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A single man walked through the thickness of searing hot air.

He quickly approached the small heap of light linens crumpled on the ground. Without a word, he bent down and picked up a girl, cradling her in his arms. Pausing only momentarily, his eyes looked toward the unending land blending into the sky where once a deep cavern soiled the land.

“He comes!” Someone called out. Many curious eyes turned toward the dark man in the distance. One of the mounted men kicked his horse forward, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.

“Is she alive?” Iros jumped off the horse, helping Marat lower her body between them. Marat held her head as Iros laid two fingers on the side of her neck right below the jaw.

“Iros.” Marat looked up at his old friend. “Your horse. It did not run.”

At first he did not understand, but the realization dawned.

“It did not run.” He said slowly. “Are you sure?”

Marat shook his head.

“It was there. And it was not. She’d done that. She closed the Wound.”

They carefully put her on the horse, Marat holding her up as Iros ran back.

The King, his brows drawn together, impatiently nodded at him.

“And?”

“It’s gone.” Iros confirmed. “Have a rider go out.”

Batyr considered him for a moment, then turned to General Asim.

“Have a man ride out.”

Asim turned to Ivan.

“I suppose we are about to find out. Go.”

Without skipping a moment, the scoutmaster’s horse took off. He rode forward hard, only slowing as he passed her body being carried by the horse.

“Seems a bit biased,” Batyr observed. “Asim, you will go too.”

Surprise, annoyance. But the General complied. He, too, spurred his horse on after Ivan.

“Get water!” Iros’ voice boomed as Marat stopped. “Wet some cloth!”

Everyone’s eyes had been on the unconscious girl. They were filled with curiosity and fear: all, but the Queen.

Even King Batyr had craned his neck to see better.

Her scarf had fallen off. Her hair was wild, dusty, and sticking to her forehead.

Men came forward with water and wet linens, and Iros had ordered all aside as Marat lowered her on a saddle blanket set out on the ground. He stayed by her, laying the cool cloth against her face, neck, and chest.

“Come on, Val.” He mostly spoke to himself, his eyes looking for any signs of consciousness.

“It was poor planning not to bring a physician with us.” Iros said dryly. “You got any smelling salts?”

The men parted and Batyr dismounted, stepping forward. He looked over the girl.

“Heatstroke.” He said definitely. Iros did not feel that objecting would be productive here.

The two riders appeared again, returning.

One was shouting something.

“It’s gone!”

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Val woke up as if from a good night’s sleep. She stretched her legs underneath the blanket and immediately felt the crippling pain of a calf cramp. She drew in a sharp breath, and something or someone moved at her side.

She met Iros’ eyes and sighed in relief.

“How do you feel?” He asked, his voice reminding her of how her father used to say it when she had a fever as a child.

“I think I’m fine…” She said slowly, carefully.

He seemed concerned, but also, why was he here?

“It’s been two days, Valeria.” He said. “He was here all day and night. When you would not wake up, he went to seek your guide to figure out what had gone on.”

“My guide? My guide…” She frowned, and things came rushing back.

The ride, the Wound, the Nothing… Marat had gone to see her guide…

“Oh gods, no!” She pushed the blankets away but when she tried to stand she felt her knees buckle and Iros caught her arm, helping her to sit back down. His face had grown suspicious, almost as if he had known.

“Do you know where you are? What has happened?” He asked.

“Yes…” She moaned, the pain in her muscles and joints throbbing.

“You had a heat stroke, according to Batyr and his men,” Iros said. “Thank the gods that he had gone after you when you did not return.”

“Who?” She raised her hand and immediately realized it was the wrong question to ask.

His face was hard.

“I would ask who else but I believe I know.” Disappointed, he looked to the door. “Does he?”

“No…” She whimpered as her shoulder cramped from a head movement made too fast. “I have not had a chance.”

“It is not my place. He is a grown man. And you thought him dead. But…” Iros sighed, “He is not known for his balmy temper. I fear for your… guide-friend.”

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“Asim.” Marat strode into the barracks, the door swinging shut behind him with force. “I want to see the pathfinder.”

“You and everyone else.” General Asim was seated at a desk, his face glum, a myriad of parchment thrown all around him. “Since we got back, he has become famous. ‘The scoutmaster that had found the salvation of the land!’ My gods but he will never be out of a job now.”

“Asim.” Marat repeated, more sternly now. “Where is he?”

“He’s in the mess hall.” Asim waved in a vague direction. “Getting every drink imaginable brought to him. That’s all they’re talking about now. All he can talk about is seeing her, but the King won’t allow it. One would think he was in love with her or some nonsense.”

Marat did not say another word, only turned and left out the door.

Hurrying down the stairs, he approached the increasingly loud rumble of men speaking and shouting. He opened the door to a chaos of soldiers dressed in casual clothes, strolling around as if it had been a tavern.

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“And then! Then he ju-st hacked it right off!” One booming voice rose above the rest. “A long-sword in it-s s-kull! It s-tuck there, even! Ju-st hanging off!”

“Perhaps you should work on your choice of words, brother!” Ivan laughed, “I don't think these fine men can understand a thing.”

The big man laughed, the air whistling through his teeth. He saw a man approach and let go of the mug in his hand.

“Ah! Finally!” He exclaimed. “Come! C-elebrate our friend! He found a downright witch to s-lay the Nothing!”

“I’d speak to you.” The Ember Sword said to Ivan, not acknowledging the red-bearded man’s invitation.

Ivan gave him a hard look, very out of place for the celebration.

This man, this Ember Sword, he’d been the one to keep the Witch away. He saw it, he saw him with her in the courtyard. He saw him return her from the Wound itself, he always kept close to her - her captor, no doubt, assigned by the King.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“You better do as the general want-s.” Yaro laughed. “Turn-s out he i-s a big ol fi-sh here!”

Neither looked in his direction, but this had not dampened Yaro’s spirits one bit as he turned to continue the tale of the winter beast to anyone who would listen.

Ivan nodded and stood.

“Lead the way.”

They left the room silently, hardly anyone noticing the absence of the man who they had been celebrating. The general took them to the now-empty war room, shutting the door behind Ivan as they walked in.

“How is she?” Ivan asked, trying to keep his tone neutral and steady - not wanting to give away how anxiously tensed every muscle had become. He had heard nothing in the days since they returned.

The representatives of the White Cities had arrived a day prior. He was invited to every one of the talks. He was no longer treated as a pariah, and Asim had come around to grovel as much as the man was capable of doing - which wasn’t much.

“Recovering. But she has not woken.” The Ember Sword answered.

He reached out his hand. Ivan first looked at it with question. This gesture was unexpected based on the dark, stoic face of the other man.

“When can I see her?” Ivan asked.

“First, she has to be able to stand and walk. Then she is free to have visitors. She got a fairly serious heat stroke out there.” He answered as they sat down at the unnecessarily large oak table. This had been a relief, but only that.

He did not want only to see her. He wanted to be at her side, which felt like a large ask to make lately.

King Batyr had presented it as the turn to the tides of war. A secret weapon that they held - one that could stop the imminent coming of the Legho from the North.

Ivan was not sure if he doubted that or not. Were it a month ago, the limitations of her strength and his concern for her safety would have said no.

But now… what happened in the Deep Wood was different. It was something that he almost did not comprehend.

She screamed, and the forest itself moved. Their heavy roots cracked and shifted as if being torn out by high winds. These were no small trees. The creatures on the ground let out a desperate, grotesque hiss.

It sounded almost like a call to their mother.

The delicate tissue of their newborn bodies seemed to melt into the placenta - the rest hardening and darkening until their skeletons had become twisted root stalks on the ground, ribcages only offshoots of their bodies. She’d… deconstructed them.

The air filled with the smell of freshly tilled soil. Around them was such haunting silence that he questioned if the Witch’s scream had deafened him as well.

“What did you want to speak to me about?” Ivan asked, purposefully ignoring the man’s high title.

“I owe you an apology.” The Ember Sword said, to Ivan’s surprise. “I did not think a Southerner could have made it to Volkograd and lived. I had not believed you to be a pathfinder - much less the pathfinder. But I suppose that would have made sense. And for that, first and foremost, you have my apologies.”

Ivan only nodded in thanks, looking over the man.

In their last encounter, he had been reserved and hard to read. He still was, but this time, he looked Ivan in the eye, and there had been no indication of cruelty in him.

“And, you have my thanks. Not only had you found the armies of the North, but you had rushed against all odds to get back and tell the King of this. And,” The Ember Sword paused for half a heartbeat, “most importantly, you had kept her from harm.”

Just to lose her when they arrived, Ivan thought.

“It was of utmost importance to me.” He replied.

The general sat back in a more casual position.

“I want to set expectations.” The Ember Sword continued. “She has told me of many things, and I am sure she told you as well - I understand that you have been there through it all, the chorts, the Vindigo. She has not woken since the Wound, and I must know everything if I am to keep her safe in the political den of wolves that will descend. Everything, pathfinder.”

Ivan regarded him with suspicion but understood that his words had been true. They meant to use her, and there was nothing that he could do now. But, perhaps the general could.

“Can I ask?” Ivan said. He had decided he needed to know more before he trusted the Ember Sword.

The general nodded.

“I simply want to know that she is safe,” Ivan began, “forgive my boldness, but I do not know you. You ride with Lord General Iros, so I have already assumed you to be from the West.”

“Not much of a question,” the man grinned, “but your assumptions are correct. I am here on the business of King Typhonos.” He answered.

“Is she a prisoner?”

“No.”

“Has she not asked to see me?”

“She has not.”

Ivan felt the pain in his chest. It was two days before they rode out to the desert. Two days more that she was gone afterwards.

But, the man might still be lying.

“Again, I do not mean to pry.” Ivan started. He had debated asking the question, but it was now loud in his mind. “But, you seem to know of the creatures. I did not think there were many inside the Iron Wall.”

“There aren’t. The nearest Wound is northeast of the kingdom, past the mountains.”

“Were you a hunter then?”

The Ember Sword sat still for a moment, and then nodded.

“Once, long ago.”

“Why did you stop?” Ivan wanted to know how this mysterious man had become a high-ranking officer.

Everyone had known the High Templar’s name, but his… and, he had admitted to not having been a soldier. None of it sat right with Ivan.

Again, a pause.

“I was there when the Eastern King was murdered in the Midtrade City. The war seemed more important than the hunt, then.”

This too, did not make Ivan feel quite right. It explained nothing nor calmed his doubts. And, something about the words had made his stomach twist.

The Ember Sword seemed to read his mind - or perhaps he saw the look reflected on his face.

The general sighed.

“I hunted with my brother. When he passed, I left the hunt.” He explained further, but it looked like it was the extent of what he was willing to say.

“What do you need?” Ivan agreed.

“I know of the threads. I know of the bindings and the names.” The Ember Sword began. “I know of the Vindigo and her failure there - there are limitations, clearly, as to how far she can push. And I know she will do so at great risk to herself if allowed.”

She truly had told him much.

“I need to know where her weaknesses lie so I can stop them before the kings ask too much of her. I need to know of the very first instance of this. I need to know of what happened at the Obsidian Palace.”

Ivan nodded but remained cautious. He started with what Yaro had already known - and no doubt would have allowed to spill in the merriment of his drinks.

“Around the time that I had met her, she had some sort of dream. She screamed and twisted on the ground. Her face was pale, her fingers dug into the wooden floor.” He started. “We could not wake her. Over and over she screamed for her sister.”

Something in the Ember Sword’s face shifted, but Ivan could not quite tell what. The heavy scarring on the other man’s face had made him near impossible to read.

“The very first time,” this, too had been something Ivan had greatly debated on disclosing, but it may have been important - and he felt he did not understand it enough to decide, “she walked off into the woods. I followed her. She made me mask my scent from the creatures. They meant to tear me apart.”

“But not her?”

“No,” Ivan shook his head, “they kept their distance from her. They whispered her name in strange, distorted - unsettling voices.”

“So they were chorts.”

Again, how had he known?

“When she had come out of the trance, her hands were cut. But, the cuts had not been deep.”

“What happened to the creatures?”

“They retreated into the trees. Their bodies seemed to melt into the branches and the trunks.”

“Tell me about the Vindigo.” The Ember Sword said.

“It is hard to tell what happened. We had turned our swords toward it. No cut, no blade through its skull, no severing of the bone had made it stop. It came for her even though she wielded no sword. When it was gone, the cuts on her hands had been grave and deep. One of the palms had been stripped of skin.”

“What else.”

Ivan thought.

“She’d been distressed, but she would not speak of it.”

“Had she ever tried to use this against men?” The Ember Sword continued to interrogate him.

“I don’t think she could even if she tried, no.”

The general nodded slightly.

“Was this the last?”

“Yes.” A lie, he knew she told Lady Katerina her name but could not grasp the thread.

“What happened at the Obsidian Palace? How had she known that the Sisters were bound? Had Korschey seen her?”

“No.” Ivan began to resent the questions. “I was not there, but she did not speak of the Northern King.”

“How did you get in?”

“There was a woman. She had brought us into the gates. But, I was not there when she…”

Should he have said anything about the Hag?

The Ember Sword must have read his mind.

“When she met the Hag. I know. Go on.”

Relief, but only slightly so.

“She remained behind to do so in the night. It was this night that I had met you playing cards.”

The Ember Sword sat back, thoughtful.

“How had she known the Sisters were bound?” He repeated the question insistently.

“She said the Hag showed it to her. She said the Hag had shown her of Korschey, of the god-child he consumed.” Ivan expected some amount of surprise, but found none in the man’s face. Perhaps she had told him of that already.

“What else?”

“That is all I know.”

“Did she do so again?”

“No.”

“How did you get here as fast as I?”

Ivan remained quiet for a moment. This, he could not speak of. He knew in his bones that it had been something she kept to herself.

“I am a pathfinder, and I am a fine one. That is how.”

The Ember Sword frowned slightly but said nothing.

Something at the back of his mind felt very wrong, and he wanted to end the conversation as soon as he could. He would not tell more than he had already.

“General, I must go. I have duties to attend to, still.” He said.

The Ember Sword nodded and stood. As they walked to the door, he reached out his arm. When they shook hands again, his grip had been tighter - more emotional?

“Thank you for keeping her safe.” He told Ivan, and with that, they parted.

As Ivan walked to his quarters, something the man had said pestered at his mind. It had reminded him of long ago, the Witch’s words.

One of my captors died when we came across the Legho.

We were there when the Eastern King was killed on the walls of the Cathedral.

The worry grew and felt it would overwhelm. He thought of the man’s disfigured face, his scars. He’d been a hunter.

I was there when the Eastern King was murdered in the Midtrade City.

I hunted with my brother. When he passed, I left the hunt.

Ivan felt his own heartbeat in his ears, the blood draining from his face.

This had been he.

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