50

He pulled the floating bundle of sticks into the centre of the village. The reborn stood at either side of the gates, flanking statues, the villagers were gathered before the shrine. There was a constant chatter in the air. At the Forestgate the gasmaw farmer, Sengui, was using her maws to lift heavy lengths of wood into place. The maws were tethered by a complex-looking net of ropes that used their lift to power a crane. It was a rig he had only ever seen in the military and Cahan wondered if Sengui had served.

Gradually, the chatter died down as the villagers became curious about what he had brought. Cahan undid the bundle of crossticks and put them to one side, then cut the floatvines around the crownwood staffs, letting them fall, clattering into the mud. He watched the floatvines drift up and away into the cold blue sky.

The noise of the staffs falling silenced the villagers entirely. They watched him, some curious, some hostile. The attention made Venn uncomfortable and the trion stepped to the side so they were a little behind him.

“Are you planning a fire, Forester?” shouted Ont, walking towards him. He held in one hand the large hammer that he had been using to drive in pegs that held the walls together.

“Funny you should say that, Ont,” Cahan nodded, “we will need a fire, but not made with these staffs.”

“Then why have you brought them, are we going for a walk?”

“We are getting ready,” he raised his voice, pulling the attention of the village towards him and away from Ont, “for a show of strength.” Cahan looked around. He did not get the feeling that the villagers truly understood what was coming, though there were a few, the guards, Gussen, Aislinn, and Sark who was head of the village’s hunters, who he thought might understand. They had fought and they watched him in a different way from the villagers. “We are building strong walls, good defences.” Furin walked over to stand by him.

“We hope we will not need them, of course,” she said.

“But no god respects a person who is not prepared, yes?” shouted Udinny from where she sat, cross-legged in the mud before the shrine of Tarl-an-Gig. The villagers nodded, the need for sacrifice was understood, simple, what they knew.

“You work hard, and I have seen the pit, the stakes, the slope you have made.” He looked around, some smiles. “The new wall comes on apace.”

“We intend to build another around it, like what was said.” He looked for who was speaking, Sengui.

“Good,” Cahan smiled, “that is sensible.”

“And strengthen the gates more, too,” came another voice.

“I am pleased to hear this,” Cahan looked for the speaker, but could not find them, “I am glad you are taking this seriously.”

“Once they see they cannot get in,” said Manha, the leader of the weavers, “and they know from Dyon they need us to find the treefall, I am sure all will be well.” Cahan nodded, though he knew it was not true. Wooden gates and a wooden wall would not be enough to hold the Rai.

“We can hope so,” he shouted, “but as Udinny said, no god respects those of us who do not prepare. So we must prepare.” Now he watched them. “You, Manha,” he said, “we need armour.”

“Like yours?” said a voice, “we would need to work all of our lifetimes twice over to afford even the helmet.” Laughter at this.

“Like mine would be good, but as you say, we do not have the time or the riches. Who is the sap puller here?” A couple stepped forward, dressed in the same bright yellows and greens as the rest of the village. They kept their heads down. Did not look at him.

“Us, Rai, I am Gurd, this is my secondhusband, Hadral, our secondwife and firsthusband are in the forest now, tending the taps.”

“I am no Rai, Gurd,” he said softly. “We need the sap of stingwoods, you know them?” She nodded.

“We keep away from them, stuff burns.”

“Yes,” Cahan said, “but treated correctly it becomes hard. If Manha and the weavers can make us tunics we can make armour. Like your gate guards wear but newer, better.” The sap puller stared at him. Then nodded.

“I have heard from others how it is done, like making sweet sap, then you soak the clothes in it. We will need two vats, at least. It is a lot of work, will take time. Trees cannot be hurried.”

“Thank you, Gurd.”

“You have not told us about your sticks yet,” said Ont, there was something mocking in his words, his voice. “Do you wish us to go out there and beat the Rai with them?”

“No.” He turned away from Ont. It was always best to deny people like him the attention they wanted. “Aislinn,” he shouted to the one-eyed guard. She did not like him much, but she understood the danger that was coming. She stepped forward but did not speak. “Your spear, did you make it yourself?” She nodded.

“Armwood,” she said, “plentiful and the wood is hard. Then I sharpened the end and slow-heated it to harden the wood.” She lifted the spear. “It is as good as any I was ever given when I served the Rai, better, I think.”

“Can you teach others to make them?” She looked around.

“I can try,” she said. It amused him to hear the weariness in her voice, as if the villagers were a lost cause to an ex-soldier such as her. Maybe they were, he knew little of her history. “But them is no good for spears,” she said, pointing at the pile of staffs.

“No,” he said, “they are not.”

“If your sticks are not for spears,” shouted Ont, amusement in his voice, “then what are they for?” He could not keep the curiosity from his voice. “We do not all need a staff to walk like you do.”

“It is not for walking, Ont,” Cahan stared at him.

“What is it for then?” he said.

“War,” Cahan told him. Tried to meet the eye of every man and woman there. “Make no mistake, people of Harn, if the Rai are not moved to peace by your walls then we must fight them. They are an army, you are not. They are trained, you are not. We require something to put us on a level with them.”

“How will sticks do that?” shouted a voice from the mass of villagers.

“We will make them into bows.”

Silence.

Silence for too long. No one spoke. They had been taught to fear and hate bows. To see them as a coward’s weapon.

“The Rai will never deal with us if we have bows,” said Ont. He turned to the people of Harn. “He wants the Rai to hate us, he wants to fight them.”

“You think because we are not soldiers that we are without honour!” shouted another voice.

“You brought the Rai!” shouted another and Cahan realised how brittle the respect he had earned really was. How easily it could be cracked. “Now you bring dishonour! We are not clanless!” The crowd erupted into noise, a clamour, every voice shouting something different. Furin, the Leoric, stepped up, raising her hands and shouting. “Listen! Listen to him!”

But they were not listening, instead they were pushing forward, walking over the staffs, forcing Furin back towards the forester. Fists raised in the crowd, anger on their faces. Fear running through them. From calm to this, crowds were like the geyser rivers of Tilt; calm on top, but with deep and dangerous undercurrents.

“We should take him to them!” shouted a voice.

“They want him!” shouted another. “Let’s give him to them.”

Violence growing around him. In the distance, he saw the reborn. Murderous statues coming to life, spears held lightly in their hands as they jogged towards him.

Death in the air.

He could taste it on his tongue. Knew if the crowd erupted, if they turned on him, then the reborn would be merciless in their effort to protect him. The death of others was nothing to them. They wanted their own death, and would kill without thought to protect the chance of it. For a count he was helpless, backing away. The mind of the crowd knew it could overwhelm him. Like orits, it cared nothing for individual members, anger and fear controlled it now.

“Get him!”

Backing away, towards the Forestgate, the reborn breaking into a run. Everything spinning out of control.

“Quiet!” this a roar.

Not from Cahan.

A military voice. The sort of voice that was used to command, that was loud enough to be heard over the din of battle. It stunned the crowd, stopped them. They recognised it. One of their own. Sengui. She stood behind the crowd and they turned, their attention stolen by her. “Listen to him.” She looked at the crowd. “It hurts you nothing to listen.”

“Who are you to tell us this,” said Ont, turning to her. The crowd distracted, slowed. “We want to live, not to condemn ourselves by picking up the bow.”

“Just because you are big, Ont,” said Sengui, “does not make you right.”

“We are being led badly,” said Ont. “Furin is leading us to our deaths at the hands of that clanless fool because he makes her heart flutter.” The crowd were gathering to Ont, his words attractive and Cahan knew why. All the reasons he had avoided people for so long. Ont offered them ease and they were frightened. He offered them a target they understood. A way out through doing what they had been told was right all their lives; turning on someone they believed to be less than them.

“Have you ever fought, Ont?” this from Aislinn, behind her the one-armed guard, Gussen.

“You know I have not,” he said, “but that does not mean I do not know when we are making a mistake, when—”

“You have never seen the Rai, Ont,” she said. “I have seen them burn a village because the food they gave, the last of their food mind, had mould on it. I have seen them kill a family because a child that could bare speak did not show the correct obeisance.”

“This is his fault,” said Ont, pointing at Cahan, “his and that trion’s.”

“Maybe it is their fault,” said Sengui. “But we cannot change what is. Now,” she looked around, “it may be the Rai come and are ready to deal. And if their price is him,” she pointed at the forester, “then I will gladly hand him over if it means our safety.” If Ont had said that it would have caused a fury within Cahan, but when the gasmaw farmer spoke he accepted it as sensible. She spoke with a soldier’s pragmatism, and she had seen war. He could not blame her for wanting to avoid it. “But, and I tell you this, Ont,” she said, “the monk was right. Better to be prepared and not need it, than need it and not be prepared.”

“They will kill us all for having bows,” said a voice from the crowd. Aislinn laughed.

“How many times have you seen the forester walking into Harn?” She looked at the crowd. “Eh? Many, am I right? And he always has that staff?” Cahan saw confusion pass across the crowd. “Show them, Forester,” said Aislinn, “I have suspected it since the first moment I saw you. So show them.” Attention back on him.

“Come to the Tiltgate,” he said. “Udinny, bring my pack from the Leoric’s house.” He led them to the open Tiltgate. Stood between the heavy uprights with the crowd behind him, waiting until Udinny dropped the pack at his feet. He took a bowstring from it and hid it in the palm of his hand, turned to the villagers. The crowd hung back, not stepping over the line of the Tiltgate, as if there was some safety to be found in not leaving the place they had always known. But there was no safety for these people, not here.

“I am a man with a staff,” he said. “You have known me as that as long as I have been coming to your village.” So many eyes, watching, judging. “You have not liked me. I am clanless, no paint on my face, no make-up to wear. Maybe over time some have come to accept me, a few even to welcome me. But all I ever was, or could be to you, is a clanless with a staff. Staffs are common in Crua, right?” Wary looks. He let the string loose, keeping hold of one end so it unspooled. “Watch.” He strung the bow, bending the wood into an arc. “Now I am an outlaw,” he held the bow up, “someone to be feared and hated.” The crowd stared. “Let me show you why.” He placed the butt of the bow on the floor. “Most Rai can only project a few arm’s lengths from them. You,” he pointed at Ont, “pick a tree.” He took an arrow from his pack. “Well, Ont?”

The butcher stared.

“Armwood sapling,” he pointed, “the one between the two larger burnwoods.”

He had chosen a thin tree, thinking to make it harder for Cahan, but the reality was he would help make his point. Hitting the slim tree would only serve to underscore his skill.

Tension the bow.

Sight along the arrow. Taking his time. Take a deep breath.

Loose.

Letting the bow fall to his side. Watching the flight of the arrow, the arc of it through the cold air. It was a beautiful thing, an arrow in flight. Even though its purpose was deadly, the landing an ugly thing of pain and spilled blood.

Breath held in his lungs.

Arrow rising.

Falling.

Hitting the target, shattering the sapling’s trunk with a sharp crack, felling the tree. It could not have been more impressive had Cahan picked it himself. There must have been some knot in the sapling for its end to be so spectacular. Gasps from the villagers. A sour look on the butcher’s face.

“They cannot hurt you if they cannot get near you,” said Cahan. “And if Sengui is right, and you can buy your safety with my life, then you are only villagers with staffs.”

“You can teach us to shoot like that?” said Manha, the weaver.

“No.” He would not lie to them. “But I can teach you to fill the sky with arrows. Create a storm that none can pass unharmed. That may be enough.”

“Come then,” said Furin to her people, “I doubt making a bow is as easy as simply cutting some crownwood. Shall we let the forester show us?” They did not shout, there was no rousing affirmation of what he had done. They were mostly suspicious, but the anger had gone. They headed back to the village until only Ont and Cahan remained.

“I will look forward,” said the butcher, “to the moment they hand you over to the Rai.” He walked back towards the village square. Leaving Cahan alone.