Into the Deep Wood

“Take them down.”

Ten riders closest to the front split off, dismounting their horses with ropes in hand.

A crack, the whine of wood being splintered, and the crunch of old dried flesh separating from something hard.

The first of the grotesque road markers came down, its bleached, crumbling ribs falling apart as they hit the ground. The thick, wooden poles were tied with ropes and pulled from the earth by the horses.

As the army marched, each one of these display was taken down, and the remains of the people on them were placed together in a cart. The large wooden poles were stacked in a massive bonfire away from the road, the bodies of Korschey’s victims set upon it.

The funeral pyre burned high. High enough that even so far away, Marat knew that Rurik would see its smoke.

Let him come.

“It is a mercy to their souls,” Typhonos rode beside Marat, the rest of the procession not far behind, “what you have done.”

“They did not deserve to die.”

“Not many do in war.” The King sighed. “And it is the sign of a great leader who recognizes that.”

“You’ve made a mistake.” Marat looked at the sky, where the black smoke already started drifting ahead of them among the clouds.

“I’ve made no mistake, boy.” Typhonos’ eyes smiled, but the rest of his face remained still. “Your divinity might bring you victory in battle, but it is you who will win the war… and should I hear you address your king in such a casual tone, I will have Iros take your horse, and you can walk.”

Dimos rode beside her, Val finally atop her own horse. At first, they were silent, although she could tell his eyes were on her.

“Thank you for saving him.” She was the first to speak.

“I was not the one that saved him.”

“I know what role you played, Your Grace,” Val said. “Iros has told me much… and I have learned much on my own.”

“You saw the priestess. So you must know, then.” It was not a question.

Val nodded.

“And you have not told him.”

“He’s died for me once. I do not wish for him to do so again.”

“A kindness to the world, Valeria.” Dimos wiped the road's dust from his sweaty brow and sighed. “I regret that it is your fate. I am afraid I have had much to do with it, and for that, I grieve. But I do not apologize.”

“Had I known, I would do it all again.”

She saw the movement; he nodded to her.

“May I ask?” She said hesitantly.

“You may.”

“The way that you… his leg… I thought maybe…”

“No.” He shook his head. “He was a man then. My divinity lies in men. I cannot help you. And even if I could, they are not damaged, Valeria. The Nothing cannot see, so you’ve also lost your sight.”

She sighed.

“What I wouldn’t give…”

“One day, the candle will burn. You’ll see the flicker of light, and it will find you in the dark.”

“Is it an absolute must to speak in riddles like that?” She grew annoyed. Royalty, a god, she no longer cared for the titles of men.

“What I see is not what will happen. I can only guide it along. But if you make the right choices before you go, you will see him again.”

The skies did not darken. The rain did not come. Sun shone, and so with it, the world was bright and colored. But the wind smelled of death and ash.

Marat’s words rang true; Rurik had left the Midtrade City. They would arrive by the next evening. And then, the sun at their backs, the legion of the west would face Korschey’s first force in open battle.

The men’s camps spread across the valley in the meantime, horses tied and sentries standing guard.

Marat walked through the rows of tents, looking, inspecting. Iros waited for him, and joined him in stride.

“You went to get them,” Marat said to him, not looking up as they kept walking. “But you did not know of the Legho.”

“I knew that the prodigal son had returned. Just as Dimos had told me he would.”

“A true puppet master.” Marat sighed.

“He was born to serve man. Hardly a position of free will.” Iros clasped his hands behind his back, lightly stretching as they walked.

“As were you.”

“I served the All-Father.” Iros shook his head. “And when I learned of the Shattered God, I served him instead.”

He looked at Marat meaningfully.

“I serve the Shattered God, still.”

“Will you stay by my side then?” Marat felt his jaw tighten, the old High Templar’s soft expression turning his own to stone.

“My friend,” Iros stopped, facing him. “I will ride at your side as I have always done. You are where you were meant to be now. My duty to Dimos is done. I have fulfilled my name promise.”

The two stood until Marat suddenly clasped him in a firm embrace. Iros’ eyes closed, and he patted the other man on the back a moment before they parted.

“Come. There is something else.” He said and led the way.

Her hand ran lightly over the curve of the exotic, oiled wood. The barely noticeable inscriptions played at her fingertips. It was taller than her but was laid across a leather hide, and she could feel its vibrations. They came from inside.

“Valeria?”

She turned her head. A large figure was standing in the tent's doorway.

“Ivan?”

“I’ve come to say goodbye.” He said, taking a step inside.

She stood quickly.

“What?” Only one word, so desperate and pleading. “You cannot go…”

“I’ve only come to say goodbye, and I do not wish to be convinced to stay.” He wrapped his arms around her, and it took her a moment to realize it before she brought hers up around him. “I need you to understand.”

She felt the tears in her throat, but they would not come.

“It is not forever, at least, I hope.” He let go, still holding her hand. “I didn’t want it to be someone else that told you. I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye again.”

“I cannot say I’ll see you later…” She smiled.

“Yeah, but I can.”

Even in the vagueness of her vision, she could still see his bright, genuine smile before he turned and left. It was a quick exchange. She felt the tension that pulled him towards the door.

“Goodbye, Ivan.” She said quietly.

“Goodbye, Valeria.”

She took a deep breath, her hand finding the oiled wood again. Gripping it gingerly, she pulled the All-Father’s Reach up against her chest.

Val heard Iros’ voice and then Marat’s, the two men approaching the tent. When the light shone and then dimmed as they stepped inside, she heard the difference in Marat’s breathing at the sight of the longbow.

“How…”

“You are not the only one that gets to die and live, my friend.” Iros was visibly pleased with himself. “Twice now, it has been gifted to you. Hang on to it tighter than you did the Kladenets; it will not be crafted again.”

“I was not the one that lost Kladenets…” Marat muttered, stepping up to Val and taking the All-Father’s reach from her hands.

He marveled at the wood that had been brought to life. There was no break or snap, yet he could feel this was the same bow.

“Tomorrow will prove its crafter’s worth.” Iros laughed, but his words tapered off at the thought of it.

“What will happen when they come?” Val asked quietly.

“Men will die,” Marat said, every one of the darkest thoughts on his mind in his voice. “And we will hope that it is their men. And they will hope it is ours. But men will die.”

“I’m glad that the years have made you more jovial.” Iros sighed. “Now that you have it, let’s go have a final dinner before Rurik’s putrid breath takes away our appetites.”

The sun was almost leveled with the mountains behind them. Plenty of light was left; once they crossed the threshold of the archers, the battle would not last an hour.

Marat felt his mouth grow dry, the distorted taste of the charred pig from the night before still at the back of his throat.

He looked to his left.

The men shifted one foot to another; they glanced at each other but did not speak. Many of them had been too young to have seen battle. Even for all the abundance of the West, it could not buy hardened men. It could not buy those who knew the life of hardship and bore scars that would drive them not to receive new ones on their backs.

Yet, they were well armored. They were well-armed. They held the pikes with arms that had been trained for years. That much was clear. But would they drop them when a man came rushing forward with their death before him?

Nine arrows would miss.

That was what had forced Marat here, forced him to remain in Barzah. It kept him from speaking out when Typhonos had handed him their lives.

But the tenth would still hit.

And that was why he walked the lines, shouting for even the far-off soldiers to hear.

You do not fall back.

You do not leave.

Should the man before you fall, you will step forward over him. Do not break rank. Listen for no command on the field because there will be none. Advance until you cannot.

They already held formation but were so tightly squeezed that one could never tell. If they had scouts, Rurik would have sent his as well. There would be no element of surprise on these grounds.

Typhonos remained toward the back with the mounted archers. Dimos took Val, and they rode far back from the battlefield. Marat hoped it was far enough.

The dark line appeared. It crawled across the horizon. They still had time before any of them would get close enough for the arrows, but just the mere sight had swept a chill through the ranks.

Typhonos had forced Marat to stand back. The King told him a general does not go into the midst of steel and dying men. His fall would indicate a victory for the enemy, and it would be foolish to let pride dictate the outcome by rushing in.

Closer.

It had begun.

There had been many, and yet not even a quarter of all the North's forces.

If this army couldn't handle that... what hope was there to hold the city when the horde arrived?

Closer.

His eyes narrowed. Something standing above the rest, a bulky shape - a wagon? No, it was taller, wider…

A boom.

Something snapped so loudly that it sent a thunderous whistle through the air.

"Seige weapons!"

Someone cried out. It was an older voice. And with it rose the shouts of the other men.

An iron sphere came crashing down, cutting through ranks of mounted men as if a knife through butter.

Screams, horses' panicked neighs, and then another boom.

"Pigsh--GO!" He shouted, but it was too loud. Too many men, too many sounds, too much metal and layers of the helms for them to hear.

"Fuck!" Marat spat and kicked the horse forward. Somewhere behind him, he heard Typhonos' voice, but the words were quickly lost in the whistle of the wind going past his ears.

If they could not hear his orders, they would see his actions instead.

Ilya gripped his sword with weathered hands, his knuckles turning pale.

Don’t let them see; let no one see his fear.

They’d marched long enough that his feet bled where skin met leather. His commanders shouted something he could not hear.

He looked to his left; another man he did not know wore the same ghastly expression on his face. There were so many new men and so many he used to know and would not see again.

Somewhere far behind him, the screech of wood and metal that was the catapult halted.

By the gods. But they were so near. The devils of the West were atop a hill, with the sun shining at their backs. It was so hard to see.

Rurik had been mad. They had not left the city in months, and suddenly, there was a command - Ilya had never even finished sewing up his worn-out undershirt. They marched so fast, the mounted men setting the pace for the foot soldiers. Like slave drivers, they forced the infantry on.

Ilya tried to swallow his fear, but his mouth was dry.

A boom.

Behind him, men covered their ears, at least those who did not wear a helm.

The soundwave struck Ilya on the back of the head, making him flinch and bend forward. The sound was deafening. The iron sphere flew forward, getting smaller, faster and faster as they all watched the iron moon set on the evening of their lives.

It had begun.

He felt the men next to him take off in a run. That’s what they were supposed to do. They were instructed when the iron arm fired; they were to advance. They’d form blocks of men, kneeling with their pikes held high to pierce the bodies of men and horses that approached. If he were to fall, another one of these strangers would step forth across him. Would his body inconvenience them? Would the next man behind him kick his lifeless arm away so he could widen his stance?

Ilya ran. He ran, no longer feeling the pain in his feet - his body numb. Like ants, the dark shapes on the hill before him scattered from the projectile. But then…

Ilya narrowed his eyes.

A single figure separated from them, speeding ahead and down the hill. The black shape of a mounted man, almost near enough that he could tell it was a gray horse.

And then, they all followed.

Like water flowing from the spout, the men on horseback spilled down in the wake of the single man. One and all, they rushed behind him and toward Ilya.

“Gods forgive me…” He whispered, “All Mother’s grace, may I return to my own mother someday…”

He heard the tide of men descending toward them shout something as if in unison, but he could not tell what.

The ground shook against his steps, nearly knocking Ilya off balance. The sheer number of the heavy animals stomping the ground caused it to quake.

A high whistle, and then another - and then the whistles got lost amongst themselves –the archers and crossbowmen.

The man next to him tripped and fell. Ilya made the mistake of glancing back. An arrow stuck out of the eyeslit of his helm.

Gods keep me from these devils...

Ilya prayed silently now. There was no breath left in his lungs to spare.

He heard a single man call to fire and arrows, like a flock of birds, raised to the sky. They fell on the Western men, yet it seemed nearly all of them had missed their mark.

A crash, all darkness of metal, leather, and frenzied animals.

The two armies met in a wave of clang and clash. Abruptly, the neighs of horses and shouts of men stopped as both would fall dead. The rush of bodies and sharp things around him began to look alike.

Ilya gripped his sword tighter but did not try to swing it. He ducked, afraid, his eyes only looking up for long enough to ensure another's blade did not knock off his head.

Just get through, just to the outskirts.

Just run.

Just survive.

Live long enough to be a coward—a deserter. But alive.

The noise around him quieted, but only because the blood in Ilya's ears was louder than the fight. He smelled the unwashed men and the stench of piss on the dying. He smelled the metal as it struck metal. He smelled the horses, a distorted smell almost like the stable near his mother’s house back home.

Just run.

And that was when the Devil appeared. Grotesque creature - his face melted away with fire, more nightmare than man. He moved so fast that the rest seemed to slow around him, and not one blade even so much as grazed his skin.

His sword swung, and he cut down another soldier. A moment and his blade tore through the leather of another - plunging into the man's chest.

Ilya fell on his knees, hitting soft earth turned from the horses' hooves.

The Devil turned to him, sweat glistening on his scarred face. And, for a moment, Ilya stared into the eyes of his death. Their amber light lingered on him for a heartbeat. He thought he saw the Devil's lips move. He thought he saw him mouth, 'I'm sorry.'

Ilya gripped his sword tighter, although the weapon had never been raised.

And then, the Devil's sword drove through his neck.