Roger Taylor - Farnor

‘I’d every call, Avak,’ he said. ‘That was summary field punishment. You know the rules. No fighting amongst ourselves. Pain of death if weapons are drawn. And my word is law until you elect yourselves another leader.’ He leaned forward. ‘Are you thinking of running for office?’

Avak’s mouth worked, but no sound came.

The man who had kicked him spoke up tentatively. ‘I think he was reaching for something to wipe his face with, Captain,’ he said. ‘And I’m sure he’s just wonder-ing how to apologize for disturbing you when you were administering discipline. I’m afraid this good ale you’ve won for us today has addled the remains of his wits.’

Nilsson kept his eyes fixed on his victim throughout this respectful intervention, and acknowledged it only with a slight inclination of his head. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Avak, rage now gone from his face and replaced with sheer terror, nodded frantically. His lips were trembling, but from somewhere he found his voice. ‘That’s so, Captain,’ he said. ‘An ill-considered remark… the ale…’ His tongue seemed to stick to the top of his mouth.

Nilsson placed his own foot on Avak’s chest and tapped it thoughtfully.

The hall became very silent.

Then, settling his weight on to his foot, Nilsson turned and stared at the spectators.

There was nothing but fear all around him.

He turned back to the pinioned Avak then, with a final tap of his foot, abruptly released him. Avak scuttled away frantically. No one moved to help him.

‘The celebration’s over, gentlemen,’ Nilsson said. ‘These villagers with their ale have nearly cost us as many men as if we’d raided them.’

He began walking back to the table where Saddre and Dessane were standing waiting. The crowd parted before him.

‘Listen carefully, all of you,’ he said as he walked. ‘We’ve fallen lucky with this place and I’ll personally disembowel anyone who makes any trouble for us here, because of ale, women, anything.’ He stopped and looked intently at his audience. ‘As far as these villagers are concerned we’re soldiers, tax collectors of some kind. As a result of that, they’ve voluntarily given us enough supplies to last us for months. I needn’t tell any of you what a gift that is. You’ve all had to risk getting killed for a damn sight less in your time. Tomorrow Yeorson and Storran are going north with a patrol to find a way through the valley and to see what lies beyond. When they come back, we’ll load up our supplies and slip away. If this is done quietly, it’ll be months before…’ He paused and his jaw stiffened. ‘Before… anyone… finds out where we’ve gone. In fact, it’s a possibility they’ll never find out; this place is so far from anywhere.’ His shoulders hunched, and his voice became menacing. ‘I’m an easy-going man, you know that. I don’t interfere with your pleasures normally. But this time it’s too important. If these villagers begin to suspect we’re not who they think we are, we’ll have the whole countryside down on us. So this is the way it’s going to be. None of you are to go near the village. None of you are to have contact with any of the villagers. Any of them come to the gate on business, send for me.’ He raised his voice. ‘Do any of you need to hear that again?’

There was a general muttering of, ‘No.’

‘Do any of you disagree with this strategy?’ He lifted his hand before anyone could speak. ‘I give you fair warning that once you’ve agreed to these orders, it’ll be death for any man who disobeys them. I’ll kill him instantly… or worse.’ There was a long silence before he spoke again. ‘Now, does anyone disagree?’

This time the voices were louder. Nilsson looked slowly over his audience once more, then, with a wave of his hand, dismissed them.

As they dispersed, Nilsson returned to his table. ‘That includes you two as well,’ he said to Dessane and Saddre. ‘Whatever chance has thrown this our way, it won’t happen again and I’ll allow no one – no one – to jeopardize it. Do you understand?’

Both men nodded, well sober by now.

‘How long do you think we’ve got here?’ Saddre asked, anxious to redirect his leader’s menacing mood.

‘Quite some time, I’d think,’ Nilsson replied. He indicated Dessane. ‘According to the tales we’ve both heard, hardly anyone ever comes to this valley and no one ever leaves. They seem to have everything they want here.’ He paused and became pensive for a moment as if the remark had stirred something within him.

‘And what if the real tithe gatherers arrive?’ Dessane asked.

‘It’ll be the first time in living memory, according to that old healer,’ Nilsson replied dismissively.

‘But…?’ Dessane let the doubt hang in the air.

As each of them knew, Dessane’s remark about the tithe gatherers was in reality a reflection of another, rarely spoken-of concern.

Nilsson screwed up his face as if in pain. As he him-self had acknowledged, the chance that had brought them to this valley and to this reception verged on the miraculous, and the benefits should not be lightly risked; indeed they should not be risked at all. ‘I suppose we could mount lookouts down the valley,’ he said, almost reluctantly. ‘It’s just that I’d rather keep all the men here, where we can see them. Once they’re out there they’ll do something stupid for certain.’

‘Small groups. Three or four. Good men,’ Dessane suggested. ‘We’ve enough for that.’

‘Perhaps,’ Nilsson said, then motioned the two men away.

After they had left, Nilsson sat for a long time in the deserted hall. Around him lay the debris of the celebra-tion like the aftermath of a small riot. The ale he had drunk lay heavy on his stomach and he knew that it fogged his perceptions to some extent. It did not worry him too much; he had many years ago learned to drink heavily and still maintain his lethal fighting capacity. Indeed, as a protection against former ‘companions’ he had trained himself to become more savage and unrestrained in drink than he was when sober. And as he had tempered this with heightened cunning, a fearful reputation had grown up about him.

What he had not trained himself to cope with was the dark melancholy that would sometimes seep into his thoughts when, as now, he was alone after such revelries.

A melancholy that would turn everything about him into so much dross, and whose bitter taste would rule him utterly until such time as it chose to pass. Only the lethargy that it brought to his limbs prevented him from purging himself of this clinging inner miasma by some act of monstrous violence; a fact of great benefit to his companions, had they known it, for Nilsson was not of a suicidal or even a self-reproaching disposition.

Now darkness reigned inside his motionless form. Darkness full of anger and bitterness at the one he had followed and who had betrayed him; at the chain of violence and mayhem that he had forged and that had led him here; at those pursuing him. From this jaun-diced perspective, even the chance turning that had brought him so fortuitously to this valley, with his men on the verge of mutiny, was seen as being little more than his rightful deserts, an ordained reward as acknowledgement of simply the rightness of his being.

His dead eyes drifted over the scene around him, sullying it even further: scattered tables, overturned chairs, smoking lamps, the whole strewn with uneaten food and splattered with spilled ale and vomit.

Not even the stacks of produce so easily taken from the village brought a respite to his soured vision. Rather they tarnished it further with their silent implication of effort and toil: assiduous, willing, patiently applied toil to gain a desired and beneficial end.