Roger Taylor - Farnor

He put his head in his hands. The patient, if wary, good nature of Gryss and Garren and the others he had met, the well-tended fields and animals, the well-built and cared-for houses and cottages rose like gorge in his throat.

All this should be his. Yet he did not want it; knew he could not have it. For though it could be destroyed on a whim it was not such as could be given; it was something derived from within and through years of quiet endeavour.

He did not want it.

He could not have it.

The thoughts circled maliciously, taunting him, seeing themselves and knowing themselves to be both true and false.

Many sounds drifted through the echoing corridors of the castle that night. Shuffling, restless, creaking, muttering. Men talking, crying, laughing in their stupefied sleep. Men groaning with surfeit. Men disgorging surfeit.

No one heard the solitary cry that came from the dining hall as Nilsson saw briefly into his own soul.

Life in the valley began to settle back to normal after the tithe had been transported to the castle. Although the valley dwellers were quite capable of sustaining petty quarrels for months, if not years, this was largely a superficial trait used, as much as anything, both to vary and to confirm the soundness of the texture of their everyday existence.

Patient, farming people living lives that were founded deeply and wisely in the ways of nature and which knew and danced to the slow rhythm of the seasons, they showed a true measure of reality when need arose. From the moment the gatherers had been identified for what they were, the villagers had begun to relinquish their emotional ties to the goods gathered in the tithe barn. After all, the justice of the matter lay squarely with the gatherers and, when looked at squarely, it concerned only a few odds and ends that would be grown again next year.

Thus, although the initial grief at the loss of their Dalmastide bargains was sharp and the keening voluble, there was little true pain and the noise faded quickly. Indeed, the dominant feeling soon became one of relief that they had in fact dutifully gathered the tithe and not been caught unprepared by the arrival of the King’s men.

And, too, it could not be denied, there was frothing on the surface of their lives a certain… excitement… at these new arrivals; new topics to be raised around the table, at the fireside and, of course, in the inn.

No such return to normality faced one group of Nilsson’s men the day following the collection of the tithe however, when Storran and Yeorson moved through the castle some time before dawn and roused them with the news that they had been chosen for the patrol that was to explore the northern section of the valley.

Nilsson gathered the men about him in the court-yard. ‘I know the state some of you are in,’ he said. ‘This village ale will take some getting used to. But check your weapons and make sure you keep your wits about you. Storran and Yeorson think there’s something odd up there. That’s why they came back, and that’s why you’re going out in force now. I can’t see it being bandits or the like, as the villagers would have known, but work on the assumption that if you nod off in the saddle or on watch you mightn’t wake up.’

This advice was greeted with a surly silence.

Nilsson was in no mood for the niceties of morale-raising. He bared his teeth and pointed northwards. ‘That’s our best way out of here,’ he said, starkly. ‘Just go and see what there is and get back as quickly as you can. Routine reconnaissance, that’s all. Anything gets in your way, ride over it. Then we can be on the move again. At least we don’t have to fight for our food this time.’

Yeorson and Storran led the patrol away from the castle as the rising sun was beginning to throw long shadows on the mountain turf, and late morning saw them travelling at less than foot pace as they threaded their way between the trees. Some had chosen to dismount, preferring to lead their horses rather than contend with the frequent low-hanging branches. At intervals they would hack gashes into the trunks of the trees to mark their route through this deceptively treacherous terrain. Sap oozed from the cuts.

In places the trees grew close together, and the can-opy overhead became so dense that it shut out much of the sunlight. The riders fell silent as they passed through these dark and gloomy canyons, and there was always a marked air of relief when they emerged into the light again.

Eventually, reaching a small clearing, Yeorson called a halt and cast about for a suitable tree to climb. Finally selecting one, he stretched up like some grotesque, unfolding creeper and, seizing a branch, disappeared into the foliage with an easy heave. Storran stared up after him for a while, but he was soon lost from sight and his progress could only be measured by the sound of the disturbed branches. Then there was a brief period of silence until the sound of his descent began.

‘Anything?’ Storran asked as the long figure emerged from the lower branches.

‘Not much,’ Yeorson said. ‘Same as last time. Trees north and south for as far as I can see.’ He pointed. ‘But there’s a cliff obscuring the view further along. It looks as though the valley turns east. If we can reach the edge of the trees we might be able to get part way up it and get a better view from there.’ A few grumbling minutes later the patrol was under way again, leaving behind it its extending trail of hacked and weeping markers.

It proved impossible to reach the edge of the trees on horseback as the forest rose steeply up the valley sides in most places. However, by moving some way up from the valley floor, the patrol was able to follow a line quite near to the edge and which gave them occasional views across or along the valley. At each of these panoramas Yeorson’s lip curled in dissatisfaction, enhancing his naturally supercilious expression.

‘I don’t like this place,’ he said quietly to Storran. ‘It still feels bad.’

Storran nodded. He, too, was uneasy about the seemingly deserted woodland they were travelling through, though he had no words to define his unease clearly.

‘We’ll just have to carry on,’ he said. ‘It’s probably because it’s so still.’

Yeorson curled his lip again, but offered no reply.

Towards evening, they reached the rock face that had obscured Yeorson’s view. It came on them like an ambush, appearing suddenly and towering above them, massive and rugged against the darkening sky as they entered a clearing full of fallen trees and tangled undergrowth.

Studiously unimpressed, Storran concentrated on their immediate surroundings. ‘Rock fall,’ he said, simply.

Looking at the eminence above gave the patrol no comfort. The trees rose up it some considerable way and it would be no easy task struggling through them to reach the rock face proper. Certainly there would be no question of taking the horses. Then there was no way of assessing how negotiable the cliff would be when they got there.

Storran shook his head. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said.

No one demurred. Most of the men had shaken off the effects of the previous night’s revelries, but none of them seemed to be able to muster any enthusiasm for the task in hand.

As the light faded, the horses were tethered, under-growth was cleared to make a camp, wood was collected, a fire was lit and food cooked – all efficiently enough, but with an untypical and wary silence. Even the customary insults about the cooking were either left unsaid, or larded with unusual viciousness.

In an attempt to break this strange and growing tension, Yeorson repeated Nilsson’s remarks as they sat around the fire. ‘The sooner we find a way through here, the sooner we get out of this place,’ he said. ‘And the quicker and quieter we leave, the longer it will be before anyone finds out.’