‘I’m very certain after some reflection,’ Gryss cor-rected. ‘I’ve been thinking about the size of the wounds in that sheep, and the way some of the big bones had been broken. It’s one animal, and it’s big.’
Still there was a hint of some unspoken concern in his voice that disturbed Garren.
‘And?’ he ventured, almost in spite of himself.
Gryss frowned, as if wrinkling his forehead would squeeze an answer out of his troublesome thoughts.
‘And there’s Rannick,’ he went on. ‘What was he doing so far up the valley the other day? And why did he go beyond? And where is he now?’
Garren shrugged. ‘You said yourself he’s irresponsi-ble,’ he offered. ‘Besides he knew Farnor would tell us.’
‘I said he was bad,’ Gryss corrected again. ‘And Farnor or not, it’s still out of character for him not to tell us. For one thing, he enjoys bringing bad news and for another hunting is one of the few things he does with anything approaching enthusiasm.’
‘He’s no great loss,’ Garren said dismissively.
‘Maybe,’ Gryss replied, half to himself. He fell silent and the sounds of the valley filled the warm air around the two men. Then he held out his hands and, looking at them, he seemed to reach a decision.
‘But it’s just one more… strangeness,’ he said.
The word unsettled Garren once more.
Gryss went on, purposeful now. ‘Farnor was holding that piece of fur when he fell over, and when I took it from him it gave me the shudders. For an instant I felt something bad… evil, almost.’
He appeared almost relieved, having spoken the words.
‘I felt nothing,’ Garren said, after an awkward si-lence.
‘It was only a brief impression, but it was very strong,’ Gryss said, adding, as if to a nervous patient, ‘I get similar flashes of certainty sometimes when I’m healing. I’ve always found it worthwhile to pay heed to them.’
The descent into explanation eased the tension that Garren had felt building within him, and, almost incongruously, he smiled. ‘What are you trying to say?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ Gryss said. ‘I just have a feeling that there’s a lot more to this sheep-worrier than meets the eye and that we’ll have to be both craftier and more careful if we’re going to catch it. Much more careful.’
The words that Gryss had spoken a few days ago, when Farnor had first brought the news, returned to Garren. ‘Don’t send him out alone again, and don’t go out alone yourself.’ For a moment he touched on the depths of Gryss’s unease.
Wordless and indefinable though it might have been, it chilled him.
Marna patted the stone wall and, holding herself close to it, looked up at the ramparts above. Suddenly she gave a little cry and jumped back, lifting her hand protectively.
Farnor, standing some way away, laughed.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
Marna ignored the condescending taunt in his voice and beckoned him. ‘Come here, come here,’ she ordered. Then, seizing his arm, she dragged him forward and pushed him face first against the wall of the castle.
‘Look up, look up!’ she insisted.
A strong arm kept him pressed against the wall, but he managed to turn his head round to give her a look full of suspicion.
‘Up! Up!’ Marna said excitedly, pointing. Uneasily, Farnor did as he was told, gazing up the foreshortened perspective of the lichen-stained wall.
After a moment a cloud, brilliant white against the blue sky, passed overhead and began to disappear past the top of the wall. In direct imitation of Marna, Farnor let out a startled cry and jumped backwards as the wall seemed slowly but inexorably to lean forward towards him.
For some time they tested this phenomenon with a relish that was more befitting young people considera-bly their junior.
‘It’s so high,’ Marna said in some awe when the game had begun to pall a little. ‘It must be three or four times the height of the inn.’
‘Even more than that,’ Farnor said, shading his eyes and squinting up at the battlements. The noise of battle rose around him. Overlain with the ringing tones of Yonas, men surged up unsteady ladders propped giddily against the walls only to be felled or overturned by the castle’s valiant defenders. Swaying wooden siege towers were laboured forward under lethal cascades of arrows.
‘Let’s look at the gate,’ Marna said, cutting the thread of Farnor’s burgeoning saga.
As they walked towards it, Farnor felt other impres-sions making their way through the dramatic clutter of the siege. The stones from which the walls had been built were old and weathered but they were also finely worked and very tightly jointed. He had heard a tale once of a general who had become separated from his army in the heat of battle to find himself trapped inside a walled city by a hastily closed gate. His men, on the outside, had been so enraged and distraught that they had driven spears into the joints of the wall and mounted these impromptu ladders to fall upon the enemy from above and rescue their leader.
Farnor ran his fingers along one of the fine masonry joints and peered again at the towering height above. The idea of such a feat made him shiver.
They moved to the gate. Over it was an arch held solid by an enormous keystone on which was carved an ancient coat of arms. Practicalities began to intrude into his imaginings.
How could they have lifted that? he wondered. Memories came back to him of the stone door lintels that he and his father and no small number of helpers had struggled to lift into position on a simple store-house for a neighbour. There had been sweat, effort and bad language enough in that to last for a long time. Not to mention a narrow escape for someone’s finger on at least one occasion and a crashing collapse on another. At times it had been for him a frightening and desperate affair with the lumbering weight of the stone seeming to have a relentless will of its own.
And as for the towers now soaring above them; they were so high. How could they have been built?
His attention turned to the huge double-leaved gate itself and he ran his hand over the long-seasoned wood. He imagined them crashing open to release a charging column of riders grimly intent on breaking a siege, but at the same time he marvelled at the size of the timbers and the skill with which they had been joined together. Where could trees be found that could provide such timbers? And where the men to hew and shape them? He thought of the rough beams that formed the ceilings and roofs of most of the village houses.
He came to a wicket door. What must this place be like on the inside?
‘Impressive, isn’t it?’
His father’s voice intruded on his thoughts, though not harshly. Farnor turned and smiled. ‘I’d no idea it was so big,’ he said. ‘Whoever built this could have built all our houses and barns, even the inn, in an afternoon.’
Garren laughed. ‘A little longer than that, I suspect. This place probably took many years in the building, maybe several lifetimes, and doubtless it cost more than a few lives.’ He gazed at the battlements and the towers rising beyond them. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
Farnor affected to be looking at the wicket door. ‘I’m fine,’ he replied casually. ‘Does this open?’ He pushed at a brass cover plate behind which was presumably a keyhole.
A hand reached out and restrained him. It was Gryss. ‘Quite possibly,’ he said. ‘But the keyholder, whoever he was, is long gone and entering this place without permission would be treated as an offence against the King’s person. Best leave be.’
‘Why is it so big?’ Marna asked.
‘Time was when it held a garrison of several hun-dred men, so my grandfather used to say,’ Gryss replied.
Marna wrinkled her nose in dissatisfaction at this reply. ‘But why so many? In a place like this. At the end of a valley at the end of the Kingdom?’
Gryss waved a schoolmasterly hand. ‘Enough ques-tions. Who am I to question the ways of kings? I shouldn’t imagine for one moment that things have always been as quiet and peaceful as they are now. Certainly Yonas is never short of warlike tales to tell.’ The notion seemed to disturb him and he became almost brusque. ‘Anyway, from what I’ve seen of soldiers and their ilk, consider yourself more than fortunate that the castle is empty and locked.’ He glanced at the sun. ‘Come on. Time we were heading back.’