more quietly.’

‘I was going quietly,’ Farnor protested.

‘Oh.’

‘Farnor, what are you doing here?’

This voice and its cross-examining tone were unmistakable and an old relationship re-established itself immediately.

‘Nice to see you again, Marna,’ Farnor said to the bleary-eyed face squinting out of the smallest tent.

Marna’s face became concerned. ‘Nothing’s wrong at home, is it?’

‘No, everyone’s well. Or as well as can be expected, given all that’s happened. I just decided I should come with you.’

Marna contemplated the news for a moment, then looked up at the rain-shrouded valley, grunted and disappeared.

Yengar appeared from one of the other tents. As Farnor had envisaged, he smiled warmly and held out his hand to greet him.

‘Or should I greet you in the way of the Valderen?’ he said, laughing. He mimicked the movement with clawed hands then massaged his own arms in mock pain.

‘It takes a little getting used to,’ Farnor said, taking Yengar’s hand quickly in case he intended to fulfil his threat.

‘It certainly does. I’m black and blue.’

It was Marna again, emerging from her tent and combing her hair with a ferocity that made Farnor wince. ‘And all those damned ladders and walkways. I’ve never been so frightened in all my life.’ She faltered. ‘Well, not like that, anyway.’

‘You stayed in one of their Lodges?’ Farnor said in surprise.

‘Indeed we did,’ Yengar said. ‘And a rare experience it was, too. They’re a fascinating people. I’d like to have spent much longer with them. Perhaps one day. They invited us to return.’

‘They must think very highly of you.’

Yengar gave a self-deprecating shrug. ‘We fought in a common cause. It breaks through barriers that seem insuperable in quieter times. But I think it’s you who’s their hero; they were full of your exploits.’

‘Perhaps we should talk about it out of the rain,’ Marna said tartly, tugging hairs out of her comb. She eyed Olvric. ‘When you’ve lit the fire. I did it last night.’

‘Yes, and filled the valley with enough smoke to frighten every tree in the Great Forest,’ Olvric rejoined.

‘That’s not true. It was just…’

‘Come on. Put Farnor’s horses with the others and I’ll show you again. Just pay attention this time.’

Farnor felt a faint frisson of resentment at seeing the new friendship that had obviously developed between Marna and these people. It caught him by surprise, but vanished as Marna took the horses from him with a conspiratorial, ‘in trouble again,’ grin.

Yengar was crouching down, fiddling with something around the entrance to his tent. As he stood up, it came with him and with a couple of practised flicks the tent was opened and a canopy set up in front of it. Yengar bowed and motioned an astonished Farnor into it with exaggerated courtesy. Inside, he found the tent much bigger than he had imagined and he remarked on it. Yengar produced two small folding stools which he placed under the canopy.