41

Cahan knew every contour of the ground and every plant and tree that grew between his farm and the shrine to Ranya in Woodedge. He knew the tracks of every animal that crossed it on the ground, the air, or through the trees. It was the place where he had left the carved animal belonging to the child, murdered by the Rai at his farm. It was the site of the grave of someone he once knew. The place where he buried the expectations of priests and monks and sought to leave behind a life forced upon him by others.

It was where Cahan Du-Nahere died, and a clanless forester, scratching a living on the edge of society returned to his home wishing he could live as though he had never left.

But Crua was a hard land, and it cared little for what a person might think or want. In Crua, the dead might rise and so it was to be here. In the darkness. In the forest.

He moved the shrine of sticks built into a semblance of a hunter’s net. Showed Venn where the ground was disturbed from digging up his coin what felt like a lifetime ago. Gave them a shovel and told them to dig, then thrust the blade of his own shovel into the ground.

“What are we digging for?” said Venn, looking at the shovel.

“For the lives of others,” he told them, and levered out a spadeful of soil. The trion looked confused, but pushed their shovel into the ground, straining and standing on the blade to add weight to it.

“The ground is hard,” they said.

“It will get softer the deeper we go.” Venn managed to scrape a thin layer of earth from where they were digging.

“How far down must we dig?” they said.

“Far enough.”

“How will I know how far is enough?”

“You will know. Now dig. I do not want to lose the darkness.” Venn stared at him, plainly confused, then began to dig once more. He was about to join them when he felt a prickling on his neck. A sense of being watched. He turned, two grey figures in the wood. “I will be a moment,” he said to Venn.

“Why are you—”

“Dig, I will not be long.” His voice harsh, no room for argument. Venn frowned, turned away and continued struggling to break ground. Cahan made his way through the brush, following the shadows of the grey figures away from the clearing until he came to the edge of the wood. The reborn stood there waiting, his farm a shadow in the distance behind them.

“Thirty-five against one, Cahan Du-Nahere,” said the reborn, her visor muffling her voice.

“I have a plan.”

“Call on us. You will not survive otherwise.”

“My plan is for the villagers to escape,” he said. “That is all. I do not intend to fight.”

“You mean to die.”

The reborn stood quite still, their entire attention focused on him. He expected them to say more, to argue with him. Instead they simply turned away, walking back towards his farm. He watched them, wondering what they thought. If they considered him brave or foolish, or if they were simply angry at not getting what they wanted. It did not matter. His mind was made up. He would free Harn even though he knew the cost would most likely be dear.

Venn was still digging to little effect when he returned. Cahan picked up his shovel and joined them. It was hard work, but honest. Before too long the spade hit something with a solid “clunk”.

What he had buried there was not as deep beneath the surface as he expected, not as hard to reach as he thought it should be.

“Help me clear this box of soil, Venn,” he said, and they set to work. Digging around it, brushing off dirt until it was fully revealed. A box of darkwood as long and as wide as a person. The withered floatvine he had used to transport it still lay across the top. The fine carvings, that he had watched a woman do, wondering at her skill as her hands moved, had not been touched or spoiled by years in the soil. “Help me lift it,” he said. Venn stood on the box, trying to get their hands under the edge of the lid. “How do you reckon to lift it if you are standing on it, child?” They gave him a resentful look. “Come here, to where I am. There are handles.” He used the spade to clear the area and then they squatted at the edge of the grave, reaching down to grab the box.

“It is heavy,” said Venn.

“Aye, it contains an entire life. Now lift.” Together they strained, though Cahan felt he did a lot more work than the trion. He gave one final grunt of effort and the box came free of the land. Venn falling back into the grass, almost causing Cahan to lose his balance. It had been hard, the digging and the pulling, and he took a moment to get his breath back. Venn was the first to sit up and crawled over to the box, shuffling through snowy leaf mulch.

“Beautiful,” said Venn, rubbing some of the dirt off the carvings of trees, and faces hidden within the trees. “It looks like it was meant for a High Leoric.” They looked puzzled. “How does it open?”

“It is willwood, Venn, it will open only for me.” Cahan placed his hand on the top of the box. It shuddered. For a moment he thought nothing would happen. That somehow the land had leached its magics away and it had forgotten him. He hoped it had, then felt shame at thinking that, at wishing for an excuse to run.

But the box had not forgotten, the carvings of branches and roots that ran down the side and over the top withdrew. They twisted and curled around until they became ornate handles, allowing him to lift the top off. He heard Venn’s sharp intake of breath as they saw what the box contained.

Open, it looked even more like a coffin than before. A fine red cloth filled the bottom, and laid out, as if it were the body of some great ruler, was a set of armour and matching weapons.

“These are yours?” said the trion, their voice a whisper. “I have never seen anything so fine. Who are you?” They stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Not the person those who made these for me thought.”

The trion was right about the beauty of the armour. It was a full-body piece, made of dark cloudwood connected to willwood by a process known only to the armourer. It was carved with leaves, strange, serrated leaves, and he had never seen them growing on any tree. The helmet was crowned with the same sort of branching horns he had seen on the boughry in the forest, but unlike them it was symmetrical.

Laid, as if held in the scaled gauntlets, were his axes. Each made of one piece of cloudtree heartwood, their form curved and flowing from the sharp tips of the handles to the wide blades of the hatchets. By them a quiver full of arrows, and in a pocket on it a number of bowstrings.

“You are not running away, are you?” said Venn. Cahan shook his head.

“I have run a long time, child,” he told them. “The people of Harn are in danger because of me.”

“You cannot stand against all those troops.”

“Do not need to,” he told them. “I only need to distract them. I want you to go in and lead the villagers out of Harn and to Woodedge.”

“Me?” Venn took a step back.

“I will not force you, it will be dangerous,” he said. They stared at him, blinked twice. “You are free to go if you wish.” Venn took another step back. “But if we are lucky, Venn, they will not even know we are gone yet. You can simply walk back in, and if they do know I am gone you can say you were trying to capture me. That I am at my farm.” The trion still stared. “Or go. I will not hold it against you. I will understand. Find a skyraft, not even the Cowl-Rai dare interfere with them.” Venn looked down at the armour in the box. Then back at him.

“You are a warrior.”

“I have never wanted it.”

“Why are you doing this?” Confusion on their face. “Why don’t you run?” He did not answer straightaway.

“Sorha, Venn, she will leave no one alive behind her.”

“No, she will chase us, she will—”

“That is not true. She is Rai, she will want revenge,” said Cahan. “That is how they think.” Guilt flooding through him, as familiar as it was hateful. What was he doing? Venn was a child. “You should go, Venn. Leave here. I can sneak in, get those most in danger away and…”

“You really believe we can save them?” Cahan breathed, thought about it. About what he planned and, to his surprise, he found he did.

“Yes,” he said. “If luck is on our side.”

“And Tarl-an-Gig.”

“I do not believe in gods, Venn.” The trion stared at him, nodded to themselves.

“I will help you,” they said. Cahan felt as if he wilted within. Then he told himself, whatever it took he would get the Trion away this time. Even if it all went wrong and he could save no other, he would get Venn out.

“We need to get the armour from the box, and you will have to help me dress.”

As Venn helped him put the armour on, part of him thought it should have felt strange. He had not worn it in longer than the trion had been alive.

It felt like the touch of an old friend.

The armour was part of him, literally. As each piece was fitted he felt his cowl react. Binding with it. Changing its shape so it fitted the contours of his body; how it was now, not how it had been when he buried the box. When they were finished Venn stared at him.

“You look resplendent.” He nodded. The armour was meant to be seen, the bracket-fungus shoulder guards had been impregnated with colour that glowed even in the day. Designed so the troops of Zorir would know their Cowl-Rai had taken the field. It was the only thing he had taken from the monastery. Dug in the ashes and ruins to find it. Surprised it had not been stolen. Wanting its protection as he ran, looking for a place to hide. Discovering that the lessons in killing his trainers had given him had stuck. That no matter how he might hate it, he could fight. And he fought well, found in it what he thought was solace. Sold his skills and, somewhere on that journey, lost himself.

“Resplendent is not what will serve us tonight,” he said, and willed the armour to be less. It changed: the horns on the helm melted away, the colour subsumed, the carving vanished until he was as smooth and dark as the night. Fighting armour.

“Chyi’s feet,” said Venn, “I have never seen the like.”

“Pass me the axes,” he said. Venn lifted the weapons from the box, plainly surprised by how light they were. Cahan watched them study one, then stop when they came upon the marks on the handle, the many scratches and cuts. They looked at the other axe, and found the same.

“Is this from battle?” they said. He shook his head.

“When I was young and angry,” he told them, “I named these weapons Truth and Justice. When I finally understood the foolishness of that act, I scored those names out.”

“What was foolish about that? They are good names.” He took the axes from them, pushed them against the thigh pieces of the armour which held them tight without need for holster or scabbard.

“That is because you are young,” he said quietly. “Those words are lies, Venn. The only truth someone with a weapon and the strength to use it hears is that which they want to hear. The only justice they can bring is that which they believe is right. Truer to call these axes tyranny and fear.” Venn nodded, though Cahan was not sure they really understood. They picked up the quiver and passed that across to him. This they did not comment on. Like most, the trion was suspicious of arrows.

Cahan walked over to where he had left his staff against a tree, picked it up. Removed the sleeve from the bottom of it. He took a string from the pocket on the quiver, mawgut, still strong after all these years. He tied the quiver at his hip. Then he took the staff and tied one end of the string on. It took all of his strength to bend the staff so he could tie on the other end and his staff became what had been denied it for many years.

A beautiful, deadly arc.

“A bow,” said Venn, “all this time you carried a bow around with you. You could have been executed for it.”

“The bow has always been my favoured weapon.” He tested the tension of the string, found it familiar. “This weapon I named Loss,” he said, “that name I kept.”

“Why?”

“It is what it causes,” he said, and thought, though did not add, “and it is what I went through to get it.” Venn stared at him, but did not press him any further. “We go back now,” he used the bow to point towards Harn.

“What happens when we get there?” they asked. “I could have the villagers destroy the dullers and…”

“No,” said Cahan. He would have to speak straight to the child, he owed them that. “Do not believe what you hear in stories, do not believe what you hear in songs or in taverns from soldiers. There are no heroes who take on armies by themselves. It does not happen, and untrained villagers, like those of Harn, cannot fight soldiers. If they try and destroy the dullers, the guards will kill them. It is that simple. You get as many of them out and over the wall as you can, that is all I want from you.” Venn blinked, then nodded and pulled their helmet down a little tighter on their head.

“You could win, though.” Cahan froze. “Without the dullers, you could,” they said. “I saw you in the clearing. Sorha told me what you…”

“No,” he said. “You also saw what it did to me in the forest.” Venn bowed their head. “The cowl requires the lives of others, Venn. And with each life taken, it gets a little easier to take. And you become a little crueller.”

“But it is for a good—”

“That is how it starts, Venn.” They blinked. Nodded. “We should go.”

It felt as if every step he took was longer than the last. As if he had more strength and stood straighter. A trick of the armour, of his cowl being linked to it, of familiarity.

“How long were you a soldier for?” asked Venn. He had forgotten how inquisitive the young were. Almost as bad as Udinny.

“I was never a soldier.” Silence then, for a few steps.

“You look like a soldier.” Cahan did not reply, only grunted. “So the weapons are for show?” The forester continued to walk, not looking back, and tried to keep the growl out of his voice.

“The people who trained me thought it important I knew how to fight.” He pushed his way through ferns, heavy with snow. “And then, well, it was the only thing I knew how to do.”

“So you were a soldier.” He did not reply. “Did you fight for the Cowl-Rai?”

“Sometimes,” he said.

“Were you not worried they would recognise what you are? You are Cowl-Rai, aren’t you?”

“How can I be?” He did not look at the trion. “We have a Cowl-Rai. One a generation, is that not the truth of it? All others are pretenders, and no more will come now, if you believe the monks of Tarl-an-Gig. I was always careful to keep myself as far away from the centres of power as possible so my cowl was not recognised. Just another spear in the wall.” He walked on. Felt the moment when Venn was about to ask more. “This is not a part of my life I wish to discuss, child.”

“Oh,” said Venn, and Cahan hoped then for some quiet. He was to be disappointed.

“Is it frightening?” they said.

“Is what frightening?”

“To be in a battle.”

“Yes.”

“You must be very brave.” He stopped again. Pushed the heel of his hand into his forehead in a bid to drive his frustration away.

“Bravery is a lie,” he said. “We do things because we must, because we have no choice.”

“But this,” said Venn, “going to free Harn. You have a choice not to, that is brave.” He stared at them, and felt envy at their worldview, at how simple it was.

“No, Venn,” he said. “I do not have a choice.”

“But you may die.”

“If I walk away now, I will have the weight of Harn upon me. All those who die because I did not act, they will be mine to carry. It is a slower death, that, but still death. I realised lately I have been dying for years and have had enough.” Venn stared at him, their brow wrinkled in confusion. Then they nodded. Cahan hoped they could walk on in silence but the child spoke again.

“How come you have a bow? Bows are banned.”

“It is a secret of the clanless.”

“And the Forestals,” they said, “are they clanless?”

“No, they are Forestals.”

“So what is the difference?” He stopped again. It was clear he would have no peace until the trion had at least some answers.

“What weapons are the clanless allowed, Venn?”

“They are not.” His answer was rote, said as if Cahan’s question was foolish, and to most it would be.

“Exactly, but everyone else in Crua is allowed a weapon, most carry a spear, maybe a long knife if they are better off.” Venn nodded. “Do you know what it is to be hated, Venn? To be seen as less simply because of some accident of birth?” Cahan could see the thoughts working through Venn’s mind. “It was how I was brought up, for the first six years of my life. To know that I was less. If someone wanted what I had, I must give it up. If violence was threatened, I must run or bear it.”

“That is not right,” said Venn.

“It is the way it is,” he said, and continued to walk. “A staff,” he lifted the bow a little, “well, you cannot forbid someone to have a staff. It is needed for walking. But it can be used as a weapon, it has no edge but you can knock someone’s brains out with it.” The trion watched him, as if fascinated. “At some point, someone realised there is no huge difference between a staff for walking and fighting and a bowstaff, if the right wood is used. My mothers took me into Wyrdwood, where they knew none would come. There they trained me in the bow. I could hit a target at fifty paces by the time I was five,” he pushed on through the snowy underbrush and barely felt the cold, odd that Venn did. From there they walked on in silence and Cahan found he was, for the first time, uncomfortable with it. “How did the dullers affect you, child?” In the quiet thoughts of the violence to come were beginning to crowd his mind and now he wanted the trion to speak, to push them away.

“Nausea, mostly,” said Venn. “And a strange feeling with it. Like I felt some things more keenly, the cold, pain.” They slipped, almost falling into the brush but righting themselves at the last moment. “And other things, sight, hearing, my strength, they all felt lessened. Was it like that for you?”

“Aye,” he said. “But more extreme, I expect.” He stopped. “I thought you had not fed your cowl?”

“I have not. I will not kill,” they told him. “My mind is made up, that is why I must leave before my mother finds out the truth. She will not forgive me, ever. She will force me somehow and I am not sure I am strong enough to stand against torture.” Cahan nodded but it set him to thinking, all his life he had believed a cowl only wakes when its user makes their first kill. But if the dullers affected Venn, either the trion lied to him or what they were all told was wrong. Maybe Venn could not juggle fire, or drown someone in their own water, but they had a bond. Looking back, they had felt the life of the forest. The trion was cowlbound without need for death. “Cahan,” they said. He looked over his shoulder as Venn ran to catch up with him, plants and bushes shivering off their blankets of snow as they passed.

“Aye?”

“How can you intend to fight them with the dullers there? They make you weak. I still think I could do something…” The trion looked so earnest.

“Venn, they would kill you. Maybe you would manage to destroy one duller, but the other two would still be in place. It would be a waste of your life and any who helped you.” He reached out and put a hand on the shoulder piece of their armour. “Your job is to get the people out. Do not underestimate the importance of it.” He touched the axe on his right thigh, drawing their attention to it. “If I find myself in a position where I must use these, then I am already lost.” He tried to smile at them, but it was not something he did often, and he was not sure it comforted Venn. “Dullers or not, if I have to set foot in the village I will be overwhelmed.”

“Then how…”

“This,” Cahan held up the bow. “It is a far better weapon than an axe, sword or a spear.” They furrowed their brow, distrustful of it. How could he expect them to be anything else? All the people of Crua ever heard was that a bow was for cowards. He lifted it up, so Venn could see the carvings. “Have you ever seen a weapon like this before?” The trion shook their head. “Ever seen a bow?” Venn shook their head again. “This is a forestbow, banned throughout Crua. See how one end is sharp and the other is flat?” They nodded. “So it can be passed off as a staff. There is no finer weapon of war than the forestbow.” The trion cocked their head to one side.

“A bow is no use against Rai,” they said. Cahan passed it over and Venn held it gingerly, as if it could taint him somehow.

“That is what they would like you to think. Up close, Rai are formidable, with the power of a cowl it can take, what? Ten or so men to kill a strong one?” Venn nodded. “This,” he took the forestbow from them, “well, it can hit an armoured target in Harn from Woodedge. Even at such a distance the arrow will punch straight through them and kill whoever stands behind.” The trion stared at him. “It is a leveller, Venn, it destroys the Rai’s advantage. You can shoot them down before they even see you, their cowl is of no use.”

“I thought fighting was about honour,” said Venn. Cahan shook his head.

“That is another lie they tell you to control you. Fighting is about one thing and one thing only.” Venn was focused on him, like they were drinking up his words. “It is about being the one who walks away alive.”

“But you are only one man with a bow.” Cahan nodded.

“I am,” he said, then spoke again, more to himself than to the trion. “But give me a hundred, trained well in the use of the forestbow, and I would break any army the Rai of Crua can throw at me.” Venn continued to stare, and Cahan wondered if they thought him mad. “We head for Harn, Venn. You will see. I will kill the gate guards and, arrogant in the power they are so used to, the Rai and her soldiers will come rushing out to find me.” He held up the forestbow again. “Not one will get within a spear throw of me.”

“I have never heard of such a thing being done,” they said.

“Of course you haven’t, they do not allow such stories.” They walked on towards Harn, Venn thinking through what Cahan had said. Cahan thinking, too, knowing he had promised the child more than was possible. He had not used his bow for a long time, and it required constant practice to be quick enough to take down groups of attacking soldiers. But he did not need to kill every soldier in Harn, he only needed to get them out of the village. Then he could vanish into the wood, that was his best chance of living. The wood was his element, not theirs. He would move around them silent as death, picking them off until it became too much and they ran back to Harn, only to find it empty.

That was the plan, at least.