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The walls of the desolated White City glimmered somberly in the distance. Were one to only glance, it would look as if it still stood proud and full of life. But, upon a closer look, its walls lay in ruin and drowned in the waves of sweeping sand carried on the wind.
A limestone corpse.
This would be the first of many checkpoints the company would have to pass. Twenty men were dressed in tabards in the colors of the South, and only one in the colors of the West, bearing the heraldic golden lion on his chest. Beside the decorated man was a rider, outfitted in only the grays and browns of a woolen cloak. They rode shoulder to shoulder, and every once in a while, the dark man raised the hollow of his hood to the sky.
One of the plainly dressed men held a black banner, a message to the Northern commanders of their intentions to speak on neutral ground.
“They did not even bother leaving a platoon to man the city.” Iros shook his head, turning his face away from the bright wall’s reflection. “It almost feels patronizing.”
“That is because it is patronizing.” The Ember Sword answered. “Far as I could tell last night, there is not a soul within a day’s ride.”
“If he intended to let us know that he is about as scared of the South as he is of a newborn calf, I suppose he has succeeded.” Iros sighed. “When will you ride out?”
“In the early morning.” The hooded man said. “No sense in it any earlier, I’ll reach the Midtrade City otherwise, and we already know there are men there.”
“All-Father knows how many. My wish is to avoid it altogether.”
“I would much rather deal with the commanders lounging in the taverns, getting their jollies with the barmaids there, than the captains freezing in their tents further north with only their cold hands to keep them company.” The Ember Sword observed. “One of those is far more likely to stick us with arrows before we have a chance to approach.”
“Your military prowess is exceeded only by your scholarly mind.” Iros laughed.
“I am no general.” The Ember Sword observed.
“Only for the purposes of being here in royal courts, I suppose,” Iros said.
“Batyr would toss me to the streets if he were to think he was in the presence of anything less.” The Ember Sword’s voice held little mirth.
“You think Korschey won’t do the same when you arrive in those rags?” Iros sized up the plain saddle of the other man’s horse and the unimpressive dress of its rider.
“I’ve got my good skirts packed away; it is none of your concern.”
The winds picked up.
When they reached the Midtrade City, they would ask a northern commander to escort them to the capital if Korschey was willing to hear them out.
Batyr had not been willing to spare a general of his own, but he had given them men. Iros would not have gone at all, but his trust in the Ember Sword as a military leader was poor.
When Typhonos deployed them, there had been an understanding. Iros was to be an emissary representing the Templar Order and the firm hand of the West, and the Ember Sword was to be… kept in check.
They camped overnight, and the Ember Sword had left to scout in the morning. The company moved forward in his step, Iros knowing full well that they would have ample warning if he were to return. The animal beneath him mattered not. The man had been the speed, guiding them ahead as swiftly as a devil would.
He only returned by nightfall.
“A warlord’s head on a pike.” He said, dismounting.
Iros’ face darkened.
“A delight.”
“I don’t think we should proceed.” The rider said, and at this, Iros raised his brows.
“Is that so.”
“Go back.” The Ember Sword spoke in a hushed tone now, leading Iros away from the others. “Only death is ahead. There had been a black flag there. It was draped across the piles of headless bodies. You will suffer the same fate.”
The Eastern warlords had come to negotiate.
Iros rubbed his temples, his movements a rare discomposure.
“We cannot turn around. Batyr will laugh us out of his lands.”
“He cannot afford to.”
“His ego does not care about the price.” Iros snapped back. “He is a king, and he has been one for a long time. He is not Typhonos. He does not care if every one of the White Cities falls just so his prick looks bigger.”
The Ember Sword grinned, but the joke did not lighten the mood much.
“Then let me ride ahead.” He said, but Iros shook his head immediately.
“You’ll ride ahead and they will greet you with the same hospitality you promise us now. And then what? They will only come for the outfit.”
“Thank you for your ideas.” The Ember Sword said blandly.
“We camp now,” Iros ignored him, “and we reevaluate things in the morning. Perhaps we can bypass the Midtrade City after all.”
The other man only shrugged.
By the time the sun had even colored the sky with a faint hint of morning, he was gone.
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She’d never rushed so fast to dress.
Her breath was hard and fast by the time she’d leaned her body into the longhouse door, pushing it open. Only Yaro was inside, sitting over a plate of fragrant honey cakes - too freshly baked to have been served to anyone else that evening –a gift from the stout kitchen-mother.
He looked up at her, looking like someone who had been caught.
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“You look…” He wiped a smear of honey from the corner of his mouth, pushing it instead into his beard, “clean.”
“Where’s Ivan?” All she could hear was the loud pounding of her heart. The Bannik told her what the men had discussed in the evenings. “We have to go!”
Confusion and then blind certainly played across his face. He stood, gingerly wrapping the rest of the honey cakes in his linen napkin, and put them in his vest pocket.
“I know a call to arms when I hear one.” He sighed. “What is it? An attack or a traitor from inside?”
“They’re all traitors from inside!” She jerked her head around again to ensure no one had been there. “Now, where is Ivan?”
“Saw him stomping nearly in the nude across the yard, figured he was with you.”
“Not the time!” She turned and hurried for the doors.
There, she came face to face with Hamza, blocking the way.
“You are awfully bothered for such a pleasant night.” He smiled at her, a smile that did not quite make it to his eyes. The man had not spoken to her directly more than twice in all the days they had been there. His eyes lingered on her worried face, and his own hardened. “And what could be the matter?”
“Ah, let her be!” Yaro waved a hand dismissively. “It’s just her moon’s blood - hard out here in the forest for a woman.”
Hamza looked her over again and stepped aside.
“Perhaps you would do well to go to bed.” He advised her grimly, still not taking his eyes away.
“I think perhaps we all should.” Yaro started toward the door, and Hamza’s face snapped to the large man.
They held eye contact for several beats of Val’s heart, and then Yaro continued to the door. They walked slowly when outside, knowing that the man was watching them from the windows.
“Moon’s blood??” She whispered loudly, giving him an embarrassed and angry look.
“You want to have no follow-up questions, do you not?”
Neither dared to look back and suddenly wished she knew which of the cabins Ivan was staying in - she’d avoided him so much that she had not even bothered to find out.
“The third on the right,” Yaro said, nodding toward it. “Let’s hope no one else is there. I’ll pack, and we can be on our way.”
“But Ivan–”
“He’s in there, don’t worry, us common folk are three to a room - we aren't barronnesses getting their own quarters. “ He said, and she let out a strained, relieved breath.
Yaro burst through the door, and Val followed in quickly. Thankfully, Ivan had been there alone.
“They plan to kill you!” Val’s words were hushed, but her tone was urgent. Yaro already went for his bags, grabbing the mace first in both hands.
“What?” Ivan’s brows drew together, but the look on Val’s face only turned it to a steely expression. “Hamza?”
“They aren’t what you think!” She grabbed his arm, pulling him toward his bag and scabbard.
“How do you know?”
“Trust me!”
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Trust me.
He did not ask further questions, only swung the strap across his chest. At that moment, the door opened, and a man with a wide forehead and deep-set wrinkles entered the room.
He’d been the third.
His face was first surprised, and then, seeing the two men equipped with weapons, he backed up, slamming the door and taking off.
“Fuck!” Yaro huffed and took off after him - moving impressively quickly for a man his size.
“Stay here,” Ivan told the Witch, shoving one of his scimitars in her hands. “Don’t open the door.”
Normally, he would expect her to snap back at him, but she only stood there, clutching the hilt of the blade upside down.
Ivan ran outside, the cold of the night stinging his skin.
There was movement and shouts to the right. His feet slipped slightly on the snow, packed down by days of men walking across it. The deep, all too distinguishable grunt of the red-bearded man rose above the shouts. No torches or lamps had been lit, and whatever scuffle was happening was happening in the deep winter dark.
The snow had turned to dirty slush, and bodies had been moving all about. He saw the glint of swords and heard the cries of men - nine of them there, nine of them rushing Yaroslav.
Ivan broke into the crowd, knocking a man off his feet with his shoulder, swinging at another’s side - right under the arm, as the man’s sword was raised for a strike. The weapon dropped to the ground, and a boot pushed it into the frozen mud.
Somewhere in the chaos, Yaro swung the mace - and the sickening crack of bone mixed with the man's cry broke up the night. Another grunt and swing, and the impact reverberated through the ground.
Ivan’s step had been less agile than he wished; the scimitar redirected the incoming swings of a sword, but his grip had been too hard and not versatile enough to fend them off properly. His height and size were too great not to leave himself exposed. It had not been his weapon, and had he a choice when he had escaped imprisonment - he would have chosen differently.
His leg was slashed, but not so deep that the cold allowed him to feel the wound.
The faces of the men came and went, eyes wild, faces twisted in their focus and aggression toward him.
Another crack - the head of Yaro’s mace had gone so easily through a man’s skull, it might as well have been a ripe fruit.
“Back!!” Hamza’s commanding voice resonated through the air. Another hit, the commander’s call had given the men enough pause that another went down, only four left to maneuver back. Hamza stepped forward, the crunch of snow and the heavy breathing of the men suddenly the only sound around. Five lay dead, coloring the snow quickly with a ghastly reddish black. Hamza drew a heavy longsword and rested its tip on the ground.
“You’ve come the wrong way, pathfinder.” He shook his head.
“Your friends disagree.” Ivan breathed out, the bloody snow coloring his boots, and splashes of it all over him. He stepped back, keeping his sword up and eyes on Hamza.
“What’s five more, and then we can stay the night,” Yaro said between breaths, leaning hard on the reinforced shaft. He did not look like he wanted to fight five more men.
“Where are the people that were meant to be here?” Ivan nearly shouted. Hamza’s mouth parted in an enigmatic smile.
“You’re looking at them.” He swept a hand over toward the men that had still been standing. “You think you own the idea of espionage? You’re not the first, and you will not be the last - and now, because you have come here - another army will go out and wipe a village off the face of the earth just because Korschey can. Just because Batyr thought himself clever.”
“We have to leave…” Ivan said quietly to the man behind him.
“Go on then!” Hamza parted his hands in welcome, one hand still gripping the hilt. “Try!”
Ivan lunged forward, his speed only a heartbeat faster than Hamza’s reaction. The tall man picked up the heavy sword and tried to parry the blow, but Ivan struck him on the wrist - forcing him to drop it in the snow. Hamza’s other hand jerked up and caught Ivan in the throat, pushing the man down on the ground.
Yaro rushed forward, and as if a loud snap of a twig had sounded across the yard, Hamza’s neck bent back at an unnatural angle - Anushka colored in his blood.
The four remaining men fell further back, each and every one staring in horror at their leader’s crushed skull.
Ivan pushed himself to his feet, readying the blade again, but the four retreated into the trees without looking back. He breathed hard, the pain in his wounded leg beginning to pulse with ache. He glanced back at Yaro; the man had lowered himself to the ground, his breath coming in wheezes.
Beyond him was a still figure.
The Witch, a candle in her hand, watched them with impenetrable eyes. She stood just beyond the crimson snow, her boots unmarred. And, for some reason, his first and only thought had been that he’d wanted to make sure she never had to step upon it.
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