‘And you’ll feed the garrison, of course,’ Nilsson added, almost as an afterthought. ‘And supply servants… tradesmen and the like… as they’re needed.’
Gryss latched on to a practicality to try and calm his confusion. ‘Feed you?’ he queried. ‘How many will there be? We’re only a small village.’
Nilsson raised his open palms and shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he admitted. ‘But the valley’s big and fertile, much of it lying fallow. I’m sure it’ll present no problems.’
Gryss put his hand to his head. ‘This is all rather a surprise,’ he said. ‘Not to say a shock. You’ll have to allow me a moment to take it in.’
‘I understand,’ Nilsson said, now almost avuncular. ‘But please don’t be too concerned. I’m sure there’ll be virtually no disruption to your village life if everyone does as they’re told. And such few problems as might arise will probably be nothing that can’t be sorted out with a little goodwill and common sense on both sides.’
Gryss felt the manipulation behind the words, but he also felt suddenly very old. Momentous events were happening which were utterly beyond his control. Beyond even his comprehension, he began to realize. He had the feeling that he was running faster and faster down a hillside that was becoming steeper and steeper, and that soon he would be hurtling over the edge of some abyss.
The villagers had tended their own affairs for count-less generations without aid from anyone beyond the valley, and they could continue thus for as many generations into the future. They lived simple yet rich lives, living off yet sustaining the fertile land that surrounded them. He knew that the intrusion which Nilsson had just outlined to him would destroy this ancient harmony more effectively than if his men had fired the village, and that such destruction would be tantamount to an atrocity.
Why? he cried out to himself, but he left it unspo-ken, following Nilsson’s earlier remark. The why, like the who, was indeed irrelevant. He could do nothing. The villagers could do nothing. They were defenceless. Not merely in the matter of having no weapons to oppose such an imposition should they have so chosen, but in their entire outlook and way of thought. Now the isolation that they cherished and fostered had left them with no one to whom they could turn for help and advice. The word cut through him: defenceless. Totally defenceless, save for their wits and their words.
His mind plummeted into black depths for a seem-ingly interminable moment and he saw that, despite their quiet but proud assumption of freedom, the villagers had always been the merest touch away from slavery, and would have always remained so, until…
Until…?
Until it was too late. As now.
He rebuked himself. There had been no suggestion of such a fate for the village as slavery. What in the world was he thinking about?
But, suggestion or not, the word would not leave him, and the truth of his revelation about the village’s weakness could not be denied. And though perhaps they were not to be slaves, were they not to be held prisoner? There was a profound difference between choosing not to leave the valley and being forbidden.
Then Gryss felt a dark tide of guilt overwhelming him.
He was a senior elder. In many ways the village’s chief guide and adviser. But he had never even turned his mind to the possibility that the world from over the hill would so intrude, even though he had travelled in that world and had learned enough to know that by its nature such a world would intrude everywhere, sooner or later.
‘Are you all right?’
Nilsson’s voice made him start. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Just a little… bewildered…’
Nilsson shrugged again. ‘It’s the way of things,’ he said.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Gryss asked, awk-wardly, after a short pause.
‘Just tell your people what’s going to happen,’ Nils-son said, gathering together the papers in front of him. ‘And reconcile them to it,’ he added coldly. ‘Everything can carry on as usual providing anyone who wishes to leave notifies me first.’ He looked at Gryss almost menacingly. ‘That’s important. We’ll be putting a guard post at the end of the valley. Anyone who tries to leave without permission will be punished. Perhaps even killed. Make sure everyone understands that.’
When Gryss, bowed and fretful, had left, the figure by the window turned to Nilsson.
It was Rannick, and his face was angry.
Chapter 23
Rannick had appeared at the castle in the middle of the night to receive the acclaim of the entire troop following his ‘saving’ of Haral’s group.
Like Haral, Nilsson had no illusions that the ambush had somehow been arranged by Rannick. But, also like Haral, he had no intention of voicing such an accusa-tion. Whatever he or any of his men might think about Rannick and the fate of Haral’s group, all sensed that Rannick would have to be followed; and that life would be easier, not to say longer, if he were followed willingly rather than otherwise.
And, chillingly, Nilsson knew now the nature of the strange other presence he had felt at their first encoun-ter: it had been the awesome creature that had hunted and savaged Haral’s group. Rannick’s dreadful familiar had been waiting in the darkness for the command to kill him.
Struggling to remain composed, he turned to face his angry master as Gryss left the room.
‘It irks me to waste such time toying with that old fool,’ Rannick said through clenched teeth. ‘People are like animals, they only truly understand power. And I have power enough, and you men enough, to make the villagers do whatever we need. Don’t let me regret choosing you.’
Nilsson avoided his direct gaze, but watched him carefully. It was essential, he knew, that he obtain a true measure of this man: a complete catalogue of whatever human weaknesses he possessed. But it was proving to be no light ordeal. And this particular conversation had been going on in various forms ever since Rannick had returned.
It had not taken Nilsson long to find the worm that was gnawing at his new master’s heart. It was oddly disconcerting. Something in Rannick demanded the humiliation and oppression of this valley and its people.
Bewilderingly to Nilsson, Rannick seemed to have no conception of the consequences of such petty malice against what must necessarily be his home base for some time to come. Nilsson had had to spend a long, difficult and at times terrifying night attempting to persuade him to a more benign subduing of the community.
‘It’s troublesome and unnecessary,’ Rannick had averred. ‘I doubt there’s a score of weapons in the whole valley, and I know there’ll be no will to oppose us. We can do what we want, take what we want, with impu-nity.’
Cautiously, Nilsson had pointed out that while it was possible that a demonstration of force to bring the villagers to their knees might perhaps be achieved without the loss of any of his men, in his experience, ‘Force generally is best avoided, if possible. Chance rides high in such affairs, Lord. Good men get killed. Messengers slip past guards to carry the news abroad. Many things happen other than was intended.’
Then would follow years of slow, sullen opposition from the apparently defeated villagers, draining the morale of the men and drawing them to use more and more brutal means of control. Means that would turn the surly opposition of the many into the active opposition of a few, and lead in turn to yet bloodier repression and an almost inevitable escape of the news from the valley. ‘It’s a mistake to misjudge both the resolve and the power of execution of the seemingly weak and helpless,’ he had insisted. ‘The absence of weapons is a measure of past folly not a measure of future willingness to fight.’ And there would be fighting enough in due course, if Rannick’s ambitions were to be fulfilled. What was needed now was a secure base from which to operate. And that needed willing workers, or at least keeping workers willing for as long as possible.
Rannick had not appreciated being contradicted, but Nilsson had managed to persist. ‘If we can gently constrain the villagers as we build up our strength, then they’ll soon become used to us. And by the time they find out we’re not who we say we are – if they find out – they’ll be divided in their opinions about us. That’ll give us even greater strength to deal with such of them as wish to object.’ He had concluded, ‘Arbitrary violence against them now would be to foul your own nest; mar at the outset the future that is your destiny. There’ll be little joy in their abasement if your greater intent is spoiled because of it. And does it matter whether they know of your greatness now or later? Isn’t there an added relish to be gained in watching them doing your will without them realizing it? In watching them become your grovelling lackeys rather than your cowed slaves?’