Harn, a silhouette in a wooded clearing. Torches burning around the wall illuminating the two soldiers at the front gate. Venn and Cahan moved around the edge of the clearing until they were opposite the wall between the Forestgate and the Tiltgate.
“Are you ready?” Cahan whispered. The trion, wide-eyed, breathing shallow, nodded. “Try to breathe slowly, it will help.” They licked their lips, nodded again.
“Cahan,” said Venn, “staff fighting, you can do it without killing?” He nodded, thinking it an odd question to ask at such a time. “When this is over, will you teach me?”
“Of course,” he said, though somewhere within he thought it unlikely. The truth of this; him, alone, against the Rai and her soldiers? He was unlikely to leave this place. He had dug up the grave of who he had been, but Harn was likely to be the final resting place of who he had become.
The trion smiled at him.
“Good,” they said, and then they were gone, into the darkness and heading for the walls of Harn. He watched them, keeping low over the cleared ground between the village and the trees. Venn reached the wall and pressed their body against it. He had told them to stand and wait and listen before going over. If it sounded like there was commotion, as if either of them were missed, then they should come back and he would cover their retreat with his forestbow.
So he waited, only realising he had been holding his breath when Venn turned and, rather than going over the wall, which he had expected, worked their way along it until they found a place they could go under.
Listening in the darkness.
Hoping not to hear shouts. Not to hear the voices of soldiers calling out as they saw Venn appear.
Nothing.
Cahan worked his way back around Woodedge until he was looking at the Tiltgate and the guards before it. Now it was his turn to control his breathing. Long, slow and calming breaths. It did no good to loose a bow when worked up. Target shooting was an exercise in concentration; a place where the rush of battle served you poorly, quick reactions were all well and good close up, but not for an archer. It was a cold, deliberate and considered thing, to kill from a distance.
He felt his heart slowing.
Stood.
Hidden.
Clothed in the darkness of Woodedge.
He tested the bow. It had been many years since he had drawn the forestbow, and though it was a skill never forgotten, it was still one that should be practised, for strength, if nothing else. But also because an archer must know their bow, how it felt, how the tension of it was transmuted into distance. How the arrows would act in the wind or lack of it. A bowstaff changed over time, with damp and heat and use, and those changes could only be felt through loosing arrows. He had been confident in front of Venn, as the trion was young and needed his confidence to feed their own. But he was less confident when he was the only audience.
It was getting harder to lie to himself.
He heard a rustling, felt something by his feet and looked down to see Segur looking back at him.
“Hide, Segur,” he said. “This is none of your business and you will only get hurt.” The garaur whined and stayed exactly where it was. Such was the way of animals, they could not be forced into doing what you wished them to do; they could only be asked. And often, they knew when they were needed. He drew comfort from the garaur’s presence even as he drew the bow.
Felt the burn in his arms and upper body.
Relaxed.
He had not drawn it as far as it could be drawn. Even with the help of the cowl beneath his skin his strength had lapsed. Still, he was sure that he had enough range to hit the guards on the gate. The first he would kill. The second he would wound. That should bring out the rest. Then he would show himself and draw them into the forest to play a deadly game of garaur and histi while Venn evacuated the villagers. From the quiver at his hip he took five arrows and stuck them in the ground so they could be easily accessed. Then he nocked the first arrow, drew back the bow and looked along it at his target.
Let out a breath.
The world became his line of sight. All other things disappeared from his conscience.
The arrow :: The target.
Muscles burning as he held the bow at tension.
The string digging in against his fingers.
The soldier in his sight.
Slowly, he let the tension fall from the string.
Who was this person he aimed at? Did they have a family. Were they expecting trouble? They had no idea they were about to die. Would have no chance to say their goodbyes. What gave him the right to do this?
He thought of Sorha, the Rai, and how she had described the way he would burn. A slow and painful death. Whoever this guard was they would no doubt have watched without any sorrow for him. They would have laughed at his agonies, made jokes with their fellows. To them, he was simply a threat to the blue and the Cowl-Rai. A clanless non-person who deserved no better than to die painfully for Tarl-an-Gig.
Nock pull and loose.
One swift motion, drilled into him in his earliest years. Barely a moment to look at the target. Let instinct rule. Not as fast as he would have been once, when his body was at one with the bow. A moment of hesitation as he checked his sighting.
The arrow flew.
He watched and waited with the fascination of an artisan inspecting their work. Did not hear it hit the target. But saw them fall. They dropped their spear, stood for a single breath and then collapsed backwards against the wall of Harn. The second guard did not even notice.
He drew again, a little slower this time as he aimed to wound, and that was harder. To kill was the main body mass, to wound was a smaller target. A leg was always good.
Nock. Pull.
And loose.
The arrow flew. He heard a dull thud and saw the guard turn. Missed. The arrow had hit the wooden wall behind the guard. They saw their fellow, lying against the wall. Walked over, unsure of what was happening.
“Tanhiv, are you drunk?” the words echoing across the clearing.
Nock pull and loose.
This arrow flew true. The guard screamed out in pain. A shout from another, behind the wall. “We are attacked!” He waited for troops to come out of the village, angry as disturbed orit.
Nothing.
The only sound the wounded guard calling out for help.
He took up another arrow, nocked it.
Wait.
No one came.
Wait.
Had the troops gone, left only those two guards?
Wait.
Surely not. It made no sense.
Wait.
Had Venn been right? Had Sorha really left the moment she knew they were gone?
The Tiltgates of Harn began to close. The wounded guard had managed to crawl to them and was pulled through by some unseen hand.
The gates shut.
No.
A voice from the village, cutting through the cold air of the night.
“Cahan Du-Nahere!” Sorha. Her voice echoing around the clearing. “A bow is a coward’s weapon, I thought you better.” He did not answer. No doubt she thought to find his position from his voice. She let time pass, and then when she was sure he would not answer carried on. “We have the trion, caught them coming under the wall. It was foolish of you to come back.” The cold, which he had not felt until that moment, once more gnawed his bones.
“Let the trion go, and the villagers,” he shouted, “and I will come to you.”
“I think not,” she shouted back. “How odd that we find ourselves in the same position as before, Cahan Du-Nahere. All you are good for is endangering your friends. But I am generous and my offer remains the same: give yourself up and I will let some of this village live. Don’t and I will start killing villagers again. The monk first.” He heard laughter. “This time I am not coming out to let you watch, of course. Not when you brandish that coward’s weapon, but you will hear them screaming as they die. And I will throw the heads over the wall so you know which ones have given their lives for you.”
He had failed.
As swift and simple as that. She had seen through his tactic, been waiting for him. Now he was no better off than he had been when they caged him.
You need me.
He would not listen to the voice. Would not.
You need me.
The cowl lied, of course. As soon as he was in range of the dullers, it would be no help at all. In fact he would be weaker because of it. He would fight poorly, his strength and will abruptly sapped.
But.
He did not need to fight well. All he needed was a distraction, and if he created enough of one then maybe Venn and the rest of Harn could escape. Maybe Sorha and her troops would be so occupied with him they would not notice them leaving. The bow might be of no use now, but he had his axes. Even without the cowl he was well trained in their use.
He looked down at Segur, sitting on its rump, staring up at him.
“Well, Segur,” he said, “I never really expected to walk away.” The garaur whined at him. “Now you really must hide.” He knelt so he could scratch between its sharp ears. It opened its mouth, showing equally sharp teeth. “You have been a good companion, but I free you again. Hunt well, though you will have no one to cook your histi for you.” The garaur whined. Pushed its head against him but did not leave. Only sat there. Maybe it did not believe him. He rubbed its ear. “Very well. But do not follow me into the village.” A short whine in response.
“Sorha!” he shouted back. “Stay your blade from the villagers. I am coming.”
“We are ready for you, Cahan Du-Nahere. The fire is built.”
He looked about. Most of the trees around Harn were small, not much more than saplings, but there were a couple of big bladewoods. He walked to the nearest. Touching the tree with his hands, feeling the ancient life, its slow growth through his gauntlets. “Old one,” he said, “lend me your strength, I will take only what I must.” Then he pushed his hands against the bark, felt the ebb and the flow of life. He was asking for not a drop, or a mouthful, but for enough to fill him. Tapping the tree was not like taking life, you could not do it through killing the tree. You needed permission. There was danger in this. He intended no slight touch as he had done before. He wanted to drink deep. The tree was of the forest, and he had always known the forest could swallow up a single man in the stream of its life quite easily, cowl or no. But he could not afford fear. Or doubt.
“I must ask this,” he whispered. “Give me enough power or Harn is lost.”
He cast his mind far out into the stream of life.
Such hubris, but born of desperation.
Strange, at first.
The vastness of it, the great flow of life. More powerful than he could truly understand. At first, it shied away from him, this vibrant and cool flow. He needed it, but it defied him. He chased it, but it danced around him. Frustrated, he tried to force his will upon it.
And it noticed him.
A voice.
So loud it deafened him. No other could hear it.
A light. So bright it blinded him. No other could see it.
He would have fallen to his knees but could not take his hand from the tree. Figures danced around him, tall and thin, twin branches growing from skull heads. There and not there.
“Have you killed and burned in our realm?” a question. “Have you taken without permission?” The boughry. His body wracked by pain. Plants impaling him. Vines strangling him. Roots ground his bones to dust.
“No,” an unbearable pressure in his mind. Stronger than any fear, crushing his senses.
“You would take that which is ours.” Boulders crashing down a sheer rock face. A geyser exploding from the earth. “And to what reward?”
“I would stop those who come to kill and burn.”
He screamed the words. No sound left in his mouth.
Silence.
He felt a pulse. As if something reached out into the land. Touched everything around him.
It reached out and toward.
It reached backwards and before.