Roger Taylor - Nightfall 1 - Farnor

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 in United Kingdom in 1992 by Headline Book Publishing.

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 1843191784

Farnor

Roger Taylor

Mushroom eBooks

Chapter 1

Darkness fell cold across Farnor’s face, extinguishing the myriad lights that had been flickering behind his

closed eyelids and replacing them with shifting, blue-in-black shadows.

He opened his eyes with a start, momentarily fearful that some stranger or menacing creature had silently

crept upon him as he lay, half dozing, under the gently swaying trees. It was not so, however. The

darkness was only a cloud passing in front of the sun.

He made to smile away his reaction as foolishness, but, oddly, the unease persisted and with a frown he

gazed around the sunlit woodland, searching for a sign of anything untoward that might have provoked

this response. But there was nothing; just the rustling whisper of the wind-stirred trees and the

innumerable splashes of bright sunlight flitting and dancing at their nodding behest.

Guilty conscience, he thought wryly as he struggled to his feet, brushing twigs and grass from his trousers

and shirt. Loafing around in the woods when you’re supposed to be checking the sheep.

Thoughts of justification jostled for position as he walked to the edge of the wood and out into the

brilliant spring sunshine. He hadn’t actually gone to sleep – well, hardly, anyway, and not for long – and

besides, he’d get the job done – and there wasn’t anything special to do on the farm today . . .

He cut them short. They were a remnant from the times when his father would regularly interrogate him

about his daily doings – or misdoings. Now, however, he was being treated increasingly as a trusted

partner in the running of the farm; as a man, even though he would still be considered a boy in the eyes of

the villagers for almost a year yet. It was quite amazing how much his father had learned over the past

few years, he reflected.

Pausing, he looked down the valley towards the farm. It was hidden from view by the rolling terrain, but,

as ever, he could feel its presence, solid and dependable; always there, always welcoming, a haven from

all ills.

And yet, as he turned and began to walk up the valley again, he could still feel the shadow of the unease

to which he had wakened. He had a faint memory of strange voices talking all around him . . . talking

about him. The sound of the trees intruding into his half dreams, he presumed, but . . .

Almost angrily, he drove the end of his staff into the soft turf in an attempt to dispel once and for all the

darkness that seemed reluctant to leave him. It hadn’t been the wisest of things to do, he supposed, going

to sleep up here. Especially not with something worrying the sheep.

‘Someone’s dog gone wild,’ had been the usual opinion of the villagers to such happenings on the few

occasions that Farnor had known them in the past; an opinion that was invariably proved correct after

some judicious night-watching and trap-laying. The brighter sparks in the village would even take wagers

on whose dog it was liable to be.

But it was different this time, for though only a few sheep had been worried, the damage to them had

been massive and the traditional conclusion had been spoken hesitantly and in subdued and anxious

tones. Then, like a mysterious creak in an empty house, Farnor caught a whisper of the word ‘bear’.

Somewhat awkwardly, he put it to his father, only to receive a confident shake of the head and a

lip-curling dismissal of the author of the suggestion.

‘Ale-topers’ talk. Berries, grubs, the odd fish, that’s all bears eat unless they’re desperate. They’ve little

taste for meat and generally sense enough to keep well away from people.’

‘They say you can get rogue bears,’ Farnor offered. ‘Bears that have . . .’

His father cut across the tale with his final verdict:

‘The only rogues around here are those who should be working in the fields instead of swilling ale during

the day and filling people’s heads with nonsense.’ Though he added, reassuringly, ‘It’s just a big dog

gone wild, that’s all, Farnor. Probably from over the hill somewhere.’

From over the hill. The anonymous beyond. Where lived outsiders; people who weren’t ‘our’ people

and who must necessarily be odd and thus quite capable of allowing large dogs to run wild and escape.

Nevertheless, and with a deliberate casualness, his father had from that time insisted that his son take a

particularly stout staff with him whenever, as today, he was to go any distance up the valley.

As he moved further from the trees the last vestiges of Farnor’s unease fluttered away. Unconsciously he

patted his knife in its rough sheath, then, impulsively, be swung his staff around in a whistling arc.

He began to daydream. His mind ran ahead along his journey. He would come to his favourite spot near

the head of the valley and there sit down to eat the food his mother had prepared for him. Then, just as

he was about to eat, he would notice bloodstains trailing across the ground. He would follow them and

soon come to their source: the mangled body of a sheep. Almost before he would be able to react

however, there would be a rustling in the nearby undergrowth and the culprit would emerge, charging

towards him at full tilt: a huge hound, wild-eyed and ferocious, with bloodstained foam spraying from its

snarling mouth.

A great battle would then ensue in which only Farnor’s skill with his staff would save him from the

lightning, killing reflexes of this monstrous animal until finally, slipping on the bloodstained grass, he would

crash to the ground and the creature would be on him, teeth scarce a hand span from his throat.

Farnor drew his knife with a flourish and thrust it upwards into the sunlit air to emulate the final blow that

would unexpectedly finish his attacker at the very last moment.

He laughed out loud in his excitement and allowed his fantasy to peter out with images of his triumphal

return to the village and the wide-eyed appreciation of the villagers – and their children in the years to

come – who would beg him to tell them, yet again, the tale of his mighty battle against the beast of the

valley.

Then, though he knew he was quite alone, he glanced about, slightly embarrassed at this lapse into

childish imagining.

Nonetheless, it was a good tale. It was the kind of tale that Yonas the Teller would tell with much drama

on his rare visits to the village. Farnor began to embellish it and to mouth it to himself after the manner of

Yonas. Then he began to imagine himself to be a great Teller, travelling not only to towns and cities about

the land, but even toother lands far, far away. Lands ruled by great princes and kings, and full of noble

lords and fine ladies. Farnor stretched himself tall; ladies who would smile knowingly at him and . . .

His foot sank into a cow pat.

An ignoble but vigorous oath rose up amid the unique incense released by the deed, and self-reproaches

fell back down on him. ‘Dreaming again, Farnor?’ he heard his father’s oft-repeated comment.

A few ungainly, dragging steps relieved him of the bulk of his burden, but the remainder proved

persistent and, despite a further brief, foot-twisting ballet, he was finally obliged to resort to sitting down

and finishing the task with a clump of grass.

His poetic mood dispelled, Farnor strode on sourly, content for the time being to be earthbound; neither

slayer of beasts nor Teller of tales, but a plain, ordinary farmer’s son out looking after his father’s sheep.

He was still so minded when he eventually came to the end of his journey: the place where, a little earlier,

he had chosen to fight the ravening sheep-worrier.

‘That will be far enough,’ his father had said. It was his usual admonition; unelaborated, but laden with

meaning. Farnor leaned on his staff and stared up the valley.

This was the last rolling hummock before the mountains began to assert their presence on the terrain,

closing in darkly and rising steep and rugged out of the lush greenery. But it was more than that: it was, to

Farnor, the boundary of the known land. Just as beyond the valley and the village lay a strange and alien

world best kept at bay, so beyond this point lay a forbidden world, a world of unspoken dangers and

strange menace.

As ever when he was here Farnor imagined how easy it would be to walk down the grassy slope in front

of him and begin the climb up towards the head of the valley. The thought gave him a not unpleasant

shiver of fear, but he could no more take that first step than he could fly.

Such a journey would take him first to the old castle.

The King’s castle stood stark and desolate, keeping a blank-eyed watch over the valley and, though

long abandoned, it was still spoken of only with lowered voices by the villagers. Then beyond that were

the caves. Caves that were said to wind down through steep, intricate tunnels into the bowels of the

mountains to dark and secret vaults where lay unheard-of terrors; terrors from the ancient times that slept

as the world had become civilized but which might be awakened again by the blundering of the unwary.

And beyond that yet, never spoken of save by the children in their world of whispering and wonder, was

the eerie, silent tree-filled gorge that led to the land of the Great Forest to the north. The land where even

the people were different, and where who knew what other creatures dwelt?

For a moment Farnor suddenly felt himself to be constrained, bound by unseen ties. He sensed a part of

him struggling, crying out inarticulately.

He drew in a sharp breath, as if someone had dashed cold water in his face, so unexpected and vivid

was this sensation. Briefly the mountains became mountains and the castle a castle, then, once again, they

werethe mountains,the castle, and the images he saw were those of his upbringing.

Yet . . . not quite so. Something was different. Something seemed to have changed.

He shook his head. You’re hungry, he thought.

Swinging his pack off his shoulder he turned towards his favourite seat: a small rocky outcrop which hid

him from the ominous region to the north and on which he could sit and lean back and look down the

valley.

He settled down with relish and fumbled with the straps on his pack without looking at them. Ahead of

him, green fields, white-dotted with sheep and outcropping rocks, lay vivid in the spring sunshine. The

shadows of the few small clouds passing overhead marched slowly but resolutely across all obstacles,

and the air was filled with the susurrant whispering of distant rustling trees, tumbling streams and the soft

shifting of countless wind-stirred grasses and shrubs. Occasionally an isolated sound rose above this

harmony: a sheep, a hoarse croak from one of the great black birds that circled high above, the buzz of

some passing insect.

Don’t go to sleep again, Farnor cautioned himself, as he felt the valley’s peace seeping into him.

He sat up and began to concentrate on his food.

After a mere mouthful, however, another matter forced itself upon him, setting aside both appetite and

any chance of slipping into sleep. Only a few paces ahead of him the grass was streaked with blood.

What had a little earlier been an exciting daydream was a more sober, not to say frightening, reality.

With almost incongruous care he laid the piece of bread he had been eating back in his pack, stood up

and walked hesitantly over to the stained grass.

As he neared it he saw more blood. And the grass was crushed. Something had been dragged across it

recently. A faint sense of excitement began to return, but it was mingled unevenly with alarm. Then duty

and his native common sense took command. He had been sent out to check on the sheep. It was one of

the responsibilities that his father had entrusted to him. This was probably no more than a rabbit killed by

a fox, but he must have a look around just to be sure, and then he could return to his father and tell him

what he had seen and what he had done about it.

He found himself walking along quite a distinctive trail.

It was a lot of blood for a rabbit.

He bent down and pulled something that had snagged on a gorse bush.

And that wasn’t rabbit’s fur . . .

His face wrinkled in distress. He was going to find a sheep. One that might perhaps have injured itself.

But that was his head talking; his stomach was beginning to tell him something else.

And it was correct. He was at the end of his search: the remains of a sheep, its body rent open and its

exposed entrails scattered recklessly about. In obscene contrast to the stark stillness of the animal, the

gaping wound was crawlingly alive with flies, a shifting shroud glittering iridescent blue-black in the bright

sunlight.

As Farnor approached, the writhing mass disintegrated and rose up in front of him in a noisy black

cloud. He flailed his arms angrily and pointlessly.

Then, as if released by the departure of the flies, the smell struck him and he took an involuntary step

backwards. He swore at his reaction. He’d seen enough dead animals and encountered enough smells in

his days.

Except this was peculiarly awful.

And the damage to the sheep . . .

It was – had been – a good-sized animal, certainly no weak and ailing stray. And there was a lot of it

missing. He had seen worried sheep before, although he had been much younger, but this seemed to be

different. Whatever had killed it must indeed have been large and powerful.

Farnor looked around to see if there was any other sign the creature had left that would help his father

and the villagers in the hunt they must surely now mount.

But there was nothing. Not even an indication as to which way the creature had gone, no footprints on

the short grass, no damage to the nearby shrubbery, nothing.

Farnor was not unduly disappointed. His earlier, dramatic flight of fancy about the animal was now far

from his mind. Dreamer he might be from time to time, but the hard-headed farm helper within him knew

enough about the reality of wild animals not to wish to meet such a one as this alone, and so far from

help. He must get back and tell his father what he had seen.

A sudden sound made him start. He turned round quickly, his heart racing.

The sound came again.

Something was coming through the shrubbery towards him. Something large.

Chapter 2

Wide-eyed and fearful, Farnor stepped back and swung his staff up to point at the rustling shrubbery.

The noise came nearer. Farnor stepped back further to give himself more space in which to manoeuvre.

Whatever might be coming towards him, he knew that to attempt to flee from a predator would be to

draw it after him inexorably.

The shrubbery parted.

‘Rannick!’ Farnor exclaimed in a mixture of anger and relief as he lowered his staff. ‘You frightened me

to death.’

The newcomer’s lip curled peevishly. It was his characteristic expression. He ignored Farnor’s outburst.

‘What’re you doing up here, young Yarrance?’ he said, twisting Farnor’s family name into a sneer.

Despite his relief at encountering a person instead of some blood-crazed animal, Farnor took no delight

in Rannick’s arrival. Few in the community liked the man but, for reasons he could not identify, Farnor

felt a particular, and deep, antipathy to him. It was not without some irony, however, that while on the

whole Rannick reciprocated the community’s opinion of him he seemed to have a special regard for

Farnor – in so far as he had regard for anyone. For although life had not presented Rannick with any

special disadvantages, his general demeanour exuded the bitterness and envy of a man unjustly

dispossessed of some great fortune. When he spoke, it was as if to praise or admire something would be

to risk choking himself to death. And when he undertook a task it was as if to create something willingly,

or for its own sake, might wither his hands.

‘Don’t let him near the cows,’ Farnor’s mother would say if she saw him wandering near the farm. ‘That

face of his will sour the milk for a week.’

He had wilfully neglected the quite adequate portion of land that his father had left him and now he

earned his keep by casual labouring on the valley farms and, it was generally agreed, by some judicious

thieving and poaching, though he had never been caught at such.

Worse, it was rumoured that on his periodic disappearances from the valley he was thick with travellers

and the like from over the hill.

Apart from his invariably unpleasant manner however, perhaps his most damning feature was his

intelligence; his considerable intelligence. In others such a gift would have been a boon, an affirmation, but

in Rannick it was what truly set him apart. It gleamed with mocking scorn in his permanently narrowed

eyes when they were not full of anger or malice, and it could lend a keen and vicious edge to his tongue,

too subtle to provoke an immediate angry rebuke but cruel and long-lasting in its wounding nonetheless.

And, perhaps, there were other things.

Farnor remembered a soft, incomplete conversation between his mother and father overheard one night

when he had crept down the stairs to eavesdrop on that mysterious world of adult life that awoke only as

the children went to sleep.

‘Rannick has his grandfather in him, I’d swear. He knows and sees more than the rest of us.’ His

father’s voice, muffled.

Ear close to the door, Farnor had sensed his mother nodding in agreement. ‘It’s to be hoped not,’ she

said. ‘Not with that dark nature of his. It’ll do neither him nor anyone else any good.’

And that had been all. But unspoken meanings had permeated the words, and something deep in

Farnor’s unease about Rannick had resonated to them.

‘I’m tending the sheep,’ he replied to Rannick’s question.

‘Not doing such a good job, are you?’ Rannick retorted, nudging the dead sheep with his foot and

making the flies swarm upwards again. This time they did not travel far, but settled back to their noisome

business almost immediately.

Farnor grimaced but said nothing. He looked at Rannick’s angular, unshaven face, his unkempt black

hair and his generally soiled appearance. He was like someone that Yonas might have described as a

bandit or some other kind of a villain in one of his tales.

And yet, even as he watched Rannick examining the sheep, he felt that the man was not without a quality

of some kind: a strange, inner strength or purposefulness. And, too, he noted almost reluctantly, that with

a little cleaning up he might even be quite handsome; that he could perhaps serve as much as a hero as a

villain in such a tale.

Abruptly the flies flew up again, surrounding Rannick. He swore profanely and Farnor’s new vision of

him disappeared. Then Rannick snapped his fingers. Or at least that was what Farnor thought he did,

though the movement he made was very swift and the sound was odd . . . strangely loud, and yet distant.

Almost as if it were in a different place.

For an instant Farnor felt disorientated: as though he had been suddenly jolted awake as sometimes

happened to him when he was hovering halfway between sleep and waking. As he recovered he found

Rannick gazing at him, his eyes searching him intently.

‘What’s the matter?’ Farnor heard him say.

‘Nothing,’ Farnor replied as casually as he could, waving a hand vaguely. ‘I . . . don’t like the flies.’

Rannick sneered dismissively and, muttering something to himself, turned back to the sheep. Farnor

noticed, however, that the flies were gone from both the corpse and Rannick. They were hovering in a

dark shifting cloud some way away, almost as if they were being constrained there or were too fearful to

venture closer. And he sensed that Rannick was observing him in some way, even though he seemed to

be totally occupied by his examination of the sheep. Briefly, his disorientation returned.

‘What are you looking for?’ he ventured after a moment in an attempt to recover himself. Rannick did

not reply, but bent forward and retrieved something from the sheep’s fleece. He looked at it closely and

then he lifted it to his nose and sniffed at it. It was a peculiarly repellent action. Farnor grimaced.

‘I . . . I’ll have to get back,’ he stammered, stepping back as he felt his stomach beginning to heave.

Only the fear of Rannick’s mockery prevented him from vomiting there and then.

Again, Rannick did not reply. Instead he stood up and moved his head from side to side like an animal

searching for a scent. Farnor felt the unseen observation pass from him.

‘I’ll have to get back,’ he said again, continuing to retreat. ‘Tell my father what’s happened. He’ll need

to know. And the others . . . they’ll want to hunt this thing . . .’

Still Rannick said nothing. He was looking to the north, still, so it seemed, scenting the wind.

Farnor turned and began to run. Not so fast as to appear to be frightened, he hoped, but sufficient to

emphasize the urgency of his message. He needed the movement and the wind in his face to quieten his

churning stomach. He did not look back until he knew he would no longer be able to see Rannick on the

skyline.

* * * *

The farmhouse of Garren and Katrin Yarrance was little different from any other in the valley, though its

stone walls were somewhat thicker than most and its thatched roof a little steeper, in deference to the fact

that it was the highest farm up the valley and tended to receive more of the winter snows than those lower

down.

The Yarrance family land was not particularly good but it was quite extensive, having grown through the

generations as less able, or less fortunate, families had gradually given up the struggle to eke a living from

those farms that were then even higher up the valley.

Land ownership, however, was not a matter of great sensitivity to the valley dwellers. Not much was

fenced, and cattle, sheep and people roamed fairly freely. The valley was big enough to feed everyone

who lived in it and that was all that really mattered.

In any event, technically, the land belonged to the King, being let on lease and liable to the payment of an

annual tithe. This was calculated from an ancient and very arcane formula, which approximated (very

roughly) to one seventeenth of the dairy produce, a nineteenth of all grains and harvestable grasses, and a

sixteenth of all meat produce on alternate years except in the year of a coronation or in the event of

invasion or eclipse. (There were also exemptions for some produce and special levies for others during

those years in which the King and his family, to first cousin, were blessed with children or diminished by

death). Root crops were exempt, as were strawberries and apples (except where grown for purposes of

barter), but not raspberries or pears. All individual tithings were doubled in respect of any produce used

in the making of spirituous liquors (of any character, save those used medicinally).

After that, matters became complicated.

How this fiscal wisdom had been so succinctly distilled was beyond anyone’s current knowledge, and,

indeed, there were only a few left in the valley who could even attempt to calculate the due tithe. And

they rarely agreed on the final answer.

Not that any of this was of great concern, for just as Garren Yarrance’s farm was at the extremity of the

valley, so the valley itself was at the extremity of the kingdom, and not only did little or no news of kingly

affairs ever reach them, neither did the tithe gatherers. Or at least they had not done so for many years.

Views were divided on this benison.

‘The tithe should be collected,’ said some. ‘It is the King’s due and if the gatherers come and there’s

nothing prepared, then the penalty could be harsh.’

This could not be denied and was a cause of much furrowing of brows amongst those advocating this

course. Others, less cautious, thought differently.

‘The King’s got no need for our small offering, else the gatherers would have been around fast enough,’

they declared. ‘And in any case, we haven’t had a tithe master in living memory. How are we supposed

to know what’s due? We can’t prepare for collection what we don’t know about, can we?’

This was a telling point and invariably provoked much sage nodding, even amongst their opponents.

‘Nevertheless . . .’ came the final rebuttal, uttered with great significance but never completed. It needed

no completion. The penalties for non-payment of the tithe were indeed severe, and not something to be

risked lightly, especially as the tithe, calculated by whatever method, was not particularly onerous.

The debate had reached the status now of being an annual ritual, and so too had the conclusion. On the

due date, Dalmas Eve, the estimated tithe would be ceremoniously prepared in the tithe barn for

collection by the King’s gatherers and the barn officially sealed by the senior village elder.

Although many matters relating to the tithe were contended amongst the villagers, all, both ignorant and

knowledgeable, knew for certain that the gatherers having failed to appear on Dalmas Day or Dalmas

Morrow meant that the King had munificently returned the tithe to his loyal subjects.

Thus, three days into Dalmastide, no gatherers having appeared, the seals would be solemnly broken

and the barn opened.

With continued solemnity, a short speech of gratitude would be made to the generosity of the absent

monarch and then a portion of the tithe would be distributed to those whose crops had fared least well

and those who could not properly fend for themselves from whatever cause. That done, the solemnity

faded rapidly and the barn would become a market place filled with loud haggling and bartering over the

remaining produce. This would be followed by a large and usually raucous banquet.

During the fourth day of Dalmastide the village – indeed the whole valley – was invariably unusually

quiet.

It was the approach of Dalmas, rather than any concern about sheep worrying, that had prompted

Garren Yarrance to send his son out to check on the sheep, and he was leaning on a gate pondering the

extent of his contribution to the tithe this year when Farnor came into sight over the top of a nearby hill.

Garren clicked his tongue reproachfully as he watched his son running and jumping down the steep

hillside.

How many times had he told the lad not to run? ‘You stumble and fall, break a leg, then where are we,

your mother and me? Tending you and doing your work, that’s where. Or getting into debt paying

someone else to do it.’ He would pause. ‘That’s always minding we find you, or that old Gryss can put

you together again if we do.’

It was a litany that he himself had learned, from his own father, as doubtless he in his turn had from his.

And Farnor ignored it similarly.

Garren changed the emphasis somewhat as Farnor reached him, sweating and breathless. ‘Very good,

son,’ he said. ‘You save ten minutes by risking life and limb to bring me an urgent tale, then I have to wait

for ten minutes before you can speak.’

But the reproach faded from his voice even while he was speaking as Farnor’s agitation became

apparent. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, as much man to man as father to son.

Farnor told his tale.

Garren scowled. He had hoped that, the last attack having been some months ago, the dog responsible

would have moved on, but now there would have to be a hunt. There was always the risk that there

might be more than one dog and that raised the spectre of their breeding and thus turning a problem into

a nightmare.

‘What was Rannick doing out there?’ he asked absently as his mind went over what was to be done

next.

‘I don’t know,’ Farnor replied. ‘I didn’t ask.’ He shied away from describing Rannick’s behaviour. ‘I

don’t like him. He’s strange.’

Garren wrinkled his nose. ‘He’s not the most pleasant of men, that’s true,’ he said. ‘But some people

are like that. Never content with what they have. Always wanting something else, then still miserable

when they’ve got it. He’s probably quite a sad soul at heart.’

Farnor curled his lip in dismissal of this verdict. ‘Well he can be sad on his own, then,’ he said. ‘It

wouldn’t disturb me if he went on his wanderings and never came back. He makes my skin crawl

sometimes.’

Garren looked at his son again, considering some reproach for his harsh tone, but the simple openness of

Farnor’s response forbade it and instead he reached out and patted him sympathetically on the arm.

‘Not a nice sight, is it, a mangled sheep,’ he said. ‘Go inside and make yourself presentable then we’ll

go into the village and see old Gryss.’

* * * *

Old Gryss was the senior elder of the village: the one who got things done. He mended broken limbs and

cracked heads, cured sick animals, extracted teeth, settled quarrels and generally organized the villagers

whenever organization was needed. He was also one of the few villagers who, when younger, had

travelled beyond the valley; been over the hill, seen towns and even, it was said, cities.

‘Noisy, smelly, and too crowded,’ was all that he would say about such places however, whenever he

was asked directly. Though, in his cups, he would sometimes regale his audience with tales of his

adventures, albeit somewhat incoherently.

The sun had fallen behind the mountains when Garren and Farnor reached Gryss’s cottage, and the few

clouds drifting overhead were slowly turning pink. The cottage was not unlike its occupant, having a thick

but rather scruffy thatch lowering over two sparklingly bright, polished windows and a hunched and

slightly skewed appearance due to its original builder having been both wall-eyed and too fond of his ale.

An iron ring hung from a chain by the door. It was attached to a small bell. Garren took hold of it but did

not pull it immediately.

‘He brought this back from his travels, you know,’ he said. ‘Heaven knows how many people have

tugged on it through the years, but it’s not shown a scrap of wear. I’d give something for a plough made

of the same.’

Farnor, familiar with this oft-repeated parental wish, gave the ring a casual glance for politeness’ sake.

Gryss had many relics of his wandering days and, over the years, Farnor had been made tediously

familiar with all of them.

Roger Taylor - Nightfall 1 - Farnor

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