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The already strenuous journey had only worsened the further the Ember Sword went.
He was in the wastelands now, close to the Frozen Sea.
On the first day, he found that melted snow had soaked through his travel pack, and all his clothes had become wet. It took a long time and slowed him down significantly to have to sit and dry them by the fire; meanwhile, the cold had seeped through him and rendered his body stiff and pained.
That day, he noticed the snow piles thin, and more often than not - the soft white ground had turned out to be just sheets of ice.
On the second day, his rations became spoiled. The bits of smoked, dried meat were somehow riddled with maggots, a truly impressive phenomenon in the frozen wastelands. The bread had molded, but that did not completely turn the Ember Sword off it - a starving man would accept worse.
This day, he saw the first of the sea birds. A sure sign that he was getting close to his destination. He looked closely at the expanse, looking for the reflection of the frozen sun on bits of metal. Surely, the chain had stretched this far. But there was too much ground, and there was a very good chance that there was no chain at all. Quite a few rumors, baseless all, spoke of even more ridiculous things. But, the omens had been there, and so he carried on.
On the third day, he awoke pained, and his gut twisted at the recollection of the moldy bread. A hard, wet cough came from his chest and had refused to stop. Were there any living things out here that wished him harm, they’d hear of him for leagues around.
This day, the last of the trees had disappeared, replaced with jagged protrusions of ice from the ground. They stood like tilted pillars, their tips dulled by the freeze and melt cycle. As he walked through them, he watched closely for pieces that would break off and fall. Anticipating this had saved him at least twice when man-sized shards of ice shattered behind him, splinters hard as rocks hitting him at his back and legs.
It was before nightfall that he reached the Frozen Sea. He could not quite tell the time of day as the skies had melted with the expanse of gray and white of the ground. The sea stood as a rough sheet of glass, and the sun sat behind a thick layer of darkness - although it promised no ill weather.
The Ember Sword stopped, his eyes on the small smudge ahead, on the edge of the shore. He sighed heavily and coughed so hard that it had forced him to nearly double over.
So, it was true then. Now, he could return to Sudraj.
But, just to have the certainty of what he’d seen, he made his way down the slick slope through weaving patterns of packed snow. As he got closer, his bones ached, and his lungs burned more.
Something cold caught him on the leg at thigh height, and he looked down. A thick, silver chain was stressed tight, leading from somewhere ahead to the very top of the hill. At this, his face darkened further. Truly, he did not need more evidence, but his curiosity had only grown.
And so, he walked on, until the dark smudge among the pillars of ice took shape.
Slouched, head hanging limply, stood a very tall, thin woman. Around her neck was a thick metal collar with no lock - three chains of gold, silver, and iron strained hard in three different directions to keep her from moving. She balanced on one leg as a bird would. Her clothes hung frozen over, her shoulders housing a layer of ice and snow as if she were a fixture here and not a woman at all.
He looked at her for only a moment, then turned and walked back and away. Behind him he heard the little pieces of ice fall as she raised her head to look at his back. He coughed violently again and spit out just a bit of blood onto the ice, he had to get further away from Misfortune, and fast.
The Legho had been bound.
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“No!” She struggled against the hands that gripped her, even before her mind allowed her to open her eyes.
When she finally did, she saw many strangers leaning over her, including the red-bearded man she briefly glanced at the tavern who’d offered Ivan a game of cards.
Ivan was holding her head, the look on his face ghastly.
“She's alright! The red-bearded man called out. “Someone go get a doctor and get out of here.”
The men and three women began filtering out of the room, their voices hushed and uncomfortable. Only Ivan and the heavy, red-bearded man remained.
“Oh, you’re not a good way there, miss.” The man muttered.
Ivan looked at him.
“What’s wrong with her?” He asked the two of them discussing her as if she were not in the room.
“I’d say a hell of a nightmare.” The man said. “How do you feel, miss?”
Val could only lightly shake her head. Her body was pained, and the blistering feeling from the red-hot iron remained, although the marks had not.
“Can you sit up?” Ivan asked. Something in his voice was off, unsettling, and worrisome.
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She tried, and with great effort pushed herself to a sitting position. His hands still lingered on her back, prepared for her to fall back down.
The red-bearded man wiped a few beads of sweat off his brow.
“The two of you should leave before they get back.” He said, no threat in his voice. “They were already whispering of a devil possessing her. Next thing you know, they’ll cry ‘Witch!’ and try to string you up in the streets.”
Ivan’s face only got grimmer.
“Gods…” Val’s voice came out raspy and weak. “What has happened?”
“Oh, you know, we just heard you hollering from a few houses over. Rushed here, and had to break the lock. We thought you were being stripped and flogged.” The man answered, his eyes momentarily lingering on Ivan accusingly. “We get in, and you’re thrashing on the floor like a fish out of water. Eyes rolled back, screaming for ya kin. Don’t help that you got that hunter’s journal on the table there.”
Ivan’s surprised look went to the desk.
“A hunter’s journal?” He asked.
“Eh, a bit strange with all the nonsense about healing herbs, but it’s all there. You’re a bit small to be a hunter, though, miss.” His eyes went back to Val. “And a bit slim around the… everything. Where’d you get it, if ya don’t mind me asking?”
Val considered the man. His face was friendly, and a permanent redness stained his cheeks and nose. He was older, and his arms and belly were far larger than the rest of him. It looked like underneath it he was thickly built and sturdy.
Perhaps it was her haziness, but she decided that she trusted him.
“It was someone I knew.” She said. “It is mine now. I have written many of the entries.”
He looked impressed, and his bushy eyebrows raised slightly.
“You don’t look like you’d survive long enough to write it down, miss; take no offense as I mean none.” He offered her his large hand with stubby fingers. She noticed that there were only four there. “I’m in the business myself, know what it takes.”
She took it, and he and Ivan helped her up, with Ivan guiding her to sit on the bed.
“Excuse my manners; my mother had a hard time poundin’ them into me. Lots of padding, you see.” The red-bearded man said, padding his stomach. “I’m Yaroslav. Or, Yaro, if you like. Met your friend here last evening playing some cards. Cleaned me out, the bastard.”
Ivan smiled, not looking at the man.
“If you could keep a straight face, you would have given me a run for my money.” He said. “But you took a drink every time your hand was good.”
“Where is my blade?” Val suddenly asked, not seeing it by her bedside.
“I hid it, miss. You never know with these people. They see a weapon, and they start sniffing around. What did you say your name was?”
She looked at him and said nothing.
“Ah.” He said, his laugh coming from the depths of his stomach. “Smart girl! Okay, okay, I believe ya. A hunter it is. Why don’t you have him tell me then, it don’t work if someone else gives it.”
She looked to Ivan, her eyes granting him permission. He seemed to think on it a moment as if he had forgotten it.
“It’s Valeria.” He said finally.
“Okay then. Well met.” Yaroslav nodded. “I’ll help you gather your things, but I would not linger if I were you. Not even a moment more.”
Ivan nodded and began picking things up around the room. Val’s remained seated on the bed.
“Now, I don’t want to pry,” Yaroslav said, “and I surely don’t want to assume things based on last night. But I imagine the two of you are headed in the same direction, yeah?”
“Further north,” Ivan said, stuffing a pair of leggings and a shirt messily into her bag. She did not seem to take notice.
“As luck would have it,” Yaroslav said, “I am headed in that direction myself. I was not going to leave for another day, but maybe I can make an exception - could use the company.”
Val could tell it was not for his own sake that he offered this. Because of this, his advice of urgency had gained considerable credibility.
She stood shakily.
“We’d be grateful.” She said as she went to pack her journal.
“I will depart then and gather myself. Are you on foot?”
“We are,” Ivan answered, picking up a brassiere and immediately dropping it in embarrassment before she saw.
“Works out great then.” Yaro nodded. “I’ve no use for a horse being in and out of the Deep Wood. It would get eaten fairly fast out there.”
He turned to the door.
“I will meet you at the northern gates in an hour. You would do well to cover your face, miss.”
They left in less than a half hour’s time. The Witch hid her face under a tightly wrapped scarf, only her eyes visible among the soft wool threads. It had been almost dinner time, and Ivan looked back longingly as they walked away from the tavern - where a lovely barmaid waited for him in the kitchens.
Their path took them down the street and through dirt roads among run-down houses. Dirty snow mixed with trash next to the doors, along the walls, and broken fences lined the paltry yards. The kids there were poorly dressed, their coats patched roughly with cloth of different colors. Where around the inn seemed alive with voices and lights, here it was all gray - no candles in the windows, likely too expensive to light every day. People were out but did not speak to one another, too tired and worn down by the cold. Aside from the sounds of shovels in the snow, it had been almost nearly silent.
The Witch stopped.
Ivan took two more steps ahead before noticing that she stood looking toward the shacks.
“We have to hurry.” He urged her on, but she either did not hear or pretended not to.
Instead, she slung her pack down onto the snow and opened it - digging into somewhere toward the bottom. She pulled and out came her half of the Cloth of Plenty.
He watched her rip it into strips and then again into squares. The sound of fabric tearing scratched through the air.
He realized what she intended to do.
Picking up the pack again, she stood. The Witch stuffed two squares of the cloth in her pocket and arranged the rest stacked in her hands. She walked carefully through the deep snow to the nearby yard, where a small girl in a thick coat and hat too big for her sat digging in the snow with a broken piece of wooden spoon. Ivan could not hear what she said, but she handed a piece of the cloth to the girl, who stood and ran, awkwardly waddling, to the door.
Ivan became overly aware of his beating heart, his chest warming, it had come unexpectedly with a tight feeling that had not been entirely unpleasant. He bent, and throwing his pack off, brought forth his piece of the cloth.
The Witch skipped a house, going to the next. There, she knocked, and the door cracked only slightly open, its inhabitants hidden from view. She handed the piece of cloth through the door and waited a minute before walking off. The door swung open again, and a woman in only a faded shirt ran out onto the snow, her boots over her bare feet. She called out to the Witch, and the woman waved back, continuing toward the gate.
She did this eleven more times, skipping a house between each one until only one piece remained. Ivan stepped behind her, his boots crunching the snow. She turned to him, and silently, he put fifteen more pieces of his own in her hands.
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