They made him wait outside the gates. He sat on a rock and tracked the movement of the light across the sky, watching the shadows of the trees reach out for the walls of Harn as the light passed through the early eight. Above him the clouds, long and smooth, like smears of fungal bloom that pointed north across the sky. The circle winds would push them on until they came upon Wyrdwood, and the wall of cloudtrees which would shatter them into lifegiving water. That to fall into the forest to trickle back into the land through a thousand streams and creeks. Little of that water reached as far as Harn, as it was sucked up before it left Harnwood and water had to be stolen from the vines and trees.
If he squinted he imagined he could make out the line of mist where cloud met tree, the way the black trunks and vast branches stuck out below, giving the impression that the massive trees had a canopy of foggy air. Few people of Harn, or Crua, ever made the journey into Wyrdwood. The dangers far outweighed the benefits and unless there was a truly worthwhile reason, like treefall, it was unlikely most would ever see the cloudtrees or walk among them.
He had, though; sometimes it was as if the great forest called to him in a voice he could not deny and, despite the dangers of Harnwood and Wyrdwood, he was drawn to those quiet, dark and lonely places among the vast trees.
He met no others there, except the occasional Forestal, those who entirely rejected, or chose to reject, society. Generally they kept to themselves. If they raided it was from desperation or to strike at the Rai. They had little interest in one man toiling through their forest, or small villages like Harn, as they were places they could trade should they need to. The Forestals had access to valuable woods which made the risk of dealing with them worthwhile.
He wondered why they were attacking Harn’s traders now, it barely seemed worth their while to come all this way for a few fleeces.
“Forester!” He turned to see Dyon standing between the guards of the gate, tall, thin and austere as ever. He had painted his bald head with fungal juices, the mystic swirls of Tarl-an-Gig glowing faintly upon his pate. “The Leoric will hear your entreaty now.”
Cahan bit back a bitter reply. It was just like Dyon to make the fact that he was doing Harn a favour sound like he was the one coming begging to them. Like most in Harn he had never travelled further than Harn-Larger and was suspicious of anything outside of his small world. He watched Cahan approach and scratched at the painted symbols that ran down the side of his face proclaiming his lineage. It looked like the inks irritated his skin and though it was small of Cahan it made him smile – that this badge of belonging should trouble its owner so.
“Lead on, Dyon,” he said. The man nodded and walked away without checking Cahan followed.
Furin the Leoric waited in her cold longhouse, sitting before the glowing embers of her fire sipping on her broth.
“I am glad you saw sense, Forester,” she tried a smile but it did not quite reach her eyes. “I will have the crownhead sent to your farm.” He nearly said more than he meant, that she could keep the farm as he no longer wanted it or needed it. The reborn’s visit had made up his mind and he had no intention of coming back from Harn-Larger. It seemed foolish to tell these people. Harn may not have brought the soldiers down on him, but it did not mean they would not give him up. The less they knew of his plans the better, though it saddened him that his remaining crownheads would be left to look after themselves. Most likely they would die.
“I would rather have the coin,” he said.
“You do not trust us to choose you a decent animal?”
“No,” he said, while thinking it was good of her to provide him with an excuse. Furin looked at him, some expression he could not decipher on her face, shook her head and stood with a grunt. The Leoric rubbed her back and then vanished into the rear of the longhouse, behind the screen. Returning from the gloom with a bag of coin. It was not a large amount, but enough. With what he had already dug up from his grove it was probably more than most people in Harn would ever see in their lives. He stowed the money in his pack among the clothes.
“I am sorry you were made to wait outside, Forester, that was not my instruction,” said Furin. “I told Dyon to have you wait while the caravan was made ready, but he should have brought you in to do so.”
“I did not see the caravan.”
“It is by the Forestgate, when I knew you were here, well,” she smiled again but the smile was as cool as her house, “I did not want to give you time to change your mind. When you return, maybe we can become closer than we have been, eh?” With that she led him out of her house and through the quiet village to the Forestgate where the caravan was readying itself.
It was larger than he expected. There was a raft, and rather than being suspended by floatweed as was usual, it was held above the ground by a net containing over a hundred young gasmaws, each about the size of someone’s head. They darted back and forth, fighting the edges of the net with writhing tentacles, looking for a way out. Sengui, the gasmaw farmer, was carefully checking her knots to make sure none could find an escape. On the other side stood Gart, checking over the sides of the raft to make sure they were solid. With him was the butcher, Ont, a huge man, far bigger than Cahan and a man the forester had never cared for.
“… and I tell you,” he was booming, “I have more dried meat I wish to send.”
“Meat and skins,” said Sengui softly, “are heavy. The net will not take more of the maws to balance the weight out.”
“Then get another net,” said Ont.
“The rest are too young, no one will buy them. If you want to add more goods then you must deal with Gart,” the wool merchant smiled and shook his head at Ont.
“If you match Diyra’s price that she paid me to remove my wool and put on more skins, I will take your coin.” The big man huffed but said nothing. Cahan turned away from the arguing traders, looking for the Leoric.
“You said you needed me for my size,” he said, “but Ont is far bigger than I am.”
“Two men of great size is better than one, right?” She shrugged, “or that is what my first- and secondhusbands said to me.”
“Do not try and deflect this with jokes.” The beginning of a real smile fell away at the seriousness of the forester’s tone. “Tell me why you really want me to go with your traders or I will walk away.”
He stared at her.
She stared back.
Cahan wondered how much she actually knew of him. Or if he simply did not hide his past as well as he thought and the echoes of the warrior he had been followed him wherever he walked. Footprints left behind in red from the blood he had spilled. “If you do not reply true, Leoric, I will walk away. Why do you really need me?”
She took a deep breath.
“Very well, I know we cannot hope to match their coward’s weapons with what little strength we have here.”
“You think one more man can stop a group of Forestals with bows?” The fire inside him burning brighter. “Clearly, you have never seen a good archer in action.” He should not have been surprised that she was unfamiliar with bows; they were banned throughout Crua and reviled by the people. “Why not bring in the Rai? They will protect your village and punish the Forestals for attacking, especially if they bring bows. They have little patience with weapons that kill from such a distance.” She let out her breath, took his arm and moved him away from the traders – who continued with their own argument, oblivious of his.
“I know nothing of you, Forester,” she said, “not even your real name. But I know you are not like these people,” she said, inclining her head to indicate the traders behind her. “You have seen the world, you know it and not simply from marching in an army to fight, seeing nothing but camps and battlegrounds.” Her eyes searched his face, looking for some sign that she was right. “I am the leader of these people, and they know nothing of the Rai but stories of great heroes. To them Rai are warriors seen at a distance on the battlefield. But we know the truth of them, yes? Our leaders are cruel, and they would treat my people badly if I called them.” He could not deny that. “You are a forester, you know the forest and its ways.” She looked over at the squabbling traders. “They will argue, and they think themselves better than the Forestals. They will try to fight if they find them. At best they will lose everything, at worst they become corpses feeding the trees and the fungi.” She looked back to him. “I had hoped you might be able to speak with the Forestals, agree some sort of deal to let my people pass.”
“Do you know why they are attacking you?” he asked. She looked away, back at the caravan. “You should send a message, offer the Forestals a portion of your goods, and a place here to trade if they want it, as long as they leave you alone.” She stared at him.
“You think I have not tried?” Furin sighed, lowered her voice. “Harn is dying, Forester, we need to be able to trade with Harn-Larger. It is our link to the skyrafts and from there to the rest of Crua. The bluevein blights our fields and without trade the forest will reclaim Harn and these people will lose everything.” Behind them the caravan finally sorted out its differences and the traders put on the rope harnesses and began to move it through the village. He watched it pass, the net of gasmaws bobbing above the heavily laden raft. They passed without looking at him. At the Tiltgate the two guards waited with the monk Tussnig who held a screaming histi by its ears.
“You should join them for the blessing,” said Furin.
“I do not think I would be welcome, neither do I want the blessing of a god such as Tarl-an-Gig.” The moment he finished speaking something wet hit him in the face. He turned, ready to be angry at some villager cursing him for his lack of piety, or the simple truth that he was clanless. Instead he found the monk he had given coin to, squatting before an earth-house. Her hands filthy with mud and an impish smile on her face. The spikes of her hair rose tall above her.
“I have blessed you, Forester,” she said, lifting a handful of mud, “with good earth, as befits a traveller through the forest.” She brought her hand down and sniffed it. “Well, good earth as much as you can find it in this place. It’s full of filth.” At the gate the histi squealed as Tussnig cut its throat and spattered blood over the raft and travellers. “But it’s still cleaner than that old fraud,” she said, glancing towards the Tiltgate.
“Udinny,” said the Leoric, “sometimes I think you wish to be banished from here as you have been banished from so many other places.” The monk made a mocking look of contrition at the Leoric, sticking out her bottom lip. “If you wish to clown then go and do it for Issofur, he at least delights in it. The Leoric sounded serious but he did not believe her, there was an edge of amusement there. “Issofur’s affection for you is the only reason I protect you from Tussnig. So do not ignore him and fall out of favour with my child.” Udinny hopped up into the air from a crouching position and gave the Leoric a bow.
“As you wish, great leader.” She trotted off towards the Leoric’s longhouse.
“And do not teach him any of your bad habits!” she shouted after her, then turned back to the forester. “I am sorry about that one,” she said, took a piece of cloth from a pocket and, reaching up, wiped mud from his face. Such a simple and thoughtless action on her part, and it shocked him. The expression on his face strange enough to cause her to pause. “Sorry,” she said, and was there something playful there, in her voice? No, there could not be. He was clanless. “Sometimes the part of me that is a mother cannot be put aside and I act without thinking.” The hand holding the cloth fell to her side. “I had an older boy once, but he died in the war along with my firstwife and our firsthusband.” She held out the soft cloth and he took it from her, cleaning the mud from his face.
“Thank you,” he wiped at the mud, “few are so kind to the clanless.”
“Anyone can draw a few signs on their face,” she was staring quite intently at him and it made him uncomfortable. He gave the cloth back, felt the familiar frown returning to his face. Furin’s smile faltered and she turned away, towards the gate. “It looks like the blessing is over,” she straightened up, and once more she was leader of the village, not simply a woman talking to him, “you should lead them to Woodedge.”
“Aye,” he said, “I should”, and he walked away but his mind was not on the forest or the caravan. It was on the touch of a cloth upon his face, and the realisation that no one had touched him in anything but anger since the day an old gardener in a monastery far away had died a terrible, terrible death.