60

There was jubilation among the villagers. A festival spirit ruled in Harn. People gathered, talking excitedly of how they had “saved their village” from the Rai. How it was now “only a matter of time” before the Rai offered terms. Those who would once have scorned him clapped him on the back as he passed, congratulating him as if he had done more than simply stand and give commands while the attack had come.

The villagers celebrated.

The reborn stood still as statues.

The Forestals had gone.

No joy within him. He had no wish to celebrate. Without the Forestals terrifying accuracy he did not think they would survive another attack.

“We need people on the walls,” he shouted.

“They are, look,” one of the villagers, Manha, pointed at the wall where the first attack had come, three or four villagers were up there. Darmant, the shoemaker that Venn had saved, was dancing in a circle, moving their hands through tree shapes in time to some music only they could hear.

“All the walls,” he did not mean to growl at them, but it was how the words came out and he felt the spirit of festivity dampen around him. Good, he thought.

“We beat them,” said Ont. “They fell like burst gasmaws.”

“They will come again,” said Cahan. “And this time they will know what to expect from us.” He was going to say more, to explain how the Forestals’ arrows had helped win the battle, but held back. They did not need to hear that now, it would not help them.

A scream from the longhouse froze the celebrations. The whole village paused, as if struck by the reality of their situation. “Dyon,” said the butcher. His voice quiet.

“We need to be ready,” Cahan raised his voice. “Branch leaders, join me!” They came running, as did Furin.

“A good victory,” said Aislinn.

“They all are, but we must not become complacent. The ram that fell in the pit. Get sap on it, soak it, set it burning so it cannot be used again.” Aislinn nodded. “And only open our gate a little. Have people ready to close the gate if the Rai come. And pick up any spare arrows you can.” Again, Aislinn nodded and turned. In the middle of the village Sengui was staring at the few gasmaws she had saved from her farm. She stared at them with a spear in her hand.

“They are dying,” said Aislinn to him. “Sengui said they would if she moved them from the farm, they are recently shorn of their stings and need rest. She worked hard to make that farm pay.”

“Someone is coming!” shouted from the wall.

“Gather spears and shields, be ready,” shouted Cahan. “Assemble the bow company.”

“Surely they are coming to discuss terms?” said Ont.

“It is Tussnig!”

“Huh,” said Furin, “I wondered when we would see him again.” Another scream from the longhouse and Udinny appeared at the entrance, coming over to stand by Cahan.

“The Sleepwragg has worn off, Venn is doing what they can for Dyon,” said the monk.

“Can you give him more.”

“Not yet, it will definitely kill him if we give him more before dark.” Furin looked up, the light was almost touching the tops of the trees. She opened her mouth and then shut it as another scream came. “Will Venn be well? We saw what helping Darmant did to them.” Udinny nodded.

“The trion says Ranya feeds them, through the ground and the web. I followed Ranya for many years and do not understand it, but I thank her for it.” The monk grinned. “Venn does not seem to be flagging.”

“Tussnig wants to speak to Furin!” shouted from the walls. Cahan turned to Aislinn.

“While we talk to the monk,” he said, “use this time to collect arrows and soak the ram. It should be safe.” They nodded and turned for the Tiltgate. “Wait!” They stopped. “Put sap pots all around the ram, and sap over it, but do not fire it, not yet.” They nodded, and ran towards the gate where villagers were lifting the log that held it shut. Furin, Udinny and Cahan climbed on to the wall. The monk of Tarl-an-Gig stood before the broken bridge. He still wore the headdress of his god, but it was no longer as makeshift as it had been. His clothes were neater, newer, though he still had the look of some small scurrying creature that should be in a hole rather than parading before the walls.

“Tarl-an-Gig watches this village and he is not pleased,” shouted Tussnig. His fury barely contained, all he could do not to scream.

“They were never pleased,” shouted back Furin. Below villagers were busy soaking the ram in oil and children ran about collecting arrows fallen near the wall.

“They are a hard god, it is true, Furin. But this is a hard land.”

“And yet it seems, Tussnig, some god was smiling on us today.” Tussnig stared up at them. It was not the look of a man who was pleased with what he had heard, but neither was it the look of man who had the wit to gainsay Furin.

“Tarl-an-Gig will be avenged!” shouted the monk, and without an answer he fell back on anger. Dancing on the spot and tearing at his robes. “You are cursed, eight and eight! Cursed with your outlaw weapons! The Osere will feast on your eyes!” Cahan, Furin and Udinny stood watching, impassive. Eventually, his fury abated as he realised it was not working. When he spoke again his words were sap-sweet. “I do not want my people hurt, Furin,” he said. I care for you, for the people of Harn. It was my home for so long.” He stared up at Furin. “Rai Galderin is powerful, Leoric, he will rain down fire on your village if you do not open the gates. Fire!” The monk had nothing but bluster, though Cahan could feel the wind of his words passing across the village. They had listened to the words of Tussnig for so long that to hear him condemn them was powerful.

“Ranya protects this village,” said Udinny

“Your forest god is weak,” shouted Tussnig, his fury returning.

“But you admit they are a god,” Udinny beamed at the other monk. “Before you said she was all my imagination.” She gave him a small nod. “I welcome the progress you are making, Tussnig.”

“I hope you survive the fire,” Tussnig screamed the words, “the Rai take their power through pain, and I will skin you alive and feed your pain to them.” Udinny laughed, which only increased Tussnig’s ire. Before he could shout more, and his words could blow more ill wind into the village, Cahan interrupted.

“There will be no fire, Tussnig, we both know that.”

“Oh, there will be, you will bring an inferno upon yourselves!” He pointed at Cahan. “This is your doing, you doom the people! The people of my village! You send them all to the Osere!”

“These people threw you out,” shouted Udinny. “You are not wanted here, Tussnig.”

“They were misled!” he screeched his words. Then took a moment, smoothing down his robe and calming himself. “I come now to offer them life! Give us the trion and the forester, Leoric, and we will let everyone else live.”

“That is not true,” said Furin. “The Rai have already told us that the best we can expect is a quick death.”

“But I,” shouted Tussnig, “I have negotiated for you! I will save the lives of everyone!”

“You lie,” Cahan shouted back. “The trion is too precious for them to throw fire at this village.” Tussnig stared up, a grin spread across his face.

“No one is more precious to the Rai, than the Rai, Forester,” he shouted. Cahan’s heart sank a little at that, it was the first true thing the monk had said. “They will come again, and they will break this village. But, if by some miracle, they do not,” he pointed at them, “do you really think the life of one trion, no matter how important, would be more important than making themselves clear on the matter of rebellion?” Tussnig knew his words had landed. gone was the raving and the dancing on the spot. Gone was the look of an animal before it attacked. “And even if they do not bring fire, how long can you survive a siege, Forester?” he shouted up. “Do you have enough food set away to live through all of Harsh?”

“Enough,” Cahan shouted, and in the quiet his words echoed out until they were lost in Woodedge. “Our answer is no. Tell your Rai to leave.”

“It is sad that you wish for death, Forester,” shouted Tussnig, “sadder that you would take this village along with you.” As he finished Cahan picked up his bow and nocked an arrow. That was enough to send Tussnig scampering off, cursing him for a coward all the way back to the treeline. Cahan aimed then lowered his bow, Tussnig was not worth the arrow.

“We cannot survive a siege,” said Furin quietly.

“No,” he replied, watching the monk of Tarl-an-Gig as he ran back, robes flapping. “That is why we must leave tonight.”

“Look,” said Udinny, and she pointed out to Woodedge. Soldiers with large wooden shields, not a large number, only a few, moving slowly across the scrub towards them. “Are they attacking?”

“Skirmishers,” said Cahan, “they will come within reach of our bows and try and get us to waste arrows. If they get near enough to throw spears they may.” He looked along the walls, at the villagers standing with their bows. Had an idea. “Udinny, have our best archers, you included, thread leaves and branches through their clothes the way the Forestals did.” He jumped down from the wall, followed by Furin and Udinny. “And have someone find one of those cloaks for me. The Forestals have left, but the Rai do not know that.” The monk nodded, jumped off the wall and ran into the village.

“I want to look in on Dyon,” said Furin to him, as if an answer a shriek came from the longhouse.

“And I would check with Venn.” They walked towards the door but were stopped by a group of villagers led by Manha, the weaver. The little group could have been ready for a festival in their brightly coloured armour and made-up faces, the lines and swirls of their clans smudged by sweat.

“Is it true, Furin, that you want us to run to the forest, even after we beat them?”

“They will come back, Manha,” said the Leoric.

“And we will beat them again.” Furin stepped a little closer, spoke quietly to the woman.

“Without the Forestals, Manha, we would have been overrun. And look about you.” The weaver did.

“They have gone?” she said.

“Ten arrows, that was their gift to us, and I think an apology because they brought treefall to the notice of this village. They had a hand in bringing the Rai here.” He saw emotions cross the weaver’s face. Confusion, anger, then acceptance.

“I will miss this place,” she said. “When do we leave?”

“Once the light is gone we will—” He was interrupted by a scream, and one of the villagers fell backwards off the wall, a spear through their chest. The other lookouts ducked below the wall.

“Darmant!” said Manha, her face stricken.

Fear. Sudden and overwhelming. He had thought they would not come before dark. Cahan ran for the wall. On the way passed a villager holding a cloak, ready to make it look like one of the Forestals and grabbed it, throwing it over himself and climbing up onto the ledge. Crouching on the ledge next to a villager named Tyui, their eyes wide, body shaking.

“They killed Darmant,” said Tyui. Cahan looked down at the corpse. Venn may have given Darmant his life back, but fate would not be denied.

“How many are there?” he hissed.

“They killed Darmant,” said Tyui again. Cahan grabbed them by their shoulders. “How many! Are they coming?” Cahan saw only fear in Tyui’s eyes. “Darmant is dead.” He let go, turned, cursed the double wall of wood that stopped him seeing through it to the Osere-cursed army outside, and then raised his head above the wall.

No army.

Only the skirmishers. He caught a movement. A spear. He ducked, the spear soared over the wall and fell in the village. He heard a shout, but of surprise not pain. Then scrabbled along the ledge, looking for his bow. Found it. Arrow quiver resting against the wall by it. Took string from his pocket and strung the bow, grunting with effort. He put two arrows between his teeth. Held the bow in one hand, the other held a third arrow.

One deep breath.

This would be a test of reaction times.

One skirmisher he could beat and knew it. But at least five had been coming forward.

Two deep breaths.

Tyui staring at him, the villager lost in their own fear.

A third deep breath.

“It will be all right, Tyui,” he said. “I will avenge your friend.”

Stood.

Pulling on the string. Sliding the arrow along his forward hand until he had full tension. Feeling the bow vibrate in his hand. The world slowing. His cowl writhed. A skirmisher drew back their arm to throw a spear.

Loose.

The arrow flew. Past the shield. Pierced the soldier in the chest and they fell back with a cry. He turned, taking another arrow from between his teeth. Saw a second soldier about to loose their spear.

Draw.

Aim.

Loose.

The arrow took them in the throat. Third arrow. Draw.

Too late.

The spear coming. The thrower already turning to run towards their lines. Cahan dodged left. The spear hit his shoulder, spinning him, the point scraping along his armour, knocking him off balance. Not enough room on the ledge to regain his balance. A moment of panic as he fell. The arrow loosed, soaring straight up.

Impact. Crashing into the dirt. The breath knocked from him. Villagers all around. Trying to help. Trying to pull him up. Cahan trying to find his voice. The arrow he had shot landed, point down in the mud by his head.

“Cahan!” Furin, kneeling in the dirt by him. “Are you hurt?” He shook his head. Pulled the arrow from the mud.

“The wall,” he said it softly, then swallowed. Took a breath. “Get back on the wall. Those dressed as Forestals.” Fighting to breathe. “The wall. Scare the skirmishers, stop them coming back…” Furin helped him up and villagers scrambled back onto the wall. Someone, very gently, helped Tyui down. Others took Darmant’s body away. Cahan climbed the wall, still bent double and struggling for breath. “If you see a skirmisher,” he said to the nearest archer, not realising it was Ont until they looked at him. “Just draw the bow, it should be enough to back them off.”

“I do not think that matters now, Forester,” said Ont. Cahan leaned against the wall and looked over.

The army was massing. The drums were beating.

The Rai were coming back.