They walked for half a day, following the tracks of the child through Harnwood and, though it made no sense, it felt as though the forest was getting warmer. He put it down to exertion, to pushing through the leaf litter and constantly having to watch your step so you were not tripped by hidden roots or vines. Occasionally he would find the bodies of histi, caught in the snares of trapvines, and if the corpses were fresh enough he put them into his bag to deal with later.
Harnwood throbbed with life and the further into the forest they went the more life there was. Or maybe it simply saw less of people here, so was not as scared of them. The air was full of flying and floating things: clouds of biting creatures that looked like tiny marant, huge herds of gasmaws, of all different sizes and colours and shapes, a hundred shy climbing things only glimpsed in a moment. He noticed that the different types of gasmaw did not mix. The more he saw of them the more certain he became they were not the same creatures, they differed so wildly in shape and size and colour. In turn that made him wonder if the small littercrawlers that fed on blood were not juvenile forms of the large ones that hid in leafpools, but something entirely different. Though how one could know if this was true he had no idea.
Udinny was strangely quiet that morning. He let her lead again and was sure that they would soon catch the child. The signs were becoming much fresher, broken branches still leaking sap, leaves only recently turned.
The monk was in a good mood. Her constant feeding of Segur with scraps of food from her pack had begun to pay off. Now the traitorous garaur rode on her shoulders as they walked. He had never thought to see the garaur so familiar with another but, curiously, he was not as offended by it as he thought he would be. It did not stop him frowning at the creature whenever it looked his way, making Segur whine.
It was not upset enough by his displeasure to leave the comfort of the monk’s shoulders.
“The garaur should walk,” he said to Udinny, “it is a lazy beast and will get fat and slow otherwise. And it will weigh you down.”
“I do not mind. Though the air here is warmer there is a cool breeze and Segur is keeping my neck warm.” Cahan would rather his own neck were warm but did not say anything. Udinny stopped. “Cahan, do you hear something?”
“Of course,” gruff words, “the forest is never quiet.”
“No, something new.” He stopped and listened. Heard what Udinny spoke of. A strange noise on the air, a babbling like one would hear in a market though he could make out no words and was sure that, this near Wyrdwood, they would not stumble across a market.
“Over here, Udinny,” he said, keeping low and moving behind a barrier created by a fallen branch. Fungal brackets with bushy, bright orange and yellow fruiting bodies sprouting from it covered the shaded side. They squatted behind the trunk. The fruit of the brackets oozed a clear liquid that attracted flying creatures. The creatures became stuck in the liquid, then the stalks gradually curled up around them, becoming prisons for slowly dying animals. They let off a pleasant, sweet smell.
“What is it?” said Udinny.
“I do not know. That is why we are hiding.”
“It sounds like people,” said the monk, alarmed, “is it Forestals, do you think? They are murderers and robbers.”
“I do not think so.” He was trying to listen harder but could only make out the same hubbub. He tried to move aside the globes of the insect-trap fungus but succeeded only in covering his hand in sticky liquid. “Ruins of Anjiin,” he said, trying to rub it off with leaves from the litter, getting his hands covered in rot and dirt.
“Look!” said Udinny, “there! Something moves!”
Through the forest came a riot of creatures, familiar, taller than the forest children, but not as tall as people. They walked in pairs, holding hands like children at play, each pair almost close enough to the one behind to be touching. Uniform from a distance but as they came closer he could see they were not the same at all. Some were furred, some were bare of skin, some had horns, some had long hair. Some were bent, some straight. They, like the gasmaw herds, were of many colours and shapes. They had adorned themselves with things of the forest: leaves and flowers, the shells of crawlers, bones and the wings of flying creatures. As they walked they kept up a constant babble, it was not language, though it was definitely communication. They moved constantly, changing partners often, babbling to each other and filling the air with a sound that could only be described as joyous. Like the fire of life bubbling over. When Cahan looked across at Udinny she was smiling.
“Rootlings,” he said, unable to keep the smile off his own face.
“Happy little fellows, are they not?” She smiled. “I have only seen them miserable, caged in the towns for sport. Or in Woodedge. A fleeting presence, there then gone into the underbrush.” The monk grinned at him. “I feel like joining them.”
“We shall let them pass, Udinny, they are happy because they are undisturbed. It is best not to spoil that.”
Udinny stared at the glad parade of creatures. “I was scared until I saw it was only rootlings.” She stood before he could stop her.
The rootling procession stopped. The creatures stared at her. One began to growl. Then another, and another. Udinny stepped back. Cahan stood, the rootlings knew they were there now. No point hiding.
“Back slowly away, Udinny,” he said. The growling of the pack became louder.
“But they are only rootlings,” she said, unable to understand what was happening. Her mental image of the beasts as shy, hunted things running up against this mass of growling creatures before them.
“And I have told you, the deeper you go into the forest, the more dangerous it becomes.” The mass of rootlings began to advance on them. “We are in their place, not they in ours.” The air filled with the sound and scents of aggression. Cahan stepped back. He had never before noticed exactly how sharp rootling teeth were. How long their claws were. Here, and now, they were no longer the vaguely comical creatures most thought them. They were dangerous. Lethal. Of the forest.
Something crashed out of the brush behind them, frightened Segur from its perch on Udinny’s shoulders. Before Cahan could turn he was barged out of the way by another rootling as it rushed between him and Udinny. It stopped before the mass of rootlings, favouring one leg as it stood. The rootlings studied this new arrival as it chittered and danced and chattered before its brethren.
“What is happening?” said Udinny softly. “Where did that one come from?”
“I cannot be sure,” said Cahan quietly, as confused as he was amazed, “but I think that is a rootling that I saved in Harn-Larger. Maybe it has been following us.” The rootling continued its dance, and as it danced the growling of the rest lowered in volume, the aggression began to leave the air and then the rootling, without looking back, joined its fellows. With that they continued on their happy way, as if Cahan and Udinny did not, and had never, existed.
They waited until the last rootling was out of sight and it was strange, when the threat was gone from the rootlings, how difficult it was not to feel the joy of them, just as they had done when they had first seen the crowd. There was something of the festival about them. It left them both in a better mood than they had been in when they first saw them.
Cahan’s good spirits did not last long. The sticky sap from the trap fungus made his skin itch and turn red. He tried to keep this from Udinny, but the itching became more and more intense, eventually becoming a burning pain that felt as if he had dipped his hand into scalding water. When he looked later the skin had turned an even brighter red and his fingers had begun to swell. They walked on and he began to sweat profusely, his breathing became difficult.
He stopped.
Unable to go any further, he could not even hold his staff. Segur whined at him.
“What is it, Cahan?” said Udinny.
“It is nothing, an irritation is all.” He sat heavily, sweat pouring from him, and knew what he said for a lie. Though he had pushed the cowl back in his mind it should be healing him. Something as simple as a skin irritation should not affect him. Even consciously pushing the cowl away could not stop it working on his body, it was a part of him like his skin or eyes.
Udinny squatted in front of him. He noticed she had got the sap on her, too; leaves were stuck to her hands but she did not appear to be affected in the same way. The world swam before his eyes. Udinny seemed to grow in size, her body swelling into something round and misshapen, though oddly benevolent. Her voice filled his mind. The forest scents lifted the hairs on his skin, his eyes would not stay open, the colours before him were too loud. He heard the wind scream as it was split by the trunks of trees. He started to laugh, sure he was dying. After all he had been through in his thirty and more seasons, he would die because he had moved a plant out of the way to watch some rootlings pass. It seemed a great jest for life to have played upon him.