Into the Deep Wood

Something must have shifted because the metal of the gates groaned, forcing them to a halt. All three horses tensed, but their riders held them in place.

Ivan and Marat both dismounted, walking forward on foot.

“What do you think?” Marat crouched, placing a hand palm down on the ground.

“I feel it,” Ivan confirmed, eyes scanning the pass beyond the gates, “I just can’t tell where they are coming from.”

“If Korschey planned to storm the West after the gates fell, it would be a fair guess they are coming from the East. From Midtrade.” Marat stood again, glancing back to where Yaro was helping Val off the horse. “But I would think we would have noticed after the fork in the road.”

“We should leave…” Ivan said, frowning.

“She can’t go that long, not after today. We will stay far from the road, and you and I will take turns keeping watch.” Marat shook his head. “We will go downriver and stop once the grass begins to grow taller.”

The camp was set up out of sight of the gates. It was put up against the Iron Wall, overlooking the Crimson River. Val was asleep before they even sat down to eat; staying awake at all had been difficult for her since the Wound, and the men ensured that she was undisturbed for however long they could give her.

“S-o,” Yaro started.

The three were around the campfire, bedrolls laid out and four fish roasting on a spit.

“Then I am to babys-it again.”

“I cannot sleep anyway,” Marat said, absentmindedly cleaning his nails with a small knife. “You might as well.”

“Every time I do, you pigsh-it-s leave on your errand-s.”

“Not this time,” Marat said. “Too much at stake.”

“That-s what you alway-s s-ay, and I wake up to an empty camp and cold fire. Every gods-damned time.” Yaro twisted the spit, eyeballing the toasted scales.

“The commonality there seems to be Val; if she is here with you, then you don’t have to worry. And I don’t have to worry.” Marat assured him. “Ivan and I will patrol the area. If they come in the night, we retreat downriver to the South.”

“The pathfinder, I unders-tand.” Yaro sighed. “But I s-uppos-e a good night-s s-leep i-s nothing to s-coff at.”

Although they had agreed to take shifts, both Ivan and Marat ended up awake long past Yaro beginning to snore. Each man had scouted half a league up and down the river bank before meeting at the wall to the north. If anyone were to come, it would be from the main road.

They were silent for a long time, Ivan sitting against a boulder and picking at crusted dirt on his boot and Marat pacing slowly, trying to make out the line of grass that had wilted away so suddenly. He gave up soon, as the cloudy sky did not allow the light to see much.

Eventually, he sat down by Ivan, letting out a deep, exasperated sigh.

“She’ll be okay,” Ivan said, not looking up. “She’s strong. She can do many things.”

“I know.”

“You’re going to take her south then, I take it?” Ivan asked, looking over at Marat, who’d slumped back against the rock.

“She said she does not wish to go.”

“Where then?”

For a moment, Marat was silent, his eyes on the sky.

“She doesn’t know either. She speaks of something hidden by Korschey. Something she has to find.” He said, his words letting on to his exhaustion.

“His death.” The pathfinder confirmed.

“How do you know?”

“She spoke of it after the Obsidian Palace. That he had tricked the Hag into handing him his own death. Trapped in a needle, I think.” Ivan said.

Marat leaned forward, rubbing his temples.

“I just don’t know how she thinks she will find that. I don’t know where it is she wants to go.” He said.

“She’ll figure it out.”

“Ivan,” Marat looked at him, his face serious. “Why is it that you so blindly trust in Val? What she is now is far from who she used to be… but she is human still. Even if she doesn’t hold a mortal soul, she almost died back there.”

“But she didn’t,” Ivan said quietly. “I trust her with my life.”

Another silence fell between the two.

“I trust her. I just know that she would sacrifice herself if it came to it, and I cannot let that happen.” Marat said after a time.

“Like you once had for her?” Ivan muttered, his voice holding a tinge of sourness to it.

“It was different.”

“You did it because you loved her.”

“Because I had no other choice, boy.”

“Don’t do that.” Ivan shook his head. “Don’t try to reduce me to ‘boy’ because you do not wish to speak to me as an equal.”

The look on Marat’s face might have made Ivan swallow those words if it were light enough to see. But there was no moon, so he did not know to take them back.

“When I wished you dead, and when I wished never to see her face again, Iros had told me, ‘You do not know him, perhaps you should, if not for any other reason, then because Valeria trusts him’ and at the time I hated him for saying that. But it is why I am here now, because she trusts you and because I trust her.” Ivan continued, “and then, I find out you are a fragment of the All-Father. And, my faith dictates certain things, knowing that. But I see only a man here. A scared man.”

Ivan paused, feeling his breath catch at the sudden burst of boldness. But Marat turned away, his eyes resting on the river.

“That is because I am but a man,” he said, “and I am a thief.”

“Lots of men are thieves. And none of them are gods.” Ivan said.

The air felt heavy, and then Marat laughed quietly as if to himself.

“She would pick you.” He said, still chuckling, “the day to her night when once I was the night to her day.”

“Seems there is only night now.” Ivan sighed. He paused as if debating something. “Can I ask?”

“You’ve earned that much.”

“How did it happen?” The blond man looked over at him, “When you died, how did it happen?”

Marat smiled.

“It was a man.” He said. “I was in the depths of fire and ash. And it was a man that I once knew who cut me down. Once, I thought myself better than him, and, in the end, he bested me.”

The final silence fell over them, each lost in their thoughts.

By morning, the earth shook with the weight of a thousand horses.

Small rocks crumbled away and into the river as the ground trembled under the weight of their hooves. Even the air rippled, promising their presence soon.

They were not coming from the East.

They were approaching from beyond the Iron Gates. They were approaching from Nasmeria.

Alone, Marat stood where the gates had been torn from the wall, the early morning light casting a shadow from behind him and stretching it far down the road. He could feel the rattle of the approaching armies in his very bones.

It felt as if the sun had crested with the full of its glory above the forests behind him right at the very moment he saw the first man at the head of the troops. Still small in the distance, yet his plate mail shone a reflection, forcing Marat to turn his eyes away.

Throughout, the flags bearing the golden lion flew high and proud.

These were Typhonos’ men.

The man at the head spurred his mount forward, leaving the rest behind. Even before Marat could make out the features of his face, he knew.

Iros.

The horse came to an abrupt stop, the man swinging down from it.

“You’re alive!” Iros breathed out.

Marat offered him his hand, but Iros bypassed it, embracing the man.

“The Legho was here –Misfortune took two hundred men at the wall over the course of a day. I feared…” Iros scanned Marat’s stony face. “I feared that you and Valeria had perished.”

“She lives. But it seems it was not your doing.” Marat said coldly, only a twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying how hard he was grinding his teeth.

Iros shook his head at him, disappointment written on his face.

“You still do not understand. Perhaps soon you will.” He said. “Dimos rides with them. As does Typhonos.”

“Why are they here? Did they hope to fight the Legho with this army?” Marat looked over at the approaching wave of horses and men.

“No.” Iros turned to them, his posture proud. “They ride east. They ride to free the Midtrade City.”

Val was up before sunrise. She sat with her knees tucked under her chin, watching Yaro sleep. He was only a blur in her eyes, but slowly, vague shapes and colors began to make some sense. Sometimes.

Ivan was sitting by him, carefully adding long, dry stems of weeds into the red beard.

“How many more?” Val whispered.

“We have a good left side, still.” Ivan said quietly, “you might have to go find more.”

A snore, and Yaro turned slightly but did not wake up.

“Hand me the leafy branch, I think I can improvise.” He whispered, reaching out his hand. Val handed him the nearest one she could feel for, and too late she realized that it was covered in ants as one fell from it onto her hand.

“All-Father blesses us…” Ivan nearly snorted as he stuck the stem into the red tangle.

A much more violent snore, and Yaro woke with a start, swiping at the leaves tickling his nose.

“For fucks-ake!” He growled, immediately looking at the culprits. “The gods-damn rabbit-s!”

Val giggled so hard she felt tears force their way to her eyes. Ivan’s whole body shook with laughter as he tried to dodge Yaro’s shoves.

“Where-s Marat?” Yaro suddenly twisted to look around, “Do you hear that?”

Ivan’s face grew serious.

“Army is coming from the West.” He said, “He wanted us to stay here and meet them himself.”

“And you let him?” The bushy red brows furrowed, Yaro’s voice was suddenly rougher, the sleep shaken off.

“I would have liked to see you disagree with him.” Ivan shrugged. “Someone had to stay with Valeria. May as well have been us.”

“I’m fine. I feel much better today.” Val muttered.

“Feel better to walk right into that river.” Ivan said. “You know we can’t leave you alone.”

“At this rate I think I might rather have that fate.” Val sighed. “When can we follow him?”

“When he returns.” Ivan looked up the path.

Marat had not been worried, he only told Ivan to go return to camp.

“Iro-s will be there.” Yaro came up next to him. “Likely the king, too.”

“You must call him the Ember Sword in their presence,” Val said suddenly. “You cannot use his name.”

Both turned to look back questioningly at her. She felt their eyes, even if she could not see them.

“Marat has a debt that the Ember Sword must repay.” She told them.

“A name debt.” Yaro said under his breath. “Of cours-e he doe-s.”

“It is not like that.” Val shook her head. “He would have told you if he was here.”

“Then he is the Ember Sword.” Ivan agreed.

“S-uppos-e.” Yaro picked up his things, looking north where the Iron Gates stood in the distance. “Sh-ould we go?”

“We should wait…” Val said uncertainly.

“I’ll go if it’s safe, I’ll return soon,” Ivan said, and in a heartbeat, he was gone.

The army came as a golden tide spilling across and out of the narrow pass. Each man was clad in shined, unmarred armor. Each horse healthy, with a shiny coat and braided mane.

They came with steel pikes held all at the same height—their shields bearing the golden lion of the west.

And at their head, rode the Golden Lion himself.

Typhonos looked older, older than he should have been. His eyes were drooped, and his gray hair had turned almost completely white, although no less thick. The thin golden band upon his brow was the only thing he wore that made him stand out among the rest - but no one would mistake the King for any ordinary man. He sat tall on his white steed, his presence alone forcing men to bow their heads to him.

And that was what Marat did. He knelt. His face downcast, he knelt in front of his king.

He knelt, knowing that he had not done what was asked of him.

Knowing that he was not to leave Barzah. Not to leave Batyr.

“My general returns.” Typhonos deep voice held no ill will or accusation. He dismounted, handing the reins to Iros. “It seems that he had strayed.”

Marat did not raise his head, nor did he stand.

Another voice, young but much deeper than before, sounded above the noise of the soldiers.

“He cannot stray,” Dimos had ridden up behind him. A young man now in his early twenties, the godchild had grown to be nearly of his father’s size. His pale golden hair held just a bit of curl, tucked away from his face by a silver band. “As he does not know where he goes to begin with. Stand.”

Marat rose, and taking a calculated deep breath, he looked up at Dimos and the King.

“Iros has told us much. Much that we did not know.” Typhonos said. “And there is much that you do not know, as well.”

“There was a cause–” Marat began.

“We know.” Dimos dismounted by his father. “Where is the witch?”

“Not far.”

“She closed the Wound.” Dimos nodded. “We felt it; the air stirred with wind, and it took the Legho in its flow, then quieted like it never had before.”

“Iros.” Typhonos called back. “Make sure that they get horses. We resume the march as soon as they are ready.

The High Templar bowed his head and turned to walk away. Before he did, he briefly glanced at Marat, and Marat thought he saw a slight smile on his face.

“We have not had news of the war in a long time, general.” Typhonos said. “The seas rose up. Just outside our waters, the Sister opened up her maw and swallowed up our ships.”

Disbelief colored Marat’s expression, but he said nothing.

“We have not been able to send aid.” Typhonos continued. “We have not received word if the White Cities even stood still.”

“Is that why you have come…” Marat looked at the men atop horses, their faces frozen in resolve and pride. “Or was it because the Legho was at your front door.”

“Hold your tongue,” Typhonos’ face grew dark. “The West was under siege by two Daughters of the Nothing, and you come questioning my intent?”

“Father.” Dimos put a hand on the King’s forearm. This seemed to quench the rising fire.

“Your Majesty.”

Iros’ voice brought everyone’s attention to the three figures approaching upstream the Crimson River. Dimos stepped forward, his face, for the first time that they had ever seen, twisted in anxious emotion.

Two of the shapes were large, although one rounder than the other, and a slight, thin one in the middle was clinging onto their arms.

“The witch…” Dimos whispered, his words barely audible to Marat, whose eyes considered the godchild with some hesitation.

He approached her, taking her hands in his.

“You’ve come,” Dimos said.

“I had no choice.”

“There is always a choice. And I thank you for making the right one, Valeria.” He let go of her hand and turned back to Marat.

“The Ember Sword,” His voice was louder, loud enough for all to hear, “You’ve seen the devastation that the Nothing brings. You’ve seen that men can be darker than it’s beasts.”

It was a speech. The young man before them, not even old enough to have a beard, commanded presence as if his own father spoke to them.

“You’ve been named to be my father’s weapon, the ever-burning light against the dark.”

Marat could feel the air change.

“The dark has come!” Dimos shouted, his young voice cracking, and every last man in the ranks of a thousand men raised their pikes. “So it is time to strike the match that lights the fire and push back!”

Their pikes all came down at once, and then again, and again, the rhythmic sound of hardwood shafts against stone as every soldier drummed their weapons.

Typhonos turned to Marat, his face as impassive as before.

“You are my sword, and they are now yours. Take them east, and then you will lead them to the North.”