Into the Deep Wood

The refugees were arriving at Barzah in droves.

Ruined people, only days ago, living ordinary lives within their own homes and neighborhoods –now displaced and forced to ask the favor of strangers and the crown.

Many had lost loved ones, children, grandparents, and even pets. They walked away with what they could carry and would not be allowed to return for the rest.

They had been the lucky ones.

Just about half the city of Nashtuun had perished in the first wave of Misfortune.

One woman spoke of how suddenly her husband had leaned too far into a well and fell—another of a toddler left unsupervised, ending up under the wheel of a horse-drawn cart.

They were scared. This was not an invading army, it was not soldiers that looked like them. It was not men.

They were confused and angry, and they wanted to blame someone.

So, they blamed Batyr.

He stood at a window in the palace. His face had withered away by twenty years in the span of five. He’d lost considerable weight since the war began. Even when he feuded with Aisultan in the past, he would have never imagined that this was what war would bring to his doorstep.

They were freshly here and angry, but they would not be starving for another few days. They had clothes, but those would get dirty and wear thin. They would need shelter from the sun, medical attention, and eventually work.

It was only by the grace of the All-Father that so many had made it.

He heard all the talk about the events at Nashtuun. About the gates, the burning streets. About the collapse of the southern wall.

About the general that led them out of death and destruction.

The soldiers were the loudest when speaking of the Ember Sword. Captains and sergeants spoke of the evacuations ordered through the city. The search parties. The explosives at the wall. Of how he led the people beyond it to safety.

They praised him, and they respected him. This came as an unwelcome surprise to Batyr. For all the time the Ember Sword had spent in the South, he was but a shadow slinking about and doing as he pleased and when he pleased.

He hardly saw the man. It was only because Iros had insisted that Batyr had even allowed the Ember Sword into their political discussions. When Asim informed him that the western general was taking nearly half his army north, Batyr had nearly suffered a seizure of the heart.

When they returned, Val was taken to her quarters, and it was insisted that she remain there while everything outside had been settled. Both Yaro and Marat had gone to help; even the soldiers had duty there until the very last person arrived from Nashtuun.

She wanted to help, but she felt her knees buckle below her. All she could do was collapse on the bed.

It had been a miracle she had made it back at all.

Val turned on her side, tucking her arm under her head. She could hear through the open windows as the captains directed people about. She could hear children crying and the sounds of horses being led through the crowds - their whinnying, clearly distressed.

She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath.

In all her life, and all that she had been through, Val had never felt so close to death as she had at the gates. She could not get the memory out of her head. It was as if a lingering putrid smell remained in her nostrils - but more so the piercing of her heart instead. She knew when she reached out that it would not be a creature of the Nothing like she had felt before.

But still, she was not prepared for what she saw.

Instead of the monster's suffering, she at once felt the suffering of all at the hands of Misfortune. Every prick of a finger on a sewing needle, every wagon wheel broken on the road, every loss of a house in a fire, every husband perished in war, every child stillborn.

And then, she saw Korschey.

She saw how he had bent the Legho to his will.

It had been bound in many chains, and he had approached it, although no other man could.

He cut out its tongue first. He asked who its master was.

Next went the creature’s jaw, twisted to the side until the joints popped apart, the soft tissue ripping as he dragged it toward the floor.

He ripped the teeth out, one by one.

He had not done this to force it to submit. He had done this to stir anger so horribly deep that the Legho had gone from a dormant mountain to an erupting volcano, its rage burning through everything in its path.

The flesh of its arms had been peeled off the bone until that, too, was broken off. The Legho did not scream; it did not move. It only grew more furious.

And then, he led it forth.

Riders went leagues ahead of the creature, holding its chains. They passed the cities in the dark of the night. They stretched the chains as the Legho walked behind.

And with it, the Sister brought a tempest. It brought anger and death.

She heard the whisper of what the Northern King told it.

Show them your wrath, but further than the city, you will not go.

It’d been a test.

It’d been a demonstration of what Korschey could do. Of what he would do.

He did not even have to bring his armies, and he could have decimated every White City in his path.

Gods.

But how could she tell Marat?

How could she tell anyone? It was a promised demise. It would have stripped them of hope, of any will to fight.

Outside, down in the courtyard, she heard the familiar voice shout a command.

It sounded so natural to him. She knew now why Dimos had done what he had done. She saw how sure he was when he had made decisions, the authority with which he reined in the captains who meant to run for their own lives.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a movement.

Arachne had crawled up on the headboard of the bed. The spider no longer feared the world outside the spine of the journal.

It went where it pleased; it did as it pleased.

And what had pleased it was being exactly where Marat would see it, which did not so much please him in turn.

Every time it would sneak up, a sharp breath and swearing was followed by him jumping back. The face on the spider’s back would twist in a laugh.

Arachne began to spin between two iron slats. Val let them be; the little webs of art had filled the space around the room, hanging here and there. She would study them by candlelight –the light of the fire would reflect off the strands, and she would look at the intricate weaves the spider had created.

Some of them, she knew. Others she could almost feel that she could place. They felt like the creatures themselves.

At one time, between the stem of a crystal glass and a copper kettle of water, she saw Sirin’s. And it made her miss the bird woman.

It had been a long time since she left the Glade.

But now, she looked at the pattern the spider was making. It reminded her of something, but she could not quite tell what. In a much different way than the others…

“What are you telling me…” She whispered, and the face on the spider’s back frowned.

The web was intricate, and she was sure Arachne had not woven it before.

It was late into the night when she heard the door open.

It was done delicately, careful not to wake her. But she had been waiting all day for that very sound.

Val sat up, looking at the figure in the dark. He stepped toward her with a slight exhausted stumble, and the smell of horses and sweat wafted toward her.

“Marat?” She said softly.

He grunted slightly, lowering himself onto the floor next to the bed. She saw him bring his knees up, holding his face hidden in his hands. Even in the dark she could see how dirty and clumped together his hair had been. How his shirt stuck to him, soaked in sweat.

In the odors was hidden the metallic stench of blood.

“All those people…” His voice was raspy and tired, “they are all dead.”

She swung her legs off the bed and slipped herself down next to him, but said nothing.

“What have I done, Val?” His voice shook, and she heard his throat tightening in his words. “They refused to leave, they were trapped, and I just went to the next house. I sent men to find people in their homes, and they did not return. I bear the responsibility of their death.”

“Marat,” She wrapped her arms around him and set her cheek against his shoulder. “It is because of you that everyone out there is alive. Had it not been for you, they, too, would not have made it.”

“I thought that they would never come in a storm. I made a mistake.”

“They did not come. It did.”

She felt the tremble of a sob run through him.

“I failed, Val. A whole city. I should have never been out there. If it were Iros, he would know what to do, it would not have gone as it had.”

“If it were Iros, he would have perished with them. Is that what you would want?”

“What I want is never again to see what I had. Never see the looks on those people’s faces. That fear. That loss. Most had not even known what a Legho was. They were simply caught in unexplainable death. Their everyday lives turned against them in a single breath.” His hands dropped.

She saw the light from the window reflect off the wetness on his face, and pulled herself tighter against him.

“Their death is not on you, Marat.” She said quietly. “But, the lives of those who made it out owe them to you. And I know that they know that as well. Please, Marat, come and bathe.”

She stood and guided him to the bath. She helped him undress, mentally noting to burn the stench-soaked clothes.

He did not resist, did not even say a word. She got in the water herself and lead him down to it. It was so quiet that only the slosh and lap of the bath disturbed the room. He allowed her to wash his back and chest. Her hand ran over several new cuts, and she drew her fingers away, afraid to hurt him, but he did not react.

Tilting his head forward, he allowed her to wash his hair. Val ran her fingers through it, and the smell of soot came off on her fingers. She could not help but flinch away from it - the memories of the smell caused her stomach to drop, even still.

She bought bergamot oil, as the smell had always reminded her of him. She ran it through the strands and felt his head fall back against her hands as he gradually relaxed.

“Tomorrow,” he said, leaning back with his eyes closed, “Batyr will bring me to trial for what happened in Nashtuun.”

“What?” Val sat up, the water splashing around her. “What trial? What do you mean?”

“At worst, war crimes. At best, dereliction of duty. I do not wish to speak of it now, but I wanted you to know. You deserve to know.”

When morning came, Marat put on a black doublet, fine enough to be worn in court. He brushed back his hair.

They did not speak as they both prepared, but as they walked down the halls, he could feel how tightly she was squeezing his hand. Whatever was decided, it would be civil. They would have time to say their goodbyes if it came to that - or time to gather their things if he would simply be sent back to the West.

He had expected the grand rooms to be lively, but even as they approached, it was quiet. You could only hear muffled tones and reverent murmurs.

This would be nothing compared to what he saw in the past few days; he did not think anything could surpass it ever again. The people had died all around him…

Under his command.

The outside of the room had guards stationed about. They nodded to Marat but did not smile.

When they walked in, the great hall was full of people. Heraldic symbols decorated the walls. He saw General Asim over by the King’s throne. Several templars were on the other side of it, in full armor and with their heavy swords.

The eastern warlords were there, and standing along with them was Yaro. He smiled his toothless smile, and it got lost in the bushiness of his red beard. He came forward, but when he spoke, it was in an uncharacteristically hushed tone as well.

“Come with me, Valeria. You cannot be with him for thi-s.”

Marat was grateful.

He did not wish to have to send her away himself. He did not wish to see her face when the King would speak. He could see that she was scared, but, there was nothing he could do about it now.

He was taken to the middle of the room, standing as proudly as he could, his hands clasped before him. Two templars stepped to each side.

All waited. When Batyr came in, the formal announcements were made. Marat risked a glance around but did not see Val anywhere. His head whipped back when Batyr began speaking.

“You’ve come to us, the Ember Sword. King Typhonos be praised for the aid that he has sent us - for the generals he has given to our cause. Today, we have but one in front of us, a man who had led our brothers to Nashtuun, the White City, under the All-Father’s grace now.” His voice was deep and rang far healthier than he himself looked.

Marat cast his eyes to the floor. He did not wish to hear their accounts.

“The Crown and all that you see here are deeply grateful for the men’s service. A man had sacrificed his life for every ten souls saved that day, and we honor them in that we honor you today.”

His brow creased, and eyes went to the King.

“This is the face of valor in the presence of the Nothing's devils, The people would know it - and they should know that it is he who leads them against the darkness of the North!” Not a whisper broke the room free of Batyr’s words. Two eastern warlords stepped forward, each holding an end of the large scabbard of a longsword. They set it on the steps before Batyr. Two templars stepped down from next to him and held it up, turning to Marat.

“May you take the sword of the Eastern King as your own and avenge the death that had brought our people’s ruin!” He announced ceremoniously.

It was the sword that Aisultan had brought to the Negotiations. Marat had known it to be a Nothing-touched dubbed Kladenets, the sword that takes the mortal life of any man with just one strike. A sword too heavy to yield for any man who it had not chosen as its master.

The templar on his right had tapped his arm, as Marat had been too taken aback to think to kneel. He dropped down on one knee immediately, and the sword-bearing men stepped to him.

“Once the right hand of our allied King, the Ember Sword, for what you have done, I name you Lord Commander, protector of the Southern lands, an equal to any Southern general who may lead our armies forth!!”

The room was quiet no longer.

It erupted in a wave of cheer, any shadow of reverence gone.

“Intere-sting,” Yaro said next to Val, who had been standing dumbfounded by the rollout of events. This was not what Marat had told her would happen. “I thought he ju-st blew s-ome s-hit up?”

They went to sleep that night, exhausted and relieved. And yet, Val could not sleep, a strangeness hanging at the back of mind. She could not remember something and thought ate at her. She saw the minuscule shadow run across the bedside table.

Sitting up, her eyes followed it as it began to weave the same pattern as before.

Each of the strands ran in the shape of a sun, meeting in the middle and stretching outward again.

It was the same arrangement as the chains suspending the Hag above Korschey’s throne.

And somehow, she had known.

The pattern was the trap that bound the Hag.

A trap that she, too, could weave...