Roger Taylor - Farnor

‘Stay,’ he commanded the dogs. They lay down but Farnor was glad of their snarling presence, for all he had resolved to play ambassador for the valley. A horse whinnied and Farnor heard what he took to be an oath, though the words were unfamiliar.

As he walked forward, he made out someone dis-mounting and coming to meet him.

A dozen paces further and he found himself in front of a tall, slightly slouching figure. The moonlight threw deep contrasting shadows across the man’s face, and Farnor could form no impression of how old he might be or even what he looked like; or anything about him, for that matter.

Except his eyes. He could not see them for they were sunken and dark, but he knew they were narrowed and searching. He tried to stare into them but the effort made him uneasy.

‘You live around here, boy?’

The appellation made Farnor stiffen indignantly, but he offered no rejoinder. And again the voice sounded strange. The man pronounced his words in a peculiar manner, and with a hesitation that was at odds with the confidence of his physical presence.

‘Yes,’ Farnor replied.

‘We need a healer,’ said the man. ‘Some of my men are sick. Where can I find one?’

Farnor felt as if the sun had come out. He became almost garrulous.

‘You’re lucky,’ he said. ‘The healer’s at our house right now. Come with me. I’ll take you to him.’

The man tilted his head to one side as if he were listening very carefully.

‘How far?’ he asked after a moment.

‘A few minutes’ walk,’ Farnor answered, pointing back down the road.

Once more the man seemed to be pondering some-thing, then, with a flick of his hand, he said, ‘Lead.’

For some reason he could not have explained, Far-nor made a slight bow by way of acknowledgement of this instruction. The man turned back to his still-mounted companions and beckoned them forward. One of them spoke.

Farnor’s mouth dropped open. The man was talking gibberish! There was a brief return of his earlier alarm. A long-forgotten childhood tale of night demons which whisked away unwary travellers to become slaves in some terrible world of their own making, passed briefly through his mind. Then it came to him that these men were not merely King’s men from the distant capital, but foreigners : people from an entirely different land.

What was the word that he had heard Yonas use?

Mercenaries, that was it. It had a splendid sound to it, though, as he recalled, Yonas’s mercenaries were sometimes loyal and true, other times treacherous and deceitful. But that was Yonas. This was real life. And the King would surely only have selected the finest men to act as his gatherers.

He put aside his thoughts as the other riders reached him and, mounting his horse, the first man motioned him on.

Farnor clicked his tongue and the dogs left their vigil and came to his side. They seemed to have lost any relish for their nocturnal rampaging however, and, tails uncertain, ears pricked, they stayed close by Farnor as he walked ahead of the riders.

For the most part the riders were silent, though there was an exchange at one point that was ended by a sharp command from their leader. Both, again, in their own alien language.

Farnor was enthralled as he walked ahead of these strangers like some mysterious shepherd.

Reaching the farm he opened the gate and the men rode past him into the brightly lit yard. There were six of them and it seemed to Farnor that on entering the light they became uneasy. They spread out and glanced around a great deal as if looking for something… or, perhaps, someone. Their horses, too, became restive and the night was soon filled with the sound of hooves clattering nervously on the well-packed stone that surfaced the yard. The light from the sunstone lantern took up the agitation and danced great shadows about the yard and over the walls and roofs of the enclosing outbuildings. One of the men spoke anxiously to the leader, who muttered something and swung down from his horse.

‘Wait here,’ Farnor said to him. ‘I’ll get my father.’ But the noise of the riders entering the yard had already brought Garren and Gryss to the door in some alarm, with Katrin at their back.

‘What’s the matter? What’s happening?’ Garren said to Farnor as he took in the scene.

‘Are you the healer?’ the leader of the riders asked Garren before Farnor could reply.

Garren stared at him, taken aback by the strange accent. Gryss stepped around him quickly. ‘Foreigners,’ he murmured to Garren by way of explanation, then, addressing the question, replied, ‘I have some small knowledge of healing. Has someone been injured?’

The man waved his hand northwards. ‘At the castle there. Some of my men are sick,’ he said.

Gryss nodded. ‘A few of them looked none too well when you rode through the village,’ he said, and, briefly the querulous physician, ‘You should have spoken then. I’ve no equipment or medicines with me here.’

‘Come anyway,’ the man said. Farnor thought he heard a threat in his voice, but decided it was probably the peculiar accent.

Gryss simply nodded and went over to his horse. ‘I’ll come with you,’ Garren said, walking after him, but Gryss shook his head. ‘No. You stay here with Katrin and Farnor. If it’s not too late I’ll call in on my way back.’

The two men looked at one another for a moment.

‘Call anyway,’ Garren said, in unconscious imitation of the riders’ leader.

As the riders left, Garren frowned. ‘What’s the mat-ter?’ Farnor asked. ‘I did right to bring them here, didn’t I? It’ll be good for us to have helped them, won’t it?’

Garren’s frown darkened. ‘I suppose so,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘But why would they need six men to find a healer?’ He glanced at his son and a smile forced its way to his lips. ‘Yes, you did right,’ he said. ‘It was a happy meeting. It could well do us some good if we end up having to negotiate with these people about the tithe.’

With casual firmness, he shepherded his wife and son inside.

As he closed the door, however, he peered out into the darkness beyond the yard. ‘Foreigners?’ he mouthed silently, his face puzzled and grim.

‘A little slower if you don’t mind,’ Gryss said to his companion, speaking carefully and clearly. ‘I’m no rider at the best of times, and this horse isn’t mine.’

The man reined his horse back a little.

‘My name’s Har Grysstson,’ Gryss said, smiling and extending his hand. ‘But everyone calls me Gryss. Or old Gryss if they’re feeling particularly superior.’

‘Gryss,’ the man said to himself as if testing the word, then he took Gryss’s hand. ‘Nilsson,’ he said. ‘Halfvrin Nilsson.’ His grip was powerful and his teeth gleamed for a moment in the moonlight in what Gryss took to be a smile.

‘You’re captain of this company?’ Gryss asked.

‘I lead them,’ Nilsson replied tersely.

Gryss changed tack. ‘What’s the matter with your men?’

Nilsson shrugged. ‘If I knew I wouldn’t have sought a healer,’ he replied. Gryss frowned uneasily at the indifference in the man’s voice, but sensing futility in any further questioning he resigned himself to complet-ing the journey in silence, which indeed proved to be the case.

He had been honest when he had said that he was no rider, and he was more than relieved when they eventually reached the castle. A shout rang out as the great bulk of the gatehouse towers loomed ahead of them. The group halted and Nilsson answered the challenge. In response the wicket door opened, cutting a dark rectangle in the moonlit gate. Nilsson and the others dismounted.

With much noise and little dignity, so too did Gryss. None offered to help him.