Kastor’s hand trembled an inch above the forest floor. He listened to the ground. He was part of the ground. His long, black hair blended with the shadows of the forest and his wiry frame rested against a tree like a young creeper beginning its climb. The soldiers of the Republic grew quieter with every passing month. Their stomps and stamps when they first entered the forest had given way to the learned habits of gentle steps and careful movement. But Kastor did not listen with his ears. He listened with his body. The palm of his hand prickled with the vibration. It passed through him, entered him and he was there among them; among their feelings. They crept forwards along the dark path, great trunks and boughs looming from either side, yearning for home and fearing what lay around them in the shadows. He returned his attention to his own place, to his own body.

  On the other side of the path, Heridan waited. The black-braided warrior leaned against the dark side of a wide trunk. He was huge and silent, like a lone boulder that the centuries had forgotten. The only part that moved were his eyes.

  Kastor held up two fingers, followed by a balled fist. There could be twenty of them. Heridan inclined his craggy face – the almost imperceptible movement of stone. Kastor made another sign and Heridan nodded his understanding. A hundred yards away, if that.

  The wind rustled the autumn leaves. A gust picked up and a few blew down, settling atop the mossy ground. Each little life settled and faded, like stars subsumed in the morning light. The adrenaline of the hunt had sharpened all of Kastor’s senses. The footsteps approached, almost within hearing. His nerves heightened, the tension growing until the first soldier rounded the bend.

  The one in front had a thin smattering of hair on his upper lip and chin, and his eyes were wide like those of a young deer. His red tunic poked out beneath the metal plates of his armour. They had taken to wearing only the helmet and cuirass, dispensing with arm and leg coverings in favour of speed and agility. The young soldier’s hand fidgeted on the hilt of his short sword. A broad, oval shield hung on his back. Another two soldiers, taller and stronger, appeared behind him, then two more. They send their weakest in front. The thought aroused Kastor to both anger and pity.

  Kastor did not instruct Heridan to wait. They would both know the time to strike.

  The whole column came into view. Eighteen soldiers south of the swell in the river Scursrun, where the old Hallin village used to be. The Republic pushed ever deeper, hacking and burning and laying roads where once were only winding paths through the dark woods. They brought daylight and despair with an iron grip, and no regard for those they pushed out.

  But not this patrol. Not today.

  Heridan struck first.

  Without a word, the huge, heavy man unfurled from behind the trunk and thundered down the shallow slope like a falling scree. By the time the soldiers recognised the attack, he was already upon them.

  Heridan’s long sword found its first mark, through the neck of the young soldier in front. Kastor winced as the blade passed through, and the body fell to the forest floor. Another life returned to the Earth. Another falling leaf.

  Steel rang as the soldiers drew swords. Kastor blinked and Heridan took down two more – one through the stomach and the other into the chest – before their commander barked an order and the column retracted like a single organism. They formed into a circle of shields, bristling between the gaps with their short, steel swords. Those inside notched bows.

  The Republic fought the way they built. Disciplined, organised and with faultless accuracy. They despised the forest, but they quickly adapted to it. Heridan now faced not fifteen frightened enemies, but one scaled body that he could scarcely approach. Were he alone, he would have fallen. But this was where Kastor came in.

  The Earth which claimed the falling leaves contained the seeds of new life, too. Less so in Autumn, but they were still there, dormant and waiting, and Kastor sensed them. He was them. He woke and thrust up, through the sodden ground and into the light, searching not only for the warmth of the sun, but for bark and rock around which to climb. Legs and torsos worked fine, too.

  “It’s the sorcerer! The medicine man is with them!” one of the soldiers cried.

  Vines gripped the legs of those notching arrows and they screamed as the tendrils slithered around their bodies. The men on the outside jumped forwards to escape the attack from below.

  The shield-wall dissolved and Heridan threw himself into the mass of confusion. Kastor charged down the slope from the other side, giddy on the scent of victory. He ripped a branch from a tree and it grew, as he ran, into a gnarled and twisted spear with five white, sharp points. In his hands, any living thing could bring death. He roared as he thrust it at the nearest soldier. The spear reached through the man’s body as Kastor pushed. He felt fresh air on the other side as it burst out, as though the five twisting tips were his own fingers.

  The struck soldier gave a scream which turned into a gurgle, then died. Blood issued from his mouth and his face scrunched into panic, and then froze. He fell.

  Kastor and Heridan spun in a kind of wicked dance, each so familiar with the other’s movements that their weapons almost touched. The soldiers able to move clustered around them, attempting to attack from all sides, but Heridan swung in a wide arc and they could never guess where Kastor’s jabs would land.

  Two soldiers backed away. We’ve broken their morale, thought Kastor.

  While Kastor snuck blows beneath shields and pulled his enemies off balance, Heridan threw his weight behind his strikes. He pushed one soldier’s shield aside and shattered the top of another.

  The fight seemed all but won when a loud, deafening crack rent the air.

  Kastor’s leg gave way and he fell to one knee. He looked down in shock and saw the wound before he felt the pain, as though he were looking at someone else's leg. The side of his thigh gaped – ripped out by the force of a ball of metal that lay behind him amid blood and bone splinters. He had not seen this coming. He had not predicted it.

  “A firearm!” he croaked, his head swimming. Heridan looked across in alarm. Kastor tried to force his mind to calm. The new weapon carried by such a small patrol?! How many do they have now?

  Heridan ducked and pulled a shield from a fallen enemy. He threw it like a disc to Kastor and righted himself in time to parry a soldier who had taken advantage of the distraction. A second soldier landed his blade on Heridan’s side. Heridan bellowed: “Hurean! Maralon!” and fought with a new fury.

  Are we the predators now, or the prey? Was this a trap?

  Kastor held the shield up, wobbling in his unsteady grip. He needed to heal himself before he lost consciousness. Even with his powers, he could not survive for long like this. But more urgently than healing, he had to stop them loading a second shot of the Republic’s new, terrible weapon.

  He called out to his familiar, praying that it had not yet gone too far.

  The silver-crested sea raven that had served and tormented him during his lost season in the wilderness responded to his thoughts.

  You sent me too far in search of the child. You need me.

  Come! Kastor commanded, in no mood to hear a veiled ‘I told you so,’ from the forest spirit that his late master had bound to him.

  A soldier came dangerously close to where Kastor lay, half-protected behind the upheld shield. Heridan appeared from the side and barreled him away.

  Another crack resounded and the top of Kastor’s shield blew off. A splinter cut his forehead and blood ran into his left eye. He surveyed the field. His sight dimmed as he struggled to cope with the grave injury. Two soldiers, older and stronger than the others, closed in on Heridan like the twin claws of a scorpion. Another gave the warrior a wide berth as he stepped through the mud and fallen bodies towards Kastor. Behind them, two Republicans formed the tail of the scorpion: the deadly bite that rivalled even his magic. One reloaded the firearm. The other took aim, pointing the long, gleaming barrel towards them. The soldier wavered for a moment, judging which was the greater threat. It was a moment too long.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The raven descended.

  Its wings spanned a yard on either side, so that it looked three times the size in the sky than it did on land. Its pure, white body refracted the light into rainbow colours that hung in the air and followed in its wake. Its talons looked to be made of silver, and its warbling cry, haunting and beautiful to Kastor’s ears, made the soldiers groan in agony and stumble as though a weight had fallen on their shoulders.

  Heridan grasped the moment of respite and impaled one of his adversaries through his stomach. Kastor took his spear from the ground and threw it with his last strength at the soldier that came for him. The raven clawed at the head of the man with the firearm, then took flight before he could draw his sword. As the soldier fumbled for his blade, Heridan reached him.

  Kastor let the last moments of the battle pass on the edge of his awareness, turning his attention to the wound in his thigh.

  The Earth called to him. Another falling leaf. One day, it will be my time. It cradled him as he rolled onto his side. He fought through the encroaching drowsiness and listened to his own body. Severed blood vessels wept into the ground. Ripped muscles hung in shreds, lamenting their impotence. Lives within a life. He travelled the possibilities of growth and decay. He built paths in his mind and followed them back into the real world. Ligaments knitted back together, and blood vessels found their lost connections.

  Kastor breathed out and lay still. Exhaustion took him. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the sky between the tips of trees that reached up to meet it. A cloud passed overhead. Then Heridan’s face appeared.

  “Are you done resting?”

  Kastor sat up and looked at his friend. The man stood half-crouched, his hands on his knees. Kastor jolted back to life and realised the warrior was also injured. He blinked, concentrated, and closed the flesh wounds in his companion's side.

  Heridan nodded his thanks and extended a hand. Kastor took it and stood. Side by side, they surveyed their work. Eighteen men. Kastor shuddered.

  “How many lives do they have to throw away in this forest? The youngest one is almost a child. Barely older than Oli was.”

  Heridan growled and shrugged.

  “They still have my son. I’ll spare pity for their children when they return mine.”

  Kastor looked down. Rumours about Heridan’s captured son, Ingo, had reached his ears. Those same rumours must have reached Heridan’s ears, too. Kastor changed the subject.

  “What do you think the Republic really want in the South?”

  Heridan shrugged. “They know more than they should about our home. They know there is power at Lake Silence.”

  A whistle from the edge of the path drew their attention. Heridan adjusted his leather armour and cloak, patted his long hair and braided, black beard into place, then turned to see who had called. It sounded like Feren.

  True to Kastor’s guess, the Levonin scout emerged from the trees. According to the custom of the southern-most clan, he wore only short breeches that covered his loins. His skin was as pale as Kastor’s, but blue and green pictures that were inked into the flesh itself by some secret, tribal ritual adorned him from top to bottom. Signs of gods and spirits vied for space on his arms, legs and chest. Jewellery hung from tiny holes in his earlobes, as well as being draped around his neck, wrists and ankles. His light, blonde hair had an ethereal quality as he stood between two trees with the sun behind him.

  Feren shook his head slowly as he counted the bodies, and did not disguise his awe as he addressed Kastor and Heridan.

  “The same number came by the Eastern path. We must have fought them at the same time. Did yours bring a firearm?”

  Kastor nodded and Feren grimaced.

  “Ours too, and that’s new. Now the patrols have them as well as the forts. The landscape of this war shifts again. We lost seven.”

  Kastor winced and touched his forehead. Seven was far too many to lose against a single patrol. The Levonin, the last free clan in the forest, were desperately outnumbered and fighting a war on two fronts. At the beginning of this conflict, a group of ten could defeat up to thirty Republican soldiers. But the Republic refined its tactics every day. Kastor and Heridan could still dispatch an entire column between them, but they could not be everywhere at once and duty now called them both away.

  Heridan approached Feren. He placed a hand on the scout’s shoulder and spoke in his gravelly voice.

  “I feel your loss as though it were my own.”

  Feren nodded in acknowledgement and Heridan continued:

  “Our path takes us farther north. We will pass beyond the front of your war.”

  “For how long?” Feren asked, his brow furrowed in concern.

  “For as long as it takes to find my son. We’ve heard that a captive has been dragged to and from the city of Dombarrow by the road that lies beyond the pass.”

  Kastor held his tongue. From what he had heard, the bright young clansman who was travelling with soldiers and Republican politicians wasn’t exactly a captive anymore. Feren looked at Kastor.

  “Does your path take you to the same place? Are you going to risk a journey beyond the forest’s edge?"

  Kastor looked sidelong at Heridan. Feren touched on a question they had not yet resolved. In fact, they had not even broached it. For the last three months, he and Heridan had settled into a close, quiet friendship. Since re-entering the forest they’d worked together supporting the Levonin’s war. The southern clan’s scouts ranged far and wide and, while they supported them, they used them to gather information. But each of them pursued a different child. While Heridan searched for his lost son, Ingo, Kastor followed on the trail of Oli – a child who everyone else insisted was dead. The sacrifice.

  Kastor was about to open his mouth when Heridan answered for him.

  “The medicine man goes where he pleases, in service of his own concerns. We’ll travel together until our paths diverge.”

  Kastor breathed out in relief. Feren nodded approvingly.

  “Thank you for today,” he said, indicating with his head the patrol they had eliminated. “Is there anything we can bring you to speed you on your way?”

  “More of that elderberry wine would be welcome,” Heridan replied without a pause.

  Kastor shook his head in a subtle way that he hoped would be seen by Feren and go unnoticed by his friend. He achieved the opposite. While Feren rummaged in his pack for a fresh pouch of the sweet, powerful wine of the Levonin, Heridan glowered at Kastor and grumbled:

  “I take comfort where I can, medicine man. May the gods forbid that you deprive me of it.”

  Kastor gave his best wishes to Feren, then turned and walked away. He picked around the edge of the battlefield, where blood coalesced with mud and began to form a grotesque swamp. Let the Levonin burn the bodies. His familiar watched him from a bough above his head. It reached into his thoughts.

  You nearly died. I will fly above you while you travel north.

  For a moment, Kastor almost relented. He tested the leg which had taken the shot. It felt as good as new, and his dalliance with death began to feel like a dream.

  No. The search for Oli is too important. If the Republic find him before I do, or if the sleepers reach him, all our good fortune will turn to dust.

  The bird glanced around the field of death below it in short, sharp movements.

  Our good fortune?

  Kastor did not respond to the bait. Things were not well, but they were better for him than they had been before.

  Go, he commanded. I will be more careful next time. Sweep south while I travel north. Leave no part of the forest unsearched.

  The familiar departed without another thought. Feren saluted Heridan behind him, and the warrior came to stand by his side. Heridan said:

  “They’ve had news from the West. A messenger came through the poison gate at the forest’s border. Adalina and the Hallin have arrived at the Godsroof. She did it. She got the whole clan there safely.”

  His voice was proud, as though he spoke of his own daughter rather than the former betrothed of his lost son. Kastor reflected on Adalina’s mission: to bring the king and his army east. To bring reinforcements to defend the forest.

  “If anyone can do it, she can.”

  They set off, leaving the bloody remains of their ambush behind them. Kastor’s mind ranged on all sides. He walked in silence, feeling first the mood of the man beside him. Heridan walked with a suppressed hope. Kastor reached out further, into the trees and the surrounding earth. No sleepers stirred. Soon they would all go underground for the winter. No humans came close.

  The breeze changed direction and a musky, pungent smell of brackish water came and went. Heridan took a deep breath and sighed.

  “My old home lies this way.”

  One thing on the edge of Kastor’s thoughts troubled him. It was not a human life, but not quite an animal either. Something in between the two darted around among the trees, beyond the edge of hearing. It had been there for weeks, never coming closer yet never falling far behind. Even when they walked on hard, rocky ground and left no footprints, the sense of a life nearby remained.

  What it was or how it followed them, he did not know.

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