Into the Deep Wood

“What do you say, Marat?” Johannes’ words sounded as if behind a veil of rushing water. “Why don’t you join us - it would be a pleasure to share a meal.”

His head was slightly tilted back to look down on Marat, his smile roguish and ingenuine. Val’s eyes darted between them. She felt the betrayal of his promise.

He used her.

The general stood with his hand still lingering at her side. She wanted to go to Marat, to do anything but stand there. But she couldn’t. She saw him straighten, head held high. He did not look at her.

“Your invitation is a welcome one, brother,” Marat answered, continuing forward. Johannes showed him where a similar meal had been set as the day before. This time, other men were seated there as well.

Johannes introduced them as his captains. With them stood a lieutenant, a young man holding the honorary position due likely to his father’s place in court. He led Val, who was far too embarrassed to protest, to sit between himself and one of the captains and far away from Marat.

Someone brought the food and poured wine and tea, but Val could not take her eyes off of him. She felt it in her bones that he would not meet hers for the rest of the night. She’d been publicly exposed, and she had to sit through whatever came until everyone retired to their tents. How would she return to Marat? What would he say to her? Oh gods… what if it was nothing at all?

She felt her stomach twist and, when offered meats and fruit, turned them away.

The tension grew with every word. The captains did not speak much but watched Marat with the intensity of guard hounds. Johannes seemed to revel in this.

He would make a point to address Val with a question or a comment, but when he did, he did not look at her; he watched Marat out of the corner of his eye.

Val became very aware that she was not involved. The calculated words spoken between the men were not for her, and no one would wait for her to respond. She sat back, wishing she could melt into the background and be anywhere but there.

“The day is still new. Should we go off into the hills and hunt? Eh, Marat?” Johannes was clearly playing a game that she was not privy to.

“I think that for the day, I am content.” Marat was not engaging. “The journey is still long, and if we happen upon the city in the middle of the night, we will not see rest.”

“Ah! But you are right, my friend!” Johannes exclaimed, “The day is long and night longer yet, and not all of us got sleep as undisturbed as yours.”

He turned his head to Val for show. She shrank back, wishing herself as small and invisible as a mouse.

The young lieutenant did not seem aware of what was happening around them. Although the other four men were tensed, he sat on the floor pillow with gladness and was focused purely on the array of cheeses and dates laid out before him.

Oblivious to the growing dissension, he reached for the bottle of wine set across the way closer to Val. Leaning over too far, his fingers grazed it barely and it overturned - splashing on Val and immediately turning both the linens in front of her and her skirt crimson red.

As the folk say, it was a single drop that overflowed the cup.

What happened next was but a blur of bodies and flashes of steel. Marat lunged at the young Lieutenant, who, unprepared and already disappointed at the loss of the wine, immediately became flattened on the ground.

The captains, as if leashed dogs suddenly set loose, had apprehended him, immediately pushing Marat’s face to the ground and arms pulled up behind him. The other held his legs as the man twisted in an attempt to free himself.

“Unbecoming behavior, my brother.” Johannes stood above him, the young lieutenant already forgotten by all, as he’d been just as insignificant as Val in this exchange. “I welcome you, give passage, and ask for nothing in return. And you attack one of my junior men - your wrath knows no confines - as you know that the man you would rather have attacked would better you.”

“Pigshit, Johannes!” Marat squeezed out through gritted teeth. “Stop this fucking game. Do I know nothing of you?”

“Seems Marat had been a little scorned that his companion did not choose his company instead,” Johannes said, then lowered his voice for only them to hear. “Perhaps you feel that you’ve been wronged, eh brother? Perhaps you feel that it is your manhood that is at stake here, not a woman’s cunt?”

Marat’s body jerked as if to strike, but the captains held tight.

“I am nothing if I am not fair and decent!” Johannes announced louder. “If it is righteousness you are after, then we settle this as equals!”

The noise about them rose. Men either hooted or hit their metal mugs on something hard. Val looked around and saw that the altercation had gathered a large audience from the very start.

She must have turned into that mouse after all because not a single soul could see her there any longer.

The men seemed to move all at once, and Val felt she would be trampled if she had not scrambled to the side. In a rush of bodies, she lost track of Marat, who had been wrenched up and forced to move behind Johannes - who, standing above the rest, led the way elsewhere to the fired shouts of his men.

Val felt her breath leave her body, her heart racing. She went after the crowd but was unable to make her way forward. The men moved through the tent grounds fast, their strides long, and Val had to run to keep up. No thoughts passed through her, nothing she could even give sense to - everything had happened so quickly.

They moved to a familiar place. To the left she saw the giants that were the loaded wagons, the shields reflecting the sun into her eyes. The men gathered ahead. Fence posts were put up in a circle and then roped off between them.

She realized it was the arena they had built only hours ago.

She could not see, although she tried. She moved to the left and right, not one gap allowing her the opportunity to get closer. So, she turned to the wagons. Rushing, as she could hear that the tone of the cheering crowd had changed, she grabbed onto the fastened shields and hoisted herself up. On any other day, her arms would not have held, but this day she could only think to get higher up, and not her own body’s limitations.

She had to find Marat.

Val clung to the side, unable to climb further, but from this vantage point, she had a clear view of the ring. The general was saying something, but she did not catch it. All she could do was stare at the two men in the middle, Johannes and Marat.

Marat’s eyes had not left the general’s face. He’d been half dragged and pushed into the ring by one of the captains, although he would have been happy to have come on his own, knowing what would come. Johannes was a snake, but these were his men. There was no truth here, only the general’s word. It did not matter. Very little did.

It burned in his chest, his muscles on edge; he’d pictured tearing the man’s head right off his shoulders. Marat would flaunt it. He would cut out the man’s heart. He would relish the knowledge that he’d killed him. A knife, a board, his own hands - it did not matter, what had mattered that Johannes would die.

“And so, I give you justice - and satisfaction!” Johannes boomed to his audience. “A fair fight! Choose!”

Men threw their swords into the circle, each wanting his to be the one the general would pick up.

“This is not your beloved hedge cutter, nor is it your hunter’s knife. Choose a sword fit for a man, brother.” Johannes told him, his words quieter. He picked up a sword, plain and insignificant. He wore no plate, no steel on his boots. Marat was dressed the same; neither had come armored.

“One weapon! No shield! One opportunity! Fair fight!” Johannes announced again.

Marat picked up the nearest blade. He was not used to the military swords. Only soldiers used those against other men.

And he did not hunt men.

They faced off. No go-ahead was given, only Marat’s lunge –Johannes had counted on his anger launching the event into motion. The first few swings had been awkward and uncoordinated for Marat; the weight of the blade was unfamiliar and his state of mind had made him easy to distract.

He breathed, his senses coming about, even if only in short spurts. He tried to focus on his opponent’s movements.

Johannes was a skilled swordsman with a knack for heavy blades where marksmanship had been Marat’s. But, it had been many, many years. They were not the same boys as they knew each other then.

Although, that was not right - was it? They’d known each other as men. They’d sworn into the Templars the same day. And, as it turned out, neither of them kept their oaths.

Swing, miss.

Johannes’ elbow slammed down on Marat’s back, knocking him forward. The right step at the right time and their swords clanked violently against one another. The men on the outskirts of the circle cried out. They shouted. They shook their fists and cheered.

Swing, hit.

But the blade was flat; Johannes had moved at the right time, and it hadn’t landed in a debilitating blow.

Marat knew his leg was not nimble, no matter its given flexibility - it was still not his. He could hardly account for it in the fight. A knife, sure. Even the hedge cutter - a rapier that weighed one-third of this. But this was about the footwork. And he only had one of those.

Swing, miss.

Nevertheless, he held his own and saw that Johannes had begun to tire. Although the man was bigger, his days had been spent in the courtyards and riding horses across the landscapes that Marat had run.

Swing, miss.

Swing, hit.

Swing, hit.

Marat’s sword had collided with Johannes’, and the man had not paid attention to his stance, falling back. Marat was fast and took the opportunity to strike. Nonlethal, it had struck Johannes’ thigh.

He grunted, the obnoxious smile gone from both his face and his eyes.

“Whoreson,” He all but growled. Marat was getting to him, and he knew this had been the harbinger of a loss.

Swing, hit.

Another blow landed. Marat had tired him out.

Swing, and their swords collided, the men chest to chest, and Marat had the upper hand - Johannes’ arms shook, his face red. Marat pushed, and Johannes toppled, both men losing their composure for a heartbeat. Marat recovered first, both were down in the dirt, and he went to deliver a blow that would mean his freedom.

The noonday light, soft but undeniably warm, shone off the polished and so missable knife. It had emerged from Johannes’ sleeve, fast and undetectable. Its thin blade met its mark, sending the other man to the ground, blood pooling at the fabric of his clothing. It was a small cut, its strike unexpected and painful.

And just like that, it was done.

Marat doubled, blood discoloring his shirt at his ribs. And that was the opportunity that Johannes needed to knock him off his feet and press the sword against Marat’s chest.

“It’s done, brother.” Johannes wheezed, but when he spoke again, he spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “I am nothing if I am not mercy! I am nothing if I am not the truth! And I will show you that today.”

He let go, Marat remaining on the ground. Waving men over, Johannes paced forward and then turned back - sword stretched out to where they picked Marat up on his knees. His hands were bound tightly with a rope. His head was held back by the hair, forced to look up at his opponent.

“Witness all! What happens to the traitors? What happens to those who lie and steal from Aisultan? Who flee from their duty to their lands?” Johannes bellowed. “What happens when a man’s pride and honor are absent from his heart!”

With those words, he yanked down Marat's head by the beard, forcing him to bow down. A glint of steel, the momentary stop of the heart, and Johannes let go.

Marat remained bowed, his beard roughly cut off by the blade.

The malicious jibes came from every direction. Every man yelled as Johannes paraded Marat along the circle. Most spat. A few threw dirt at him, careful not to hit the general. A large, burly man pursed his lips, and taking a deep breath, he spat brown saliva mixed with chewing tobacco, hitting Marat across the cheek.

“Coward!”

“Pigshit!”

“Traitor!”

“Snake!”

“Deserter!”

They kept coming. Three times, Johannes had led him around the full circle before untying his hands and kicking at the back of his knees with his boot. Marat fell forward, flinching from the force.

“Now, be disgraced, brother, if you had thought that your transgression would warrant hunters in your wake - oh, how you’d be wrong. You are nothing. Nothing to Aisultan. Nothing to anyone. Your not returning to Tarahz had barely earned you a piece of paper calling for your arrest.” Johannes whispered, his face level with Marat’s. “And everyone. Everyone. Will see it now.”