Roger Taylor - Farnor

A burning log collapsed noisily, sending a cascade of sparks dancing and weaving high into the darkness. Yeorson’s words went with them, unheeded and futile.

‘This place gives me the creeps,’ someone said as the small disturbance faded.

His words hung ominously in the air and the ill mood of the group seemed to congeal about them. Yeorson and Storran glanced at one another, puzzled, and uncertain as to what was about to happen. Danger-ous though the men were, to a man they had a loyalty to each other borne of mutual need that bound them far tighter than even their own sworn oaths. And there had been no particular signs of discontent on the journey so far. But…

Yeorson and Storran were excellent trackers because they listened to and trusted their instincts. Needing no reason other than this inner prompting, both of them simultaneously and surreptitiously moved their hands towards their knives.

Even as they did so however, they felt the mood about them suddenly change, then they saw that most of the men were staring at something.

Yeorson followed the gaze.

Only a few paces from them, and well within the circle of the firelight, stood a solitary, motionless figure.

Yeorson swore softly to himself. How had this in-truder come so close without being heard?

Before he had time to issue any orders several of the men were on their feet, knives and swords drawn. They made no attempt to advance on the figure, though, and it remained still and silent for a long, oddly timeless interval. There was an eerie unreality about the whole scene as if the figure were in some other place. Then, it extended its arms slowly and spoke. ‘I apologize if I startled you, gentlemen,’ it said.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Yeorson demanded, his voice harsh, and disregarding the easy manner of the apology. ‘And what are you doing creeping about out here?’

‘My name’s Rannick,’ the figure replied calmly. ‘I’ve been hunting. I was concerned when I saw the flames through the trees. I thought I was going to get caught in a forest fire.’

Yeorson looked at him narrowly. ‘You move quietly, Rannick,’ he said. ‘Sneaking up on an armed camp like that could get you killed.’

Rannick remained where he was and extended his arms again, this time accompanying the gesture with a leisurely shrug. ‘I’ve said I was sorry for disturbing you. I’ll leave.’

He turned.

‘Stay where you are!’ Yeorson shouted.

Rannick stopped, his head bowed and half-turned towards the fire.

With a series of short, sharp gestures, Yeorson dis-patched several of the men into the darkness.

‘Are you alone?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Come here,’ Yeorson said curtly. ‘And keep your hands in sight. I warn you, if this is some trick to ambush us you should know you’re not dealing with village clods this time. And you’ll be the first to die.’

Rannick walked towards the fire, seemingly unper-turbed by Yeorson’s threatening manner.

‘You must be the gatherers,’ he said as he stopped a few paces away from Yeorson. His tone and his smile were mildly ironic.

‘This amuses you?’ Yeorson asked menacingly. The men casually surrounded the new arrival.

‘A little,’ Rannick admitted.

A knife appeared at his throat. ‘How would another smile across your face amuse you, farm boy?’ its holder asked viciously.

Rannick looked at his assailant calmly. ‘Put the knife away,’ he said, very quietly. ‘I’m no danger to you.’

The man did not move but, to Yeorson, it seemed for a moment that he was immobilized by Rannick’s gaze rather than by any determination to stand his ground.

There was a long silence.

Yeorson’s voice broke it. ‘Let him be, Meirach,’ he snapped, pushing the man away none too gently. There was a flicker of relief on Meirach’s face as Yeorson’s blow tore him away from Rannick, and he gave only a cursory indication that he wanted to return to the fray.

As Yeorson watched Meirach the men he had sent out began to reappear from the darkness. They shook their heads as Yeorson looked at them. The man was alone, then.

He studied Rannick carefully. Under normal cir-cumstances, a lone traveller encountering a group under his charge would have little likelihood of surviving, but the prospect of Nilsson’s bloody retribution rose before him if such a deed were to cause problems with the villagers. And, almost certainly, someone, somewhere, would be keeping a discreet eye on this oaf, for all the protestations that no one ever came up here. They would surely know where he was and when he would be back. He decided; there would be no sport from this one tonight.

‘Sit down and join us… Rannick,’ he said, gesturing to the others to do the same. ‘I’m sorry for the welcome, but it’s the way we are. You’re lucky you weren’t killed on sight.’

Rannick came forward, but made no response to this remark. As he sat he looked from Yeorson to the other men around the fire. After a moment, he nodded.

‘I understand,’ he said, eyes wide. ‘You’re soldiers. Your life must be full of adventure and excitement. I suppose you’re always ready for danger.’

There was awe and sincerity in his voice and man-ner that no one in the village would have recognized. The mood around the fire relaxed almost palpably. Just another village simpleton was the unspoken consensus. There was some laughter, though in anticipation of the torments that would most likely befall their visitor before long rather than at his seeming naivety. Yeorson made no effort to hide his disdain from Rannick. ‘We’d been told that no one ever comes here,’ he said.

‘Nor do they,’ Rannick said. ‘I only come here be-cause the rabbits and the birds aren’t as shy as they are in the valley.’

‘Where’s your catch?’ Yeorson asked.

Rannick shrugged self-deprecatingly. ‘I’ve not done too well so far, but I’ll give it another day or two.’

He looked expectantly at the food that was lying about the fire.

‘Do you know these woods well, Rannick?’ The speaker was Storran. He picked up a piece of meat and offered it to him.

Rannick’s eyes widened as he took the meat but as he raised it to his nose and sniffed at it, he closed them.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know them very well.’ He bit into the meat. It had only been lightly cooked, and a trickle of blood ran slowly down his chin. At the same time, Yeorson applied his foot vigorously to the fire. It flared up brightly and for an instant, in its ancient light, Rannick, with his hand clawed around the meat, his bloodstained teeth bared and his eyes turned into black shadowed orbs, looked like the spirit of some terrible predator from an age long dead, had any there had the wit to note it.

‘Very well,’ he repeated, as the flames died down.

Yeorson nodded approvingly at Storran; a little local knowledge could save them a great deal of time and effort.

‘How far do these woods go north?’ Storran asked.

Rannick stopped chewing. ‘Up to the Great Forest,’ he said in some surprise. ‘Anyone could have told you that.’

Storran’s mouth forced itself into a smile. ‘They did,’ he said. ‘But they never come here, do they? So how can they know? They could be wrong. We’ve had it before. People not knowing what’s on the other side of their own mountain. But you’re here. You know this place.’

‘Oh, yes. I’m very familiar with this place,’ Rannick said, his voice enigmatic as he looked around the makeshift camp.

‘You’ve actually been through the valley? Seen this… Great Forest?’ Storran persisted.

‘Why do you want to know?’ Rannick asked.

Yeorson started slightly at this sudden reversal in roles. ‘We need to know,’ he said brusquely. Then, tempering his reply, he added, ‘It’s the… King’s orders. We have to find out what lies beyond the borders of his land.’ His invention began to amuse him. ‘And if you can help us, then we’ll tell him how you helped. There might even be a… reward… for it. A medal, perhaps.’