Iron Council

Chapter One A man runs. Pushes through thin bark-and-leaf walls, through the purposeless rooms of Rudewood. The trees crowd him. This far in the forest there are aboriginal noises. The canopy rocks. The man is heavy-burdened, and sweated by the unseen sun. He is trying to follow a trail. Just before dark he found his place. Dim hotchi paths led him to a basin ringed by roots and stone-packed soil. Trees gave out. The earth was tramped down and stained with scorching and blood. The man spread out his pack and blanket, a few books and clothes. He laid down something well-wrapped and heavy among loam and centipedes. Rudewood was cold. The man built a fire, and with it so close the darkness shut him quite out, but he stared into it as if he might see something emergent. Things came close. There were constant bits of sound like the bronchial call of a nightbird or the breath and shucking of some unseen predator. The man was wary. He had pistol and rifle, and one at least was always in his hand. By flamelight he saw hours pass. Sleep took him and led him away again in little gusts. Each time he woke he breathed as if coming out of water. He was stricken. Sadness and anger went across his face. "I'll come find you," he said. He did not notice the moment of dawn, only that time skidded again and he could see the edges of the clearing. He moved like he was made of twigs, as if he had stored up the night's damp cold. Chewing on dry meat, he listened to the forest's shuffling and paced the dirt depression. When finally he heard voices he flattened against the bank and looked out between the trunks. Three people approached on the paths of leaf-mould and forest debris. The man watched them, his rifle steadied. When they trudged into thicker shanks of light, he saw them clearly and let his rifle fall. "Here," he shouted. They dropped foolishly and looked for him. He raised his hand above the earth rise. They were a woman and two men, dressed in clothes more ill-suited to Rudewood than his own. They stood before him in the arena and smiled. "Cutter." They gripped arms and slapped his back. "I heard you for yards. What if you was followed? Who else is coming?" They did not know. "We got your message," the smaller man said. He spoke fast and looked about him. "I went and seen. We were arguing. The others were saying, you know, we should stay. You know what they said." "Yeah, Drey. Said I'm mad." "Not you." They did not look at him. The woman sat, her skirt filling with air. She was breathing fast with anxiety. She bit her nails. "Thank you. For coming." They nodded or shook Cutter's gratitude off: it sounded strange to him, and he was sure to them too. He tried not to make it sound like his sardonic norm. "It means a lot." * * * They waited in the sunken ground, scratched motifs in the earth or carved figures from dead wood. There was too much to say. "So they told you not to come?" The woman, Elsie, told him no, not so much, not in those words, but the Caucus had been dismissive of Cutter's call. She looked up at him and down quickly as she spoke. He nodded, and did not criticise. "Are you sure about this?" he said, and would not accept their desultory nods. "Godsdammit are you sure? Turn your back on the Caucus? You ready to do that? For him? It's a long way we've got to go." "We already come miles in Rudewood," said Pomeroy. "There's hundreds more. Hundreds. It'll be bastard hard. A long time. I can't swearMiéville, China is the author of 'Iron Council', published 2004 under ISBN 9780345464026 and ISBN 0345464028.