He could not describe the sudden feeling of loss, of being hollowed out. So long he had denied the cowl then, when he embraced it, it was taken away. He looked for a duller, but there was not one. Only her.
It was her.
To be near Sorha was to be diminished, to become so much less than he was.
Strength fled, he fell to his knees. The villagers began to fall back. As if they had been sapped of their strength just as he had.
“Disconcerting, isn’t it?” she said. The Rai’s troops, so near to breaking before, reforming around her.
Sorha held a shield on one arm, a sword in her free hand. “You made me this,” she said, leaving the shield wall. She spun the sword. “A walking duller.” Swung her sword in a lazy arc. He batted it away with an axe, felt the jarring power of her strength through his arm. He stood, it was an effort. His legs barely worked. She began to circle, visor up. Smiling at him. “No reborn to save you this time, Forester,” she said, lunged. He jumped backwards. She laughed. “You know, I did not realise how lazy we become as Rai,” she brought her sword down in an overhead swing. He caught it on crossed axes.
All he could do to keep hold of them.
She was not even trying. Not yet.
“The cowl, see, Cahan Du-Nahere, it does all the work for us. We are like an old tree, hollowed out by rot, kept up by vines. But when you remove those vines?” She dummied a lunge, he fell for it and she twisted, shouldering him, using her shield to protect herself and sending him sprawling to the floor. “We collapse, Forester, that is what happens.” Sorha stood over him. Stepped closer, brought her sword to his throat, touching the weak point between armour and helmet where only sap-hardened wool protected him. “They cannot bear to be around me any more, those who were once my compatriots. They make me lead Hetton now.” He felt the pressure building on the sword tip. “Last time we spoke, here in this village, you said that by destroying my cowl you had freed me.” The pressure growing. “I did not believe you then, but I understand now. The Rai?” She glanced over her shoulder, the Rai were gone. No doubt withdrawn far from her influence. “They seem strong, but they are weak within. Rotten.”
“And you are not?” he said.
“No. I am not.” She had the air of one who has seen a vision, had a great truth revealed to them. All the surety of a fanatic on her face. “They will regret the way they have treated me.” The point of the sword, sharp and hard against his throat.
“And yet you fight for them.”
“For now,” she said.
“Join us.” She smiled at him, not a real smile, a thing as cold and lost as a flower in the middle of Harsh, destined to quickly die among the frosted grass blades.
“That would require forgiveness, Cahan Du-Nahere,” the pressure growing, her muscles tensing. “And I am not the forgiving type.”
“Woolside! Tanside! Forward for Harn!” Ont’s voice. Sorha looked up. A roar came from the soldiers behind her and they brought spears down. Sorha’s sword left his throat, she backed away, still with that smile on her face.
“We are not finished yet, Cahan du-Nahere!” she shouted, “you can’t win this. I will be back, and I’ll take my time with you.” Then he was surrounded by the villagers of Harn, hands helping him up, strength returning as Sorha moved away and the influence of whatever she was abated. He stood. Strong again. In among a shield wall of villagers, scrappy, frightened, sweaty, but there.
“Spears up!” Shouted from the enemy wall in front of him. A hail of spears, coming in. “Shields!” he shouted, but the villagers were not soldiers, not yet. Not quick to obey. Some raised shields, some did not. The spears hit. People screamed, people died. A spear hit him in the chest, bounced off his armour. He wished he could have given the villagers better armour, their hardened wool did little more than offer the illusion of protection. More spears ripped holes in the shield wall. Panic ripping through the people of Harn. The line close to breaking. Their joy at rescuing him ripped away by sharp points, flushed away by flowing blood. The Rai’s soldiers pushing forward. He stood in the centre of the line. His voice hoarse.
“Shields! Hold fast! We can stop them!” And maybe if heart and bravery could have held the enemy soldiers then they would have. The Rai’s forces smashed into them with a roar, pushing the line back. Practised spears found weaknesses, forced points through, seeking flesh. Shouts of pain, of anger and fury. His axes rising and falling, killing those in front of him. But the soldiers knew Rai. They were ready for him. They knew how to neutralise him and he was quickly faced off by stout shields. His axes, his strength, splintered them but more came. The villagers pushed back. But they were not strong enough. Not numerous enough. He could feel the moment coming. The moment of loss. They were not soldiers. Fear overwhelming them.
“Hold!” He shouted it more from desperation than anything else. The villagers could not hold, he knew it. Panic taking them. Fear overriding the knowledge there was nowhere to run to. They did not have the discipline of soldiers, or the battlefield knowledge that to run was to die. “Hold!” A scream from their line. Another enemy spear finding its mark.
“Break!”
He did not know where the order came from, but it was what the villagers wanted to hear. They were not trained against such tricks. Not expecting them and the voice said what they wanted to hear. Maybe they would have held for longer without it. But it did not matter.
They broke.
The line melted away around him, the meagre protection of their shields vanished. The Rai soldiers saw their opportunity and ran after the retreating villagers, screaming and whooping.
“Kill them all!” shouted a voice.
“No! They want prisoners!” That from a soldier bigger than the rest, in better armour. A trunk commander. In fury, and desperation Cahan threw an axe, taking him in the head but denying himself a weapon. He did not care. It was useless to care. The only thought going through his mind was that he would die fighting. He would not let Sorha, or the Rai, take him. He did not want to die by fingerbreadths like Dyon.
A soldier came at him, battle-mad, looking for glory in taking down the enemy with the best armour. He lunged with a spear. Cahan pushed it away and cut the soldier’s arm from their body. But he was only a vanguard, behind him more were coming. Less foolish, better organised. A shield wall built just for him.
“Come then!” he shouted. “Who would be the one to say they took down Cahan Du-Nahere! The Forester of Harn?” His bravado bounced off their shields.
Soldiers everywhere.
Harn had fallen.
Cahan tightened his grip on his axe. Stared at the shields before him. Readied himself.
A gap appeared in the shield wall.
Then another.
Another.
A sound, familiar and unexpected.
Arrows.
Expertly shot arrows. Cutting down the Rai’s soldiers as they ran into the village. Opening up the shield wall. A cloaked figure on top of a longhouse. Stood, loosed an arrow. A soldier fell. The figure knelt again to pull an arrow from a quiver, nock it. Standing again to loose. Barely even aiming. With each shot a soldier died.
Astounding skill.
Skill he had only seen once. The Forestal, Ania.
More of her people appeared on the roofs of other roundhouses and longhouses. Soldiers falling to arrows, suffering the same shocking reversal that the villagers had suffered when the spears were thrown. Arrows flying, Rai troops falling back. Some singly, others in groups using shields. It did them no good. The archers had height and were positioned all around the village, giving them the angle. Those that ran had a better chance, the groups with shields were slower and easier to hit. Cahan retrieved his axe from the head of the trunk commander.
A moment in the darkness. A breath taken.
He stood.
“They are running! Into them!” He screamed it, using the cowl to amplify his voice. “Into them!” Villagers appeared from between houses, cutting down running soldiers. Some threw spears, most missed, but others found their mark. Some used makeshift weapons: a pitchfork as a spear, a spade used as a club, everywhere he looked the routed soldiers were being cut down, trapped between houses. Arrows singing through the air.
Then they were gone.
Harn stood once more.
Though for how long?