Into the Deep Wood

Something happened.

The serpent coiled, its remaining heads turning away from the exhausted men. There was a change in the air as if it got colder, but seemed it was only inside of them.

Marat’s head snapped to the forest.

Val.

He had to get to Val.

“Yaro!” He shouted to the red-bearded man slumped against what remained of a thick pine tree. “I have to get to Val!”

“If you leave, that thing will tear u-s to sh-reads!” Yaro yelled back. “Nine out of ten, Marat! Nine out of ten!”

Fuck.

But he was right. The only reason the giant serpent had not landed a fatal blow was Marat’s presence there. If he left, the two were done for.

“Go get her!” He told Yaro, already climbing up a boulder to where Ivan knelt, his breath heavy.

The pathfinder was pale, and his clothes were soaked in sweat. He leaned almost all his weight on Kladenets, and when Marat leveled with him, he did not even look up.

“She’d done something,” Marat said to him between breaths. “I can feel it. It won’t be long. Yaro is going to get her.”

Ivan only nodded, wiping the sweat out of his eyes and pressing his damp hair out of his face.

“You’re done. We have to get higher.” Marat told him, grabbing him under the arm and hauling Ivan to his feet.

“I can still…”

“I said you’re done. There are two of us. If you collapse under the weight of that blade, there will only be one and a half of us very quickly.” Marat dragged him toward the boulders making up the rise of the canyon.

The serpent’s distraction was far more than a mere glance. It turned and started in the direction Yaro had run.

“FUCK!” Marat dropped Ivan’s arm and backtracked quickly down the mountain. “HEY!”

He brought the bow up and shot one of the final arrows in his quiver, disappearing against the scales where the necks met. This could not have hurt the serpent, but one of the heads turned and went to strike, but the other was not fully aware of this plan, yanking it back, and preventing the jaws from closing in on Marat.

Ivan felt his heart thump so hard that it was the only thing he could hear. They’d gone nonstop for what felt like hours. He might have thought it was days if he had seen the sun set and rise. The sword was impossibly heavy now, and he had struck the thing more times than he could count. For what? The serpent was no worse for wear.

Of course, he knew for what.

For the Witch.

“All-Father’s grace…” He breathed out, straightening. The serpent had just reared and came crashing down, just missing Marat. But Ivan could see that his footwork was no longer sure; his movements slowed and uncalculated. They had all been at this far too long.

One of the heads turned toward him.

There were several points that day where Ivan thought he would surely lose his life. Several times the fang had been too close, the strike of its scaled flesh too hard against the surface he stood on. But it never struck the fatal blow. It was as if luck was on his side. On all their sides, it seemed, because three men against something this horrifyingly large…

But they were not three men, were they?

There were but two men. And a god.

He cursed himself for thinking about it. And, sliding his hand around the hilt, he again prepared to fight.

He went forward and felt the world around him didn’t quite keep up. The faintness was setting in.

“Ivan!” Marat’s voice brought his concentration on the man below. He was pointing to something. The serpent’s body was so close to him that if it had rolled, it would crush him outright.

Ivan looked beyond the snake to where Marat was pointing. Understanding washed over him like cold water, bringing him around. He turned back and nodded.

Marat took off in the opposite direction, making a half circle and forcing the serpent’s heads to reach forward for him as he went. Above, Ivan ran across the stones, pushing off of one and onto another, trying to keep up with the black void of a slithering body moving after Marat.

It was in his sight. Close. He only had to time it right.

Ivan’s foot pushed off the edge of a protruding boulder, a forty-foot drop below him. His body was suspended in the air for a moment, a moment in which he had accepted his own death. But then, both hands with a tight grip on the sword, the blade found the very nape of a head, thrusting inside with the full force of Ivan’s body.

The last desperate attempt pierced the scales, sinking into the creature’s flesh.

But even the Nothing-touched blade was not big enough to reach through the giant’s neck.

What it had done, however, was force the head to jerk and twist irrationally, trying to shake the source of the sudden pain and the man who’d landed atop it. And in that quick, reactive motion, the serpent head impaled itself on the sharp, splintered remains of a broken, split tree.

Ivan was thrown off, the sword still wedged in the back of the beast’s head. The thing writhed, an ungodly noise shaking the trees and rocks around them. It sent tremors through the ground and vibrated with such force that even fifty feet away, it sent Marat falling to his knees.

The beast’s remaining free head pulled too hard, it seemed, as the neck of the other strained against the angle of the tree that skewered it, and a grotesque wet rip separated it from both the tree and its spine. It hung uselessly by only threads of remaining skin, its mouth still snapping shut and coming open. The body thrashed and whipped, and the remaining head reared, and the sound of the thundering furnace returned, forcing both men to cover their ears.

The serpent lashed out to the side, twisting its head all about, and it fled, dragging the dangling head behind it, the sword still lodged in the back of it.

A quiet settled over the space, leaving only the heavy breaths of the two men behind.

Marat fell back on the grass, laying on his back, his vision swimming, and the thirst that he did not realize he had overwhelming every other need. He glanced at the body lying nearby. It was a fair gamble if Ivan was still alive. After all, one of the ten arrows still hit.

“Ivan..?” He wheezed.

At first, there was no response, but then a strangled cough came from the man’s direction.

“Fucksake…” Ivan breathed out. “It’s gone…”

“Ivan.”

“What…” The pathfinder raised his head slightly, wincing from pain.

“You owe me another sword.”

A rustle came from among the trees, bushes being pushed aside by something large. Heavy, deliberate steps crushed the dry branches beneath them.

Both men shot up, knowing they belonged to Yaro.

The red of his beard appeared against the contrast of the greenery first. Then, as he stepped closer, it was revealed that he carried something in his arms.

He held her gingerly as if she was made of glass and could shatter at any moment should he misstep. Her linen riding dress was dirty, and even from afar, they could see it was stained heavily with blood.

Both men rushed forward, Marat at the head. Yaro did not stop as they ran up.

“Marat.” He said quietly, the word so quiet that it sent cold washing over both men. “There i-s s-omething you sh-ould know.”

He let her down carefully onto the grass just past the trees, Marat’s vest folded up beneath her head.

She was unconscious, her eyes closed and breathing shallow. Like a crimson waterfall, from the corners of her mouth and down her chin was crusted blood. It stained the front of her dress, the pattern solid and thick. It had all gushed out at once.

“Val…” Marat whispered. “I should have been there…”

“I don’t think your gift would have done much for a Nothing-touched…” Yaro sighed. “There-s more…”

Her hand twitched and it brought all three’s attention back to her and away from Yaro immediately. A heavy breath came from her parted lips.

Marat fell on his knees, grabbing her hand.

Val opened her eyes.

Her eyes.

Their green was gone, replaced by an opaque, milky tint. A tinge of blue appeared at their outer corners. She blinked but did not seem to notice it at all.

“Gods… no… Val…” Marat muttered, holding her face and pulling her up against his chest. Her arm came up to fall against his shoulder.

“He’s Nothing-touched…” She let out hoarsely. “Korschey…”

“I found her in the clearing. The Wound i-s gone.” Yaro said grimly.

Ivan said nothing; he only looked at her with an expression that was hard to read. His mouth was downturned, and his eyes hard.

“The Wound is gone…” Marat repeated. “You did it, Val.”

She blinked again, her eyelids fluttering as if it caused her pain.

“It came for the Iron Gates… it’s in Titan’s Pass…” She said into his shirt. The words has exhausted her.

“The gate-s!” Yaro’s eyes widened. “Sh-it! We have to go!”

Iros.

Marat slipped his arm under her knees, picking her up.

“I have to get her back to Barzah.” He said.

Both of the other men looked at him quizzically.

“We have to go to Titan’s Pass,” Ivan said, exchanging looks with Yaro.

“And do what?” Marat snapped at him, “What would you have us do against Misfortune?”

“Gone…” Val’s voice was just a whisper underneath theirs. “Legho is gone…”

Marat was afraid to ride too fast, although all three held their breath in their chests as it was. Val’s condition was dire, and the horse’s trot pained her. She was awake and lucid but did not speak much. Whatever it was that she had seen at the Wound, whatever it was that took her sight, it had drained the life very nearly out of her.

He held her tightly to his chest, hoping to soften the impact of the horse’s steps.

Titan’s Pass was still a day ahead.

“Val?” His voice, spoken so closely to her, echoed painfully in her head, yet it was welcome, comforting, and safe.

When she opened her eyes, vague shapes, colors, and shadows danced across her vision. They were blurry, like watercolors. But they were more than the darkness she had woken up to just days ago.

It was not like the last time at the Dormant Wound. This time, she remembered all of it. The world that felt as if her own was turned inside out. The Hag. The creatures. The Legho.

That final moment, when she felt her own body dying, rot crawling through her from the inside. She remembered the Legho’s face. There was no emotion; she did not think the creature was capable of emotion.

But there was dread. There was loss as if, at that moment, Val had lost her family, her friends –and Marat. She felt it tenfold. She felt the devastation of the countryside, the cities and villages, and the ruin of the lands. There was the smell of death, and the worst of her memories were relived again and again in that single moment. She saw them all in the span of three heartbeats. And in it, she prayed to the gods that she could go blind, so she would never have to see them again.

How cruel it was. The Legho had not done it; it was Val. She was taken to the precipice of ruin, and she took the final step off into the dark.

But then, she felt the Legho’s struggle. The binding tightened. It enveloped and drowned the creature within its clasps. It suffocated it. And with Val’s last breath, she felt the Wound close around it before the darkness had set in.

Then, it was only Marat’s voice.

It called to her, and she grasped onto its reach. Once, he had pulled her out in the same way from a nightmare that intended to eat her whole. Her savior in the dark, the warmth that kept her body going even now, pressed against his chest.

The jagged mountains of Titan’s Pass appeared in the distance, the Iron Wall standing black against them. Dread washed over the riders at the thought of what they would face ahead. Val could not give them more than what she already had, but she seemed to believe the Legho was gone.

“We would have felt it by now,” Yaro said, “there-s a lot that could have gone wrong.”

The harrowing sight only appeared as they got closer.

The Iron Gate was open, twisted away from the mechanism that acted as its hinges. One of the colossal doors lay on the ground. The metal warped and rusted, crumbling away as if eroded by the rain and sun.

“All-Father’s mercy…” Ivan muttered.

“I hope Valeria wa-s not too late.” Yaro said, looking at the girl.

“Val?” Marat nudged her slumped-over form lightly, and she raised her head.

“I do not hear it.” She said, rubbing her eyes, forgetting again that it was not sleep that clouded her sight. “I do not feel it’s Misfortune.”

An eerie calm settled over the road as they approached. Not a single sound joined that of the horses’ hooves on the paved road. All around them was earth, scorched like a fire had gone through the valley. The already rotting carcasses of birds remained untouched by other scavengers. The slight, sickly smell of their decomposition carried on the wind.

The Legho’s Misfortune had salted the earth.