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They’d been marching for days.

No one was to wander from the trail in groups of less than five, yet still, they had lost men to the forest. The trees lined the valley, spilling the aura of danger from beneath their roots. It felt like the creatures within it weren’t the only danger anymore, the very pull of darkness in the fog luring them.

It was angry.

There were many hunters among the army’s command, and for the most part they kept their men away from the Nothing-touched. If one crawled out of the trees, it would be put down without a pause, and casualties from these surprise attacks were low.

But, a week in, a much worse enemy appeared.

Marat still scouted ahead, despite Typhonos’ warning against it, and Dimos’ disapproving frowns.

It was only a couple of hours ahead of the army that he saw the man.

Then two.

Then three.

He concealed himself among the trees, drawing the All-Father’s Reach. All three fell dead within thirty seconds of each other.

But, he did not see the fourth man.

And it was that man that drove his horse back North.

They calculated that the attack would happen within three days time if they could mobilize fast enough. Either way, Korschey would know they were coming. He would know that they would get there faster than his horde could, and likely –he would think Val was with them and send the entirety of his men forward.

It would be difficult to fight in the valley, and the men at the front would surely die. They prepared the best they could, although Marat was hesitant to send archers into the trees on their own.

Korschey had no such hesitations.

They arrived with the first light of the morning, camouflaged men crawling through the forest ahead of the troops. The arrows rained down as the leading line of pikemen on horses rushed forward.

Typhonos was ready, the shields of the golden lion rising in a steel wall against their shots. Marat had gone in front, leading mounted men that crashed into the wave of the northern army.

The confrontation was expected.

Korschey was not.

As metal tore through metal and the sounds of men dying chimed through the valley, he heard Typhonos’ voice. Marat’s eyes had been on a soldier, his bow drawn back, but he lowered it, his head snapping toward the back of the advancing men.

There stood a black stallion, thicker and larger than any man’s. Atop it was a tall, fully armored figure. It was as if shadows swallowed up the light around him, a fog following his stead. A pale gold crown sat on his head –the Northern King’s taunt of being in plain sight.

“Defend!” Marat shouted.

The words were meant for Typhonos. His horse reared in fear.

“BACK!” The King commanded. The shields went up even in the front lines, but it was too late.

First came the whistles of the arrows, then the screams and grunts of men as their armor did nothing to protect them.

The fog reached Marat’s men, and the divine protection of his name fell away. Its crawl began to envelop them whole, and the smell of seared flesh and sulfur remained suspended as it passed. The fog was eating them.

“FALL BACK!” He yelled, already up and running to pull the shield off the nearest dead man. Three arrows had pierced it, another lodged into the corpse’s eye.

Men were falling dead around him. He spun out of the way as the pike of a slain man slumped over his horse nearly got him in the chest.

I told you that we would meet again, Marat.

The voice spread like a sharp wave of nausea in his mind.

I can taste it now. I can taste her on you. Know that she cannot give me a god, but I will not be gentle as I rip your scent from her all the same. I will destroy the womb that was once meant to give life to the celestial. I will shatter it, like your god.

Marat crouched, bracing himself against the shield as a soldier swung a blade at him. His sword cut through the back of the man’s leg just at the top of the leather boot, and as the man went down, it ran through the back, between his shoulder blades. Marat moved through the tangle of metal and bodies toward Korschey.

I will eat your divinity as I would have your son’s.

Somewhere behind, he heard Dimos’ scream.

The black stallion was just ahead, the king’s guard a dark wall between him and Korschey.

Did you like the notchposts I left for you to find your way to me, Marat? Did you know that one of them was Theodora? I am sorry that not enough was left of her for you to guess. She was so close to the Iron Wall, that when I was done, there were only two ribs left.

He felt the King smile through his words. The voice was icy, deep, and pain rippled from it after each word. Marat said nothing; his body collided with the first of the king's guards, pushing him out of the way and into the next. A blade barely caught him on the side. Another nearly missed piercing his chest.

I will rip her from the inside, and I will hang a second witch for all to see above my throne. I will make sure they know that she did not go quietly. And that I did not stop when she screamed. That I did not stop when she screamed no longer.

The black stallion was near, but he felt the sword tip at his throat before reaching it. Korschey’s face was hardened, but a cold smile spread across it.

Marat felt the blade press, the cold of it piercing the skin.

The sudden, deafening sound of breaking trees made it draw away, the man holding him twisting around toward it, and in the next moment, a boom forced every man back. Something large rose above the trees, the sound of wood creaking and shifting following suit. The horrible, monstrous skull appeared among the treetops and kept rising until its chest, woven of tree trunks and moss, appeared above them, too.

The thing’s arms, like giant gnarled branches, reached for the king's guard. Before any could react, it had scooped five up in its hand, crushing the horses and forcing the men’s bodies one into another, just a slosh of blood and crushed bone falling away through its fingers before the other hand scooped up a set of pikemen where they met the same fate, their weapons snapping like matches among its fingers.

The king's guard let go of Marat, leaving only a shallow cut across his throat.

Korschey’s stallion reared, and Marat saw the look of horror momentarily cross the King’s face. Marat lunged for him, but the horse was faster. The rider kicked at its side, and it turned back, turning up wet, fresh earth under its hooves.

With him went the toxic black fog.

The giant creature twisted, its palm landing flat on the ground, driving the men and their mounts into the dirt, the pressure breaking through their skulls and sending their innards spilling out where their bodies split.

It roared, and the wave of sound forced men to the ground. The monstrous thing was crushing the soldiers without a pause and seemingly without a goal. It did not bring a single man to its gaping mouth. It did nothing but crush, wipe the blood and remains on the ground, and bend the trees as it reached out again.

Marat ran. He ran back toward his men. Somewhere near him, the bent wooden fingers closed in. The enemy’s men no longer saw him. All they saw was a rain of blood and guts, the deformed and mutilated bodies of their fellow soldiers falling to the ground, and empty, burst skins spread across the dark, wet mud.

Not a single arrow rose to the sky any longer. The archers in the trees died first.

Stumbling, Marat dove forward as a finger nearly missed him.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The thing turned its head toward him. No other man was left nearby. All had either died or fled.

The creature braced itself against the ground with its hands and bent its skull-like head overgrown with moss and winding plants. It lowered it nearly all the way to the ground, its blind eyes leveling with Marat, each socket as large as the man.

Marat was frozen in place; his sword long dropped. Not that it would have done any good. The smell of death and shit was all around him, heaps of flesh and crumbled bones to each side of the creature’s hands.

It hovered but did not move.

The silence of that moment suspended time.

Then, the creature’s mouth parted, its splintered wooden teeth opening and letting out the smell of rotted plants and dead forest animals –a hint of wet leather and blood.

“The Deathless One…” it spoke, and the breath the words carried forced Marat to gag, the sound shaking him on his feet, “disturbed the wood.”

Marat’s brows raised, but he said nothing, thinking only of the men at his back.

“You smell of the Mother. Pass.”

The creaking like a ship’s mast breaking followed it pushing upself up. Slowly, the behemoth lowered back into the forest, the trees swallowing its giant form as if he had melted into them.

Silence.

Marat was breathing rapidly, each breath a sting in his chest. His heart was pounding so hard he felt the dizziness come over him. He bent down and retched, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. The sound of how fragile the human bodies were inside this thing’s grip would haunt him.

When he stood, turning back, the faces of the terrified soldiers looked back at him. He could not see Typhonos or Dimos, but the lieutenants and captains were at the front. Waiting for something. And then, they dismounted, as did any soldier atop a horse.

One by one, row by row, they all fell to their knees before him.

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The first day, he felt the aches.

The second, he felt the fever.

Ivan did not tell Val about the poison of the yara-ma-yha-who creatures. He got some medicines from her under the guise of sore muscles and fatigue, but it became harder to hide once the lethargy set in.

“Dear gods…” When he stumbled, her hands were on him, and she felt how badly he was burning up. “Ivan, what is happening?”

“It should work itself out of my system soon.” He croaked, holding his head.

“Stupid boy…” She muttered under her breath, forcing him to sit down. She dug through her pack quickly. “What did you catch? I can’t examine you without being able to see you.”

“It’s a toxin; it will pass. It just takes a couple of days. I can keep going.”

She frowned, sitting back.

“What were they?” She asked.

“Didn’t you drop twenty of them in one go? You don’t know?” He leaned his back against a tree, and the relief of not having to hold himself upright showed on his face.

“I don’t know what they are. I can only hear them and feel the threads.” She shook her head. “And they just whispered back and forth about eating once, eating twice, eating thrice.”

“They’re just poisonous pests.”

“Ivan.”

“They’re called yara-ma-yha-whos. We used to knock them out of trees as kids. They don’t have many bones, can’t take the impact of a stone hitting them.”

Val sat silently for a moment. A name that ridiculous had certainly been in the journal, she remembered sounding it out.

“Are they the ones that digest you from the inside?”

He said nothing, and she let out a frustrated grunt.

“I don’t have anything… I don’t know how to treat that except maybe for leeches… I wouldn’t even know where to find them…” She mumbled, putting everything back.

“I’m fine.” He was more stern this time, standing and immediately doubling over as he coughed up blood.

“You let the red ones touch you. Why would you do that?”

The voice was sweet and melodic, coming from somewhere high in the trees.

Val’s head snapped up.

“What are you.” She said.

A gentle flapping of wings answered her words, and a large blue-white bird drifted from the higher branches down to just above them. Her face was that of a woman, just like Sirin had been, but softer.

“Poor thing, poor thing.” She cooed, facing Ivan. “Why, you don’t have long to live. You let it get to the important bits. It ate a hole through to the ones you need, the ones you want to keep.”

“What…” He muttered, frowning. He could not help but remember the way Sirin… almost ate him.

“How do you feed?” Val demanded, but the bird again ignored her.

“I’ll heal you, I will, but you must give me something in return.” She fluttered onto a branch closer to Ivan. “What have you to offer me, my prince?”

“What is happening…” He looked to Val, whose eyebrows were drawn together in annoyance.

The white bird-woman was about to speak again, but Val reached out her hand and seemed to yank something with force that sent her elbow flying back. The bird screeched as it crashed into the soft earth in a cloud of delicate feathers.

“How do you feed.” Val repeated.

“Nasty! Nasty!” The bird-woman spat. “Nasty Dirty tells me what to do!”

It turned its head toward Ivan.

“Because of Nasty Dirty, the Beautiful One will die. Then Nasty Dirty will know who I am.”

“Val, maybe…” He started, but she shook her head, her hand remaining outstretched.

“It’s a Soloveyka.”

The words also came from above, but their tone had been entirely rougher –and more familiar.

Val dropped the thread, spinning around and desperately trying to figure out where it came from.

“Shit…” Ivan muttered.

“You had all this time, Nameless One, with your little books, and you still don’t know your creatures.” Sirin landed on the ground next to Val in a mess of flapping wings. “At least she got your name right.”

“Sirin!” Val’s smile grew wide, and if she could have seen the bird she would have wrapped her up in her arms.

Ivan pressed himself against a tree trunk, cringing when his stomach cramped up again, but still side-eyed the bird.

“Uncultured wad of feathers.” Sirin declared, wobbling over to the white bird-woman, her wings outstretched to the sides. “Get!”

She pecked at the Soloveyka as the other bird tried desperately to catch its bearings, the blows coming conveniently anytime she tried to get up.

“Sirin, she said he is dying,” Val called to her, the urgency of Ivan’s wet coughs becoming more important than the greetings.

“I’m working on it, Nasty Dirty.” Sirin declared, landing another peck on the white bird.

“I fulfill! I will fulfill!” The other bird yelped, and only then did Sirin step back. “I’ll cleanse!”

“You touch my stuff again, and I’ll pluck your feathers out like I did last time!” Sirin screeched. “Not yours!”

The disheveled Soloveyka clawed at the ground, bobbing its head up and down. Whatever it was doing must have been the right thing because Sirin turned, strolling away and toward Val and Ivan.

“You look worse.” She cocked her head at Val.

“You can’t even see me…”

“No, you can’t see me. I can see you just fine because I know how to look.” Sirin turned to Ivan, “He doesn’t look worse, but he smells worse. He smells in love.”

Another wet cough and hack.

“Can you help him?” Val ignored the last of the remarks.

“Sticks-for-Brains can. Just watch her; she likes to steal them after she does. Thief.” Sirin took another step toward Val. “You return different than you left, Nameless One. I heard you in the Mistress’ screams. I heard you when you killed the trees.”

“I’ve come back to find Korchey’s death,” Val said. “It’s in the Wound.”

The white bird flapped her wings, hopping closer to Ivan. He did not like the look on her face. It reminded him an awful lot of how Yaro looked at his third mug of beer - a little hunger, a little eroticism.

“And do you seek your own death, Nameless One?” Sirin asked.

Val remained quiet, feeling Ivan’s eyes on her. Sirin nodded her head.

“You’ve finally brought the candle to the woods, then.” Sirin sighed. “As I have warned you would.”

“I came to free men, and I have come to free you, too,” Val said quietly.

“Then you have learned.” The bird-woman shot a look at the Soloveyka, who was nearly on Ivan’s lap now. “Of the selfish origin of pain.”

“I am sorry, Sirin,” Val said. “That their god created wounds that would not heal. I am sorry that I did not understand what it meant that you were here first.”

“Git!” Sirin squawked, sending the white bird tumbling back.

“What did she do?” Ivan gasped, his arms wrapped around his stomach but seemingly not in as much pain as before.

“Patched you up. And the polite thing to do is to say thank you.” Sirin said.

“The prince of seas no longer bleeds. I patched it all but his heart.” The Soloveyka purred, earning herself another angry open-winged-lunge from Sirin, who settled again upon scaring the bird half to death.

“I’m both pleased and surprised you have survived this long, especially in present company,” Sirin told Ivan. She glanced at the sword that now lay sheathed and tossed on the ground with his things. “Makes sense.”

“It isn’t mine…” He did not know why he felt the need to defend himself or what there was to defend - but the bird-woman still unsettled him greatly when she addressed him.

“All this time and you do not know how it works still. You wield it, it’s yours.” She shook her head. “I smell the foul Deathbringer on it, but it is a faint smell of one who does not handle swords.”

“Sirin, we have to get to the Wound.” Val insisted. “We only have a couple of days left to find it. Marat will arrive at the capital, and I must find Korschey’s death before the third day.”

Sirin sighed.

“The Mistress saw with the eyes of the Nothing, and you should too.” She said. “I’d offer my own, but I don’t want to.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hold the thread as the Swamp-Pigeon flies. Make it find your way from up above.” Sirin flapped her wings, rising from the ground.

“Wait–” Val hurried, but her words disappeared in Sirin’s ascent.

“Grab her!” Val called to Ivan, who seized the confused bird-woman who clumsily struggled against him.

“Not one for goodbyes…” He muttered, pressing a wing down when the Soloveyka tried to twist against him and claw at his arm.

Val held the thread and motioned for him to let go.

“Get our things,” She commanded, “if I understood Sirin, we must hurry.”

When he let go of the bird, it took flight almost immediately, an angry and embarrassed look on her face.

Val lifted her eyes and followed the bird, the thread still in her gloved hand.

“I don’t know how to do this…” She said quietly, as if to herself. “I can’t see through it’s eyes…”

He stood beside her, eyes scanning the trees for absolutely nothing.

“You can do anything, Val.” He reassured her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

He felt her tense, but it was not from his actions.

She willed it. She willed the eyeless sight of the bird, and she saw it.

No color lived there, only shadows. The light stung her eyes, and she felt herself squint.

But, still, she saw.

The Soloveyka was high above the trees, the forest only a blanket below her. She made a circle and switched directions. Val felt the will of the Nothing-touched shift.

She pulled the thread and then another, loosening the weave. The bird cried out and almost fell downward in surprise before it corrected its direction.

“Good god, it is stupid…” Val could not help but turn her head as the bird had.

In the distance, one tree stood above the rest - its leaves a mountain above the Deep Wood. The Great Oak, the final and third Wound.

“Northeast,” Val said. “I cannot tell how far, but she flies fast. A day by foot?”

“Val, you’re facing southeast,” Ivan told her, side-eyeing her with concern.

“Oh.”

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