The Hallin had little love for the belligerent clan that inhabited the mountain steppes. They could barely be considered true Seveners, since they openly courted the favour of Maralon – the most warlike of the seven gods – above the others. Only their refusal to accept priests, shared ancestry and a little fear ensured a continued acknowledgement, and annual payment, from the other clans. For every hunter in another clan, the Sullin had three warriors. Only Heridan, the greatest of their own warriors, spoke in their favour.

“Ingo will do his time with them as I did mine.” He would say to anyone who slighted the Sullin. “Folk around here only ever talk them down. You all grumble about the winter gifts. We Hallin need to see that if it weren’t for the Sullin, the forest would be ripe for conquest from anywhere.”

Heridan was not here now, though, to speak on their behalf and Oli listened to one voice after another muse on their misfortune.

“They demanded too much from Scursditch last year. The mayor has brought the King’s army from the West!” Someone suggested.

“Not likely,” replied Thilo, who had arrived to help his wife, Lien, down the last two ladder rungs and return their child to her. He puffed his chest out importantly, as though his proximity to Lien, who had shared the news, granted him more authority than he might ordinarily hold.

“Nothing short of war would bring the King’s army here. They’ve been attacked by hoarders! That’s why they’re all missing from the caves.”

A few people nodded and Thilo looked pleased with himself until Aimar, the craftsman, called out,

“The hoarders can’t make fire, so how could they burn the fort down?”

The crowd murmured in agreement and turned their attention from Thilo to Aimar. Something jabbed into Oli’s side. He looked down to see Pasha poking an elbow toward his ribs. He jumped aside and she stared at him with her eyebrows raised. He could not work out why.

“Go on,” she whispered, “tell them!”

“No way!” Blood rose to his face. He looked around to see if anyone had heard her. “Everyone will laugh at me! I already told my parents, and they think it's just an adventurer. A Westerner.”

“That was before someone burned the Sullin fort! Besides, what if it was a Westerner?” She lowered her voice, “It could have been a priest of Hurean who went insane. A priest could burn their fort down.”

Oli could feel eyes turning to them. He dared not look up and meet their gaze. She had a point. This changed things. A priest would have Western clothes, and he could burn the whole forest if the stories were true. Did they go crazy, though? Could they? Priests were misguided, his father said, but not evil.

He thought about the wild, black eyes of the stranger and his skin turned cool and clammy. Oli sidled away from her, but she followed. A terror seized him that she would shout, and some oaf of a grown-up would grab a hold of him and demand the truth again, only this time his sister would not come before he lost his cool and he would say something that would condemn him. He dodged between bodies without checking to whom they belonged. He entered the paddock and sprinted across it, skidding in the mud as he arrived at his family's home.

Oli burst through the door and found the room empty.

He glanced outside. He could not see Pasha. He closed himself in and fell onto the hides where they slept. Why did no one believe him the first time? He thought about the taunts of Kuno and Koen. That was all he’d hear from the other children, until Ingo returned. Pasha was right, he had to tell the rest of them the story. They might believe it this time. He got up to leave, tripped and fell. At his feet lay his grandfather’s spear.

He crouched above it and stared. His father had left without the spear. The thought repeated itself like a heavy thud inside his head, full of meaning that he could not fathom. Perhaps it was too heavy and slowed him down? That made no sense at all! His father had left with Joturn. Was Joturn unafraid? Or was he so fearful he wanted to appear harmless? Oli picked up the weapon. The adults said it was light for a spear, but it felt heavy in his hands. The shaft was smoother than any other he had seen and the sign of Hurean, Lord of Summer, was emblazoned halfway up in a yellow metal that his father claimed would never dull. As he turned it toward the light, the flame seemed to dance. Oli’s grandfather, Gurithen, had brought it back from his travels in the West. He was the first Hallin man in living memory to disgrace his family by leaving the forest, but he had bequeathed to them a certain notoriety upon his return, along with several beautiful artifacts.

Oli recalled the stranger’s weapon, the opposite of this elegant, polished instrument. Twisted wood with so many points they resembled a claw. Such a weapon could not be thrown. It wasn’t meant for hunting, Oli suddenly realised. A panic rose within him, and the room began to swim. He closed his eyes, then began to think as though he were playing a game of Sevenstones. His emotions clamoured like the noise of the clan on a busy day. He let them whirl around outside his head as he considered the available moves. He could tell the adults about the stranger. They were already nervous, though. They would panic, and he was sure he’d say the wrong thing and they would all blame him again. He could keep silent and wait for his father’s return. And what if his father did not return?

Oli reached a decision. The clamour ceased and a calm spread through him. He would run to the river and warn his father about the smoke. He would escape any questions for now find him, bring him the weapon, and insist on helping to look for Ingo. Only that way would the blame be lifted. If he could return with Ingo, he might even be a hero. This is what a grown-up would do, he said to himself.

He poked his head out of the roundhouse. He saw no sign of Pasha or anyone else. He hoisted the weapon and ran toward the river path.

As he ran the familiar route, the smells of the village faded. The combined aroma of food, sheep and the lives of three hundred people became noticeable suddenly by its absence. In its place, he smelled only earth and air, heavy with fallen wood that had rotted over winter. Oli counted his steps and checked the signs. He passed the moot of the fallen birch and continued for thirty paces. He paused for a moment and checked for the oak with a hole in its trunk. As he looked around, he deliberately avoided that soft focus that made visible the forest paths on the edge of one’s vision. He alone could not trust that. He saw paths where none existed and failed to see the very ones he was travelling on. The sight came naturally to every Sevener, but it always seemed to lead him astray. He saw the oak, set himself beside it and faced in the right direction. Before he started running again, he thought he heard something behind him. He glanced back and saw nothing, but he ran a little faster.

As he neared the river, his confidence grew. He could do this for his father – and for himself. He went to the river almost every day, so why shouldn’t he go there today?

He approached and lingered where the trees thinned out, just ahead of the bank. He could not see his father or Joturn, but there was no sign of a struggle here either. Had they picked up the stranger’s trail and gone further after him? He edged into the open and looked up and down. He began to think hard, for the first time, about how much of the day had passed since his father had left. Then something caught his eye on the opposite bank.

The raft! It had not been washed away after all. Someone had crossed the river and hauled it onto the far bank, but they had left the mooring rope fixed to the stake on this side. Oli examined the knot. He did not recognise the shape of it. He tugged at what appeared to be a loose end and the rope tightened its grip on the stake. Perhaps it was Joturn’s work. They must have crossed to look at the other side, but where were they now?

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He bent his back against the weight of the raft and heaved with all his strength. It dragged against the dirt, reluctantly at first and then faster. Soon he was pulling it easily across the water. He enjoyed a moment of triumph as it bumped against his ankles, before the sound of a cracking branch behind him sent his hands flailing on the ground for the spear.

He turned and stumbled, waving the point in front of himself. If anyone dangerous had been there, it would have been sheer luck had he skewered them, but he was fortunate instead to have missed.

“Put it down Oli! What are you playing at?”

Pasha stood a couple of yards away, staring at the spear tip with wide eyes. Sweat matted her ragged hair to her brow and cheeks. She looked exhausted and furious.

“What are you doing here Pasha? Go back!”

“What are you doing here? You go back.” She retorted, glowering at him with her black eyes.

“I’ve got to find my dad!” Oli cried, “And Ingo. Everyone will hate me until I find Ingo.” His plan made less sense shouted out loud than it had done in the privacy of his own thoughts. He gripped the spear tighter and straightened his back.

“Oli,” she wailed, “you’re so stupid. What are you going to do? Kill a monster with a spear you can hardly carry?”

“I’m taking it to my dad.”

“Well he can’t use it either!”

“Shut up! Go back and leave me alone you little pest!”

Oli’s throat burned and his cheeks suddenly felt wet as well as hot.

“Fine,” she shouted, “Get yourself in even more trouble! Stupid boy.”

They both stared at each other. In the village, each would have stomped away in opposite directions. Out here tall trees loomed up at their side and shadows clung to them, each one hiding the promise of danger. Oli wiped the tears from his cheek and sniffed.

“Sorry I called you a pest.”

“You’re still stupid,” she replied.

“I know.”

Pasha giggled and went quiet. Then she spoke more gently.

“Come back, Oli. Your dad will be fine, he’s with Elder Joturn. Ingo will turn up. Just come back. Please.”

“Sorry, Pasha.” Oli did not move. He would not allow himself to be towed back home by a girl, to the inevitable jeers of other boys when they learned what had happened. He would finish this.

She frowned and backed away. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. Her face bore a look of concern with just a hint of admiration. At least, Oli thought so.

“You’re always saying sorry.” She stated, then looked around at the shadows and sprinted away down the path. Within seconds she was out of sight and soon the soft padding of her feet faded into silence.

“Sorry about that,” Oli muttered to the empty space where she had stood.

Oli felt his aloneness keenly now. He felt as though he had woken from a dream. This was stupid. He looked across the water at the far bank and recalled the exact place in which the stranger had appeared. He squinted at the bushes. A thrill of fear passed through him, and he imagined for a moment that the figure of a man appeared there, but none did. He looked again at the raft that he had hauled over to his side.

“I’ll cross over just to look there,” Oli told himself, “And then cross back if I can’t see them.”

He knew he wouldn’t see them, but crossing the river felt like it might satisfy his honour. He could say ‘I looked for them on the other side of the river,’ and maybe this little escapade would sound risky and impressive, rather than pathetic and foolish.

He wedged the spear between two beams of the raft and pushed himself across. On the other side, he pulled it a little way up the bank before yanking the spear out and spinning around.

There was nothing to see. After searching on the ground, he found a single set of footprints that vanished into the undergrowth. He poked around for a while on his hands and knees, unsure what he was looking for, and then stood up. Pasha was right, but at least he’d tried. He turned back to the raft and a shock pulsed through him.

A swell in the river was tugging it from the bank. Fearful of keeping his back turned to the forest, he had not pulled it far enough up. A slow, sickening squelch bubbled from the riverbed as the pole fell on its side and the raft began to move. He leapt at the vessel, reaching desperately for the rope as it snaked beyond his reach. He fell on his stomach and looked up, winded, as his only way of crossing the river floated placidly downstream. The raft reached the limit of the mooring rope and bobbed about in the current on the other side.

For a moment, he froze. Then his breath returned in a jab of pain, and he thumped the ground in front of him. Why had he not brought the mooring rope with him from the other side? Why had he not pulled it up here properly?

“Pasha!” He shouted as loud as he could, “Pasha, come back! I need the raft!”

She did not return. She must already be out of hearing. Stupid. He fell silent and felt the silence of the forest close around him. He should not have made so much noise. He held the spear closely and glanced around the unfamiliar bank. His breathing sped up and he looked for somewhere to sit.

Panting, he forced himself to think. He’d heard Elder Joturn talk about a ford farther to the North, where a strong person could cross the river with no boat or rope. Perhaps a desperate person could do it as well. Perhaps his father had gone that way, and he’d pass him coming back on the other side. In a moment he had gone from wanting to save his dad, to hoping that he would be there to save him. At least if he travelled along the river there would be no way of getting lost, no paths to deceive and confuse him. He slung the spear onto his shoulder where it was easier to carry, fought back a sob of frustration and set off.

He picked his way along the bank, clinging to the river as though it were a safety rope in the middle of rapids. He thought about the conversation he had once overheard, trying to remember the details of the ford.

“It was up a way, near the mountains but not out the forest. The trees were thinner there.” Joturn had recounted, throwing down a handful of rabbits and easing himself onto a stump.

“You must have passed the ghoul circle. Thank Hurean you made it before nightfall.” Someone had commented.

“Thank Hurean,” the elder had muttered, raising one finger to the sky. “And thanks to my own father for the long legs he gave me.”

Oli looked up, then down at his short shadow. Midday had not yet passed. He had time. He might make it to the crossing.

----------------------------------------

One by one the search parties returned. Each gave the same report to the anxious crowd: they had found no sign of Ingo, but when they had reached a clearing or high ground and seen smoke rising in the North, they had hurried back. Winilind listened with only half her attention, watching the trees near the river path for her husband’s return. She looked around for Oli and made a mental note to send Ada to check on him.

Debate raged as to who could have done this.

“Never!” Elder Mildred kept repeating. “They’ve never been threatened by anyone!” Trepidation mingled with a dark joy in her voice, and Winlind thought she was not the only one who seemed a little pleased at what had befallen their neighbours. Winilind might have felt pleased too, if not for the fear which had nagged at her since Oli had told his story. When Elder Oslef spoke, he voiced her instincts.

“Not even the mayor of Scursditch would attempt it, though he’d be justified in wanting to. Any force powerful enough to destroy the Sullin are unlikely to be our friends.”

Winilind thought she saw movement at the river path and her eyes darted away from the hunched form of Elder Oslef. When she focussed there was nothing, though.

A loud clang, like the gong of Scursditch clocktower reverberated from the forest’s edge. The clan fell silent, then surged as one in the direction from where it came. Winilind pressed her face against the spikes of the fence and peered through.

Heridan stood at the edge of the trees holding his sword high. Slowly, he brought it down to the object in his left hand and another bang jarred through the air. Winilind swallowed hard. What was he doing, and what was it that he held?

Heridan stepped forward with his sword lowered. The object appeared to be a shield, though not one of wood and leather, as born by the forest clans. It shone in the sunlight, like polished armour. As he came forward, other figures emerged from the trees. First came a tall man bedecked in fur armour. With his braided blonde beard and bright eyes glinting in the light, he looked like a younger version of Heridan. Algar, who had gone with Heridan, followed behind the tall man. A woman appeared behind him and Winilind spotted more armed men emerging from the trees. Some of the clan had climbed through the fence for a better view. Winilind hauled herself up and looked over the top. Heridan began talking.

“You’ve all seen it, haven’t you?” He called to the silent crowd. “You’ve seen the smoke rising from the Sullin fort. I’ll tell you who burned it to the ground, because I’ve met the Sullin who escaped and brought them here for refuge.”

Nobody moved or spoke. Winilind heard the sheep in the pasture behind them.

Heridan raised the polished, metal shield high above his head and turned it slowly from right to left. Winilind heard the gasps of those who saw it first and then the urgent, whispered questions of the younger ones who did not understand. Then she saw for herself that sign of misfortune and calamity, so cursed that even its creators were thought to use it no more. The bright flame of Hurean, rising in a straight line toward heaven, sliced in two as though by a clean, sharp knife.

“Dombarrow licks its wounds no more. Soldiers have left the godless city. For the first time, they have left the borders of their Republic, their prison. And they march openly under this sign.”