He led them towards Wyrdwood. Venn felt the way out for them, steering the group in a way that had them twining through Harnwood, avoiding its more dangerous denizens. There were still wounds taken, from thorns, or wildlife. A wandering spearmaw, the vicious carnivorous cousin to the gasmaw, attacked one of the children, wounding the boy’s leg before it was driven off. One of the villagers got an infected littercrawler bite, and had to be placed on travois and dragged through Harnwood, hard going as the undergrowth was thick and the paths few.
He watched Venn as they knelt, feeling the way.
“It is safe to go straight on,” they said. Cahan nodded, motioning for the rest of the villagers to pass. Furin was at the front with Ont. When all the villagers had passed Cahan followed, he wanted to be at the back. There he felt a little solitude, unlike when he was at the front, where he could feel the eyes of the village upon him, their expectation.
“Cahan,” said Venn, and the forester tried to slow so he did not catch up to the trion. “We must talk, Cahan.”
“I am busy walking.” Dead leaves rustled as Venn slowed, forcing the forester to catch up.
“We can walk and talk, Cahan, I am not so out of shape that it is a struggle.”
“Maybe I am,” he said. Venn paid no attention.
“It has been sixteen days since you went into the Harnwood to fight the Hetton and the Rai.” The trion was studying him and Cahan did not like it.
“Not long enough for you to forget about it, I see.”
“You hide something, Cahan,” said Venn quietly, “something weighs on you.”
“There is a lot of pressure on me, true, but I have strong shoulders.” Cahan walked more quickly.
“A moment ago you said you may be so out of shape you could not walk and talk.” Despite himself Cahan smiled, caught in a snare of his own words. “Sometimes, Cahan, a secret must be let free, or it will fester.”
“That sounds like the sort of thing Udinny would have said.”
“She did.” Cahan almost tripped, his feet betrayed him as a trapvine found them. His mouth filled with that awful taste of death, sickness and loss.
“I have no secret.” Even as he said it he felt something move within, like the black mud at the bottom of a pond, thick with leaf mulch and filth.
“Cahan,” said Venn and put a hand on the forester’s arm, slowing him. “Something is within you, I can feel it.” Cahan wanted to shrug the trion off, push them away but instead he took a deep breath.
“I took energy from a rotting log. From the dissolution of life.”
“I did not know that could be done.” The trion was not looking at him, eyes on the trail. The roiling and waves of darkness inside him rose up, a burning in his stomach, acid in his mouth.
“It was a mistake, Venn, I know that now.”
“So you will not do it again?” they asked. Cahan shook his head.
“I will find another way if the Rai come for us.” Though he did not know how, and somewhere, in the back of his mind he was already wondering if it had really been that bad. Unpleasant, yes. But unbearable? Maybe not. Sacrifices had to be made, he had a village to protect.
“When they come,” said the trion.
“If they come,” said Cahan.
“Given that I am the youth,” said Venn, “is it not my job to be the naive one.”
“If we bury ourselves in Wyrdwood they will never find us.”
“Really?”
“It is vast beyond understanding, Venn.” He smiled at the trion, trying to reassure. “You will know when you see it.”
“Have you thought…” began Venn, the words tailing off.
“Finish what you have to say,” said Cahan. Above them something called out, a soft trill, and branches shook as a flock of tiny gasmaws darted from a branch heavy with moss. Each one a tiny version of the more familiar larger ones, eight tentacles at the front – six for grasping, two for poison – large eyes, behind them a streamlined gasbag that kept the creature floating and vents that propelled it through the air.
“The Forestals.” Venn glanced over at Cahan. “They share power, give it as a gift almost.”
“They told you this?” said Cahan.
“I felt it, I think.” Silence, apart from the song of gasmaws and flyers, the hiss and crackle of people making their way through dense brush.
“The cowl,” said Cahan after thinking on it, “it is hungry, all the time.” Was this true? He had barely heard the voice of his cowl recently. In the time since he had touched death it had quietened and faded, leaving a gap, and when he thought of it he filled with nausea.
“Maybe I could…” The trion’s voice faded.
“If someone shared with me, Venn, I would take and I am not sure I could stop.” Worse, he thought they may feel something of the darkness settling in his stomach, soaking through him like liquid from a wetvine into dry ground. Venn nodded to themselves.
“Then you should continue training the villagers with weapons,” said Venn. “In case they have to protect themselves. Maybe they will not need your power.”
“I am just a forester, Venn. Furin is their leader and it is her decision.”
“She is the leader of a village that no longer exists,” said Venn. “And she will lead the new village when it is built. But you must get us there. They need to be bound together again, to have something more than fear to keep them going.” Cahan sighed, decided that maybe he had liked Venn better when they were being a sullen child unwilling to help.
“I will think on it, if you give me some space to do so.” Venn nodded, squeezed his arm and ran on to join the villagers, finding Issofur, the Leoric’s son, where he was playing with Segur, who in some ways he thought the child resembled, and some other children. Cahan wished he could slough off the world as easily as Venn seemed to. Within moments the trion was running in and out of the thick undergrowth, engrossed in the imaginary world of the children as they chased “horned people” through the bushes. Cahan suppressed a shudder; horned people brought back images of the Boughry, and how Udinny had died for them.
He took a deep breath, trying not to lose his head in a cloud of troubled thoughts.
Cahan considered the villagers, what they had been through and what they may yet encounter. They thought him some forest savant, but the truth was he knew little enough of it, and especially of Wyrdwood where they headed. His visits there had been seldom. Now the villagers of Harn expected him to help them live there.
He had also noticed, during the long days of their walk, how more of the villagers were gathering around those who wished to return to Crua – a foolish thought. Venn was right, he had to find something to distract them, to focus them.
At the end of the early eight they came across a clearing in the Harnwood and Cahan bade them stop, rest and eat a little. While they did he walked among them, most were so tired they could barely speak. He found Ont, sitting alone chewing on some berries and staring out into the forest.
“I am glad I am not blind to this place any longer. It is beautiful in its own way, the Harnwood,” said the butcher, “if deadly.”
“Yes, it is both of those things,” said Cahan.
“Well, we must trust to Ranya to lead us through it.” He smiled, a shy delicate thing. Strange to see on such a big man. “And you of course, Forester.” He tried to sound sure but Cahan knew he was looking for some reassurance. “Have we quietened those who would leave us?”
“We did, but I must do more and for that I need your help.” He stared at the man, then added, “if you are willing.” Ont looked surprised, and Cahan considered how he must still appear to these people, that they were surprised at a little politeness from him.
“Of course I am willing, just tell me what needs to be done.”
“I need some rope, thick rope. And vines, preferably ones that have been allowed to dry a little.”
“Anyone would give you these things, C…” He caught himself before he said “Cowl-Rai”… “Cahan.”
“Yes, but they would feel they had to give me their best, Ont.” He looked away. “I do not want that, I want only what they do not need.”
“I understand,” said Ont, pushing himself up.
“And send Sark to me, the hunter.” Ont nodded and walked away, stopping off where Sark was squatting and eating berries with a few others. They were not speaking, all too tired. Ont then went to another group as Sark came over to Cahan.
“You wanted me,” said the man. He did not seem scared, not exactly, but he was not comfortable either.
“You know the forest, better than most of them.”
“Aye,” he nodded, “me, Retya, and Garha, we all hunted in Woodedge, but you’ve put the fear of the Osere into ’em, forester.”
“Why?” said Cahan.
“They all think the forest is just waiting, to avenge itself on ’em like, for hunting.” Cahan took a deep breath. He had been so eager to impress the dangers of the forest on them that he had gone too far. Made them fear everything.
“Nothing that happened in Woodedge will affect them here, tell them not to worry.” Sark nodded. “And hunting is why I wished to speak to you. Maybe I have been overly cautious.”
“What do you mean?” He cocked his head, his white make-up flaking, the clanpaint smudged. He had stopped shaving and had a scrappy beard.
“I worried people may kill thoughtlessly, but death is also part of life.” Or was that what he had touched talking? No, he could not second guess himself. This was a thing he had always known. “We can hunt, but we must not be foolish about it.”
“I try not to be.”
“Of course,” Cahan nodded. “I think we are safe to take male raniri.”
“I always try for the weak or the old ones,” said Sark, “and never the females.”
“Good.”
“I’ll ask Retya to hunt with me, it’s easier with more than one.”
“And the third, Garha, you said?”
“Garha is frightened if a leaf falls since the battle,” Sark shrugged. “I doubt I can convince him to hunt.”
“What about if he showed the children how to check trapvines for histi caught within them? They could do it while we walk. Make it a game.”
“Aye,” Sark licked his lips, “he can do that. Meat will cheer people up a little, but they’ll not want it raw.”
“Small and careful remains the rule for fires, but they should be able to make them large enough to cook on.” He looked up into the canopy. “And we are no longer followed. Smoke is not a worry.”
“Are you sure?”
“You think we are?” Wise to listen to hunters, of all the villagers they were most attuned to the trees. Sark shrugged.
“On occasion, I have thought I saw something.” He looked out into the trees. “But truthfully, could be rootlings, they get everywhere.” He shrugged. “And this place makes me nervous, I will not lie.”
“Well,” said Cahan, and he scanned the wood, looking deep into the gloom between the trees, “keep watching.”
“If I go now, maybe we will have meat by the evening.”
“Yes. Thank you, Sark.” The man started to walk away. “And Sark,” he called after him. The hunter turned.
“Aye?”
“What you did for that rootling, the forest will not forget.”
“I hope not,” he smiled, “though there are a few here who still think we should have eaten it.” With that he returned to his small group and started explaining what they were about. A moment later Ont returned with his arms full.
“It is mostly scraps of rope, Cahan,” he said as he dropped them. “No great lengths, so if you wish to climb we have some work to do re-braiding it.”
“It is not for climbing.” He took a piece of rope, rolling it in his fingers. “Let me show you what I wish us to do.” He gave Ont back the small piece, then found some rope he judged long enough and coiled it until it was a large flat plate about as far across as his forearm. Then he used vines and thorns he had picked from a bush to secure the rope he had coiled, ignoring the inquisitive eyes that watched him until he was sure his construction would not fall apart. He lifted it up.
“There,” he said, “what do you think?” Ont looked blankly at him.
“It is very nice?” he said slowly.
“Do you think you could make one? Well, a few?”
“Yes,” said Ont, “I imagine so. It did not appear too hard.”
“Good,” said Cahan, as he lay it down. “You look a little confused, Ont.”
“Aye,” he said with a look of such puzzlement it almost caused Cahan to burst out laughing. “What is it?”
“Ah, I am fool,” Cahan grinned. “I forget how little you know of bows. It is a target. We pin it to a tree, or lay it at the base of one. Then we loose arrows at it.”
“Of course,” said Ont, picking it up, “like the wooden ones we used in Harn.”
“Exactly, but much lighter. They can be made from woven reeds as well.” The butcher studied the target, and gradually his smile faded.
“Are we not done with bows and war, Cahan? Is that not why we run to Wyrdwood?”
“Bows are useful for many things,” said Cahan, “I have spoken to Gart about hunting. He uses a spear now, but a bow will be easier when he is comfortable with it.” He picked up his bowstaff. “And we hope not to fight again, Ont, it is my greatest desire. But better to be prepared than not, and the more we practise, the better prepared we are. Remember how much you ached when we first started.”
“Aye,” said Ont, “your name was black in the air, Cahan Du-Nahere, and I have never seen so many people cursing their own muscles.”
“Well,” said Cahan with a smile, “the best way to avoid that is to keep practising.” He stood a little closer. “And it brings the people together, Ont. To do a thing, as a village.”
“Of course,” he bowed his head, “the Leoric will be pleased.”
“She will be even more pleased soon, Ont.”
“Why?” said the man as he leaned over to pick up another rope.
“Because I intend to teach your village how to safely make bigger fires, even in Wyrdwood.”