Into the Deep Wood

Prologue

The echoes of battles unfold

A longbow crafted from stories of old

A given name

Life forfeited in shame

A sacrifice, a tale to be told

Two lone travelers appeared on the road in the vast lands of Yeztok. It had been a long time since their journey began. And a long time until it would end.

“I thought it was twelve notches from the Insipid Flatlands to the city? Is the Midtrade City near there?” Val asked her companion, swatting away a mosquito that hovered at her ear.

“You were looking at the wrong side of the road, girl.” He answered. “We were not going toward the Midtrade City, but away. Had we walked the other direction, we would have been there in a few days,” he looked at her, sizing her up, “at your stride, maybe more.”

She shoved him, smiling but turning away so that he did not get the satisfaction. To her surprise, he laughed, knowing she hid the look on her face. His laugh was foreign to her. He was so stern and sour, at least most of the time. But when he did laugh, it sounded young - as if the years that made him world-weary had never occurred.

Val liked his laugh. She had to make sure she never let His Royal Smugness know that.

“Why did you say that it was a good thing I was kind to the Evergreen Man?” She wondered. As Marat had called him, the Leshy had been a Nothing-touched creature - yet he had helped her find her way, and that seemed a long way from trying to eat her like the others.

“The Leshy is… not necessarily good nor bad.” He told her. “But it is a reflection of what you give it. It is a trickster; had you been unkind, his malevolent nature would likely lead you astray. Get you so lost in the woods that the swamps would have claimed you long before I arrived. But as you were tenderhearted, he repaid you in like.” He paused, “What did you do?”

“I fed him.” She answered. He nodded knowingly.

“I suppose that explains how you made it to me in two days rather than four.” He said.

“Wait, what?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You think I’m tenderhearted?”

“For fucksake, girl.”

Not an hour later, they came out onto the main road. The bridges sprawled out ahead of them, not a soul in sight. The waters rushed higher than they had been when they last came through here the year prior.

Val watched Marat’s face closely as they started up the first curve. His expression did not change, but he stopped as they reached the top. Turning in the direction the current was flowing, he walked to the stone wall. He gently brushed it with his hand, his eyes downcast.

She approached him, and they stood silently, listening to the river.

“He was not a bad man,” Marat said finally. “I know he had done bad things, but he was not a bad man.”

She wanted to comfort him. To put her hand on his shoulder. But she did neither of those things. She couldn’t.

As they reached the top of the curve of the second bridge, it suddenly dawned on her that Marat was not limping. She put her hand out, stopping him and staring at the fake limb.

“It is not proper for a woman to be so focused there.” He told her, “Let’s go.”

“Your leg!”

“What, girl? What of it?” He knew what she was referring to. “It was an expensive trade.”

“But, how? Is it real?” She could not help but stare - he had not limped once now that she thought of it.

“For All-Father’s sake.” He shook his head, “It’s steel, rubber, and leather. This is not a peasant's peg. This is a general’s prosthetic, fit for those who have no need to even be on their feet.”

“Rubber?”

“It comes from Nasmeria. From a tree that only grows in those mountains. It is soft, flexible.” He told her, a hint of pride in his voice. He was pleased to be able to brag about it and eager to explain. “It houses an ivory ball where my ankle would be. I have a range of movement like any other, even if it is only attached with leather straps.”

“Can I touch it?”

For a moment, he considered laughing. It was clear on his face.

“No.”

She accepted, although she was endlessly curious. Why did he seem like he was going to laugh?

By the time they made it across, it was already getting dark. Marat had decided they would stop just past the base. They set up their humble camp, shared dried meat and plums, and Val fell asleep wrapped in blankets on her bedroll while he stood guard.

Around midnight, she felt him tap her on the shoulder. She opened her eyes, about to ask why, but he held a finger to his lips. The fire was long put out.

“The silver stag hide, take it out.” He told her quietly. She felt around, pulling it out. His tone scared her, and her heart was beating faster. His eyes were on the bridge. “By the cut bank, those rocks, go back there and drape it over yourself the best you can.” He instructed her.

She paused, trying to see the expression on his face in the dark.

“They’re coming on horseback. There are a lot of them.” He told her, even quieter. “There’s a scout ahead of them. If he does not see you, they will pass by without stopping. Make sure he doesn’t see you.”

“What about you?” She asked, her voice trembling.

“It might be quite the tight squeeze for both of us under that thing.” Even with only the moonlight, she saw him smile slightly. “I’m not the liability here, girl. Go.”

She scrambled up as fast as she could, but he stopped her before she turned to run behind the rocks.

“Girl,” he said, “if they are to catch you, and I cannot help, tell them you’re a Golden.”

“But–”

“Tell them. You’d fare better brought to one man at the end than a thousand at the beginning.”

Val pressed against the rough red rock, the steep edge below her ending in the rushing waters. It was difficult to hear anything above the river, and she did not hear the rider until he was right at the bottom of the last bridge. There were the rhythmic steps, the clink of the metal horseshoes stopping on the stone, and then –silence.

Val held her breath.

She heard the suppressed thump of heavy leather boots hitting the packed dirt and cobblestone.

All she could feel was her heart; it seemed it was in her throat, and she shut her eyes as tightly as she could.

She heard the deep and jovial stranger’s voice.

“Well fuck me blind as a swamp whore! It’s Marat!”

Val pulled the hide cover down and peeked around against her better judgment. The tone was familiar with Marat. Even sounded glad to see him.

Between Marat and a white horse stood a man. He was taller and larger than Marat. The man was clothed in thick gray clothes covered partially with a chest plate. It was so highly polished that the lamp's light reflected from it like a mirror. It was intricate and ornate, like a piece of art.

She had never seen one in person before.

His hair was tightly braided in three braids that led down his back. It was light, like straw. His beard was just a little darker. It, too, was braided and hung down to his chest.

“You pulpous pile of pigshit, where have you been!” The man exclaimed, patting Marat on the back vigorously. She expected him to recoil, but instead, he leaned into it and intentionally shook the man’s hand. Both of their postures had been at ease.

“Johannes.” Marat acknowledged, his face showing just a tinge of relief and even excitement. “I’m glad to see your nether’s pox has not claimed you yet.”

The stranger laughed, putting his hand on Marat’s shoulder.

“What are you doing out here, brother? Alone?”

Marat opened his mouth to speak but took just one barely noticeable glance in Val’s direction. Johannes immediately caught the nearly imperceptible sign.

He held up his hand.

“Ah. Well. Why didn’t you tell me we were in the presence of a lady? I might have held back from the familiar pleasantries. Although, knowing you, she likely could humble me in that.” He took a step toward Val.

“Leave it. She is not that.” Marat intervened. He turned toward her, “Valeria, it’s alright.”

She pulled herself up to her feet, still unsure. This stranger seemed as if he was royalty. Off his hip hung a large scabbard, the ornate hilt of an almost fairytale-like sword rising above it. Throughout his beard were gold beads, fastening a series of smaller braids to the thick one in the middle. His eyes were smiling.

Johannes stretched a hand out to her; on it was a fine leather glove embroidered with gold.

“Come on out, girl.” He called, his voice holding no deceit.

Feeling a bit more at ease, she walked forward to meet them.

“My apologies if I had realized - I would have never called you a girl,” Johannes said as she came into the light, “because I can see you are a clearly a young woman.”

She smiled at him but was unsure of the etiquette of meeting someone so… shiny. Should she bow?

He took one of her hands in both of his and bowed his head momentarily, seeing her discomfort.

“Nevertheless, in the presence of beauty, my question still stands - what are you doing out here all by yourselves?”

“Traveling to the Midtrade City, brother,” Marat said. “The better question is what you are doing out here. This is not the wine gardens in the courts of Tarahz nor the damp sheets of some unfortunate lady in waiting. What trails behind you?”

“Woah!” Johannes, still smiling, put a hand up in good humor. “A man of means takes both wine and women with him wherever he goes. Unfortunately, I have only the former this time. I, myself, am also on the way to the Midtrade City.”

As he said that, as if rays of a rising morning sun, light appeared over the bridge's curve. Val squinted, caught off guard.

It was people. On horseback, side by side, row after row, they took up the entirety of the bridge. The rhythmic tap of the horses was nearly in sync. She stared in disbelief. She had never seen that many people in one place.

“Join us, I insist.” Johannes offered Val. Behind her, Marat looked at the army with a cold, apprehensive stare.