Winilind had slipped on a pair of leather bracers and thick trousers before leaving and, this time, she had brought a weapon. Beresa, too, was dressed for combat. Her hide cuirass concealed a pair of short, beautifully curved blades. They were among the many gifts that Aimar had showered her with, some said inappropriately, since she saved his life last Autumn. According to Luthold they looked like Southern blades. He had fumbled with them and cut himself when Aimar had let him test them and Winilind had declined the pleasure. Beresa, however, was a natural with any weapon and one of only a handful in the clan with whom Heridan deigned to spar.

“Wait,” Winilind whispered and Beresa’s small, stocky frame came to a silent halt. “I thought I smelled something.”

Beresa flared the nostrils of her pointed nose and squinted into the trees.

“I’m ill. I can’t smell anything.”

“It came and went. Probably nothing. Come on.” The sweet odour had been familiar but too faint for Winilind to place.

They resumed the journey at a run, two shadows moving through the trees, making no more sound than the wind. It was not long before they reached the ford. This time, they both wrinkled their noses. Beresa shot Winilind a look.

“Is that what you smelled?”

The stench of a corpse crawled up her nostrils. Winilind’s heart thumped against her chest and Beresa’s hand strayed towards her hip. Winilind waved at her to wait. She inched out of the trees toward the clearing by the bank. She saw no movement and stepped out further. Nothing happened. Beresa, who had remained hidden and ready to counter any ambush, joined her.

She looked at Beresa, still poised for action, and then at the ford. The crossing seemed easy enough. She stepped tentatively into the water and felt it wrap around her ankles, tugging at them like icy, limp fingers.

“So that’s it, then,” commented Beresa, joining her. Winilind looked up from the water and saw her friend staring at the Northern skyline. She followed her gaze and gasped. When Joturn had shown her the way to this ford, many years ago, they had not emerged from the thick trees onto the bank. To see the tower, even though she had always known it to be there, shocked her. How could humans build something so high? Were it less deformed, or built over any city other than Dombarrow, she could have believed it a work of the gods.

“Oslef didn’t want us to see it,” Beresa recollected in a low voice. “Remember how he agitated to move the village that Spring, after Joturn came here? He didn’t want it in view, even by accident.”

“We’d only just raised the Winter Roof,” Winilind reminisced, recalling the arguments. “Even Mildred disagreed with moving again so soon.” She looked at the dark clouds into which the crooked, black construction plunged and shivered. “Do you think he was right?”

“Who knows?”

They resumed crossing the ford. At its deepest point the water arrived at Winilind’s waist and Beresa’s chest. Her feet slipped on the stones beneath them. A child could not cross safely here. Even before they reached the far side, they saw the body and the flies that hung around it like a thick smoke. Abandoning caution, Winilind ran to the corpse.

“It’s not Oli!”

Beresa drew alongside her and crouched down.

“It’s not even a Sevener.”

The man’s face was unrecognisable. Something had chewed it. His arms had been laid across his chest, but apart from that he had just been left there. Winilind poked at his heavy armour with a stick. Beneath a superficial layer of earth and dust it gleamed.

“Who would leave a companion like this?” Winilind asked. “No cremation or even burial. I wouldn’t leave an enemy like this.”

Beresa shook her head in disgust. “It can only be an apostate. Look at the tunic and armour. Dombarrow. The Sullin aren’t lying; the soldiers of the Republic are really here. What do you think killed him?”

Gingerly, she brushed away the leaves and soil that had blown onto the man’s body. “Look at this!” Beresa exclaimed.

“Don’t touch it!” shot Winilind in a panic. Beresa whipped her hand back as though stung. She had revealed a protrusion from the centre of the chest plate. It was wood. It looked as though a young tree had grown through the iron, piercing it in several places as thin branches pushed through an inch beyond the surface.

They looked at each other, then covered their hands and rolled the man over. A snapped piece of wood the thickness of a spear entered at his back. Winilind closed her eyes and gulped. She stepped away from the body, toward the fresh water of the river. She felt dizzy. She reached out to steady herself and felt her friend take her elbow. They stood quietly for a moment, then Beresa said:

“What is that Win? How could that happen?” Beresa stepped round and drew her gaze. “What did Oli see? I know the elders didn’t tell us everything.”

“I don’t know.” Winilind caught the look on her friend’s face and insisted: “Honestly, Bess, I don’t! We think... we thought it was a Westerner at first. An adventurer. Well... maybe we convinced ourselves.”

She stood quietly for a while, but Beresa did not fill the silence. Eventually Winilind drew a deep breath and continued:

“Some of the things Oli described... they sounded like stories Oslef used to tell. It sounded like he met a... you know...”

“A what?” Beresa’s voice rose in exasperation.

Winilind withdrew her arm from Beresa’s grip and looked her directly in the eyes.

“A medicine man.”

Beresa’s mouth hung open. She glanced around at the shadows and darkness, taking in the dead soldier, skewered on wood that had passed through steel. Fear flickered across her face.

“But it couldn’t have been a medicine man, could it?” Winilind implored. “It doesn’t make sense! Oli said he was dressed like a townsman. Richer, even! And he was young, far too young to be one of them. He said he called the hoarders Beyobacks. That’s not a forest word. It doesn’t add up, Beresa. Whatever way you look at it, it doesn’t make sense!”

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Beresa stood for some time with a stony look on her face. Winilind knew what this meant to her. She was thinking about her daughter, Pasha, and how she had chased after Oli into the forest. She was hoping it was not true and fearing, deep down, that it could be. Eventually, she rubbed her forehead and looked up at Winilind.

“Then let’s make some sense of it. We should look for tracks. See where this soldier’s comrades went after they left him here. We should double back down the river on the other side, too. Maybe Oli’s stuck over there somewhere.”

On the west side of the river, the ground was too rocky to find many prints, though they found a few short arrows stuck in trunks. Back on their own side, though, they saw a trail of crushed undergrowth leading North from the ford, well away from any paths. That sweet odour was on the air again and seemed to waft from the direction of the trail. It had not been the corpse. Winilind started to follow it and Beresa called after her:

“The elders said to check the ford and come straight back, Win.”

Winilind paused. Her son might be this way. He might have been captured by apostates. Who knew what torments they inflicted upon their prisoners? As though reading her thoughts, Beresa pressed her more urgently:

“The Sullin said there’s an army out there. Us two can't fight an army. They sent us here to scout and report back. Nothing else.”

Winilind did not move and Beresa added:

“You have a daughter, too, Win. Don’t be reckless. We’ll return if we must. Come on, we might be back in time to share the news at the end of the assembly.”

Winilind picked her way back to where Beresa stood, ready to return to their village.

“I don’t think the elders want this shared at assembly, Beresa. We should speak to them in private when it’s over.”

“What if it really is a medicine man?” Beresa almost whispered. “I mean, who else could cut metal with wood? But they were dying out even when Oslef was a child, and no one our age has ever met one.”

“And Oli saw a young man,” Winilind added. “Yet none of the clans have sent them apprentices in our lifetime. Not even the Levonin.”

“Unless they broke their word.”

Winilind looked at Beresa darkly.

“They made a vow to fellow Seveners. All the clans did.” She shook her head. “Your daughter thought it might have been a priest. But that body would have been burned.”

Beresa nodded. They journeyed back, each musing on their own thoughts and fears. Just before they reached the village, Winilind cleared her throat and started to speak, then thought better of it.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s ok.”

Beresa stopped and stood in front of her.

“What were you going to ask, Win?”

“Did... did you ever tell your children about the medicine men? Did you ever tell Pasha?”

Beresa’s eyes narrowed.

“No. Especially not Pasha. Did you tell Oli?” She edged closer and lowered her voice. “Did he have the dreams?”

“No!” Winilind exclaimed as though poked by a needle. “It’s forbidden! I thought maybe you had to tell Pasha, after that summer. And then she might have talked to Oli and he imagined something...”

Her words trailed off. Of course, Beresa had obeyed the elders. Neither her nor Otmer would have strayed. A heavy guilt moved in her stomach. She looked away and felt her friend’s eyes boring into her. She’s a better person than I am. I should not have asked it.

“Come on, Win, someone else will take over the search now. Someone fresh for it. You three should eat with my family tonight.”

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

After the clan had formally bid him thanks, Erlends left the assembly with the other Sullin. They had to tend the special fire they had created, he said, to signal the other survivors of his clan, some of whom were still wandering isolated in the forest.

Those remaining in the circle bickered over whether his thinly veiled threats regarding the number of Sullin warriors held any weight. Luthold balked at the thought of the Sullin bringing all their survivors to the village, although the same thought seemed to give others reassurance. It had been a mistake to let them past the border. It had been a mistake on Heridan’s part to invite them.

Oslef, who had been silent for a long time, took to his feet again. Nervous eyes around the circle settled on his round face, searching it for a sign of confidence. He spoke, clutching the smooth head of his walking stick with taut, white fingers.

“There are too many questions we can’t answer,” he announced, staring at the ground with his brow furrowed. “New dangers. How can we know how to face them?” He looked up and declared:

“We must read the oracle.”

Luthold jolted upright. He would not have dared to suggest this, but it offered the best chance yet of finding Oli. As he raised his head, he saw the same sudden interest in Heridan’s eyes.

“At what cost?” gasped Thilo, before either father could reply. “We’re a full moon yet from Hurean’s night!”

“The Lord of Heaven still sleeps,” added Angmar.

“Whichever way they look, the gods see us,” recited Luthold, to himself. “And whether awake or dreaming, they hear us.”

“True,” agreed Mildred, who heard him and nodded. “The gods will hear us. But the question stands. At what cost?”

Her gaze fell warily on Oslef and Luthold understood that they had not discussed this.

“We have lambs,” suggested Joturn tentatively. “Though I fear a greater price will be exacted for asking out of time.”

“Some of us have newborns!” protested Lien with barely repressed fury from the edge of the circle. She ignored convention to voice her objection, and no one stopped her.

“We can’t risk asking before Hurean’s night! Our clan has always waited for the right time. We’re not Levonin, are we?”

“It is not certain that a price would be exacted,” said Oslef, carefully. “These are unprecedented times.”

“It isn’t certain that it would not be!” Lien snapped back. To take such a tone with an elder would normally have been unthinkable, but a susurration of agreement passed around the circle. No one spoke out in favour of the suggestion.

Heridan and Luthold met each other’s eyes again. This was the best hope for both of their sons. But who could urge a young mother to risk her own child for theirs? Only on Hurean’s night, the anniversary of the gods’ first appearance in the world, was it safe to cast an oracle. On that night the gods gave the gift of foresight freely. But they required a sacrifice at any other time; a payment for drawing their gaze to the matters of mortals. If no sacrifice were offered, one might be taken. The Levonin, it was rumoured, did not shy away from the practice, but the Hallin had never condoned it. Neither he nor Heridan spoke, and the moment to offer support for Oslef passed.

Joturn sighed and stood.

“Then I suggest we proceed with half of our guest’s plan. We’ll send a messenger to the other clans, and to Scursditch. Not to summon them here but to share the Sullin’s story and seek their counsel. We’ll escalate our search for Ingo and Oli. Perhaps in finding them we can find some other clue about our future.”

He frowned and looked to the edge of the village, where the growing group of Sullin huddled around their fire, throwing blankets on and off it and sending curious puffs of smoke into the sky.

“We’ll set up a watch on our new friends. For now, they’re too few to pose a threat. Extend them your hospitality. But keep an eye on how many arrive.”

Luthold made to depart the moment they were dismissed, then felt Oslef’s hand on his knee. He turned and looked at the elder. He gulped and tried to hide his shock at the old man’s expression. Never before had Luthold seen fear in Oslef’s eyes. That deep, kind face was more commonly creased at the edges with laughter. Though frail, his presence had always aroused in Luthold a sense of benevolent strength. In his youth they had called him ‘the big bear.’

“What did your boy see in the forest, Luthold?” Oslef whispered. “What’s happening out there?”

“I told you, Elder,” Luthold said slowly. Had Oslef forgotten? Was he losing touch? Is that where this wild suggestion of risking a sacrifice, breaking with centuries of Hallin tradition, had come from? “I told you everything that Oli saw. Remember?”

Oslef’s mouth spread into a rueful grin. “I’m not that old, friend. I’m not asking you what he said. I’m asking what you think. You know. What does your stomach tell you?”

“Why should my stomach know better than yours?” Luthold shifted uncomfortably.

“Because you’re closer to this.”

Luthold’s face flushed. What is he implying? What is he probing at? I shouldn’t be paranoid. Oslef has always been a friend to me. He wrestled with himself and then spoke carefully.

“I don’t know if Oli saw a Westerner or an apostate. Either way, I think his imagination got the better of him.”

A flicker of something that might have been disappointment passed across the elder’s face, but then he looked past Luthold and blinked.

“Your wife has returned, Luthold, but I don’t think she came with the news we want.”