The room was empty of furniture save for a large wooden table and a few chairs. A cursory attempt had been made to clean it though this had consisted largely of brushing the dust into the air and allowing it to redistribute itself as it settled. As a result, swooping tangles of cobwebs that had been invisible for years across the high, curved ceiling were now weighted and thickened and all too visible, making the room look dingier than ever.
Dying daylight did little to improve the scene as it filtered in through two narrow windows and rendered pallid the light of two lamps, one on the stone mantel-shelf which beetled over a cavernous and empty fireplace and one on the table.
This latter illuminated half of Nilsson’s face as he sat sideways on to the table, his shoulders hunched, and stared at his lieutenant.
‘Tell me again,’ he said.
Dessane made no effort to disguise his irritation at this request. ‘They rode north for half the day and found nothing but forest,’ he said wearily. ‘Yeorson eventually climbed a tree but, he says, there was nothing to be seen except more trees. Trees filling the entire valley floor and disappearing north into the distance.’
‘And they came back because the trees felt… bad,’ Nilsson said, his voice heavy with anger and sarcasm.
Dessane gave a disclaiming shrug. ‘That’s what Stor-ran said, and Yeorson didn’t disagree. Don’t ask me what they meant. I’m just passing on the message.’ Then, remembering that it was he who had chosen them for the task, he rallied. ‘But they’re good scouts, you know that,’ he said. ‘With noses that have got us out of trouble more than once before now.’ He tapped the side of his own nose with his forefinger in emphasis.
Nilsson, however, did not seem to be disposed to reminisce. ‘Get them in here,’ he snapped impatiently. He leaned heavily on the table and the lamp flame wavered. After a brief hesitation, Dessane gave another shrug then went to the door and shouted.
Eventually the two men appeared. Yeorson was tall and thin while Storran, by contrast, was short and stocky. An injudicious person might have been inclined to smile at the sight of them side by side, but as with all those who followed Halfvrin Nilsson it would have been a mistake to be seen doing it. Their characters had marked their faces: Yeorson wore a permanently peevish and supercilious expression, while Storran might have had a jovial look about him had it not been for a large, voluptuous mouth and small, mean eyes.
Nilsson gestured them towards two chairs set beside him. As Yeorson moved forward, a long hanging cobweb brushed his face, leaving a dusty scar. He flicked it away silently as he swept the chair away from the table and sat down. Storran ignored the chair and hoisted himself on to the table. They waited, eyes fixed on their leader.
Nilsson straightened. ‘What’s this Dessane tells me about the trees frightening you?’ he asked, but with enough humour in his voice to temper the bluntness.
‘The truth.’ Yeorson’s equally blunt reply made Nilsson start, though he disguised the movement. He had expected some reproach to be levelled at his lieutenant for misrepresentation. Now it was he who waited.
‘There’s a bad feeling about the place, Captain,’ Storran added. ‘And the further north we went the worse it seemed to get.’
Nilsson allowed some exasperation to show. ‘The places we’ve been, things we’ve seen, things we’ve done… I can’t believe I’m sitting here listening to you two, of all people, telling me you were too frightened to go into the woods.’
Yeorson and Storran were an odd, cold-blooded pair, he knew, but again he was surprised that such a taunt produced so little response. Yeorson tilted his chair back and Storran began swinging his legs, but both continued looking at him.
‘That’s how it was, Captain,’ Yeorson said. ‘Nothing particular you could see or hear, but it was bad. As if we were being watched all the time.’ He paused and looked thoughtful. ‘Or perhaps more as if something knew we were there. I’ve no other words for it; there was just a feeling about the place.’ He glanced at his partner and his next words came as if reluctantly. ‘Something… I… we… haven’t felt since…’
He stopped. In the silence, an errant draught caught some of the ancient cobwebs and motes of dust drifted down to join those already afloat, moving and hovering, dancing to the whims of a music beyond hearing.
‘Since?’ Nilsson prompted, uneasy at this hesitation.
‘Since we… started our travels,’ Yeorson finished as awkwardly as he had begun.
Nilsson frowned and turned away. This he had not expected. Dark memories seemed to flood into the room and for a moment he found his thoughts paralysed.
Somehow he freed himself; the needs of the present were too pressing to allow inaction, and, though it had been brought here by his own questioning, Nilsson had no desire to pursue this unwanted revelation.
‘We have to find out what lies to the north,’ he said, as if the previous question had never been asked and answered, and as if, by ignoring it, he erased it. ‘We need to leave this land as soon as we can and north is effectively our only way out. I’m not doubting what you felt,’ he continued, skirting as close to the topic as he dared, ‘but I think perhaps I was too hasty sending just the two of you out, scarcely rested.’ He pushed his chair back noisily. ‘Pick twenty men and try again…’ He paused for a moment, reflectively. ‘The day after tomorrow, I think.’ He smiled. ‘Thanks to the generosity of our new… neighbours… we can spare ourselves a day or so to recuperate from our journeying, and to plan our next move.’
He signalled the end of the exchange and Dessane left with the two men. After they had gone, Nilsson looked round the room sourly. The memories were still there, stirred up and hovering like the dust. Making visible what had lain unseen for a long time.
The following day Gryss arrived bringing more food, though not as much as on the first journey.
He saw none of the sick, however. ‘They’re all fine now,’ Nilsson assured him as he signalled his men to begin unloading the cart. ‘It was as you said: fatigue, hunger. It’s been a bad journey. The rest and your food has put everyone back on their feet. And we’ve managed to find better quarters for everyone. The place is in remarkably good order.’
Gryss pressed. ‘Are you sure? It’s no hardship to look at them now I’m here.’
Nilsson waved his concerns aside. ‘These are sol-diers, Gryss. They learned long ago that if they didn’t recover quickly they died. Illness, exhaustion, what you will, is a luxury they can’t afford.’
Gryss found himself torn. He had no great desire to keep visiting these people, as, indeed, not only were none of them truly sick but almost without exception they seemed to exude a quality which made it difficult for him to raise any feeling of the true goodwill towards them that was essential if he was to heal. It distressed him. They distressed him.
On the other hand, he did not wholly believe Nils-son. Despite the Captain’s flashes of pleasant, even charming, behaviour, there was a cold menace about him that cut through the old healer. And more than a few of the men he had examined bore signs of physical brutality about their persons.
Still, he thought resignedly, there was nothing he could do if he wasn’t asked. Like Nilsson, he must look to his own, and their ends would best be served by getting rid of these unwanted newcomers as soon as possible.
‘Whatever you say, Captain,’ he replied. ‘If you need any further help, you can always send for me.’ He looked towards his now empty cart and then back at Nilsson. ‘Incidentally, while I’m here can you tell me what we need to do about the tithe-gathering ceremony? It’s been so long since there’s been one that no one knows anything about it.’
‘The tithe ceremony,’ Nilsson echoed, nodding his head slowly and purposefully while he tried to think what to say. Inspiration came. Taking on as sage an expression as he could, he said, ‘In a… garrisoned region… like this, albeit abandoned for the time being, the practice… indeed, the requirement… is that the tithe be brought to the garrison headquarters for checking, prior to being taken to the capital.’
Gryss frowned. ‘That’s a deal of trouble – bringing everything all the way up here when you have to go back past where it’s being stored on your way home.’
Nilsson shrugged. He was warming to his idea. ‘It’s not something I’ve any authority over, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ve realized by now that many things have changed of late, and I would be answerable to my superiors if one of the… King’s examiners… were suddenly to appear and find me blatantly ignoring the procedures that the King himself has authorized.’
Gryss pulled a wry face. He was about to say that hardly anyone ever came to the valley, but the very fact that Nilsson and his men were there destroyed that as an effective argument. He could offer to have people sent downland to act as look-outs, but he was far from certain as to how Nilsson might react to such a sugges-tion with its hint of collusion. Besides, whatever the final reckoning of the tithe there would be a lot of produce to be loaded, and who was to say that one of these… examiners… might not suddenly arrive at full gallop? More than a few certainties had disappeared with the arrival of these gatherers.
‘Very well,’ he conceded with a sigh. ‘If that’s the way it has to be then I suppose that’s the way it has to be. But it does seem to be remarkably foolish in this instance.’
Nilsson agreed. ‘I’ll mention it when I get back,’ he said, continuing his extemporization. ‘Perhaps they’ll allow some other arrangement next year.’
Gryss gave a resigned nod of acknowledgement and turned to matters practical. ‘When shall we start bringing the produce up, then?’ he asked. ‘Do you want to be present when the barn is opened?’
Nilsson faltered. He did not want to leave this place with its strong walls and gate, other than to move northwards and away from this country for ever. But having stumbled upon this unexpected supply of free food it would be madness to jeopardize it for what must be, in reality, a small risk.
‘Oh yes,’ he said firmly. ‘That’s most important.’ He paused as if considering many tasks ahead. ‘I’ll be along tomorrow. Three hours after daybreak.’
‘Should there be anyone special from the village?’ Gryss persisted.
Nilsson shrugged. ‘Anyone,’ he said simply. ‘Provid-ing one of them has the key.’ He smiled, but he was becoming increasingly anxious to end this business before he said something that might expose him. He changed the direction of the conversation abruptly. ‘Tell me, Gryss, what lies to the north of here?’
‘As far as I know, the Great Forest,’ Gryss said.
‘As far as you know?’ Nilsson queried.
‘I haven’t actually visited the place myself,’ Gryss replied. ‘In fact, no one’s ever been further up the valley than the castle. There’s no cause to, is there?’
‘Then how can you know what’s up there?’ Nilsson asked, an exasperated edge creeping into his voice.
Gryss laughed. ‘I can’t, I suppose, if you put it like that,’ he said. ‘But the existence of the Great Forest has been accepted by countless generations of families here, and I’ve no special reason to doubt it. Don’t forget that most people here haven’t seen the capital, or for that matter even any of the nearer towns and villages, but that doesn’t mean they don’t believe in them.’
Nilsson seemed to be disconcerted by this powerful innocence. To help him, Gryss pointed. ‘Certainly if you go to that crag over there, you’ll see the valley’s solid with trees further along.’
Nilsson still looked bemused by Gryss’s unashamed ignorance. ‘We’ll have to look for ourselves, then,’ he said after a moment, unable to keep the irritation from his voice.
Gryss watched him. Farnor had told him of the simi-lar conversation he had had with Dessane the previous day. Why should tithe gatherers be so interested in the land to the north? Once again the most disturbing of the thoughts that had been stirred up in the wake of the new arrivals swirled into his mind. He could do no other than blurt it out.
‘Is there… trouble… to the north?’ he asked softly, as if his voice might ring out from the castle and inform the whole valley. ‘Something we need to know about? A foreign enemy gathering for an invasion?’
The question further discomposed Nilsson. This old man was a peculiar mixture of country oaf and sharp-minded politician. He was almost impossible to read and thus unpredictable and dangerous. Who knew what information he might be picking up from the most seemingly casual conversation? Nilsson reminded himself that whatever else Gryss might be, he was the head man of this village and doubtless not without skill in manipulating people. It would be unwise to take him for granted. He resolved to keep him at arm’s length for the remainder of his stay.
Starting now.
‘No,’ he said, with great sincerity, ‘there’s nothing to concern you. I told you before, many things have changed lately and we’ve simply been given the task of reporting on the state of the borders as well as… gathering… the tithe as we move around the country.’ He laid a hand on Gryss’s shoulder and gently turned him back towards his cart.
Gryss followed the lead and contrived to look re-lieved at the news. He was not wholly convinced by Nilsson’s manner, but he sensed that further inquiry might well yield only a rebuff. ‘I understand,’ he lied. ‘But if you’re going up there I think you should know that the place has an evil reputation.’
Nilsson stopped walking and raised his eyebrows. ‘Explain,’ he demanded.
Gryss coughed awkwardly. The remark had slipped out for want of something to say, as much as anything. Now he felt embarrassed at having to amplify it.
‘They say… the tale goes, that is… that there are caves along the valley where…’ He wished he had not started this. Nilsson’s expression urged him on. ‘Where there are… creatures… from times long gone… sleeping. Just waiting to be wakened.’ He gabbled the last part despite his best endeavours. ‘It’s only legend, of course,’ he added hastily in an attempt to forestall Nilsson’s scorn. ‘But legends often have roots in the truth somewhere in their history and, as I said before, for whatever reason any of us here might give, no one from the valley has ever been further north than this castle – within my memory, certainly. There may well be something unpleasant up there, even if it’s not…’ He coughed again. ‘Legendary monsters.’
Somewhat to his surprise, however, Nilsson’s man-ner became serious and attentive rather than scornful. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said when Gryss had finished. ‘As you say, such old tales often contain a vestige of truth. We’re not here to take risks. I’ll see that due precautions are taken when I send the men out.’
They parted without speaking again, save for their cursory farewells.
As Gryss drove through the gates and out into the sunlight, Nilsson stared after him. Monsters, he thought. But he could not bring the derision to the idea that he would have liked. The tale that Storran and Yeorson had returned with still lingered unpleasantly in his mind. And they were not foolish old men who were too afraid to move beyond their hearths. When they spoke it was foolish not to listen. He would have to do as he had told Gryss: make sure that whoever went out next to explore the way through the valley was prepared for trouble.
Gryss, too, was uneasy as he drove away from the castle. Try as he might, he could find little to like about Nilsson or his men and he hoped fervently that he was keeping his dislike well hidden, if only for the sake of the negotiations that would probably ensue during the collection of the tithe.
As the cart bounced over a particularly uneven part of the road and rocked him violently from side to side, he swore roundly at the folly of the King and his advisers sitting idle in some distant palace and devising fatuous schemes that involved honest folk trooping all over the countryside carrying his precious tithe. Had he no idea what such a thing was going to involve?
But that was not his predominant concern. That still lay with the persistent interest of these strangers in the land to the north. And, he reflected, he was quite surprised by Nilsson’s response to his account of the caves and the creatures therein. An outright laugh would have been understandable, if not excusable, but there had not been even a flicker of amusement in either his face or his manner. Gryss reached a similar conclu-sion about Nilsson as Nilsson had about him but minutes before. The Captain was a strange mixture of genial host and brutal leader. And too difficult to read. It would behove him, as senior elder of the village, to keep his distance and to watch his words carefully tomorrow when the barn was opened and the tithe assessed.
Yet the concern about the north returned to him. Were there enemies there that the Captain knew of but for various reasons could not speak about? The prospects were coldly awful. Was the castle to be manned again? He found himself cringing more at the idea of the valley being invaded by the likes of Nilsson’s men than at the possibility of some enemy army descending upon them.
He had no time to ponder this paradox, however, as a figure suddenly emerged from the trees on his right.
It was Rannick.
Gryss started but took in Rannick’s appearance in a single glance. He was thinner, his angular features now almost gaunt. He’s not eaten in days, Gryss diagnosed instantly. And yet there was some more subtle change: he looked at once wilder and more composed…
Gryss frowned.
‘A poor greeting,’ Rannick said.
‘You startled me,’ Gryss responded.
Rannick nodded and walked forward. The horse whinnied and tried to move sideways causing the cart to creak in protest. Gryss shouted at it, but to no avail. He yanked on the reins but the horse ignored him.
Slowly Rannick turned to the horse and stared at it. ‘Whoa,’ he said, very softly. The horse stopped moving immediately, but it turned its head to one side slightly, and Gryss saw its eye, white with fear.
‘You always had a way with animals, Rannick,’ Gryss said, by way of thanks. Rannick smiled, though in a manner which indicated that it was because of some inner pleasantry of his own rather than any compliment that Gryss had paid him.
‘Where have you been, Rannick?’ Gryss asked. ‘I was concerned about you. And you look half starved.’
‘I thank you for your concern, Gryss,’ Rannick said, without a hint of irony. ‘But it was unnecessary. I’m used to fending for myself and I’ve been away on…’ He smiled his strange inner smile again. This time Gryss felt chilled by it. ‘On a voyage of exploration.’
‘Where?’ Gryss asked. ‘What’s to be explored around here?’
‘Many things,’ Rannick replied enigmatically, then, ‘Who are the men in the castle?’
The bluntness of the question took Gryss unawares. ‘Tithe gatherers,’ he answered.
Rannick looked straight at him. The change in him rang through Gryss. His eyes, normally narrowed and full of bitterness or scorn, were wide and penetrating. Gryss met them with difficulty.
Where had Rannick been? What had happened to him? Was he feverish, delirious through exposure and lack of food?
No, whatever other impression he gave, Rannick had a vigour about him that Gryss had never seen before.
‘Rather spoiled our Dalmas celebrations,’ Gryss went on in an attempt to come back to normality. But Rannick had turned away and lifted his head, like an animal scenting the wind. ‘Gatherers,’ he said softly to himself. Then he shook his head as if in denial.
‘Do you want a lift down to the village?’ Gryss asked, finding himself increasingly unnerved by Rannick’s presence. Rannick cocked his head on one side as if he had heard the question from a great distance.
‘No,’ he said eventually, still scenting the air. ‘Tell me about these… gatherers.’
‘What’s to tell?’ Gryss shrugged.
‘Everything,’ Rannick said, turning his attention back to Gryss and staring at him intently. The horse shifted, restlessly, making the cart shake. The noise sounded faint and distant in Gryss’s ears and he realized that he was surrounded by a peculiar silence. It was as if the very air about him was pressing in on him. He could see the trees swaying in the light breeze and he knew that the many other sounds of the valley were all about him, but they, too, were now distant. And he could hear no birds singing. Rannick moved his hand slightly and the horse became still again.
‘Tell me.’ Rannick’s voice demanded total attention through the silence.
Gryss found himself talking about the unexpected arrival of the gatherers, of meeting their leader and tending their sick and giving them food. ‘Foreigners they are, too.’ And of the broken locks in the castle and the unsettling menace they seemed to carry with them. And, too, their curiosity about what lay to the north. ‘“It’s the Great Forest,” I told them. “Nothing there but trees. And there’s caves up the valley before you get there. Bad place.” But I think they’ll be sending someone before long. In fact, they seem more interested in that than in the tithe. I hope there’s no trouble brewing.’
He was aware of Rannick watching, listening; his eyes, his new vigour filling his whole attention.
And then he was free. The birds were singing again, the ubiquitous sounds of the valley folded about him.
And Rannick was gone. Gryss looked around, but there was no sign of him.
He could not remember seeing him go. Had he been dreaming? Or momentarily ill? He was certainly breathless. Then, without command, the horse began to move again and jerked Gryss sharply back to the practical.
It was trotting.
Gryss tugged on the reins to slow the animal, but it did not respond until he applied some considerable force. It occurred to him that the horse was anxious to be away. And indeed, he decided, so was he. The strange meeting with Rannick had served only to add more confusion and turmoil to the many thoughts and speculations that were already tumbling through his mind.
Where the devil had he come from so suddenly? And where had he disappeared to? And, for that matter, where had he been these past days, and what had happened to so change him? He had no answers, though he could not set aside the feeling that such answers would be important.
As they moved further away from the place where Rannick had appeared, so the horse began to pull less and, after a while, Gryss gave it its head and devoted himself to searching for some order out of his whirling thoughts.
By the time he had reached Garren’s farm he had given up. One thing at a time, he had decided. The tithe was his business, and getting the gatherers out of here. Then getting the village back on a straight furrow after the upheaval. The tithe day had been a bizarre experi-ence, with the traditional celebratory meals being eaten in atmospheres ranging from forced jocularity to downright ill-humour. It was as if the guests at a wedding had suddenly discovered it was a funeral.
And whatever the interest of these foreigners in the north and the Great Forest, their actions were beyond both his control and his persuasion and he would have to await events.
As for Rannick, maybe the man had finally gone melancholy mad and would end his years a demented recluse dwelling in a cave up the side of the valley somewhere. It had happened before and, frankly, at the moment he couldn’t care less.
Rannick, however, was far from melancholy mad. He was exhilarated. Old Gryss had been like so much malleable clay in his hands. And these soldiers… these so-called gatherers. They were his kind of people, he knew; the air was full of their presence. They must be brought to his service.
Silently he moved on past the castle and up into the woods beyond, treading the golden road that had been opened for him and which he had only to follow to achieve the greatness that was his true destiny.