Harlen pointed down the valley. ‘They’re coming back,’ he said. His voice dwindled to a whisper. ‘They’ve got Jeorg with them.’
‘What?’ Marna demanded, craning forward.
‘Marna, I’d really prefer it if you went into the vil-lage,’ Harlen said, his tone placating.
But Marna’s manner indicated that she had rooted herself to the spot.
‘They’ve got Jeorg?’ Gryss said, ignoring Harlen’s concern for his daughter, and hoping fervently that he himself had misheard the whispered message.
Harlen reluctantly gave up on Marna. ‘Yes,’ he re-plied, his voice pained. ‘And it looks as if he’s been hurt.’
Marna’s hand went to her mouth to stifle a cry. Gryss’s stomach tightened in fear and a cascade of future events poured into his mind, dominant amongst which was the face of Jeorg’s wife.
‘How badly?’ he managed to ask.
Harlen cast another glance at his daughter. ‘I couldn’t tell,’ he said. ‘He was draped over a saddle.’
Gryss’s eyes widened in horror. Jeorg brought home like a sack of potatoes! Like a dead sheep! The future events faded before the grim present.
‘Where are they?’ he asked.
‘Only a few minutes away,’ Harlen replied, pointing again. ‘They’re not hurrying.’
Without a word, Gryss set off towards the road. Harlen and Marna ran after him. The trio walked on in silence through the thin rain. When they reached the road, Gryss turned downland.
As Harlen had indicated, they did not have long to wait. Very soon the swaying forms of advancing riders appeared ahead. Faced head on, in the misty light, the column could not be discerned as such, but rather appeared to be a single, giant figure of grotesque and unstable proportions. It remained so until it was quite close and the individual riders could be seen.
As they neared, Harlen stopped and took Marna’s arm but Gryss continued marching towards the advancing column purposefully, his shoulders hunched and his head craning forward. He heard an order being given and passing down the line, though he could not make it out.
Harlen spoke to Marna and then set off after him, leaving her standing alone.
At the head of the column rode Nilsson, with Saddre and Dessane beside him. They made no effort to stop when Gryss reached them, though Nilsson looked straight at him.
‘You have one of our friends, I believe,’ Gryss said to him, falling into step by the side of his horse. ‘He’s been hurt.’
Nilsson gave a flick of his head towards the horse immediately behind him. Gryss stared at it. What he had at first taken to be a pack horse was, in fact, bearing Jeorg, draped across its saddle.
Anxiety lit Gryss’s face. ‘Stop a moment,’ he shouted, stopping. ‘Let me have a look at him.’
But Nilsson took no heed, and the column plodded on. Gryss had to catch the horse’s bridle to prevent himself from falling.
‘Let go of the horse,’ came a rough voice from be-hind. It was accompanied by a none-too-gentle push with a boot that made Gryss stagger again.
He did not look to see who the culprit was, but scur-ried back to Nilsson’s side. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked. Again Nilsson did not reply. Gryss went cold. ‘He’s not dead, is he?’
‘He’s not dead. Go to the village.’ Nilsson’s voice was stark and commanding.
Gryss tried again, more insistently. ‘Please stop. If he’s hurt he shouldn’t be carried like that.’
Still there was no reply. Nothing was to be heard except the sound of clinking harness and the clatter of the horses’ hooves on the occasionally metalled roadway.
The healer in Gryss overrode his judgement and he became angry. ‘Damn it, will you stop and let me tend him!’ he shouted, seizing Nilsson’s reins.
Nilsson turned to him sharply, his eyes ablaze. He raised his foot to kick Gryss, but before the blow could be delivered Harlen appeared by Gryss’s side and dragged him away hastily.
‘Let me go,’ Gryss said furiously, but Harlen, easy-going though he might be normally, had no such intention. Without speaking he tightened his grip about Gryss’s arm and forcibly marched him ahead of the column, at the same time signalling to his waiting daughter. Without hesitation, Marna turned and ran off into the fields.
‘For pity’s sake, Gryss, don’t antagonize them,’ Har-len said urgently as he bundled the elder along. ‘They’re quiet now, but they were very different when I first saw them. Something’s happened while they were away. They’re not the same men that arrived here at Dalmas.’
Gryss shook his arm free, but kept up with Harlen’s fast pace. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, looking back at the column, still maintaining its leisurely pace.
‘They were noisy. Singing, shouting, laughing,’ Har-len said. ‘They’ve been up to something and something bad, if I’m any judge. And they’ve got more horses and baggage than when they left.’
Gryss turned to him. ‘But Jeorg,’ he said. ‘We can’t just leave him.’
Harlen’s face was pained. ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘But frankly I wanted Marna out of the way first. I don’t want them anywhere near her, the kind of mood they’re in. And how are we going to stop them if they don’t want to stop? You nearly got kicked in the head for your trouble. Let’s do as he said: get back to the village and try again there.’
Gryss could not argue, but Harlen was setting a pace which was barely short of running. ‘Slow down, slow down,’ he pleaded, breathlessly, after a little while. ‘I can’t carry on at this speed.’
Harlen cast a glance backwards towards the column and then across the fields. Marna was nowhere to be seen. ‘She’s gone over the fields to get Yakob,’ he said. ‘He’ll meet us at the green.’ Then he slowed. Gryss put a grateful hand on his shoulder and leaned on it freely. Harlen put his own hand over it, at once supportive and apologetic. He did not speak.
When they reached the centre of the village it was raining more heavily, and Marna was standing with Yakob under a tree at the edge of the green.
‘What’s happening?’ Yakob asked anxiously as Gryss and Harlen approached. Harlen explained, while Gryss recovered his breath.
Yakob frowned at the news that Jeorg had been hurt, but Gryss spoke before he could ask any questions.
‘We’ll try again here,’ he said. ‘See if we can get them to let me look at Jeorg.’ His distress was almost unmanning him. ‘This is awful,’ he said. ‘Poor Jeorg.’ He gazed up at the leaden grey sky. ‘Well at least the weather’ll keep people in their homes,’ he went on. ‘The fewer who see Jeorg the better.’
It was little consolation to the four as they waited under the dripping tree for the column to arrive, though it was not long before the lead riders came into view. Gryss, Yakob and Harlen stepped forward together.
This time, Nilsson reined his horse to a halt. The column came to an untidy stop behind him. He held up his hand.
‘We caught this man trying to sneak out of the val-ley, after my express instruction that that would not be allowed,’ he said. ‘You have to understand that you’re all under military law now, and that if you choose to disobey orders the consequences will be severe.’
Gryss however, was more concerned for his friend than for an explanation and he moved to his side even while Nilsson was talking. After testing Jeorg’s pulse, he gently lifted his head.
His face was badly bruised and bloodstained.
‘What the devil have you done to him?’ he de-manded bluntly. Nilsson looked at him angrily, but before he could speak, Gryss’s frustration and rage boiled over, and he began tugging at the ropes that bound Jeorg to the horse. There was a commotion among the riders nearby.
‘And you said nothing of the kind,’ Gryss burst out furiously. ‘You said we’d need your permission, that’s all. Jeorg’s been planning to go to the capital for months. When he heard what was happening he decided to go now before the garrisoning got under way. Damn it, he was only riding after you to ask your permission. Didn’t you even give him time to speak?’
He gave an angry cry as the ropes defeated him, and then reached into his cape. When his hand emerged there was a knife in it.