Roger Taylor - Farnor

‘And you’ve never been up the valley in your whole life?’ Dessane made no effort to conceal his disbelief.

Whirls of fear and anger twisted inside Farnor. ‘No,’ he said, firmly, the anger predominating. ‘I’ve never even been this far until we came here hunting a sheep-worrier the other week.’

Dessane pursed his lips. ‘A sheep-worrier, eh? That must have been exciting. Did you catch it?’

‘No.’

Dessane’s expression announced that he wasn’t in the least surprised, but when he spoke he said, ‘And I suppose you’ve never been down the valley either, have you?’

‘No, I haven’t,’ Farnor replied with increasing heat at this belittling assault on his integrity and, he suspected, his whole world. ‘Not all the way, anyway. Why should I? Why should any of us? There’s no need.’

Dessane did not seem disposed to debate the point.

‘Hardly anyone ever bothers to go out of the valley,’ Farnor added, fearing a further rejoinder.

‘Or come into it?’

Farnor shook his head. ‘Yonas the Teller, some-times. And the odd pedlar now and then.’

‘And… gatherers?’

Farnor looked straight at him. ‘You’re the first gath-erers to come here within living memory,’ he said. ‘We presumed the King had sufficient and didn’t want our small tithe.’

Dessane seemed to relax. ‘We must have frightened you turning up like we did.’

‘Not frightened,’ Farnor lied. ‘It is Dalmas. No one was really expecting you to come for the tithe after all these years, so everyone was a bit put out. But not frightened. Why should we be frightened?’

‘Why indeed?’ Dessane said after a long pause. Someone called his name.

‘Go and have a look at the gate if you want,’ he said, almost friendly now. ‘But stay round here. Don’t wander off.’

And he was gone.

Farnor frowned. He knew that he had told this stranger a great deal about something important, but he did not know what. He cast his mind back through the conversation and resolved to repeat it to Gryss as fully as possible.

A short time later Gryss reappeared and, after ex-changing a few courtesies with Nilsson, he and Farnor were again on the cart, watching the great gates being hauled open.

As they drove out of the castle, two riders passed them, turning northwards as Farnor steered the cart towards the old road. He stared after them curiously.

He was not the only one watching. High on a tree-lined slope opposite, Rannick, thinner than he had been, watched them also, his narrowed eyes ablaze with some strange inner light.

The room was empty of furniture save for a large wooden table and a few chairs. A cursory attempt had been made to clean it though this had consisted largely of brushing the dust into the air and allowing it to redistribute itself as it settled. As a result, swooping tangles of cobwebs that had been invisible for years across the high, curved ceiling were now weighted and thickened and all too visible, making the room look dingier than ever.

Dying daylight did little to improve the scene as it filtered in through two narrow windows and rendered pallid the light of two lamps, one on the stone mantel-shelf which beetled over a cavernous and empty fireplace and one on the table.

This latter illuminated half of Nilsson’s face as he sat sideways on to the table, his shoulders hunched, and stared at his lieutenant.

‘Tell me again,’ he said.

Dessane made no effort to disguise his irritation at this request. ‘They rode north for half the day and found nothing but forest,’ he said wearily. ‘Yeorson eventually climbed a tree but, he says, there was nothing to be seen except more trees. Trees filling the entire valley floor and disappearing north into the distance.’

‘And they came back because the trees felt… bad,’ Nilsson said, his voice heavy with anger and sarcasm.

Dessane gave a disclaiming shrug. ‘That’s what Stor-ran said, and Yeorson didn’t disagree. Don’t ask me what they meant. I’m just passing on the message.’ Then, remembering that it was he who had chosen them for the task, he rallied. ‘But they’re good scouts, you know that,’ he said. ‘With noses that have got us out of trouble more than once before now.’ He tapped the side of his own nose with his forefinger in emphasis.

Nilsson, however, did not seem to be disposed to reminisce. ‘Get them in here,’ he snapped impatiently. He leaned heavily on the table and the lamp flame wavered. After a brief hesitation, Dessane gave another shrug then went to the door and shouted.

Eventually the two men appeared. Yeorson was tall and thin while Storran, by contrast, was short and stocky. An injudicious person might have been inclined to smile at the sight of them side by side, but as with all those who followed Halfvrin Nilsson it would have been a mistake to be seen doing it. Their characters had marked their faces: Yeorson wore a permanently peevish and supercilious expression, while Storran might have had a jovial look about him had it not been for a large, voluptuous mouth and small, mean eyes.

Nilsson gestured them towards two chairs set beside him. As Yeorson moved forward, a long hanging cobweb brushed his face, leaving a dusty scar. He flicked it away silently as he swept the chair away from the table and sat down. Storran ignored the chair and hoisted himself on to the table. They waited, eyes fixed on their leader.

Nilsson straightened. ‘What’s this Dessane tells me about the trees frightening you?’ he asked, but with enough humour in his voice to temper the bluntness.

‘The truth.’ Yeorson’s equally blunt reply made Nilsson start, though he disguised the movement. He had expected some reproach to be levelled at his lieutenant for misrepresentation. Now it was he who waited.

‘There’s a bad feeling about the place, Captain,’ Storran added. ‘And the further north we went the worse it seemed to get.’

Nilsson allowed some exasperation to show. ‘The places we’ve been, things we’ve seen, things we’ve done… I can’t believe I’m sitting here listening to you two, of all people, telling me you were too frightened to go into the woods.’

Yeorson and Storran were an odd, cold-blooded pair, he knew, but again he was surprised that such a taunt produced so little response. Yeorson tilted his chair back and Storran began swinging his legs, but both continued looking at him.

‘That’s how it was, Captain,’ Yeorson said. ‘Nothing particular you could see or hear, but it was bad. As if we were being watched all the time.’ He paused and looked thoughtful. ‘Or perhaps more as if something knew we were there. I’ve no other words for it; there was just a feeling about the place.’ He glanced at his partner and his next words came as if reluctantly. ‘Something… I… we… haven’t felt since…’

He stopped. In the silence, an errant draught caught some of the ancient cobwebs and motes of dust drifted down to join those already afloat, moving and hovering, dancing to the whims of a music beyond hearing.

‘Since?’ Nilsson prompted, uneasy at this hesitation.

‘Since we… started our travels,’ Yeorson finished as awkwardly as he had begun.

Nilsson frowned and turned away. This he had not expected. Dark memories seemed to flood into the room and for a moment he found his thoughts paralysed.

Somehow he freed himself; the needs of the present were too pressing to allow inaction, and, though it had been brought here by his own questioning, Nilsson had no desire to pursue this unwanted revelation.

‘We have to find out what lies to the north,’ he said, as if the previous question had never been asked and answered, and as if, by ignoring it, he erased it. ‘We need to leave this land as soon as we can and north is effectively our only way out. I’m not doubting what you felt,’ he continued, skirting as close to the topic as he dared, ‘but I think perhaps I was too hasty sending just the two of you out, scarcely rested.’ He pushed his chair back noisily. ‘Pick twenty men and try again…’ He paused for a moment, reflectively. ‘The day after tomorrow, I think.’ He smiled. ‘Thanks to the generosity of our new… neighbours… we can spare ourselves a day or so to recuperate from our journeying, and to plan our next move.’