Roger Taylor - Farnor

As they neared the castle two riders came out to meet them. Farnor had had in mind, albeit vaguely, that once in their proper home the soldiers would be wearing some kind of formal uniform, and he was disappointed to note that they looked as unprepossess-ing as they had the previous evening.

In fact, everything about them had a patched and worn look: clothes, weapons, tackle. They could not have been further from any of the notions Farnor had held about what a soldier should look like. And they were none too fragrant, he discovered, as one of them moved upwind to peer into the cart. That was something Yonas had never seen fit to mention even in his most down-to-earth yarns.

More disconcerting however were their suspicious, fast-moving eyes and their hands which were never far from the knives in their belts.

‘Would you tell Captain Nilsson that I’ve come to look at your sick again? And we’ve brought you some food,’ Gryss said. ‘Can you get the gate open?’

Gryss’s news succeeded in making the two soldiers less surly, although his question caused some frowning.

They held a brief debate in their own language, then one of them rode back to the castle while the other motioned Gryss to follow.

It transpired that the answer to Gryss’s question was that they couldn’t get the gate open, and Gryss and Farnor found themselves waiting in front of it listening to a great deal of hammering and banging intermingled with much swearing and some unkind laughter.

‘For pity’s sake, we’ve not brought them that much,’ Farnor said, softly, with a world-weariness that made Gryss smile. ‘They could’ve carried it through the door in half this time. There’s enough of them.’

Eventually, amid raucous and ironic cheering, the gates creaked ponderously open. Despite his growing disenchantment with the soldiers, Farnor felt a surge of excitement at the sight. The two great timber leaves were even thicker than their outside appearance had indicated and he could scarcely believe the size of the iron bolts and hinges. He tried to imagine the village blacksmith drawing them from his furnace and beating them out on the anvil, but the image eluded him. How in the world were such things made?

A nudge in the ribs from Gryss brought him out of his wonderment. He clicked the horse forward. As the cart passed underneath the gate arch he almost fell out of his seat as he stared up at the huge keystone above him.

‘Steady,’ Gryss said, catching his arm. ‘Your father and mother won’t be too pleased with me if I fetch you home with a wheel track across your ribs.’

‘Sorry,’ Farnor exclaimed. ‘I was…’

‘I know what you were doing,’ Gryss said, a serious edge to his voice. ‘And I understand. But I don’t want you daydreaming here, Farnor. I want you to watch and listen as I told you.’

As the cart trundled across the courtyard, more men began to appear from various doorways. Again, Farnor felt a twinge of excitement as he saw himself the centre of this martial attention, but it faded quickly enough when he saw that they all seemed to have the same demeanour as the first two they had met. He also found the sound of the gates closing behind him disconcerting.

Then Nilsson emerged from a nearby building and walked across to the cart. He had long, easy strides and the small crowd opened up before him like a flock of sheep before a dog.

‘Har Grysstson,’ he said, smiling and holding out his hand to help the old man down. ‘And our guide, if I’m not mistaken.’ He nodded curtly at Farnor who, uncertain what to do, gave a hesitant nod in reply.

Nilsson peered into the cart. ‘Ah, food!’ he ex-claimed. ‘That’s most welcome. What do we owe you for this?’

Gryss waved his hands vaguely. ‘This, I think…’ He hesitated as if deliberating. ‘Is a… a Dalmas gift from the village. Some consolation for your bad journey.’

Farnor recognized the opening ploy of a long barter and wondered if Nilsson had noted the same. He doubted it somehow as the Captain, having thanked Gryss, began to shout orders to his men to unload the cart. He’d find out in due course, Farnor thought, when bargaining about the tithe began.

In the meantime the alacrity with which the cart was being unloaded gave Farnor the impression that if he was not careful, wheels, horse and even himself would be spirited away to some mysterious storeroom before Gryss would even notice that he was missing. He jumped down and moved the horse’s head to steady it as men clambered noisily on and off the cart.

‘Would you like me to look at your sick again?’ Gryss was saying.

‘I would, yes,’ Nilsson replied. ‘They seem better just for the night’s rest and your food should have them up and about again very soon.’ He shrugged. ‘But then, I’m no healer.’

‘Shall I stay here?’ Farnor asked, stroking the horse’s cheek.

‘You might as well,’ Gryss said. ‘I shouldn’t be too long.’

As Gryss and Nilsson walked off, Farnor led the horse round so that it was facing the gate. Muscled with ironwork, the gate looked even more formidable than it had from the outside. Under other circumstances Farnor could see that that would be a source of reassurance for the people sheltering within, but at the moment he would have preferred to see it standing open.

He gazed around.

He was inside the castle! Only now did the thought really impinge on him. It was only a week or so since he had come close to the castle for the first time, and now he was inside! He looked up at the enclosing walls and the various buildings that fringed the courtyard. Without exception, they were all larger than anything he had ever seen before, and his mind filled again with the wonder of how they could have been built, and, to a lesser extent, why.

He left the horse and began to walk towards the gate. Glancing down he saw that the stone slabs which formed the courtyard were as finely jointed as those of the buildings and that hardly anywhere could he see weeds or grasses forcing their way through.

‘Where are you going?’

The questioner was Dessane. Farnor started.

‘I was only going to look at the gates,’ he stam-mered.

‘Why?’

‘I’ve never seen anything like them before,’ Farnor replied simply.

Dessane’s mouth curled uncertainly. ‘Don’t wander about. Stay by your cart where I can see you,’ he said harshly.

A rebellious retort formed in Farnor’s mind, but he managed not to speak it. He was helped in this by the menace in the man’s solid presence.

Then Dessane seemed to recant. ‘It’s dangerous round here,’ he said. ‘It’s not been manned for years. We don’t know how safe some of these buildings are.’

Farnor nodded slowly and turned studiously away from him to examine the horse’s harness.

‘What’s to the north of here?’

The voice was close. Farnor jumped. He had not heard Dessane come up behind him. He gaped.

‘What’s to the north?’ Dessane repeated, indicating the direction with his eyes.

‘I don’t know,’ Farnor answered after a moment. ‘Just forest, I think.’

Dessane’s thin veneer of friendliness buckled. ‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’ he asked, his jawline working as he fought to be pleasant. ‘You live here, don’t you?’

‘I live there,’ Farnor pointed down the valley. ‘We don’t come up here. There’s no call to. The best grazing’s down there, and what would anyone want to trail all the way up here for, let alone go further? All I’ve ever been told is that there’s forest to the north. As far as the eye can see. A whole country full of trees. The Great Forest.’

Dessane gave him a penetrating look. ‘How old are you, boy?’ he asked.

Farnor told him.