38

“Forester! They are come! Forester! They are come!”

Least had passed and the cold of Harsh had begun to bite, binding the land in ice. He had spent the evening before with Segur, bringing the crownhead flock in nearer to the farm so he could feed them from hay put aside for the ice months. So cold now it made their wool crackle when he touched them. He had been up late into the night fixing their pen so they did not wander again.

At first he thought he dreamed the voice.

He had been plagued for weeks by dreams of Rai and their troops coming out of Harnwood for him, or coming over in a marant and dropping onto the roof of his farm. Always waking to another day where he was simply a forester and a farmer. As Least had passed he had begun to believe that was all he was. A man with friends, like Udinny and the Leoric, Furin. A man who could live at a farm in Harn Woodedge with few worries. Especially since the Leoric had managed, he did not know how, to convince Dyon that they should have nothing to do with treefall. Though the man continued to dislike him, and he was not the only one in Harn who felt that way. But Cahan had decided to ignore those who disliked him, and enjoy the company of those who did.

In those days, as the warmth waned and the cold returned, the Cowl-Rai and their war seemed very far away.

He batted the disturbance of the voice away and tried to push himself deeper into his furs, but it was not to be. The voice continued and it was joined by a hammering upon the door of his farm.

“Forester! Forester! Leoric Furin says to warn you. They are come! The Rai have come!”

He had a moment, a single moment between wake and sleep when he knew the voice was real but still fervently wished it to be a dream. He tried to lock the world and its darkness out.

Of course, the world cared nothing for what he wished. It simply was and he must exist within it.

More hammering.

“They are come, Forester! They are come for you!”

Life would not be denied. It was not the way. He pushed away the furs, shivering as the cold bit. Moved to open the door. As soon as he had done knew it was foolish. Whoever was shouting could have an army of Rai behind them.

Only a child stood before him, dressed in rags, shivering.

“They are come,” she said, looking up at him with wide eyes, “the Leoric says they are come for you and to run.”

“They are in Woodedge?” he said. “Behind you?” She shook her head.

“In Harn,” she said. “Leoric sent me.”

“Come in, child,” he said, “before you freeze,” she did and he pointed her towards a stool before the banked fire in the centre of the room. He set about the embers, waking the fire to give the child some heat.

“Leoric sent a message,” she said, “she says you need to run and hide. Don’t come.”

“Well, run and hide is exactly what I mean to do.” The child watched him as the first flames licked around the wood and a growing warmth crept out of the firepit. “Are they following you, child? Did they see you escape?”

“I were sent,” she said. “No one followed.” He paused in the laying of wood, wondering why he was doing this as he would have to leave. Should have left already. Then, in that moment of stillness, he thought something the child said did not fit right.

“When did they come, child?” He handed her some hard bread, she looked half starved.

“Yestereve,” she said, took a bite of the bread. Odd, that they had been in Harn all night but had not moved against him.

“How many of them, child? How many Rai?”

“Two Rai,” said the girl, “lots of soldiers, and some big boxes.” He scratched his beard, thinking about what she said.

“Any Hetton?” He could see from her face she did not understand. “Strange people, they look like us from a distance, but their faces are not right up close. They move wrongly.”

“Is only people,” she said, talking as if he were a fool and taking another bite of the bread. She would not look straight at him and he wondered if he frightened her.

“What is your name?”

“Gillet,” she said.

“You did well to escape, Gillet.” She nodded, eyes on her bread.

“Didn’t escape. I were sent.”

“By the Leoric.” She shook her head, dark braids twisting like serpents.

“No, Forester, by the Rai.” He stared at her, wondering if she was somehow confused.

“But you brought me a message from the Leoric.” She nodded. Dark thoughts of betrayal began to gather in Cahan’s mind. The fire within burned. The cowl beneath his skin itched.

You need me.

“I were frightened of going into Woodedge by myself,” said the girl, gnawing on the bread, “lest the trees take me and turn me into a rootling.” She nodded to herself. “The Rai, she were angry, but the Leoric said to her that her way weren’t the way to get me to do as is told. Said to send her boy instead.” She glanced up at him. “Issofur likes the forest,” a shiver down his back. “But the Rai would not have it. Said he were needed, and he is important as he is the Leoric’s boy even if he is touched in the head.” She gnawed more on the bread and continued to speak. “Then the Leoric spoke to me. Said I were brave and were to tell you to run, and to take me with you. And that I were not to give you the Rai’s message.” She picked some grit out of the bread and threw it on the floor.

“Well, Gillet,” he said softly, moving back from the fire and sitting on a stool opposite the girl. “You have done your job admirably and given me the message sent by the Leoric.” She was looking around his room now; her eyes stopped on one of the grass dolls he made from bits of hay when he had nothing better to do. He had planned to sell them in Harn at the coming Mid-Harsh. He took one from where it hung with a bundle of others. “You like this?” she nodded. “I am curious,” he said, “what was it the Rai asked you to tell me?”

“Leoric said I wasn’t to…”

“But you have given me the Leoric’s message, and I intend to run as she said. But it does interest me to know what this Rai said to you.” He turned the doll, so delicate in his large hands, until he was looking into the blank face made from a thick stalk looped over and tied at the neck. “If you share it with me, then I will give you this.” She stared at him, frowned, pouted a little as she thought about what was more important to her: the doll or doing as she had been told. She licked her lips, looked at the bread then smiled to herself.

“Rai said you should come to Harn before the light were high. And she did not call you Forester, so I do not even think she even knows who you are.” She nodded, quite succinctly, as if that had entirely answered his question, but he kept hold of the doll when she put out a hand for it. “Gimme it,” she said.

“What did she call me, child?” She stared at the doll.

“Something silly, Carn the hair.”

“Cahan Du-Nahere?” The girl nodded, put out her hand for the doll again. The cowl rippled beneath his skin.

You need me.

A coldness settled on him. “What else did she say?” The girl stared at him, defiant, then her desire for the doll overrode that defiance.

“Were silly,” she looked away, “said if you did not come by lightfall Harn would pay the price.” Gillet laughed. “I thought she don’t know nothing about Harn, cos everyone knows we are poor as dirt and can’t pay nothing.” Then she stuck out her hand further. “Now give.” He passed over the doll which she cradled like a baby and pretended to feed with some of her bread. He stood.

“Are your family back in Harn, girl?” She shook her head.

“Ain’t got none, had a firstfather but he died when the orits came last, got bit and it went bad.” He stared down at her.

“Stay here then, girl. If you see soldiers coming, hide in the wood. If you do not harm it then it will not harm you.” She looked up at him, very serious for someone so young.

“Can I take my dolly?”

“Aye. If I do not come back this place is yours.”

“It smells funny.”

“You will get used to it.” He took his winter coat from by the door, wrapped it around himself, took his staff and stepped outside.

He knew what he should do, head into the forest and keep going. Head south, avoid Harn-Larger, avoid people throughout Harn and the whole of the north. Maybe he could find somewhere quiet in Tilt. As the powerbase of the new Cowl-Rai few would expect him to go there.

But in Crua new people are always talked about, and his lack of clanpaint would attract attention, none of it positive. He could lie, of course, paint it on. But it only took one person to ask a question he could not answer. His only real chance would be to catch work on a skyraft, but even they needed their crews to go into the towns and villages.

And this Rai knew his name, like those who had come to his farm before. That was not good. The only ones in Harn who knew his real name were Udinny and the Leoric. He did not believe Udinny would betray him, and if the Leoric had, why would she warn him?

Who knew his name? Who had told them where to look?

He must see what was happening in Harn.

No, he should run. By leaving he was saving them. Eventually the Rai who was looking for him would get bored and leave the villagers alone.

A lie. He knew what talk of “a price” meant. Rai are ever cruel and the cowl always hungers. They are even more cruel when they are thwarted.

You need me.

It was possible the girl was wrong, that there were only a few soldiers and to her that looked like a lot. He had always been good at lying to himself, but found it hard this time. There would be a cost here: one life, his, or that of an entire village.

A whistle brought Segur bounding out of the crownhead shed to wrap itself around his neck and bring some much-needed warmth in the darkness.

“We are going to Harn, Segur,” he said, scratching its head so it cooed gently, “and I think we will find nothing good.”

Woodedge was somehow fresher and sweeter in the cold of the night, the plants and trees rimed with frost, the glowing creatures quieter as if they feared their voices may damage the delicate filigree of ice that coated every twig and blade of grass. Cahan did not take the well-worn paths, instead he moved through the wood like a Forestal, stealing between bushes to mask his silhouette, moving so quietly that even the shy nocturnal gasmaws floating through the cold air failed to notice him. These were not skills he had been taught in his youth at the monastery, these were skills learnt since, or echoes of a time before he went away, a time he had forgotten. He enjoyed them in a way he had never enjoyed violence, or the power of the cowl, because the skills of the forest had not been forced upon him. They were his.

He reached the edge of the wood around Harn as the light was rising above the treetops. It made the walls of Harn into a flat, black silhouette. Usually torches would burn above the gates, but not today, and he heard none of the bustle he expected from the village as it awoke. There was something else too, something that felt wrong. Not Hetton, but not far from them.

The gate opened, creaking and sticking. Someone shouted and soldiers of the Rai appeared, their wooden armour painted with bright blue lines and Tarl-an-Gig’s balancing figure. He watched the guards from within Woodedge, studying Harn. There was no way to approach the village without being seen. Good sense told him to go back to the farm, pick up what he needed and to leave. Instead he knelt within a bush with Segur wrapped around his shoulders for warmth, observing.

Through the gate he could see into the village. More soldiers stood around and behind them were the boxes the child had spoken of. On seeing them he knew them for what they were, the strange feeling made sense. He could no longer lie to himself. They were here for him, they knew who and what he was. The boxes were dullers, the shiny domed devices used to stop the workings of a cowl. The Rai commanding the soldiers walked out of the gate and he wondered if this was a punishment assignment for them. It was unpleasant for Rai to be around dullers.

This Rai wore much finer armour than their soldiers, more colours painted on it, bracket-fungus shoulder guards, a smooth helmet of dark heartwood. They checked over their soldiers, then looked up at the slowly rising light and stared into Woodedge.

“Any movement,” he heard the Rai say. He was sure he had heard that voice before.

“No, Rai.” They nodded at the soldier, then looked back into the wood, kneading one gloved hand with another.

“He should have the message by now. You are sure the girl made it?” In the still cold air voices carried. He wondered if the Rai was aware of it.

“Scouts ensured she was safe, and returned here when she was in sight of the house as you ordered,” said the soldier. The Rai nodded again and then turned to the forest.

“Tell me if you see any movement,” they said. Then vanished into the village. He waited and the light moved across the sky, slowly making its way to the highest point when the message said he should appear. At the moment before the light touched its highest point, and the shadows were shortest, the Rai appeared again. They walked a little bit out of the gate and removed their helmet showing red hair in a tight braid. The ice within him shifted. A crack in his stomach. He knew this Rai. She was the one he had burned the cowl out of when he had been taken as a vagrant.

It made sense, the dullers would no longer bother her, though he could barely believe she had survived. Most did not, madness consumed them.

“Cahan Du-Nahere!” she shouted “Come out, Cahan Du-Nahere! You have murdered two of the Cowl-Rai’s servants, you have offended the god-in-rising, Tarl-an-Gig! Come out, and we will make your end quick.” She stared into Woodedge. Looking for him.

He did not move.

“Do you think he will come?” said the soldier. Among the blue lines he could see the glistening white paint marks on his chest piece that marked him as a branch leader. The Rai turned back to the village and he saw another figure dressed like Rai, smaller than the woman.

“Will he come?”

“He believes himself a good man,” said the smaller figure. “He will come.”

That voice. Venn! He felt their betrayal like a physical pain, and at the same time could understand why they would turn against him. He had let them return to imprisonment, and with hardly a fight.

Though even from this distance, their voice sounded thick with misery.

“Branch leader,” she said, “bring me a villager, an old one.” The commander walked back into the village and returned with two of his troops dragging a man with them. Gart, the fur trader. His long grey hair free and falling round his face. He tried to fight them, but they were younger, stronger, more numerous and he was bound at the wrists. He was shouting, at first Cahan could not make it out but as they pulled him through the gates his voice became clearer.

“I fought for you! I fought for the Cowl-Rai! Why are you doing this? I fought for you.” Behind them, Venn stood, head bowed. The Rai stared out into the treeline.

“Silence him,” she said. The branch leader punched Gart in the stomach and the man’s legs gave way so he slumped in the arms of those holding him. The soldiers dragged him over to the Rai. “Make him kneel,” she said. They did, roughly forcing Gart onto his knees where he stayed. The Rai walked around behind him, drawing her sword of black hardwood. She pulled his head back, then placed the sword against his neck.

“I fought for you,” he said again. Even from Woodedge Cahan saw the glisten of tears in the man’s eyes, heard how confused he sounded. He could not believe this was happening. “I fought for you.”

“Cahan Du-Nahere!” shouted the Rai. “Come out or this life will be upon your head! This blood will be upon your blood!” Behind them, Venn turned away.

“I fought for you.”

“Come out, Cahan Du-Nahere!” She was looking towards where he hid. Not exactly at him, but in the right direction. He wondered if she knew he was there. No, she could not. He was sure.

“I fought for you,” said Gart again. Cahan thought the man was no longer there. That fear had stolen his wits. Or maybe he only told himself that to feel a little better that he did not move.

“Come out, Cahan Du-Nahere, or I will kill the whole village one by one.” With that she cut Gart’s throat, ran the sword across his flesh, opening the arteries. Gart began a shriek. The sword silenced it. The Rai continued to stare into the forest, holding the fur trader by his hair as blood poured from the wound. She let him go. Let him fall into the mud as if he was nothing. Leaned over to clean off her sword on his clothes and stood once more, blade in hand.

Everything was silent, entirely still.

“This death,” she pointed at the twitching body of Gart with her black sword, stared out into Woodedge, “is on you, Cahan Du-Nahere.” Within him the cowl writhed and his anger burned, hot and fierce. But he could not, would not, loose it. Even if he did use his cowl, he would be denied it the moment he stepped within range of the dullers.

To attack the village was a fool’s errand. He should come back at night, then he may be able to get the people out. It was not impossible. He had seen no more than thirty soldiers through the gate, not even a full trunk. Most would be sleeping. The Rai turned to her branch leader. “Bring the girl with the spikes,” she said. “The village monk said he had some connection with her.” The branch leader saluted, hand over his chest, then turned and marched into Harn with two soldiers. The Rai stared out into the forest.

“Cahan Du-Nahere,” shouted the Rai again. “I understand, from what Tussnig and Venn have told me, that you are a difficult man.” She let the words echo over the fields. “But you seem to have made a friend in the forest worshipper, Udinny.” Her words gathered around her in clouds as she shouted, as if the cold air did not want to let her spite loose. “The moment that unbeliever steps out of the gate, she is dead. You know I will do this.” She pointed at the corpse of Gart with her sword. “You have seen my will. I will not waver or change my mind. Your friend lives while she is within Harn.” Behind her soldiers were pulling Udinny from one of the roundhouses. “Is this monk worth something to you, Cahan?” The soldiers brought Udinny on, and the Rai continued to stare into the forest until Udinny was only five, maybe six paces away from the gate. She did not struggle. She walked with them, head held high. Her spiked hair sharp and stiff. Her eyes locked on the treeline.

Thoughts raced through his mind. Osere-cursed monk, fight them! Delay them! Give him time to think. “She dies,” shouted the Rai, “the moment she steps outside the walls.” The words echoed over the cold fields. “Unless you give yourself up.” A name on his lips. The thought of the reborn. A flicker in his eye. Two grey figures.

“I sense death, Cahan Du-Nahere, and it is coming to you.”

A step away. She was only a step away. Oh, Udinny. It would have been better for her if she had never met him. But she looked fearless. Proud. Ready to die. Her gown was filthy, but her head was held high.

“A follower of forest gods, as you know,” shouted the Rai, “deserves a slow death.”

Udinny, on the threshold of the gate. The Rai lifting her sword once more.

“Death, Cahan Du-Nahere, and it is coming to you.”

He wanted none of this.

But he had brought this here.

The world became as grey as the reborn. He saw his future, chased around Crua by servants of the Cowl-Rai. Never knowing who to trust. Bringing death wherever he went. No respite, no peace. The right path now obvious.

“Stop!” he shouted, and stood. A smile spread across the Rai’s face. Udinny, right on the cusp of the gate, slumped in the arms of her captors. She had been prepared to die to keep him safe. “Ranya watch over me,” he said beneath his breath. The oddest thing, he felt light, as if a weight had been taken from him. He let his staff fall into the bush, he did not want them to have it, and looked down at Segur, hiding by his feet.

“You have been a good companion,” he said softly, “now go, live wild and enjoy your freedom.” Segur looked up at him. “Go,” he hissed, with a last whine the garaur vanished into the undergrowth.

“Come to me, Cahan Du-Nahere,” said the Rai and triumph flushed her skin, for she knew that once he was within range of the dullers he was only a man and his cowl would do him no good. This Rai had outwitted him, and now he was lost.