Farnor

Chapter 1
Darkness fell cold across Farnor's face, extinguishing the myriad lights that had been flickering behind his closed eyelids and replacing them with shifting, blue-in-black shadows.
He opened his eyes with a start, momentarily fearful that some stranger or menacing creature had silently crept upon him as he lay, half dozing, under the gently swaying trees. It was not so, however. The darkness was only a cloud passing in front of the sun.
He made to smile away his reaction as foolishness, but, oddly, the unease persisted and with a frown he gazed around the sunlit woodland, searching for a sign of anything untoward that might have provoked this response. But there was nothing; just the rustling whisper of the wind-stirred trees and the innumerable splashes of bright sunlight flitting and dancing at their nodding behest.
Guilty conscience, he thought wryly as he struggled to his feet, brushing twigs and grass from his trousers and shirt. Loafing around in the woods when you're supposed to be checking the sheep.
Thoughts of justification jostled for position as he walked to the edge of the wood and out into the brilliant spring sunshine. He hadn't actually gone to sleep - well, hardly, anyway, and not for long - and besides, he'd get the job done - and there wasn't anything special to do on the farm today . . .
He cut them short. They were a remnant from the times when his father would regularly interrogate him about his daily doings - or misdoings. Now, however, he was being treated increasingly as a trusted partner in the running of the farm; as a man, even though he would still be considered a boy in the eyes of the villagers for almost a year yet. It was quite amazing how much his father had learned over the past few years, he reflected.
Pausing, he looked down the valley towards the farm. It was hidden from view by the rolling terrain, but, as ever, he could feel its presence, solid and dependable; always there, always welcoming, a haven from all ills.
And yet, as he turned and began to walk up the valley again, he could still feel the shadow of the unease to which he had wakened. He had a faint memory of strange voices talking all around him . . . talking about him. The sound of the trees intruding into his half dreams, he presumed, but . . .
Almost angrily, he drove the end of his staff into the soft turf in an attempt to dispel once and for all the darkness that seemed reluctant to leave him. It hadn't been the wisest of things to do, he supposed, going to sleep up here. Especially not with something worrying the sheep.
'Someone's dog gone wild,' had been the usual opinion of the villagers to such happenings on the few occasions that Farnor had known them in the past; an opinion that was invariably proved correct after some judicious night-watching and trap-laying. The brighter sparks in the village would even take wagers on whose dog it was liable to be.
But it was different this time, for though only a few sheep had been worried, the damage to them had been massive and the traditional conclusion had been spoken hesitantly and in subdued and anxious tones. Then, like a mysterious creak in an empty house, Farnor caught a whisper of the word 'bear'. Somewhat awkwardly, he put it to his father, only to receive a confident shake of the head and a lip-curling dismissal of the author of the suggestion.
'Ale-topers' talk. Berries, grubs, the odd fish, that's all bears eat unless they're desperate. They've little taste for meat and generally sense enough to keep well away from people.'
'They say you can get rogue bears,' Farnor offered. 'Bears that have . . .'
His father cut across the tale with his final verdict:
'The only rogues around here are those who should be working in the fields instead of swilling ale during the day and filling people's heads with nonsense.'