Garren scowled. He had hoped that, the last attack having been some months ago, the dog responsible would have moved on, but now there would have to be a hunt. There was always the risk that there might be more than one dog and that raised the spectre of their breeding and thus turning a problem into a nightmare.

‘What was Rannick doing out there?’ he asked ab-sently as his mind went over what was to be done next.

‘I don’t know,’ Farnor replied. ‘I didn’t ask.’ He shied away from describing Rannick’s behaviour. ‘I don’t like him. He’s strange.’

Garren wrinkled his nose. ‘He’s not the most pleas-ant of men, that’s true,’ he said. ‘But some people are like that. Never content with what they have. Always wanting something else, then still miserable when they’ve got it. He’s probably quite a sad soul at heart.’

Farnor curled his lip in dismissal of this verdict. ‘Well he can be sad on his own, then,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t disturb me if he went on his wanderings and never came back. He makes my skin crawl sometimes.’

Garren looked at his son again, considering some reproach for his harsh tone, but the simple openness of Farnor’s response forbade it and instead he reached out and patted him sympathetically on the arm.

‘Not a nice sight, is it, a mangled sheep,’ he said. ‘Go inside and make yourself presentable then we’ll go into the village and see old Gryss.’

Old Gryss was the senior elder of the village: the one who got things done. He mended broken limbs and cracked heads, cured sick animals, extracted teeth, settled quarrels and generally organized the villagers whenever organization was needed. He was also one of the few villagers who, when younger, had travelled beyond the valley; been over the hill, seen towns and even, it was said, cities.

‘Noisy, smelly, and too crowded,’ was all that he would say about such places however, whenever he was asked directly. Though, in his cups, he would sometimes regale his audience with tales of his adventures, albeit somewhat incoherently.