Heroes of the Valley by Jonathan Stroud

his breast. The whole valley had assembled for a joyous festival outside his gate, and he was denied the opportunity to taste its pleasures! His family had much to answer for.
    Rising from his bed, he padded down the passage and passed through the drapes into the deserted hall. Outside in the yard laughter rang; here dust drifted through thin shards of sunlight extending from the windows in the western wall. The light hit the hero's treasures behind the Law Seats: his helmet, scarred and dented; his boar-spear, black with centuries of smoke; his longbow, with its fragments of trailing gut-string. Svein's shield was there too, a circle of pitted black wood, with metal rim and centrepiece; beside it hung his mouldering quiver of arrows. Beneath it all, upon its shelf of stone, sat the little box in which Svein's lucky silver belt lay folded. Halli stood below, staring at the treasures, at the symbols of Svein's life of action. All that was lacking was the sword. That was in Svein's hands, high on the hill.
    Sudden rage rose through Halli and pressed against the inside of his teeth. Even in death, Svein had more zest and purpose than Halli did! He still warded off the Trows, while Halli was helpless, kicking his heels at his parents' orders, doomed to a life of restless boredom until he dropped dead and joined his ancestors under the stones.
    He could bear it no longer. The hall stifled him. With swift steps, Halli left the building by the back door. He slipped between the stables to the Trow wall, scaled it and set off on a circuitous route amid the cabbage fields. Before long he attained the road, not far from the meadows where the Gathering was in full swing.
    Most of the booths were covered now and filled with wares for trading; a tangled knot of crowds undulated between the beer kegs and the mound where the storytellers sat. One field was already filled with tents of rainbow colours, and still more newcomers came trailing along the road to enter at a gaudily decorated gate.
    Halli approached diffidently, tempted to enter, calculating his chances. At the gate stood Grim the smith, muscular and watchful. Grim noticed Halli and made certain gestures that were at once brief and ornately threatening.
    Halli's shoulders fell. He trudged back in the direction of the House, before suddenly veering down a narrow dirt path between the turnip fields.
    Close to the eastern side of the House, where the Trow wall had crumbled into a gentle slope of grass and burdock, lay Svein's orchard. It was a field of perhaps thirty trees, mainly apple and wind-pear, clustering together within a low turf wall. The crops were not extensive, and the orchard was usually unfrequented. Today it would be quite empty. In search of solitude and seclusion, Halli made his way there.
    Two steps in and the dark green boughs closed over him, shutting out the world. The sounds of the Gathering seemed suddenly distant. Halli breathed more easily; he walked a few paces, stopped, and closed his eyes in silent contemplation.
    At that moment there was a sudden complicated sound right over his head. It began with rasping bark, snapping twigs and a single squeal, and finished with a hail of apples bouncing on his skull.
    Halli leaped athletically aside, too late to avoid a single apple. As he did so, he heard a heavy thud at the base of the nearest tree. He turned and stared: a girl sprawled among the roots, hastily smoothing her skirts down over her outstretched legs. A profusion of apples lay across her lap and in the grass beside her. Her feet were bare and black with dirt. Her kirtle – originally a pleasant purple, the colour of ripe plums – was smeared with green. Her face was largely obscured by long, straw-coloured hair that had escaped its clasp and fallen forward during the descent.
    Used as Halli was to Gudny's immaculate composure, this was a sight to awaken wonder. He blinked at the girl uncertainly.
    She blew hard through her mouth and brushed the strands