43

He did not know what he expected. Something immediate? That did not happen. The Rai, Sorha, turned to her soldiers.

“Bring pincers and something to seal the wound,” she said. “I do not want him bleeding to death or drowning in his own blood.” She backed away, watching him with a sneer on her face. No doubt she enjoyed his fear, his panic. The soldiers held him tighter. One came forward with a pair of large pincers, blackened by fire, and a knife. He lifted the pincers, showing them to him.

“What I will do with these is…” he began.

“Get on with it,” said Sorha. “I want him to hurt.” The soldier looked over his shoulder at her, nodded. Someone grabbed his head, pulled it back. The guard came forward. Cahan tried to struggle, tried to clamp his mouth shut but had no energy. No strength at all and it was nothing for them to force his mouth open. The man smelled of mud, and alcohol, and he grinned as he forced the pincers into Cahan’s mouth.

In the moment as they clamped around his tongue, he saw the footprints that he and Sorha had made in the snow while they fought. An infinitely complex pattern: a thing of great beauty and he thought if he could study it long enough he would find some meaning there.

“Someone bring a hammer,” said Sorha, “to break his arms and legs so he does not run again.” The man with the pincers in Cahan’s mouth paused. Grinned down at him.

“More attention than someone like you deserves, all this, Clanless,” he said. Then pulled on the pincers, crushing Cahan’s tongue, making him bleed as he drew it out. Bringing up his knife to start cutting.

Behind the pincerman came a soldier with the hammer, a huge, two-handed thing of the type you would use to drive in tent pegs. They were laughing. Cahan knew his life was about to be reduced to one thing: agony. Nothing but agony; and that was only a precursor to what he would feel on the pyre.

The pincerman’s smile vanished.

A look of confusion on his face.

The grip on Cahan’s tongue fell away.

From the guard’s chest protruded a spear. The hold on Cahan’s arms and legs and head, gone. Soldiers were shouting, running for weapons they had dropped to watch the fun. Dying before their hands touched shield, axe or spear.

The devotees of Our Lady of Violent Blooms had answered his call.

A whirlwind of violence blew through Harn. The dullers had no effects on the reborn. They did not tire, their muscles were not subject to the whims or weaknesses of life. What animated them was other, they were other. They had no fear of pain, or death, they had passed beyond that. He saw one of the two reborn take a spear to the gut and she simply slid down it and knifed her attacker through the eye. They fought like none he had ever seen. The last masters of a lost artform. Moving in circles and in spirals. A spear in one hand, a shortsword or shield in the other. Rarely ever facing one opponent for more than a moment. Acutely aware of each other. They did not bother with defence. Only attack. Had the soldiers of the Rai had time then a shield wall might have saved them, but they did not.

They were not ready.

Cahan was not sure anyone could be ready.

Half of them were cut down in the first moments. The slaughter was terrible, like the end of a battle when one side runs in panic and the other goes mad with killing.

Blood.

Blood and screaming and meat and death until there was only Sorha left. The Rai backing away towards the Tiltgate. The reborn warriors did not touch her. Cahan thought it because they were busy finishing off the soldiers. But when Sorha reached the Tiltgate she turned, running for Woodedge. He wanted to shout, to scream for them to follow, but his mouth was broken, tongue swollen.

One of the reborn walked over to stand before him. Her armour and weapons red with the blood of others.

“The Rai,” he managed to say, though they were misshapen and swollen words. Pointed at the Tiltgate, “kill the Rai or she’ll bring others.”

The reborn, the one who he had named for his sister, turned and lifted her visor.

“I see no one,” she said.

“There,” he pointed again at the woman running across the fields towards Woodedge. He wished for his bow, though he could not have killed Sorha with it then for he was weak as a newly hatched garaur. The reborn continued to stare.

“I see no one,” she said. Then Sorha was gone, into Woodedge and it no longer mattered. He was too tired to wonder how it could be that the woman could be right before his eyes and yet invisible to the reborn warriors.

“We need to leave,” he said. But if anyone replied he did not hear them as the last of his energy fled and darkness took him.

He awoke in the Leoric’s longhouse, the familiar smell of her broth filling his nostrils. Behind it he could smell roasting meat and he wondered if the villagers had slaughtered a crownhead in celebration of his victory. If they would bring him fresh meat, still bloody as the people round here liked. He hoped not, he had no more appetite for slaughter.

“The sleeper awakes,” said a familiar voice. He opened his eyes to find Udinny sitting by the cot he lay on. She grinned at him and lifted the bowl in her hands. “You are welcome to the rest of this,” she said, “or I can get you a bowl of your own.” He was about to pass, then realised he was wrong about his appetite. He was starving. The nausea brought on by the dullers had gone. He knew peace. Then panic seized him.

“The Rai, did they catch her?”

“Did who catch her?” said Udinny.

“The villagers, anyone,” he tried to sit, “if they did not stop her then—” Udinny pushed him back down. The wiry little monk was stronger than she looked.

“You have slept for a day and a half and none could wake you. The Rai is long gone.” The nausea returned.

“She will come back, and bring more soldiers, more Rai.”

“I thought I heard voices,” Furin the Leoric came around the divider holding a bowl of stew. “I am glad to see you awake, Forester.”

“I should leave, Furin,” he said, trying to sit once more and this time he was ready for Udinny’s push, and did not let her stop him. “I brought all this trouble to your village, no doubt you and your people want me gone and…”

“Peace, Cahan,” she said. “The village does not blame you. Tussnig was quite vocal about his part in helping the Rai when they first arrived, while they were here to protect him anyway. When they came he was quick to tell them that you lived, that they killed the wrong people.” Anger, burning deep within him.

Kill him.

“I would speak with Tussnig,” he said, and stood.

“You cannot, he is gone. The village rejected him for what he did, especially after those women you brought destroyed the dullers.”

“The villagers worship Ranya now,” said Udinny, a grin across her face.

“They do not,” said Leoric Furin.

“Well, no, not yet, but I have high hopes.” Furin shook her head.

“They will come back,” said Cahan. Paused. “What is this about the dullers?”

“They had people in them,” said Udinny quietly. “Living people, though it was no life. They looked tortured.”

“You did not know?” said Furin. He shook his head trying to understand. “We thought you had been Rai, that you might be able to tell us why.”

“I was never Rai,” he let his words tail off. “The dullers were a new thing the Cowl-Rai of Tarl-an-Gig brought, the few times I saw them we were not allowed near them.” He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed his forehead. “People?” Udinny nodded.

“They were tied in, men and women. Filthy. Piteous. But there was something wrong with them, they did not answer if you spoke to them. They looked,” Udinny paused, “wrong. I have no better way to describe them. The reborn took one look and killed them.” Cahan thought of the Hetton, how they had looked wrong.

“The Cowl-Rai twists what is right even further than the Rai,” he said.

“The villagers dug a pit for the corpses of the soldiers,” said Furin, “but they have burned the bodies of the dullers.” She took a breath. “The people did not want their corpses in the land, they looked like they had bluevein, even though it is only a disease of plants. I hope they are free of torment now and walk the Star Path.” They were quiet then, and a little of the nausea returned when he realised what he had thought was roasting meat was burning bodies.

“You should have sent people to catch the Rai when she fled.”

“Cahan,” said Udinny, “they are villagers, not warriors.”

“It does not matter,” he began. Furin stopped him saying more by putting a bowl of broth into his hands.

“Eat,” she said, “and listen.” He wanted to argue, but he was also hungry and all too aware of what he had brought down on this village. A little silence was a small thing to be asked for. “As Udinny says, my people are only villagers. Some of them saw you fight the Rai, Sorha, through the gaps in my walls. They saw what she did to a man in fancy armour, who knew how to fight. It is too much for you to expect them to go up against someone like that, and you must know she would cut them to pieces.” What she said was true, he could not deny it.

“Leoric, the Rai cannot leave an insult unanswered. They will return.” He started to eat the broth. It was still very good.

“What do you think we should do?”

“The forest,” he said, “it is the only safe place.”

“You think they will not come after us there?” said the Leoric.

“I think it is easier to hide there.” Furin nodded.

“There are a lot of good things to eat in the forest,” said Udinny. “Though you cannot cook them except with your feet, which I do not personally like.”

“There will be a village meeting, Cahan,” said Furin, ignoring the monk. “There are those among us who have their own ideas of what should be done.” She watched as he spooned down more stew. “I would like you to speak to them.”

“Why would they listen to me?” he said. “I brought this down on them.” Furin stood.

“Do not be so quick to self-pity, Cahan,” her face stern, and he felt small. “They choose you over their priest, they cast him out for betraying you. Admittedly, partly because it brought the Rai to their doors. But for a village to do such a thing for the clanless, it is a huge thing. You are part of them now.” He felt an odd warmth within, though he tried to hide it, and maybe it was the broth. “Now, there is someone outside who is desperate to see you. Are you strong enough?” He nodded, ate more. Furin looked at Udinny.

“I am staying,” she said. Furin nodded and left. He heard voices, then Venn entered. They no longer wore their armour, instead they wore a woollen jerkin and trousers in a muddy brown. They looked like cast-offs from others as the clothes were well worn and bulged strangely around the neck, but the trion was smiling. In their hands they held his bowstaff.

“I got this for you, from where you left it.” The trion’s smile fell away as they realised Cahan’s hands were full and he could not take the staff. Then their face became serious. “I am sorry, Cahan, that I failed you.” Udinny watched, an odd look on her face. Almost a smile.

“Failed me?” he said. As the trion turned he saw what caused the bulge around their neck. Segur, the garaur, was nestled in there.

“They caught me as soon as I came in,” they said.

Cahan sat up a little straighter and stared into his bowl. The gravy was thick, full of vegetables and bits of meat. “You did not fail me, Venn,” he said quietly. “I failed you. I should not have sent you in alone.”

“What else could you have done?”

“I cannot forgive you, Venn,” he said, shock on their face. “There is nothing to forgive. And if there was then Segur has made that choice and already forgiven you. They are far harder to convince than I ever was.” He saw Udinny hide a smile. “Can you forgive me, Venn, that is the question?”

“Why?” The trion looked genuinely confused.

“For sending you into the village. For letting you go back to your mother in the forest.”

“You had no choice,” said Venn, they sounded confused, laid down his bow by the cot. “I have to go,” they said, “the Leoric said you needed peace and I am meant to be watching Issofur.” Cahan nodded, and watched Venn leave. When they were out of the building Udinny turned to him.

“I like them,” said the monk with a grin, “they will make an excellent follower of Ranya.” She stared into her bowl, looking comically disappointed it was empty. “Unlike your other friends, who I do not think will follow anyone.”

“The reborn?” She nodded. “They are not my friends.” Udinny put down her bowl and the smile fell away from her face. Silence slowly settled between them.

“This meeting the villagers want,” said Udinny. “They think to make amends with Harnspire somehow, but the Rai will not let what happened here stand, will they?”

“No.”

“It feels, Cahan, like things are coming to a point.” He nodded. “Let us hope that Ranya’s web is cast over us.” It was as if she spoke to him from very far away. He thought that maybe it was fear he heard in her voice.

“Aye,” he said. “Let us hope it is.”