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Seeing how overgrown the main road had been was an eerie feeling. Where it was wide, well-traveled and maintained before, now weeds and bushes spilled onto the dirt and cobblestones. It seemed like no one had gone west from the Midtrade City in a long, long time.

They did not near it until Ivan had gone ahead to scout. Upon his return, his demeanor was heavy and troubled.

“Is there someone on the road?” Marat asked him.

Ivan shook his head.

“Not for leagues. But there are thin grooves; they are etched into the road from occasional wagons and horses. Sprouts have not had time to overtake them. The last would have had to be a week ago.” He said.

Marat studied his face.

“What is it then?

“There is something you should see.”

They rode through a rough, overgrown field and trails between rock outcroppings by the hills. Atop the embankment, the broken stones and pavings were scattered about among invasive dry plants. A chilled wind rose, reminding the riders that it was still winter outside the south.

“We should be at the fourth notchpost,” Marat muttered. “Did we miss it?”

“No.” Ivan did not say anything else. Simply turned his horse left and let it set a walking pace forward.

“What is wrong with him?” Val whispered to Marat.

He did not answer.

Ivan stopped somewhere ahead. The other three horses followed.

As they got nearer, they saw it.

A tall wooden post had been dug into the ground. Toward the top, most of a body had been tied to it by the spine below the ribs and at its neck. It was not old, as bits of dried flesh still clung onto it where the scavengers did not pick it clean. Bits of hair had gotten caught in the splintering of the rough post. The wood was discolored there; it had been hung when it was much fresher than it was now.

“Don’t look at it!” Marat’s head snapped back to Val, but she had already seen it. She covered her mouth, her eyes wildly taking in the scene before her, her stomach twisting in dread and disgust.

Aside from Ivan and Marat, they had not noticed it - but the ribs of the remains had been broken off. All, but four.

“The notchpost,” Ivan said mirthlessly.

“Gods…” Val muttered.

“Who would do such a thing?” Iros said.

“Kors-chey,” Yaro said.

Marat dismounted and walked to it. Without a word, he took the hunter's knife and bit down on it, using both hands to grip the pole. He climbed up, held on to the top, and sawed at the ropes until the skeleton fell forward with a sickly crunch of dried fluids separating from the wood.

“These aren’t soldiers.” Iros frowned. Once on the ground, it became clear how small the skeleton had been; How narrow the shoulders and ribcage, and how wide the hips. “We should bury it.”

“We don’t have time.” Marat shook his head. “We can’t afford the extra hours on the open road.”

“Marat, this was someone’s daughter,” Val interjected. She looked at him with all the emotion that the grisly sight had brought on.

“We don’t have time, Val.” He repeated. “We linger, we get caught, lots of daughters will die. This won’t be the last.”

Her face fell, but she did not argue.

It was not long until they came upon the next post, on the other side of the road, marking the distance back to the Midtrade City. There had not been enough ribs on the body, at least not to start. Those of someone else had been tied onto it until the number reached thirty. This one had surely been a woman, the long dark hair still present on the corpse, matted and clumped together.

They did not stop this time, but their eyes lingered on it as the horses kept going. Marat was right; it had not been the last. They had a day on the road, and these bodies appeared nearly every league. By the fifth, none of them looked up anymore.

It was a silent day, the sun above and the occasional chirp of birds seeming out of place with the despondent mood of the five riders.

They came to the crossroads before dark. Marat looked for a place to stay the night, but all had been far too open. There was no question; no fire could be lit that night.

“Marat.” Iros stopped by him. “This is where I leave you.”

“What?” He looked to the High Templar’s face in disbelief. “Leave?”

Iros’ face held regret. His posture was overly tense, and Val could see how much harder he gripped the reins.

“I am sorry. I have to ride to Titan’s Pass. To the Iron Gate.” He said. All eyes were on him as the others overheard the conversation. “I was uncertain. But Typhonos has to know of what I have learned.”

“Iros, we ride to the Wound.” Marat’s face grew darker the more it settled in that his friend and mentor was leaving. “We can go together when we return.”

Yaro and Ivan exchanged looks, and Val frowned. Iros shook his head, the motion so slight and telling of what everyone had thought.

“It is too unlikely that we will. The war goes on regardless of Valeria’s success or failure here. My duty is first to my King. To my country.” He paused, and a harsher look crossed his eyes, although no less regretful. “My duty is to Dimos first and you second, Marat.”

Val’s eyes jumped to Marat. His face was unreadable, but she caught how his right hand twitched at the words, how the vein to the left on his forehead bulged.

“Very well,” Marat said, the words unhurried. “Will you stay the night?”

“No. I am going to ride until morning. I’m afraid there is no time to lose. Gods only know how long I will be in Titan’s Pass before I can enter. Only ships have left the West in years.”

All dismounted, and one by one, the men shook his hand in farewell.

“Be s-afe, Templar.” Yaro patted him on the shoulder. “We will meet again.”

“Until our paths cross,” Ivan said. “Thank you for everything.”

Val stepped up, and trying to hold back the wave of emotion that threatened her with tears, she hugged him, wrapping her arms around him tightly.

“I have faith, Valeria. Despite my leaving, I do have faith.” He reassured her. “There was a time that Dimos told me of what you were. I had not even believed you Golden. Not until I laid eyes on you. And then, in Barzah, again, I was uncertain how one could become corrupted and still live. Now I see that you are all of those things, and you are more. That you have conquered them.”

“Thank you…” Val buried her face in his chest as tears came. He hugged her tighter, resting his chin on her head.

“Take care of him. He is in your hands now.” Iros whispered to her, out of earshot of the others.

Marat was the only one who did not approach the High Templar. It seemed that he was not going to say anything at all at first.

“No one will come down this road for at least a day.” He said finally. “You can light a fire for that long to get the attention of those at the gates.”

“Thank you, Marat.” Iros bowed his head, then turned and swung himself atop his mare. No other words were said as the four watched him disappear in the shadows to the west.

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The hill that preceded the drop into the valley of Chelkalka revealed a new sight for the small party. Once long-stretching farms and pine trees were now just nearly barren lands, a small collection of wild plants lining the scorched earth from the side of the forest, but not daring to cross into them - something had poisoned the earth. The farmhouses there were leveled, and the remains were scarce and almost impossible to see at a distance. The vineyards that lined the sloping hills were gone, although vegetation had fared better there now than in the farms.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

They descended, following a road swept over by years of dirt carried by the wind.

Val’s heart beat harder as the remains of familiar sites began appearing. She had known them all and had spent enough time there to grow to love them. The region's devastation was final, just like she had seen in the Hag’s vision. Korschey had truly ensured that even the lands did not have a chance to recover here.

As they rode into town, the stone bases of the homes appeared beneath vines and weeds. Many had been pulled apart and scattered all around, others were blackened still, the rains and snow doing nothing to clean the ravages of the fire.

They did not slow as the cottage site where they used to live appeared on their right. The only thing left standing was the well in the front yard, not even a fence to indicate that this had been a home once.

“Do you know where the big house is?” Marat asked her, his eyes scanning the sides of the road. “I cannot seem to get my bearings here.”

She looked at him. It was strange that he, of all people, did not know where he was going. Perhaps his mind had been elsewhere.

“It should not be far from the town center.” She answered. Both had known that nothing would be left of the wooden structure. Their only hopes were to find the remains of the cellar and hope that the tunnel had not collapsed.

“We sh-uld camp before we go ins-ide.” Yaro shook his head. It was midday, but all knew that once they entered the canyon, it was not safe to rest that close to the Wound. Whatever kept the creatures away from the settlement would be long gone.

“We need to find somewhere we can be ready for anything that approaches.” Ivan looked around.

He had never been to Chelkalka, Val realized. All he knew of it was the corpse left behind after the fire. The River Cities had only lived in history for him, as they would for all of them now. “Maybe the town center? We can avoid building a fire.”

“There is a midnight wraith at the well.” Marat muttered.

“Well, I don’t know what that is, but I will take your word for it.” Ivan waited for the appreciation of his pun, but none of the others seemed to pay any attention.

They settled on the site of a bigger home where the yard wrapped around and put a good distance between them and the nearest woods. It stood just far enough from the road and just low enough that making a fire would not be visible from a distance.

Marat fussed around making sure every available ward was put on the camp and used so much yarrow oil that everyone’s hands had become so slippery that even spoons were sent flying into the dirt at dinner.

Ivan took the first watch again. Yaro had handed him a small bag of herbs on a long string and motioned for him to put it around his neck. It smelled foul, and Ivan immediately made a face.

“Gri-s-gri-s.” Yaro explained. “Ward-s agains-t evil. And pregnanc-y.”

“Thanks…”

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Ivan felt himself nodding off the longer he sat staring off into the trees. Every now and then, he would stir the fire and put new splinters of wood inside. It had not been too long since the others fell asleep.

Something in the darkness behind him stirred. His head snapped up, hand over the sword laid out next to him. But, it was only the Witch sitting up in her blankets.

She quietly crawled out of them so as to not disturb Marat and came over to sit by him.

“What is that smell?” She whispered, her nose crinkling.

“Gris-gris.” He answered, his hand fiddling with the little bag around his neck. “Protects against evil. And pregnancy.”

She suppressed a laugh, and that, in turn, made him hide his own smile.

“I don’t think you are much of a risk, Ivan.” She said, smiling. “Not out here, at least.”

“Well, not with this. No one will come within fifty feet of me with this. I don’t think it has any extraordinary properties aside from that. Prevention wise.”

“Could be worse.” She drew her knees up and put her chin down on them. “Could be Sirin. And, she would eat you after.”

“Can you not sleep?”

She shook her head lightly.

“Ivan, you have to promise me something.”

“What?” He looked at her suspiciously. “I can’t help but feel that whenever you say that, it results in unfavorable situations for me.”

“You have two hours left on watch. I am going to leave for a bit. And I need you not to say anything.”

The Witch turned her head and looked at him, but he could only see the silhouette of her face and messy hair, the fire at their backs.

“I can’t do that.” He said, and immediately felt the regret of his own words. He had never denied her anything she asked. Not truly. Not in the end. But there was a line that had to be drawn, and he knew it.

“I will tell Marat in the morning. Or, you can, if it makes you feel better. But not until I return.” The Witch said. “I just need time; he will come and put it down if he wakes up.”

“I can’t. Wait… it?”

“Ivan…” She was frustrated, his name coming strained and desperately kept at a hush. “Then come with me. But I am going.”

All-Father help him.

“We can’t just leave the camp unguarded.”

“Then stay.”

He could not see her eyes but knew they were searing into him. Her tone alone tensed up his muscles.

Marat was going to kill him in his sleep.

“You tell him in the morning. You tell him I fought you on it. How far are we going?”

“The town center.”

It was not far. The walk took them ten minutes, if that, but they had not brought a source of light. The Witch had insisted on this. Right before they would have come upon it, he heard the wails. They were shallow and frequent, like a child’s crying. Yet, there had been something deeply unsettling about the way the cries echoed in the night. It sounded as if the echo came from the depths of the throat rather than mirroring the vastness of the mountain.

The Witch slowed her step, hesitation making her pause between each one.

“Don’t speak, and don’t look at it if it looks at you.” She whispered.

It.

“Why are you going there?” He whispered back.

“I need to know if they are different near the Wound…” She said, holding her finger up to her lips to signal they should be done talking.

Only a few more steps until he saw the creature at the ruined well. It was circling it slowly as if struggling to find the strength to move at all. A deep fog concentrated tightly around it, it was the only thing that covered the ghastly form of a woman.

He felt the Witch reach back and put a hand on his chest, forcing him to stop. He crouched down.

She took a few steps further, sneaking forward awkwardly. She was not good at it, and had the thing not been so preoccupied, he was sure it would have seen her immediately.

The Witch was only a few steps away when a pebble under her foot ground against the paving stones. The scraping of it had broken the silent tension and quieted the cries of the wraith.

It turned to the Witch, small sobs escaping its lips.

“Have you come to see me?” It asked, its voice as pathetic as the wailing had been. “No one comes to see me…”

“What are you?” The Witch asked.

“Lady Midday.” The creature answered, suppressing a sob.

A peculiar name for meeting it so late at night, Ivan thought, but then again - how many rules even existed for these things?

“How do you feed?” The Witch continued, unfazed.

“Why, they come dancing.” The creature said, surprised. “They come dancing, but no one has come to dance in so long.”

A whine started in its throat, and by the time it spilled out, it was a high-pitched yowl.

“Do you know of the Wound?” She would not let up, even when the creature began to sway and threaten to fall to the ground in its cries.

“It keeps me here!” It wept.

“How?”

Ivan heard the careful steps behind him. Without a word, Marat had come up on his right and crouched where the creature would not spot them.

“She’s not good at sneaking.” He whispered. “She drags her feet.”

Ivan could only side-eye the hunter. They were caught far ahead of time, and it was difficult to think of an excuse as she stood so far ahead speaking with the thing.

“You know what that is?” Marat asked him. “You read the journal?”

“A bit…” Ivan admitted, not wanting to go into detail under what circumstances.

“It’s a half-day wraith.” Marat’s eyes were on the Witch, his hand at the ready on the hunter's knife, but he did not indicate he would move forward. “It’s a two-sided creature. The noon-wraith comes at night, and the night-wraith comes midday. Neither knows about the other nor can find peace without the reconciliation of night and day.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” Marat said, “It seems she will keep going to you for nonsense, so might as well make sure you don’t die too.”

“Why is she talking to it so long?” Ivan asked, beginning to feel uneasy. Their voices quieted, and hearing what was being said was difficult. All that rose in the night were the tearful howls of the creature between words.

“She wants something.”

“She said she needed to know if they are different near the Wound,” Ivan said, flinching slightly when they saw the creature rear back, but it did not move to strike.

“What is so interesting about that is she could have asked me, and I would have told her.” Marat sighed. “The Wound pulls them toward it. The closer they are the less they are likely to leave.”

The Witch stepped back - and to Ivan’s astonishment, she twirled. She started to dance, spinning to the other side of the stone well, the creature’s face following her as she went.

“Shit,” Marat muttered and lunged forward, Ivan in step behind him as soon as he caught on.

The creature jerked its head toward them, raising its long fingers to grab at Marat, who was the first upon it. It reached for his eyes, but he swung, and with a wet ‘tchk’, the wraith’s head snapped as if it splintered like wood off of its fragile neck.

The Witch collapsed on the spot, and Ivan ran to get her off the ground. She was cold, her face frozen in fright, but muttered something as he helped her to her feet.

“What?”

“A bunch of noise…” She swallowed hard, her throat parched. “It did not even make sense. Rye and frying pans. And the next thing I knew was she spun me and I couldn’t stop.”

Her eyes landed on the second man, standing over the dissipating fog.

“Oh gods…”

He stepped toward them, and Ivan nervously let go of her. She stood up as confidently as she could, facing Marat.

“Go to bed.” He said, his voice letting on just how exhausted he was.

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