Wiping the rain from his eyes, he went over to the pack pony to remove the various weapons he had snatched up for this expedition. There was a Valderen bow, quite unlike anything he had ever seen in the valley: not big, but very powerful – if he could draw it. And there were the vicious, barbed-headed arrows. He was no bowman, but he was sure he could hit a large animal at a range that would be safely out of jaws’ reach, and that was where he intended to remain. Nevertheless, he had chosen also a large machete on which he had managed to hone a reasonable edge.
As he began loosening the straps that secured its pack, the pony slithered sideways into him nervously, knocking him off balance. He grabbed at it hastily but missed his footing on the wet rocks and staggered heavily against it. With a startled neigh, the pony began prancing anxiously. The noise of its scrabbling hooves on the rocks rose into the silent air to startle it further.
Still unbalanced, Farnor flailed out blindly in an attempt to catch hold of the pony and restrain it. His hand closed around something just as the pony decided to bolt. Panicking as he felt himself beginning to be dragged along, Farnor tightened his grip but, fortu-nately for him, the object tore free from the loosened straps as the animal gathered speed. He was still gripping it tightly as he went sprawling painfully on the rocky ground.
He lay there for some time, absorbed in the new discomforts that were putting fresh life into his older aches and pains. Then, as his senses began to clear, he realized that he was listening to the flight not only of the pony but of his horse as well; it had seemingly con-curred with its fellow’s judgement and also fled. Struggling to his feet, he stared into the darkness in dismay, until the last faint echoes of the fleeing horses had died away completely. For a moment rage overcame him. He wanted to rant and scream after the demented animals, to hurl rocks into the darkness, to rend the very air with his fury. But the mood faded as quickly as it had come, displaced by an odd fatalism. Briefly, the memory of Uldaneth returned to him. What had happened had happened and nothing he could do would remedy it now. And he still had no alternative but to go on and to deal with events as they developed and with whatever came to hand.
He reached into his pocket and retrieved the small sunstone lantern that Angwen had given him as a gift. Carefully he checked that the shutter was closed before he struck it, then he eased it open very slightly; he still had sufficient wit to realize that the last thing he needed now was his night vision destroyed for minutes on end by the lantern’s brightness.
With the aid of the thin, rain-streaked sliver of light he examined himself to see if any serious damage had been done in his fall. Eventually satisfied that he had suffered only yet more bruising, he sat down on a rock to think. As he did so, the faint light from the lantern caught the object that he had grabbed hold of when the pony bolted. It was the staff that Marrin had given him.
He clicked the lantern shut as he bent to pick up the staff. This was going to be invaluable, he thought caustically as he hefted it. He felt a hint of disapproval about him, but it was gone almost before he noted it, and he did not pursue it. Then the fatalism that had quietened him earlier gave way to anger and despair. What use was he going to be now even if he found the creature; alone, unarmed and benighted.
‘Not alone, Far-nor.’ The voice of the trees filled his head. He waved a pointless acknowledgement. ‘No,’ he conceded. ‘But unless you’ve suddenly learned to walk and fight, then I’m afraid you’re going to be nothing more than a silent witness to what happens if that creature awakes.’
‘No. We can touch it a little. We did before. Turned it from you in confusion.’ There was a plaintive quality in the voice that did not inspire confidence, however.
I was on a desperate, charging horse then, Farnor thought, but he did not articulate it so that the trees could Hear.
What a mess! Some rearguard he was going to make for Derwyn now. What had possessed him to think he could tackle the creature on his own? What was he, after all? Just a stupid boy, stuck up a mountain with an ornamental lantern, his mother’s carving knife in his belt, and an old man’s stick. He sneered at the image.
Then, the atmosphere about him changed. ‘Far-nor,’ the trees whispered fearfully. ‘It wakes.’
Derwyn’s mood shifted violently as he rode steadily southwards through the fine, damping, rain. The ancient mistrust of the Valderen of outsiders was deep and powerful. It provoked a response that could not easily be set aside by reason, least of all by the Koyden-dae, with their almost total inexperience in dealing with such people. And these outsiders were doing that which, said tradition, outsiders had always done; they were wantonly, cruelly, destroying the Forest. It was, beyond a doubt, the duty of the Valderen to drive away such people.
And yet, Farnor’s response disturbed him. The young man was seemingly a Hearer such as there had never been before; one before whom Marken bowed without reserve. He should be accorded respect and, above all, listened to. But too, he was barely a man yet. He could not possibly have the soundness of judgement of an older man, an experienced leader of men. And he was not Valderen.
But he had been called to the place of the most an-cient – a hitherto unknown occurrence. And that strange old bird Uldaneth had expressed a great interest in him. Uldaneth: an unrepentant outsider, who knew more about the Valderen than they themselves, who vanished for years on end and then just appeared again, wandering freely from lodge to lodge. He shook his head. He had problems enough without fretting about Uldaneth. She was an enigma even deeper than Farnor.
‘You’re troubled.’
Marken’s voice broke into Derwyn’s milling thoughts. He nodded. ‘Farnor’s troubling me,’ he replied. ‘He seemed so certain. And so angry. And sneaking off on his own like that. I can’t help wondering if I should’ve listened to him more.’
Marken put his hand to his head, his face troubled. He could barely keep from his mind the terrible sound of the trees struggling to escape the depredations of Nilsson and his men. And he, too, was torn. Farnor’s leaving had drawn a cloudy veil over his own new-found contact with the trees. He wanted to go after him, find out what was happening, ask him what he was going to do. Yet he was the lodge’s Hearer. His place was here, by Derwyn, riding to destroy these invaders. And whether the decision to ride against them was right or not, it had been made, and Derwyn had to be supported. Doubt would serve only to cripple him. ‘He’s not Valderen,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t truly understand. Your judgement’s sound in this, Derwyn. But he can be trusted too. Don’t forget, this is more his land than ours, and these raiders more his problem, until now. Wherever he’s gone and whatever he’s doing, it’ll be to help us.’
‘I hope so,’ Derwyn called out ruefully as their horses drifted apart. But Marken’s words had heartened him. This was Farnor’s land and whatever he had chosen to do, it would be as an ally. He would do no harm, even though he might do little good. For a moment he heard Farnor warning him again about the creature. He shrugged the memory aside. For all his own unease about this strange animal, he’d always thought Farnor’s concerns exaggerated; a farmer’s response, not a hunter’s.
He could have been right about this Nilsson and his men, though. Men who would hack down trees without due ceremony and delay were vicious and savage beyond doubt. And as for burning them…
Anger filled him.
Still, it would be folly to go charging among them, knowing nothing of how many there were, or how they were situated. What was it Farnor had said about them? ‘They’re brutal fighting men… If you go against them rashly, they’ll hack you down without a thought.’