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out.
‘Fare you well, my friends,’ he muttered. ‘Fare you well.’ Then he threw his
pack over his shoulder, turned, and began to flounder through the deep snow.
Downwards, southwards, out of the mountains.
     
    It was raining, still. A soft rain that coated
everything in cold dew, collected on the branches, on the leaves, on the
needles, and dripped off in great fat drops that soaked through Logen’s wet
clothes and onto his wet skin.
    He squatted, still and silent, in the damp brush,
water running down his face, the bright blade of his knife glistening with wet.
He felt the great motion of the forest and heard all its thousand sounds. The
countless crawling of the insects, the blind scuttling of the moles, the timid
rustling of the deer, the slow pulsing of the sap in the old tree trunks. Each
thing alive in the forest was in search of its own kind of food, and he was the
same. He let his mind settle on an animal close to him, moving cautiously
through the woods to his right. Delicious. The forest grew silent but for the
endless dripping of water from the branches. The world shrank down to Logen and
his next meal.
    When he reckoned it was close enough, he sprang forward
and bore it down onto the wet ground. A young deer. It kicked and struggled but
he was strong and quick, and he stabbed his knife into its neck and chopped the
throat out. Hot blood surged from the wound, spilled out across Logen’s hands,
onto the wet earth.
    He picked up the carcass and slung it over his shoulders.
That would be good in a stew, maybe with some mushrooms. Very good. Then, once
he’d eaten, he would ask the spirits for guidance. Their guidance was pretty
useless, but the company would be welcome.
    When he reached his camp it was close to sunset. It
was a dwelling fit for a hero of Logen’s stature—two big sticks holding a load
of damp branches over a hollow in the dirt. Still, it was halfway dry in there,
and the rain had stopped. He would have a fire tonight. It was a long time
since he’d had a treat like that. A fire, and all his own.
    Later, well fed and rested, Logen pressed a lump of
chagga into his pipe. He’d found it growing a few days before at the base of a
tree, big moist yellow discs of it. He’d broken off a good chunk for himself,
but it hadn’t dried out enough to smoke until today. Now he took a burning twig
from the fire and stuck it in the bowl, puffing away hard until the fungus
caught and began to burn, giving off its familiar earthy-sweet smell.
    Logen coughed, blew out brown smoke and stared into
the shifting flames. His mind went back to other times and other campfires. The
Dogman was there, grinning, the light gleaming on his pointy teeth. Tul Duru
was sitting opposite, big as a mountain, laughing like thunder. Forley the
Weakest too, with those nervous eyes darting around, always a little scared.
Rudd Threetrees was there, and Harding Grim, saying nothing. He never did say
anything. That was why they called him Grim.
    They were all there. Only they weren’t. They were all
dead, gone back to the mud. Logen tapped the pipe out into the fire and shoved
it away. He had no taste for it now. His father had been right. You should
never smoke alone.
    He unscrewed the cap of the battered flask, took a
mouthful, and blew it out in a spray of tiny drops. A gout of flame went up
into the cold air. Logen wiped his lips, savouring the hot, bitter taste. Then
he sat back against the knotted trunk of a pine, and waited.
    It was a while before they came. Three of them. They
came silently from the dancing shadows among the trees and made slowly for the
fire, taking shape as they moved into the light.
    ‘Ninefingers,’ said the first.
    ‘Ninefingers,’ the second.
    ‘Ninefingers,’ the third, voices like the thousand
sounds of the forest.
    ‘You’re right welcome to my fire,’ said Logen. The spirits
squatted and stared at him without expression. ‘Only three tonight?’
    The one on the right spoke first.