Roger Taylor - Valderen

Seeing the futility of his appeals to Derwyn, he had stood for some time watching the Valderen frenziedly preparing to leave, then he had packed his own few things, taken his two horses, and quietly slipped away. He must stay with the realization that had come to him in the night. The creature, Rannick and Nilsson were enemies to both the Valderen and the people of the valley, and they must be seen as such. If Derwyn, for whatever reason, could not accept the threat that the creature posed, then to quarrel with him beyond a certain point was merely to serve the enemy’s ends. He, Farnor, must act so as to make good what he saw to be his ally’s mistake. He must kill the creature on his own.

And so far, all had been with him. The presence of the creature hung in the damp air like a miasma, but it was still dormant, as if it were sleeping or, more sinisterly, absent in some other way.

Farnor let his feet guide him. As well as the presence of the creature, he could feel the trees around him, resolutely watchful. In the distance he could sense the pain that Nilsson’s assault was causing them and he knew that they were deliberately keeping it from him. Occasionally however, a thin, piercing shriek would tear through to him, making him stop in his tracks and stiffen in distress as it faded into the interminable distance. He remained silent, though. Their true pain was beyond his understanding, and nothing he could say would lessen it. All that he could do, he was doing, and this they knew and accepted.

He looked up at the darkening sky and frowned. Soon it would be pitch black and he would be wandering about the woods with only a small sunstone lantern to guide him. Not only would he not be able to see very far, he would also be very conspicuous. He swore silently to himself, then stood up and set off again. He must make what progress he could, while he could, though that in its turn begged the question as to what progress was, for he had no specific idea where he was going.

Occasionally, as he had started to do on his journey back from the most ancient, he would touch a tree to see if, as individuals, they could offer him any guidance. But their responses were weak and varied, and he sensed that much of whatever spirit lay in these… homes… had already withdrawn, and that his touch tended to lure them back and was thus painful. After a while he stopped.

Eventually he came to the edge of the trees to find himself on the arm of a great cwm which swept away from him into the gloom, dark and ominous. In what was left of the light, he could just make out a rocky slope rising up from the tree line.

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, fortu-nately 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 con-curred 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.