Gareth’s patrol marched silently behind him in a fanned-out formation as they weaved between the trees of the deepwood. He walked at the front of the formation, his black and golden cloak rippling behind him as he led the patrol, spear in hand. The senior Rangers had insisted that he didn’t need to come on patrol, an unnecessary risk, according to Sylen, but a reminder of his rank and no small degree of hardened stares had put that to rest. Weeks of reading through inventories and yelling at dull-headed trainees left him longing for open spaces.
The song of the deepwood was much different than the trees surrounding the village. The gentle whisper of the wind through the leaves, the creaking of swaying trunks, the chattering of the underbrush was older, more solemn, and brooding than the cheeriness of the safewood. The trees were closer together here and were prone to forming thickets that required no small effort to weave one’s way through.
Behind him trailed Sylen and Ira, bows in hand and cloaks drawn over their faces. Two pairs of trainees followed them, no doubt given a firm threat about what would happen if they embarrassed the seniors with the captain on patrol. Gareth could practically smell the nerves pulsing from them.
This close to the river, the deepwood was relatively tame; shadow wolves rarely roamed into the patrolled areas, and the oak shades were easy enough to hide from if you kept your wits about you. Gods, but it felt good to be out of the fort. Gareth breathed in the crisp air, smelling the wild scent of the forest, the trees singing their song around him. The too-light sword hung at his belt, poking out of the front of his cloak.
The trail darted and turned southward through the deepwood, following Ela’s Weeping along the more civilized and less strange forest parts. The underbrush cleared away, and the dirt was hardened from decades of marching boots. Ahead of Gareth, the trail forked off, a branch extending to the east, deeper into the woods. He held up a hand, the patrol stopping with a uniform thump of boots. Always eager to impress the captain.
“Ira,” He called, motioning sharply with his hand as they walked.
The senior Ranger stepped beside him. Her angular jaw was scarred up to her right eye from when she had killed a shadow wolf with a hunting dagger as a trainee. Gareth could see the hard muscles of her shoulders even from underneath her green and black cloak.
“How far are we from Hela’s tree?”
“About an hour if we turn now.”
Gareth nodded and began down the eastern fork, the patrol falling in line behind him as they continued into the shadows of the trees. “Those cloaks are looking a little too green, Sylen.”
Sylen spat onto the dirt, “You’re telling me. I’ve been thinking of dumping this lot somewhere in wight country and seeing if they make their way back.”
Gareth could hear the awkward whispers of the trainees behind them and didn’t have to turn to see their bulging eyes and nervous looks. A hollow threat, but the trainees needn’t know. “How far have you been out into the deepwood?”
There was an awkward silence, the trainees no doubt trying to decide who he was talking to. Sylen’s sharp voice cracked through it like a hammer. “The captain asked you lot a question!”
“Sorry, sir,” one of the trainees stammered, his voice raspy and breathy from days of shouting YES SIRs back to even louder officers. “This is our second patrol into the wood, captain…sir.”
Gareth nodded. He could remember his first patrol into the deepwood. Peeking over every corner, jumping at every shadow. The stories of the horrors of the deepwood still rang strong in the hearts of the farmers and villagers. Stories of people beyond the forest. Of grand cities and vast oceans.
The patrol continued down the eastern trail. The trail was thinner here, and the forest wilder the farther they marched. The branches curled over the tops of the Rangers' heads as great hands reached to pluck them into the shadows. The pathway darkened as the canopy thickened overhead, and the shadows deepened in the surrounding brush. The song here was deep, the trees swishing and swaying at their passing, bird cries shrill and screeching, the sound of a man calling out.
Gareth held up his hand again, the patrol stopping less assuredly this time. Keeping his hand up, he scanned the surrounding thicket for the source of the sound. The trail was barely more than a thin line of dirt that led deeper into the trees. The sound came again.
“Thera! Io! Is anyone there?” The man’s voice was shaky and breathless as it echoed through the trees.
Sylen and Ira had arrows knocked and ready. The trainees stood in pairs, hands on swords, waiting for orders. Gareth stood, resting his hand on the pommel of his blade, listening to the sounds of the forest when, through the surrounding thicket, a man stumbled through the brush.
He was clad in a rusty breastplate, his shirt and trousers underneath dirty and tattered. A webwork of scars ran across his dirt-smudged cheeks, and his hair was wild and matted. A rotting wooden shield dangled from his back, and he carried a rusted sword broken halfway up the blade, forming a jagged point. “Corporal!” He called as he stumbled through the trees.
Ira pulled back her bowstring, but a hand from Gareth stopped her. He signaled, and a trainee silently ran to his side. He looked at the recruit, a girl with black hair pulled tightly back and pointed at her bow. She started as if surprised and pulled it from her shoulders, nocking an arrow.
“What’s your name, Ranger?” Gareth whispered to her, crouching down. She followed suit. The armored man hadn’t noticed the patrol and was leaning against a tree about fifty yards out into the trees, breathing heavily and cursing.
“Lia, Captain.”
“You ever seen one of the Lost, Lia?”
Lia shook her head, her eyes wide as she stared at the armored man.
Gareth pointed with his spear. “Aim for the head. Don’t miss. Don’t hesitate.”
Lia nodded shakily and pulled back the string to her cheek. The man was sobbing, his rusted armor clinking and scraping as he screamed to the sky. “THE FIRES OF YERAL WILL FALL UPON YOU! THE GOD KING WILL SMITE YOU; I SWEAR IT!” His voice was raw, and bits of spittle flew from his mouth as he screamed, still leaning against the tree. Tears turned to mud against his cheeks as he shook in his rage.
Gareth placed his hands on the girl’s shoulder, reassuring her as she aimed. “Breathe.” The rest of the patrol crouched behind them, hands on their swords in anticipation.
Lia breathed in deeply and let loose the string. The arrow zipped through the air and sank deep into the soldier’s temple with a wet thud. His screaming stopped with a gurgle as he fell to the ground limply. Gareth patted Lia’s shoulder and stood, pushing himself up with the aid of the spear. Sylen and Ira grunted as they stood, dusting off their trousers and slinging their bows back over their shoulders.
Lia was shaking as she stood, though her face was alight with pride at her shot. Ira patted her back as she rejoined her peers. “Good shot.” The senior’s praise elicited excited whispering from the other trainees.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“You’ll encounter the Lost more the longer you’re out here,” Gareth said, turning towards the trainees. “You can’t reason with them, can’t offer them safety. Believe me, better Rangers than you have tried.” He walked into the trees where the soldier lay, blood pooling around his skull. His eyes were bloodshot and wide as he lay motionless. He grabbed the arrow from where it sprouted and pulled. There was a ripping sound, and the arrow pulled loose with a splatter of black blood. He walked back to the group, shaking the gore from the arrow. The head was surprisingly intact, with only a tiny chip in the metal.
“The best thing you can do is offer them a swift end to their misery. Otherwise, they’ll try and gut you.” He dropped the arrow back into Lia’s quiver. “Believe me, they’re faster than they look.”
“Where do they come from?” One of the recruits, a tall, lanky lad, asked.
“Do I look like I know the answer to that?” Gareth responded dryly as he turned back to the front of the patrol. I don’t know the answer to most of the damned things that happen.
“Thank the gods you finally shut him up,” a voice called from above. “I was beginning to think of offing him myself.”
Gareth sighed, looking up to see a slender woman sitting on a tree limb above the patrols. She was wrapped in a dark green dress, cut low to reveal a twisting pattern of tattoos that resembled black strands of ivy that sprouted from her breastbone, fanning out to her shoulders and running down the skin of her arms. She was turning a pinecone absently in her gloved hands as she watched the Rangers, her green eyes glinting in the light. Her hair was an ocean of black, tight braids that fell around her shoulders.
“Hela,” Gareth grunted.
“Don’t act so annoyed, Gareth.” Hela chided. “Pretending you didn’t bring your Rangers here to see me.” She hopped from the fork in the tree where she sat, landing nimbly on her bare feet in front of Gareth, her dress trailing in the grass as she walked, examining the patrol with her hands clasped behind her back. The trainees stared at her at her wide-eyed. “I see they still tell stories about me in the village.”
Sylen grunted, “You’re a right celebrity this time of year.”
Hela laughed at that, staring at one of the trainees, a wiry, dark-skinned boy who stared at the ground awkwardly. “I guess a woman can’t live alone in the deepwood without a slight risk of being called a witch.” She was beautiful in the way a wisp-wight was beautiful. She seemed part of the forest itself, not as nebulous as a nymph, but there was something about the way she walked and flitted about that reminded Gareth of the way the morning mist ebbed and waned.
“Hela, what did I say about scaring my recruits?” Gareth leaned on the spear, the ache in his knees reminding him of his nigh forty years in the Rangers.
Hela smiled, brushing a leaf from the boy’s shoulder as she faced Gareth. “Something like ‘don’t do that, Hela,’” she said in a mocking baritone. “Now, considering you just silenced that nuisance disturbing my beautiful forest, I would normally invite you in for tea. But considering the fact that one of your own is looking for you, and I have other things to attend to, I really ought to be on my way.”
Gareth straightened, “Who is looking for us?”
Hela walked past him, softly running a hand along his arm as she passed. “That’s for you to find out.” Gareth turned, opening his mouth to question her, but found only the forest in her place, leaves falling through the rays of light. A bird chirped loudly and fluttered by Gareth, its wings rustling his cloak.
“How often have you said you’re tired of her tricks, sir?” Ira asked, picking a piece of dirt from underneath her fingernail.
Gareth sighed and pulled his hood back, the light warming the back of his neck. He turned to the recruits, still looking sheepish at meeting a figure from local folklore. “That’s Hela; you’ll get used-“A thudding sound, crashing through the trees cut him off. He tightened his hand around the spear, Ira and Sylen pulling their bows from their backs and positioning in front of the recruits. The thumping of hooves against dirt grew louder from the direction where the patrol came from.
A small horse erupted from the path behind the patrol, snorting and puffing in frustration from its flight. A Ranger in a green and black cloak sat atop it, his hood pushed back. “Captain Gareth,” he said breathlessly, saluting as relief washed over his grizzled face. “You’re needed back at the fort.”
Gareth walked to the horse, annoyance filling him with the intrusion of what was supposed to be a break from the monotony of administration. “And why is it something Helrir can’t handle, Ranger?”
“There’s been a raven, sir. From Camp Baelon.”
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Raya slept dreamlessly. Her parents had responded as expected to her foray into the woods. Her mother fussed, threatened, and lectured for almost an hour while Raya dejectedly sat on a stool. Her father had been silent, his eyes icy stone as he pulled shut the doors of the ovens. His silence had cut deeper than any of her mother’s words; the disappointed glances made her want to crawl into one of the cracks in the wall.
Her mother eventually calmed down, and she and her father went upstairs to decide her fate. They left her awkwardly sitting on her stool, picking bits of leaves and scraps of rotten wood from her braid. When the silence was enough to make her want to scream, her father turned the corner, looking at her with those horrible, disappointed eyes. He pulled up a stool, facing her as he sat. His hands were still covered in flour, and he had bits of it in his beard.
“You’ll go to your room,” he broke the silence, his words soft and slow as if he was putting great effort into what he was saying. You won’t see the twins or the boy for a long while.” He raised his hand when she began to open her mouth in protest. “You won’t leave unless I or your mother are with you.” Raya stared at her feet, nodding silently.
Her father was silent again for a few more horrible moments and then sighed, standing up. “Come here,” he beckoned as he wrapped her in a gentle embrace. She held to him tightly, her eyes burning with the memory of the afternoon’s terror. She shook as she sobbed silently into her father’s arms, the panic and fright pouring out of her, the weight lifted by the massive arms of her father.
He held her firmly for a moment more, then let go, smiling as he knelt at her level. “Go to your room. I might still convince your mother to let you go to Festival.” Raya nodded, wiping the tears from her eyes and walking up the stairs.
It had taken her a long time to get to sleep, and when her eyes snapped open, her room was still shrouded in darkness. She sat up, her mind sharp and alert inexplicably, and silently walked to her window. The smooth stone floor was cold against her bare feet, and a gentle draft brushed from underneath her door.
Outside was black, the stars countless pinpricks swarming over the village. The night was still young, and the sun hid deep below the horizon. A faint light flickered from the watchtower that rose from the eastern ring of the village, a single torch ready to be cast into the heap of oil-soaked branches that summoned the garrison from the old fort. Everything was silent. The night hung over the village like a great beast, waiting to snuff out any who dared break its monotony.
Raya’s throat was dry, and a faint heat made her worry she was getting a cold. Her nightdress fell around her gently, and she silently opened the wooden door and walked down the stairs, hugging herself against the chill. Shadows fell along the bakery from the embers that glowed softly within the ovens. At least it was warmer here. She found the cistern in the center of the room, still full of water from the previous day. She grabbed a clay cup from a shelf and lowered it into the cool water when a loud crash made her entire body jolt in shock, yelping softly in surprise. The cistern tipped over, water splashing over the bottom of her dress.
A low, guttural voice chanted from outside, the words alien and rhythmic. The stones beneath her feet shook faintly as something massive moved on the village square. Raya huddled into the corner of the room, her heart pounding as she scrambled underneath one of the tables. The chanting grew louder and the thumping stronger. Raya heard a man begin to yell from the square.
“Rot walker! Get the- “There was a sound of swishing through the air, and the man’s voice was replaced by a gurgling gasp as something wet and horrible spilled onto the stones. A woman began to scream. Raya’s father ran down the stairs. He held an axe in his hands, and his eyes were wild and panicked. He relaxed as he saw Raya cowering in the corner and pointed upstairs sharply.
“Go upstairs with your mother.” He ordered the warmth of his voice replaced by steely determination. Raya began to scramble to her feet when the far wall exploded, her father yelling in surprise as he was slammed into a row of flour sacks. She screamed, curling up deeper into the corner as dust filled the room and bits of rock pelted her arms painfully.
Her father pulled himself up with considerable effort, fighting to regain his breath. The monstrosity that towered over him was covered entirely in what looked like petrified fungus, toadstools sticking out of its back in razor-sharp ridges. Its legs were the size of tree trunks, and the ground shook when it stepped into the bakery. Hands larger than her father’s head clutched a jagged sword made of dark glass that blended with the night. Bits of moss and lichen hung from a misshapen head that had no mouth but chanted endlessly in words that hurt Raya’s ears. Its eyes were two balls of blue fire that burned within the fungus of its skull. Raya’s father lifted the axe as the rot walker turned towards him.
Raya could barely hear her father’s cries for her to run over the chanting of the monster. The world around her was frozen as the rot walker threw her father with all the effort of brushing away a fly. The screams grew louder, hers joining them as her father slammed into the stone with a horrible crunch and a splatter of blood. She couldn’t hear the screams. All she could hear was that horrible chanting, only three words discernable in its profane voice.
“CHILD. OF. MIST.”