He looked down at the rod he had just stripped. He had done this year after year. Nothing is the same, he thought, inwardly echoing his daughter’s words as he ran his hand along the smooth, damp wood. It looked the same, it felt and it smelt the same, but…?
Not the same.
Yet…
It was the same. How could it be otherwise?
In the texture under his hand he felt the willows growing before men had come to the valley, and growing perhaps when they had all gone. It was a long perspective.
‘I’m afraid all that’s happened is that we’ve learned more,’ he said, laying the rod down. ‘What we need to do now is become wise enough to live with our new knowledge. To see that Rannick and Nilsson touch us, not the sunset. And whether that touch is a taint or not depends only on us.’
There was a short silence. ‘What we need to do is take that stripping knife of yours and cut Rannick’s throat,’ came the bitter reply from the shady interior of the cottage.
Harlen grimaced at the savagery in his daughter’s voice, though his hand tightened about his knife compulsively. ‘We’re doing what we can,’ he said.
‘It’s not enough,’ Marna replied.
‘We’re doing what we can,’ he said again.
Marna did not bother to reply this time, but he heard her fist come down on the table, and he knew what the expression on her face would be. A spasm of distress and anxiety shook him. Part of him said, ‘Do as you’re told. Don’t make trouble. Co-operate. Don’t attract attention.’ But another part of him rejoiced at Marna’s anger. ‘Scream and shout. Slash and hack at the desecration they’d wrought to life in the valley. Let them know the same fear that they’ve brought with them.’
Cut Rannick’s throat!
Again his hand tightened about the stripping knife.
Perhaps one day there would be such a chance.
But…
And for now? They must do what they could.
‘Someone’s coming.’ Marna was by his side again, and pointing up the valley. Harlen lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the still-bright sky as he peered into the red-tinted dusk. Slowly his eyes adjusted, and the swaying figure of a rider emerged from the shadows. Unusual at this time of day, he thought. Whatever task it was that the occasional lone rider performed, they usually set out early in the day. Still, it was probably only a random visit to the guards downland. They happened quite frequently and their random character was a constant irritation to Gryss as he tried to build up a picture of the men’s routine. ‘They’ve been proper soldiers in their time, these people,’ he mused. ‘Nilsson knows how to keep his men alert.’
And this time it was Nilsson in person, Harlen de-cided with a frisson of alarm as the figure came nearer. He was about to stand up and go into the cottage when it occurred to him that it would be a conspicuous act and might provoke the very contact he would rather avoid. ‘Go inside, Marna,’ he said quietly, bending over his work again.
Marna hesitated briefly, then, sensing the serious-ness of his mood, she slipped casually back into the cottage.
Harlen started to whistle softly to himself as he began peeling the rods again. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Nilsson drawing closer. By bending over the arm of his chair to pick up the rods, manifestly concentrating as he peeled them, and bending over the other arm to stack them, he should be able to avoid even casual eye contact with Nilsson as he passed along the road in front of him. Then he would be able to go into the cottage himself to avoid the same problem on Nilsson’s return.
But Nilsson did not ride past. Instead, he turned off the road and on to the pathway that led to the cottage. Harlen felt his throat tighten with fear. Had Gryss’s scheming been discovered? With an effort he forced himself to look up. As if he had only just seen the new arrival, he stood up to greet him. Nilsson nodded to him as he reined his horse to a halt and dismounted. He looked down at the piles of willow rods and, with the toe of his boot, nudged the strips of damp bark that were littering the ground around Harlen’s chair.
Harlen watched him nervously. Slip and break your neck, he thought.
Nilsson bent down and picked up one of the un-stripped rods, then, without speaking, held out his hand and nodded towards the knife in Harlen’s hand. Despite himself, Harlen’s hand was trembling a little as he handed it over.
Nilsson took the knife and began peeling the bark from the rod. To Harlen’s surprise he performed the task quite proficiently, though there was a quality in the way he worked that Harlen found oddly repellent.
‘Interesting tree, the willow,’ Nilsson said, flexing the now stripped rod. ‘Fine, straight grain. Splits into the flimsiest strips with a good knife. Weave it damp and it stays that way when it’s dry.’ He looked straight at Harlen. ‘You know how the willow survives, don’t you?’ he asked, but he did not wait for an answer. ‘It bends as need arises. This way. That way. Offers no opposition. Just accepts what’s required of it, and thus lives on.’ He bent the rod one way then the other as he spoke. ‘Of course, should it choose not to…’ He slid his hands together along the rod, and bent it slowly until the white wood began to tear apart wetly.
Harlen swallowed. He knew that Nilsson could read the fear that his manner, even his presence, awoke in people, but he tried to keep his voice calm as he spoke. ‘What can I do for you. Captain?’ he asked.
Nilsson dropped the broken rod and kicked it casu-ally to one side. He spun the knife in his hand and offered it back to Harlen, handle first.
Harlen saw that the blade was almost touching Nils-son’s wrist.
A sudden twist and slash, and Rannick’s chief lieu-tenant would be mortally wounded; his arm opened from wrist to elbow. Images flooded over Harlen of the bull-like figure careening about his cottage, desperately trying to staunch the unstoppable flow that his very desperation would be pumping with increasing force from the long gaping wound. Flailing red skeins filled the air, splattering everything… everyone.
Harlen swallowed again and, involuntarily, his hand twitched to his face as if to wipe off the blood.
Yet there was such confidence in the man, standing there, proffering the weapon. Not the confidence of a young man daring a challenge, but the confidence of a man vastly experienced in imposing his will on others, and restrained by few, if any, physical fears or moral strictures.
Harlen reached out to take the knife. His hand was still trembling.
Casually, as if weary at the delay, Nilsson let his arm fall and dropped the knife on the chair. Harlen’s hand hovered futilely in the space that the knife had occupied.
‘Lord Rannick wants to see your daughter, weaver,’ Nilsson said, looking into the cottage. ‘Now.’
Chapter 13
As Farnor swung the branch around, the figure seemed to disappear. He felt a rush of air seize him. His campfire flew into the air, twisted round, and vanished from view, then two bone-shaking blows on his back knocked the wind out of him.
It took him some time to recover his breath, and quite a lot more to realize that he was on his back on the Forest turf some way away from the fire and that the two body shaking blows had been him landing, and bouncing.
As the realization dawned however, he let out a panic-stricken cry, struggled unsteadily to his feet and looked around frantically.
The figure, hooded and eerie, was crouching low, prodding the campfire with the branch that Farnor had just attacked it with. Farnor gave another cry and, wrenching the knife from his belt, charged wildly towards the silent ambusher.