Into the Deep Wood

The room was filled with men.

The noise that rose was filled with both irritation at the late hour and bits of curiosity.

When Ivan entered, it felt as if all eyes had been on him, even though the commotion did not still. He had to leave Val behind in the room and was not hesitant to do so - things he would have to say were better said without her presence.

General Asim was speaking to another well-decorated man. Ivan had known him to be the other general in Batyr’s court. The rest of the men were various sergeants and commanders—a few he recognized as men sent by King Typhonos.

One, a particularly tall man who held himself with utmost dignity, stood on his own, his eyes fixed on Ivan. As Ivan looked over, the man walked forth. He was Iros, a general from the West - a High Templar, no less—the only one to have spent the past six years in the court.

“Pathfinder.” He greeted.

“Lord Iros, All-Father preserve you.” Ivan greeted.

The expression on the man’s face did not change.

“My condolences for your men.” He said. “It is my understanding that you’ve come back bearing success.”

“Your Lordship, I only pray I am not too late - it's been over a year since I have set out, and I have heard little of the war since then.” Ivan admitted.

“I think, perhaps, there would be some value in a debrief.” Iros sighed. “It seems that Lord Asim had not deemed this necessary. Of what have you heard?”

“I met a man who told me that the South had gone to negotiate surrender...” Ivan’s words had tasted bitter, and he dreaded the reaction he would get.

“It seems some men are awful grim about the state of the world.” Iros’ face became dark. “Where did you hear this?”

“I was in Volkograd.”

Iros barely suppressed an eye roll at this.

“Do not listen to the drunken ramblings of wretches in the streets. We have done no such thing, pathfinder.”

Ivan’s stomach twisted in both relief and embarrassment as the General turned to walk elsewhere. It was at that moment that Ivan’s eyes fell on a man across the room. It was the same man from the tavern, the disfigured one that had been the one to tell him. He hurried forward to reach him, but General Asim’s voice rose above the rest telling everyone to take their respective seats.

Ivan paused, but he kept his eyes on the man as he turned to sit.

He’d never seen him there before, not in the barracks or court.

What business had he had there, in that room? Ivan took him to be an envoy - a dignitary sent to the North, but this room held no men of low ranking like that.

How could he have made it there before them?

Perhaps he had misjudged and the man had been a pathfinder after all.

The Ember Sword had first declined the offer to be dragged out of bed where he had just laid down.

It had been such a journey since they left the Deep Wood behind. On foot, they had approached the Midtrade City. Yaro had remained behind, circling the perimeter to the South, while the Ember Sword had made his way inside.

Rescuing Iros would be a difficult task. That was, until he stumbled upon soldiers talking of how the High Templar had already escaped.

As it turned out, one night, Iros had just disappeared, only to greet them when they came across a patrol party outside of Nashtuun.

The Ember Sword had not slept in two days, and was still filthy from the road, when Iros came crashing into his quarters. Without an explanation of what had gone on, he forced the Ember Sword to his feet and pushed him out the door. Never had there been a more irritating time for the High Templar to arrive, and he had made a note to switch rooms without notifying anyone.

Now, in a room that smelled of men, flavored tobacco, and unwashed clothes - he shuffled through without so much as the intent to participate. He was told that his audience with Batyr could wait until the next day, but here they were, deep into the evening, and he had no intent of being the belle of the ball.

A bit of blond hair caught his eye on the other side of the room. A face that had been familiar but out of place - unlike the heads of the military. This was someone from another time. He squinted, trying to fight the exhaustion. It was the man from the rundown room playing King’s Duel in Volkograd—the one he took to be a lowly soldier who claimed to be a pathfinder.

Well, pigshit, maybe he was after all.

The Ember Sword sat down, listening closely as the man began to speak. There had been a lot of pointing at a map, a lot of talk of safehouses no longer available to them. The man spoke of the location of the horde to the east of the capital at Chernovod, the frozen lake.

At this, men began speaking out of turn. More pointing. Asim had gone red in the face, and the Ember Sword wondered if a vein in his forehead would finally burst as it had threatened to do for months.

It was what the man said next that turned the Ember Sword’s blood cold.

“Korschey has bound the Nothing - he has taken the Legho and the Rusalka, although I cannot say where.” He said. The words were met with a hush of the others.

The Ember Sword scooted to the edge of his seat, his eyes fixing on Iros, whose face had paled.

Batyr had forbidden this information from getting out.

Not only that, but they thought only the Legho was bound…

The Ember Sword could still remember Rusalka’s call. The creature once had a deathly hold on him as the man he’d been in a past life. It had been killed, although no Daughter of the Nothing could truly go. The wretched thing would only hatch anew at the bottom of some lake or sea. She was one, but she was many. If this was true…

“How did you come by this information?” Iros spoke before General Asim could.

The blond man hesitated, and the Ember Sword saw him look down briefly before his eyes returned to Iros.

He was about to lie.

“I overheard it from an officer of the court, by chance.” He said. “But, there is more to that and I must share it with a smaller audience I am afraid, the King, His Majesty, would want to know first before anyone else.”

An odd request. Highly unusual. The men immediately thought it important to let him know just that. But, the pathfinder held firm, his face frozen in resolve. This had inadvertently inspired some respect. Whatever the truth of things had been, he was determined.

“Then I will take you,” Iros said.

He looked to the Ember Sword, but the man shook his head no. He was going to sleep.

General Asim began to protest, but Iros held up a hand.

“If His Majesty, King Batyr, were to find out this information had not come to him first - it would be on all our heads. I’ll take him now, and should more discussion need to be had we will have these conversations in the morning. I can smell from here that the evening is at an end for most of you as it is.” He motioned for the man to follow.

What for godssake was that man’s name?

It was in the early hours that a forceful knock came at his door. Without invitation, Iros let himself into his room.

“There is something you should know.” He did not pause his walk, but he did shove the Ember Sword lightly awake from his dazed state. “Get up!”

“Iros, I swear to the gods…” He said, rolling his head back. “Do you have any idea how long I rode to get here as fast as I did? Whore’s mouth but can I sleep?”

“All night I spent listening to what I thought was a story from a madman.” Iros shook his head. “Speaking of a witch. The witch that had seen the bindings of the Sisters. A witch that knew how Korschey had bound the Hag.”

The Ember Sword sat up.

“So you have someone very bored at court playing make belief after hearing rumors all day and night.” He groaned. “You know what Korschey’s court is like. There is a vast bee nest full of buzzing wasps, and all they do all day is sting each other left and right.”

“Marat.”

A name no more. Out of Iros’ mouth.

The Ember Sword’s eyes, suddenly clear of sleep, burned into the man.

“The witch is Val.”