Roger Taylor - Nightfall 2 - Valderen

Roger Taylor has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified

as the Author of this work.

First published by Headline Book Publishing in 1993.

This Edition published in 2003 by Mushroom eBooks, an imprint of Mushroom Publishing, Bath, BA1

4EB, United Kingdom

www.mushroom-ebooks.com

the prior written permission of the publisher.

ISBN 1843191881

Valderen

The Second Part of Farnor's Tale

Roger Taylor

Mushroom eBooks

Chapter 1

The castle gates swung open.

Nilsson turned to watch the swaying silhouette that was moving slowly through the shade of the archway.

He had been assiduously resurrecting the old, long-forgotten habits that had, in the past, ensured both his

survival and his advancement, though it took him some effort to keep his demeanour neutral as Rannick,

astride his foul-tempered mount, emerged into the light. For while Rannick might not yet be the man that

Nilsson’s erstwhile master had been, his power was increasing almost daily and, as it grew, so his

humanity inevitably diminished. Nilsson knew only too well that now he had chosen to stand by his new

Lord his life depended solely on the value that Rannick placed on him, and that this value depended in

turn not only on his willingness to serve but on his ability to read and anticipate Rannick’s moods

accurately.

And it was especially important now, for he was certain that something had gone amiss during the fiery

demonstration that Rannick had given the previous day. True, the roaring column of fire that had

appeared out of nothingness had been both awe-inspiring and terrifying, and it had sent Gryss and the

others away suitably cowed and humiliated. Yet, increasingly sensitive to his master’s behaviour, Nilsson

was sure that he had felt Rannick falter. Only slightly, admittedly, but the memory of it had lingered with

him since. It was as if Rannick had been assailed in some way. And he had sensed, too, a grim, almost

desperate, anger begin to mount in the man; an anger that had seemed to be building towards some

appalling conclusion until it had suddenly evaporated into a surprised vagueness at the unexpected

collapse of Gryss and the others on to their knees.

Rannick had stood for a long time apparently staring after the retreating figures as they stumbled away

from the castle, supporting the beaten Farnor. But Nilsson, fearfully willing himself to absolute stillness

lest he inadvertently attract Rannick’s attention, saw that his eyes were abstracted and distant.

Then, as if in confirmation of Nilsson’s conclusion, Rannick had silently beckoned for his horse and,

without comment, ridden north.

Later, Nilsson had started violently from a troubled sleep to hear, he thought, the distant shrieking howl

of Rannick’s creature. Though whether it had been reality or a lingering remnant of some nightmare, he

could not have said.

And now Rannick had returned.

Nilsson took a slow, silent, very deep breath as Rannick came to a halt in front of him. ‘Lord,’ he said,

bowing slightly.

‘We begin today,’ Rannick replied tersely as he dismounted.

‘Lord?’

But Rannick was walking away from him. Hastily Nilsson turned and strode after him across the

courtyard. What had he missed? As they reached a doorway, Rannick turned and looked squarely at

him. ‘We begin our conquest of this land, Captain,’ he said. ‘I am fully ready now. All opposition has

been ended.’

Opposition? There was more in Rannick’s tone than a reference to the mere quelling of Gryss and the

others. So somethinghad happened yesterday. Yet too, there was a strange exhilaration about Rannick

that Nilsson had not known before. Something else must have happened during the night: something

profound. He asked no questions, however. Time, and silent, watchful awareness, would eventually give

him such answers as he needed. Petty curiosity now might well kill him. ‘As you command, Lord,’ he

replied, as Rannick turned and disappeared into the building.

Thus Rannick’s early cautious steps along what he knew as the golden road of his destiny became a

purposeful and determined march. Having finally had his own way in the matter of the treatment of the

villagers, Rannick seemed content now to leave the day-to-day pursuit of his schemes in Nilsson’s hands

and, beyond a general overseeing of matters, he interfered scarcely at all with detailed plans. Nilsson

however, took few chances, and submitted almost his every intention and the reasons for it to Rannick

for his approval. Increasingly he was finding Rannick difficult to anticipate.

Rannick, though, was learning. Learning more and more about the nature of the men that he now

commanded, not least about their peculiar, savage expertise and how it could best be used to further his

ends. Yet he knew that to speak openly on such matters would be merely to display his ignorance and, in

so doing, diminish his authority.

Fascinating though this learning was however, it was secondary to his avid study of his growing power

and the mastering of the subtleties of its use. For hour upon hour he secluded himself in a room at the top

of the castle’s highest tower, a room which overlooked the woods and peaks to the north as well as the

sweep of the valley southwards. No one knew what arts he practised there but, although nothing had

been said, it was acknowledged that the room was forbidden to all others, on pain of immediate death.

And the light that flickered fitfully from its windows at night was like a baleful eye, surveying not only the

castle yards but the entire valley. More than a few of Nilsson’s men complained that they could feel it

watching them even when they were indoors. ‘Well, be careful what you say and do, then,’ he offered

them, by way of reassurance. ‘And what you think.’

And too, unannounced, Rannick would take his evil-tempered horse and ride off to the north.

Sometimes he would return the same day. Sometimes he would be gone for several days. These

mysterious absences unsettled Nilsson badly, particularly the longer ones. They brought to his mind the

spectre of his new Lord not returning, either through some unforeseen hazard or, worse, through choice.

But he could say nothing. As he had many years before, he could only have faith in the path that he had

chosen, accepting the arbitrary behaviour of his Lord and continuing with the task that had been placed in

his hands: the conquest of the land.

Only a few weeks ago such a notion would have seemed absurd to him. Indeed, but weeks ago, itwould

have been absurd. Then, he and his men had been a haunted and broken force. But, no longer. Now they

had been renewed. Now their every ambition could be fulfilled, with time, patience and careful planning.

Despite the dark uncertainty of Rannick’s leadership, the prospect exhilarated Nilsson, though he

allowed no outward sign of this to show.

Such knowledge as he had gained while journeying through the land beyond the valley had told him that

it was large, sparsely populated and possessed of no great military might. That his own troop was small

for such a grandiose scheme as conquest was of little consequence. With the correct tactics, any society

could be brought low by a small, determined group. Had not he and his men been part of such a group

once before? And held in thrall a far more vigorous people than inhabited this land. And too, he knew

that his group would grow. There were always malcontents who could find no place in any ordered

society, however benign. People within whose darker natures lay deep, stagnant pools of anger and

hatred that needed only the right impetus to stir them into corrosive, consuming whirlpools of desire and

resolve. Such people would emerge from the shadows and flock to the new banner that would be raised,

like flies to a carcass.

However, tactics, recruits, and motivation notwithstanding, Nilsson knew all too well that Rannick’s

power was essential to the success of the venture. Only with this could they be assured of a victory

sufficiently complete to ensure that they would retain their grip on the land. And Rannick’s power would

be with them only insofar as these early ventures were successful.

Thus, as Nilsson began to play his part in Rannick’s great scheme, the villagers grew increasingly used to

the sight of groups of armed men passing down the valley, to return days later, triumphant and noisy, with

pack animals and wagons loaded with produce, furniture, and many other items of plunder, and, not

infrequently, pale and fearful captives. They grew used also to the small but steady stream of ill-favoured

individuals let through by the guards who sealed the valley to the south; individuals who sought directions

to the castle with conspiratorial leers, taking it for granted that the villagers were party to the ravaging

activities of Nilsson’s men.

Given almost a free rein by Rannick, Nilsson implemented his original intention with regard to the

villagers, namely that they be left alone while they caused no trouble. He did it quietly, off-handedly

almost, so as to avoid attracting Rannick’s attention, but he was explicit with his men. ‘Leave them alone.

Just let them know it’s in their interests to stay quiet and co-operative. We’ll need them to grow most of

our food eventually. If any of you make trouble here, you’ll answer to me personally.’ He was not

unreasonable, however; he knew his men’s needs. He smiled knowingly. ‘Besides, we’ll get plenty of

everything else we need from the other villages we . . . visit.’

Without openly declaring it, he affected that this was now Rannick’s will, and while his men knew that

this was not so, they also knew enough not to dispute the point. At least, not while they could indeed get

everything they wanted elsewhere.

The villagers themselves watched the unfolding events both fearfully and sullenly. The fate of Katrin and

Garren Yarrance had made a stark and chilling impression on them, as had the account from Gryss,

Harlen and Yakob of the strange power that Rannick now possessed. And fretting round the edges of

these horrors was the mysterious disappearance of Farnor. Where had he gone that night after he had left

Gryss’s cottage? Had he gone to the castle and been quietly slain? Or had he fled over the hill to seek

help from the capital? Or, the wilder notions went, had he fled north to the Great Forest? Some said that

food and supplies had been taken from the Yarrance farm, and others were convinced that they had

heard something howling beyond the castle on that fateful night. Speculation however, added only

confusion to the dark ignorance that was slowly swamping the village.

Yet, inevitably, there was a certain amount of businesslike, if surly, contact between Nilsson’s men and

the villagers. Food was required. Repairs had to be made to parts of the castle. Horses had to be

tended. Servants were needed. Occasionally there were overt threats made to reluctant workers, but the

worst threat was the unspoken one which cried out every time a marauding band returned with booty and

captives. ‘Women for pleasure. Men and children as hostages. Think yourselves lucky this isn’t

happening to you.’

It was a matter discussed only in subdued whispers and with the closest of friends, for already there

were those who were turning away from Gryss and the Council and the traditional, if informal, hierarchy

that had overseen village life for generations. They were turning instead towards the power that could

enforce its will with muscle and steel.

* * * *

Gryss sat alone in his cottage, resting his head on his hand. His face was drawn and his eyes were red.

He had been weeping. He had not wanted to, even though the wiser part of him knew that he needed to,

but the enormity of what was happening, and his part in it, had eventually swept aside his unhappy

resistance and, for a while, he had sobbed like a beaten child into the silence of his old cottage.

Despite himself, he was tormented by the knowledge that he should have challenged Nilsson and his men

when they first arrived, down-at-heel and exhausted. He was certain now that they could have been

turned away while they were weak and had no measure of the village’s vulnerability. Perhaps there would

still have been some problem with Rannick and the strange creature with which he had made his unholy

alliance, but that too might have been dealt with had Nilsson and his men not been there. And now,

though he knew all too well that he should stand against Nilsson and Rannick, and tell the villagers to do

the same; knew that he should use what remained of his authority to unite them into a powerful

opposition; because of his earlier weakness and indecision, he could not.

Now he could only say, feebly, ‘No, we mustn’t do this, we mustn’t do that, look what might happen to

us.’ And, again, by way of demonstrating the taunting rightness of this advice, came the steady stream of

other poor souls, less privileged in their proximity to the seat of the power that was spreading like nightfall

across the land.

How did I come to this? he thought bitterly, wiping his eyes awkwardly on his sleeve.

Step by wretched step, came the equally bitter reply from somewhere within himself. And, in truth, he

could not see how it could have been otherwise when he looked back over what had happened. But this

gave him no consolation, and his mind was constantly filled with the words ‘if only’ swirling round and

round like autumn leaves caught in the coming winter wind. If only Farnor had not planted the idea of

tithe gatherers in his head when Nilsson’s men had first appeared in the distance. And yet again, if only he

had stepped out and spoken to them as their ragged column had moved past the waiting villagers . . .

Gradually however, his mood became grimmer, until, angrily, he dashed the endless, tangled chain of tiny

linked events aside and forced himself to look to the future. It was filled with the frightened faces of more

and more captives, torn from their peaceful lives and brought in thrall to Rannick’s terrible castle through

no fault of their own; playthings and pawns in whatever dire game he was playing. Yet, while to Gryss

these people were strangers, their very ordinariness marked them as his friends and neighbours. After a

while, as he sat there, head bowed, he began to realize that the burden of their silent reproach would

eventually become more than he could bear; would become more awful to him than any consequence

that might ensue from his facing and denouncing Rannick and Nilsson.

He stood up and went into the kitchen. Wiping his face with a damp cloth, he gazed at his reflection in a

mirror on the wall. Like the ring that hung at his threshold, this too was a relic of his youthful travelling

days, though he could not now remember exactly how he had come by it. Unlike the ornately carved

ring, however, the mirror was of a very simple design. Its plain frame was black, though he could not

imagine what paint or stain had been used to make it thus, as it had neither sheen nor texture. Indeed,

when examined closely it seemed to have the quality of the blackness of a starless night, an infinite, aching

depth. It disturbed him when he chose to think about it. And the glass was as bright and vivid as the

frame was dark, almost as if the one had drawn all the light and radiance from the other. Further,

throughout the years its brilliant clarity had shown no signs of ageing or tarnishing – unlike himself, he

mused. It gave, as it had always given, a cruelly accurate reflection of what it saw.

Gryss stared at the old man who was gazing pathetically out at him. Then the watching face became

scornful. With an effort, Gryss straightened up. His inner battle was not yet finished; fear and self-doubt

could never truly be vanquished, but somewhere within him a tide was turning. Still there was a great

chorus shouting for safety and security, for acquiescence to what was happening so that he could spend

the remainder of his life in peace. But, increasingly, its voice was becoming strident and hollow and,

though unwelcome, colder but wiser counsels were beginning to prevail. Safety he might possibly attain,

though he had doubts about even that, knowing Rannick’s disposition, but he could never truly know

peace if others suffered when some effort on his part might help them.

The terrible, slaughtered images of Garren and Katrin Yarrance hovered perpetually at the edges of his

mind, and, all too frequently, his stomach churned with his impotent distress at not knowing the fate of

Farnor. But while he could not mend his earlier mistakes, perhaps he had learned enough to avoid

making any more.

Yet what could he do? The inexorable question. Direct opposition to Rannick would mean death, or

worse. And what retribution would such opposition unleash on the village?

The expression of the old man in the black-edged mirror became baleful. For an instant it seemed to

Gryss that he was the shallow, ephemeral image and that the face in the mirror was the real person. He

turned away sharply, his breathing suddenly painful, so powerful and frightening was this impression, and

so severe the judgement in the eyes that had looked into his.

The shock cleared his mind. What he could do, first of all, was use his head; he could think.

Somewhere there was a solution. The energy that was draining out of him in whining self-pity must be

redirected towards finding that solution, however elusive and difficult it might prove to be. And he did not

have the luxury of time at his disposal. With each day, he reasoned, Nilsson’s men would travel further

and further abroad on their plundering raids; and too, in addition to those strangers who were wandering

into the valley, like lesser predators following the scent of another’s kill, not all those who returned with

the raiders were captives; some were, beyond a doubt, recruits. Rannick’s power would draw the worst

out of men, and the worst of men. Gryss needed no military training to know that the armed strength of

the garrison was growing relentlessly.

But what was Rannick up to? What could be the purpose of such a force? He obviously did not need it

just to hold sway over the village. Gryss dismissed the questions before they began to lead him astray.

They were irrelevant, at the moment. Whatever Rannick’s intentions were, all that mattered now was that

they be frustrated.

He returned to his favourite chair. It creaked welcomingly as he sat down and settled himself

comfortably.

A dark measure of his position came to him first. He could do little or nothing alone. Further, whatever

opposition he decided upon, he would have to persuade an increasingly large number of the villagers to

accept and follow it as time passed. But who was to be trusted? There was no reason to suppose that

the doubts and fears which were assailing him were not assailing everyone else, and, in all conscience he

could not reproach anyone for throwing in their lot with the new masters of the valley. Yet this was only

an intellectual conclusion; despite the truth of it, deep within himself he felt his benevolence fighting a stern

battle with a powerful, emotional, reaction of anger and revulsion at such behaviour.

Still, he flattered himself that at least he could identify those most likely to succumb to this, and keep

them away from any plans that he might instigate. He reverted to his original question, and amplified it.

Who was to be trusted? And who was going to be any use?

The first names that came to him were Garren and Farnor, and the shock of the emptiness that followed

in their wake made him grimace. Tears started to his eyes again and he brushed them away roughly. The

dead were dead, and should be buried, he shouted inside his head, so that he could pass this momentary

crisis under cover of the noise. He forced himself to think of the living. Yakob he could trust, certainly.

Harlen too, though he found it hard to imagine him as any great tower of strength. That would be the role

of Jeorg, of course. His heart was full of a black and awful rage at Rannick and Nilsson and his various

injuries were healing well, though it would be some time before he had the full use of his arm again. The

only real problem with Jeorg would be keeping his tongue under control. Also, Gryss knew to his cost, it

would be politic to keep Jeorg’s wife well away from any plotting and scheming. She was unequivocally

of the opinion that what was happening was ‘none of their business’ and that it should be left to those

‘better suited to such matters’ or ‘no good would come of it’. To her mind, the logic of her husband’s

cruelly beaten body was more than sufficient to sustain her argument, and she never elaborated on who

such others ‘better suited’ might be. It would be a brave man who attempted to take her to task on such

details.

It was not an uncommon view in the village, and, in her case, Gryss could sympathize completely.

There were others who could be relied on: Gofhern the blacksmith, Kestered the valley’s finest

leatherworker, Bellan the school teacher. Gryss weighed them all carefully. None of them was a fighter,

of course, but they were men who could hold their peace, and who were not afraid to ponder intractable

problems. And, as with himself in his capacity as a healer, their skills brought them into contact with more

people than most. This alone would keep him better informed of the attitude of the villagers than if he

were alone.

Then Marna’s name came to him. He frowned. Much as he would have preferred to, he could not

exclude her from any plans, as she would inevitably scent them out. And despite Farnor’s beating and

subsequent mysterious disappearance, she was still quite capable of undertaking some wild venture of her

own if she thought that nothing was being done. Whatever he decided to do, he would somehow have to

find a way of involving her that offered her no danger.

He settled on the group that he should approach initially: Yakob, Harlen, Jeorg and, reluctantly, Marna.

Perhaps Gofhern, Kestered, Bellan and others later but, he realized, that would not be solely his

responsibility by then.

He stood up, stretched, and went to stand for a while at the front door of the cottage. It was a fine

summer’s day and everything about him was as it should be: birds singing, bright flowers everywhere, the

air alive with rich scents, and all manner of small creatures bustling through the hedges and long grasses.

Subtly marring it, though, was the darkness of the unexpected that now lay over everything like a clinging

miasma. Throughout the years since his return, he had walked down into the village, knowing that while

no two days were ever the same, he would meet nothing and no one that he would not have wished to

meet. That had been such a truth in his life that it had never actually occurred to him before. But now,

who could say what might lie around the familiar bends in the road? One of Nilsson’s men? Oddly

restrained but arrogant and unpleasant for all that, and not infrequently drunk on ale ‘freely given’ at the

inn. Or some sharp-eyed stranger seeking the way to the castle? Guards returning from duty downland?

Or perhaps even another column of armed men returning from a raid over the hill and bringing with them

more captives.

He picked up the carved iron ring and examined it thoughtfully. The soldiers etched into its surface

seemed to reproach him. They were waiting too, but they were armed and ready; at some time in the

past they had seen their destiny and prepared themselves for it. He found himself making an ironical

inventory of all the weapons that he knew lay in the valley: a handful of rusty swords that had

accumulated over the generations from who knew what sources; an equally small handful of bows which,

like the swords, were a greater danger to the users and their immediate neighbours than to any enemy

they might be levelled at; and, incongruously, he seemed to remember having seen two old pikes lying in

a barn somewhere, though he could not recall now whether or not they hadn’t been made into pitchforks.

The fate of the pikes, however, was of little consequence. Not in his wildest imaginings could he

envisage disciplined, serried ranks of villagers marching resolutely up to the castle to face Nilsson’s men;

that, indeed, was a task for others ‘better suited’.

Which still left Gryss with his original problem. What could he, and his potential co-conspirators, do?

He put the ring down gently but the bell tinkled faintly, invoking a cursory rumble from the dog

somewhere in the cottage. Closing the door behind him, he set off towards the village. The darkness of

everything that Rannick and Nilsson had brought to the valley was still with him, but for the first time in

many weeks he felt almost at ease with himself. It was a feeling that grew as he visited first Yakob, then

Jeorg – ‘Just to see how he’s getting on,’ he said, smiling excessively at Jeorg’s wife – and finally Harlen.

He gave no indication of his intentions, simply asking them to come round to his cottage that evening,

‘Just to talk about a few things.’

The only threat to his unexpected euphoria was the absence of Marna. It took him some time to turn the

conversation so that he could ask, casually, where she was. Harlen smiled and shrugged. Gryss had a

brief vision of the young woman crawling along ditches and hedgerows in order to avoid the guards who

were now permanently on duty down the valley. He dismissed it as calmly as he could. ‘Bring her with

you, Harlen,’ he said as they parted. ‘There’re things I want to talk about that she’ll be interested in.’

Then he turned on his heel and left quickly before Harlen could summon up any questions.

Thus, in the early evening, all his would-be allies were gathered in his cottage.

He made no preamble, but set out his ideas immediately. There was a silence when he had finished.

Yakob eventually broke it. His initial reaction was the same as had been Gryss’s own. ‘All very fine,

Gryss,’ he said. ‘We’d all like to do something. But what can we do? We can’t throw them out of the

castle. We can’t get out of the valley.’ He threw up his hands. ‘We don’t even know what it is that

Rannick and these people are up to.’

‘And theyare leaving us alone,’ Harlen added, reluctantly reciting the growing response of the villagers.

‘Who knows what they’ll do if we start to make trouble?’

Gryss nodded. He suspected that this careful treatment of the villagers was Nilsson’s tactic, and that it

had been adopted quite specifically to disarm troublesome local opposition. Rannick, he was sure, would

not have hesitated to wreak havoc on the village had the whim so taken him.

He submitted this to his friends. ‘Just discussing it like this, now, makes me think that perhaps Rannick’s

fully occupied on some greater design of his own,’ he concluded. ‘I can’t see that he’s leaving us alone

because he regrets . . .’ He hesitated. ‘What he did to Katrin and Garren.’

Yakob scowled and shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But whoever’s idea it is, it’s a good one, and it’ll

work. Everyone’s seen those other poor souls being hauled in, and everyone knows it could be them

next if they make trouble.’ Anger and regret filled his face. ‘It’s horrible to talk like that, I know,’ he went

on. ‘But it’s true. Those people are suffering on our behalf.’ He brought his hand down on the table. ‘If

only we’d seen them off when they first arrived.’

Gryss was no more indulgent with Yakob than he had been with himself a few hours ago. ‘Well, we

didn’t,’ he answered curtly. ‘And we can’t be wasting our time breast-beating and howling over what we

should have done. We did what we did because it seemed right at the time. That could be anyone’s

epitaph. Now the harm’s been done and what we have to do is make sure we don’t perpetuate that

mistake by letting Rannick and Nilsson get away with whatever it is they’re doing without any hindrance.’

Yakob made to speak again but Gryss lifted a hand to stop him. ‘Do you agree or don’t you?’ he

demanded. ‘It’s that simple.’ He paused briefly. ‘If you don’t, then fair enough. I’ll involve you no

further. All I’ll ask of you is that you keep quiet about this meeting.’

There was a brief, injured silence, then Yakob said heatedly, ‘You’ve no call to speak like that. Of

course we want to do something.’ Harlen and Jeorg both nodded in agreement. ‘But I presume we’ll be

allowed the odd moment to speak about our regrets, won’t we? It’s not as if anything springs

immediately to mind that we can do, does it?’

Gryss bridled a little at this rebuff but he fought back a scowl and managed to look appropriately

contrite. ‘You’re right, Yakob. I’m sorry,’ he said, insincerely. ‘I’ve no doubt I can rely on you to guard

against my impetuosity.’ This time it was Yakob who bridled at the sarcasm that Gryss had failed to keep

out of his voice, but Gryss continued quickly. ‘As for what to do, I’m afraid we must succeed in what we

failed to do before. We must get news of what’s happening to the capital.’

For the first time since she had sat down at the long wooden table, Marna looked up. She did not

speak, but she leaned forward a little. Gryss noted the movement. ‘There’ll be plenty for you to do here,

Marna,’ he said, partly to reassure Harlen, but mainly in an attempt to forestall any folly that she might be

contemplating.

Unexpectedly she nodded understandingly and said, ‘Of course, Gryss.’

Gryss looked at her narrowly and made an immediate resolution to watch her very carefully. When they

were alone, he would speak to her a little more bluntly.

Yakob reverted to practicalities. ‘I suppose it’s all we can do,’ he said. ‘But how? There are far more

guards downland than there were when Jeorg tried to leave, and if anyone’s lucky enough to get past

them, there’s no saying how far over the hill these raiding parties of theirs are reaching now.’

‘I’ll go again,’ Jeorg said resolutely. ‘If Rannick’s in the castle, I’ll take my chance on dodging his men.’

He tapped his head. ‘I go through the route continually in my mind, and I’ve still got the maps and notes

we prepared, wrapped up safe and sound at the bottom of my pack.’

Yakob and Harlen looked unhappy, but Gryss nodded. ‘You’re still the best choice for the job,’ he

said. ‘But we’ve got to be far more careful this time. They’ll kill you without a doubt if they catch you

again, and who knows what reprisals they might take against the rest of the village?’

‘I know,’ Jeorg replied, his voice untypically soft. He tapped his head again. ‘I go through that

continually as well. And don’t think I relish the prospect of trying again. The whole idea frightens the

breeches off me.’ He paused, and then almost spat out, ‘But doing nothing’s rotting me. And it’s no

guarantee of safety for the village. Rannick’ll turn on us sooner or later, I’m sure. You all know what he’s

like.’ He looked around the table. His pain was reflected in the faces of his listeners, but no one

disagreed.

Despite the grimness of this assessment, Gryss was strangely heartened by the fact that they had all

apparently reached the same conclusion as himself about Rannick’s probable future conduct.

Jeorg continued. ‘And talk around the matter as much as you like, it comes to the same in the end. We

can’t fight them. That’s a job for soldiers. So someone has to tell the King what’s happened so that the

army can be sent to get rid of them.’

A long silence followed this pronouncement. ‘We must work out when and how, then,’ Gryss said

eventually, his voice a little hoarse.

‘I can watch the guards downland,’ Marna said.

‘No!’ Both Gryss and Harlen spoke together sharply. Gryss deferred to her father.

‘You keep away from them,’ Harlen said. ‘You don’t need to be told why they’re bringing women back

from their raids, do you?’

Marna’s face coloured in a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Such directness from her father was

unusual. ‘Just keep away from them,’ he said again, quietly but with powerful authority. The other men

around the table nodded. Marna’s face became stony, but she did not speak.

‘I’ll keep an eye on the guards,’ Harlen went on, turning back to Gryss. ‘They’re used to me wandering

about down there. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out how many there are and how they come and

go.’

Gryss nodded. ‘I suppose we’ll have to think like soldiers ourselves,’ he mused. ‘We must watch all of

them all the time. Find out exactly how many there are, what they do, who’s in charge, and so on.’ He

grimaced. ‘I suppose we’ll have to get to know them. Find out their names. Find out who likes to drink,

who likes to gamble, who likes to gossip. As we learn about them, perhaps other ways of quietly causing

them problems will come to light.’

Marna’s restraint broke. ‘And what am I supposed to do,’ she demanded, ‘If I’m to keep away from

them?’

With unexpected inspiration Gryss said, ‘You can do as you’ve already been doing. Find out what the

young people are thinking.’ Marna’s eyes became menacing. ‘And the women,’ Gryss added hastily and

with some earnestness. ‘It’s important, Marna. Only Jeorg here’s married now, and his wife’s views are

all too well known. But sooner or later, there’s going to have to be a lot more than us involved in this,

and we can’t do anything if the women are against us.’

Slightly mollified, Marna sat back in her chair and surveyed her fellow conspirators. Gryss added to his

resolve to watch her carefully; he would have to give her plenty to do as well. He had seen the look of

resolute determination that flickered briefly in her eyes, and it alarmed him.

Chapter 2

‘This must be the cause of all the fuss.’

A booted foot prodded cautiously.

‘Careful, it might be dangerous.’

‘No, surely not, it’s only . . .’

‘No.’ A respectful but definite interruption. ‘Be careful. Something’s disturbed them profoundly. I told

you, I Heard it clearer than I’ve ever Heard anything. And this must be the cause of it all. Just look at it.

It might be more than it seems. We must be careful.’

Insistent. ‘But it might be injured. Its face is badly bruised.’

Female, newly arrived, and impatient. ‘For pity’s sake, the two of you. Ifit doesn’t die ofits hurts,it will

die of old age while you stand around debating matters.’ She laid a heavy and scornful emphasis on the

word it.

The young woman pushed the two men aside and knelt down by the object of their attention. ‘Go and

tend that horse, Marken, if you’re bothered about this one. I’ll let you know if it suddenly turns into a tree

goblin and tries to drag me to its lair.’

The older of the two men looked briefly at his companion for support, but found only an anxious

preoccupation with their discovery. Scowling, he set off across the clearing towards the quietly grazing

horse that the girl had indicated.

The other man abandoned his momentary reverie. ‘Edrien, that’s no way to talk to Marken,’ he said to

the girl. ‘He’s our Hearer, child. You should show more respect.’

The girl frowned impatiently. ‘I know, Father,’ she said, a little repentantly. ‘But he fusses so, at times.’

‘He fusses because he Hears and we don’t, Edrien,’ her father persisted. ‘And I’ve never seen him so

agitated about a Hearing before.’ A note of annoyance came into his voice. ‘And what he Hears he

notes, which is more than you’ve ever done. You just apologize to him when he comes back.’

Roger Taylor - Nightfall 2 - Valderen

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