Running through a forest without any sense of direction was widely considered a bad idea because of several reasons, but the most obvious ones would be tripping over roots and losing one's way.

Although a certain ill-fated, outlawed soldier had managed to dodge those two, by ways of extraordinary acrobatics and a clear mental map of the woods of Kinallen.

But in her case, there came a third hurdle. All that running around would inevitably draw from her magical reserves, causing her body to exert a great amount of sorcerous energy.

It would make her presence easily traceable to any vigilant Council Mage who might be out in the woods to track her down-- leading them straight to her, like a trail of blood does a hunter to a wounded prey.

Not to mention the ring Xenro had given her-- also awfully filled with magic. Weakened as the confused local deity was, he still held a fair amount of power within himself. Or how else would anyone in their right mind decide to set off for the Autumnwind plains on foot?

Farren crouched behind a bush, trying hard not to make a sound as a silk-robed man, quite possibly another Council mage, came riding up the trail. This path, which she had been watching for a while now, was one frequented by the hunters of Kinallen, although it had been deserted for the last few days, just like the village.

A quick look at the mage's plain robes and lack of jewelled rapiers told her he was a Council worker rather than a high-ranked mage.

The man dismounted-- and Farren noiselessly scurried further back into the shadows. But he seemed more interested in sifting through some rolled up parchments in his satchel. Her fear dissipated--

He pulled out a large hammer, and a bag of nails, whistling a merry tune to himself.

Her panic swerved up again.

With a flourish, the mage tossed the parchments into the air. Even as the papers hovered in mid-air, their descent sorcerously slowed down-- the man plucked a handful of nails from the bag, and with each blow of his hammer, shot one out like a crossbow quarrel, and there went the nails, piercing into a paper each and pinning it to the tree trunks. Talent like that would be better suited in the army-- had the law of restriction not been there.

One the parchments thunked into the tree trunk an arm's length above her head, and Farren clamped her hands to her mouth to hold back a yelp-- and this was when it occurred to her how awful an idea it had been to decide to split up with Xenro and going her own way-- and worse, arguing with him about it.

Two days had passed, and he had not shown up. She dared not use the ring, for fear of leading the mages right to her.

She steeled herself. Did she really need a weakened, forsaken God to help her out of this mess?

No.

Farren Clearstrike had never needed anybody's help. Although it was worth mentioning she had messed things up rather irreversibly, in that stubborn desire of doing it all by herself.

When Gran fell ill, she'd earned the money for her treatment-- by whatever means possible. When Audryn told her she was not strong enough for the life of a soldier, she went out there, struck the deal-- and made herself strong. Grew a tough hide and held her ground when folk like Alastair threw jeers and insults at her.

Yet it seemed now she was at her limit, what with the mages coming after her. And the one time she truly wanted help, craved some companionship, whether she admitted it or not-- it had slipped right through her fingers.

✦✧✦✧

When Atruer was gone, after having threatened her that he would disguise himself as her and wreak havoc in her stead, Xenro braced himself, about to set off for the Autumnwind plains right away.

"You can't be serious!" said Farren, "Autumnwind plains are a long way from here-- and that's considering you have your papers in order-- which you clearly don't-- and the guards at the border post don't drag you away-- which they will."

Xenro remained his calm self. "Not a problem for me. Us Gods can leap through long distances simply by accessing our own personal portalways to the Celestial Realm, and reappear leagues far, as you may have seen Atruer do so aggravatingly many times when I charged after him."

"But he also said you have been forsaken, didn't he? I doubt you can access any portalways."

Xenro seemed to hesitate, but he shook it off almost immediately. "Then I must enter Draedona's realm, then into Celestial Realm through the golden gates. Take the roundabout way."

"Can you do that?"

"There exists gates in the Realm of the Dead for the departed souls to pass through to the Celestial Realm, after they have ascended to immortality. Such gates remain open for all immortal souls-- be they souls of the dead or forsaken Gods," he said after a pause. "Although any God with dignity would not use them, for why would you enter a palace through the sewers when you have access to the grand front door?"

There was simply no reasoning that would hold him back.

Farren would not try to, either. Atruer said a lot of rubbish, yet he was right about one thing: she could fend for herself perfectly well. A stubborn rage held her back from calling Xenro back, and she argued no more.

She gave him a rather solemn nod, a wave, and made to stride away.

When she had set the sapphire into the statue head, it had trembled, and rocks had fallen and crumbled before the opening of the cavern she had taken shelter earlier, thus climbing back in there was out of the question.

Fair enough. Woods of Kinallen, here I come!

But it did not take long for her enthusiasm to deflate.

The dark woods loomed over her, its gnarled limbs twitching and swaying in the wind. Glowing eyes watched her every move out of the darkness-- or were they merely harmless fireflies? A wolf howled nearby, nay, a whole pack of them.

Neither the Countess, nor the Silver Knife had prepared her for this. Marching through the forest in packs, or fetching water was one thing-- living in the woods, quite another, what with the village being deserted and returning to the camp being out of question.

The wolves sounded closer now, bushes rustling and snow crunching beneath padded feet--

Farren snatched at her belt but grasped nothing-- the throwing axes had been spent on Dion, and as for her battle-axe... Draedona knew where that wretched thing flew when the assassin had summoned the Death Ring and threw everyone a dozen paces into the air.

Fuck.

And Farren realised surviving out in the wild was not her forte.

She turned on her heel and sprinted back to catch up with Xenro. He had not gone far, striding at a leisurely pace.

"Hmmmm?" He turned, one arched brow raised and lips stretched into a knowing smile.

"Okay, don't you think this is rather unfair?" she said, clutching his chlamys when something moved in another nearby tree, "I climbed-- no, risked my life climbing that sky-high statue for you, and you are leaving me here, alone?"

"Let me remind you, being alone...was your decision," he said, "this would be easier for us both if--

"--you come with me," they said in unison.

Xenro cleared his throat. "Precisely. You can come with me to the Autumnwind plains, where I  would pay homage to my fallen warriors. Very simple. Since mortals cannot access portals, I would walk beside you. We can make the journey on foot. Truth be told, I could use some company."

"No!" said Farren, shaking her head wildly, "you're coming with me. And I'll figure something out. I am not walking into Drisian territory, no sir."

He cocked his head to one side. "And do you, perhaps, imply you are safer here than on the plains? In case it has slipped from your mind, you are on the run."

Farren's temper flared. "And in case you've forgotten, those warriors-- who you're risking your life for paying homage to-- are all dead. Nothing but sun-bleached bones, and been that way for centuries now. Deader than your own will to live!"

Xenro stood speechless, shining eyes catching the moonlight. In her efforts to hold him back, she'd gone too far.

"Do your people no longer honor the martyrs of this land?" he said after a moment, voice low.

Yes, they do.

Farren mentally slapped herself.

Haven't I too spent years praying for the dead? For the martyrs of the battle of the Isles, for those who died the night the village was under attack?

A look of hurt crossed his face, but before Farren could withdraw her words, he replaced it with a cold aloofness. The stoney indifference of a lifeless statue he'd worn all these years.

"Very well. You do not have to accompany me. I shall enter Draedona's realm right now, transport myself to the plains, and finish my redundant task. I return to you in half a bell... because I have given you my word," he said, his back turned to her. "Surely you can wait those few minutes?"

"Lord Xenro, I didn't mean--"

"I am no one's lord. I have been forsaken."

Splendid, Clearstrike. Not only had she brought shame on her family, disappointed the lieutenant, put her entire squad in danger by breaking the one law she was not supposed to-- she now hurt Xenro, the God who had but moments ago promised to provide her protection.

Was she so scared of being alone, she had lost rein upon her words?

Years may have passed, the deal may have made her bodily strong, yet Farren was still the coward who had tried to desert in the face of battle.

Without another word, Xenro stepped away, arms spread out as he focused his sorcery, trying to open a portal to Draedona's realm.

The wind picked up speed again, trees swaying, but the power that rose held no trace of rage like when he had attacked Atruer. It simply converged, and a pale shape formed a few paces before Xenro-- a portal to the Realm of the Dead. Silver smoke fanned out, forming a round opening, like a porthole of a ship.

Ear-piercing shouts rang into the night, making Farren jump.

"What's happening?"

The air filled with screams of agony, drifting from the realm within.

A violent pull sent Farren staggering forward, nearly pitching her into the portal. Xenro nearly lost his footing, yet held on. The immortal soul inside her writhed, trying to break free and plunge into the Realm of the Dead.

"Step back!" he thrust out an arm and shoved her out of the way, "something is terribly wrong in Draedona's realm-- this is not supposed be like this--"

Those were the last words he said before the portal swallowed him whole.

With a snap, it folded unto itself and swung shut, raising a gust of wind which kicked up dry leaves from the forest floor. She sat there, dumbfounded by the suddenness of the happenings.

Insects buzzed, the stream ran its course, the woods whispered.

And Farren was alone again, unarmed, half-fed, with only herself to rely on.

✦✧✦✧

When the Council worker was finished nailing the notices and rode away, Farren crawled out of the bushes.

She hissed in a sharp breath as her eyes fell on the notices nailed to the trees.

Wanted posters.

She dashed forward and tore one off the trunk.

Could her life get any more miserable?

It could.

Farren squinted harder at the harsh lines of the picture. She found it rather unflattering.

"My scar is on the left eye, you fools," she muttered angrily, crumpling it into a ball and throwing it away. "One would have thought the Council would be more interested in interrogating the assassin we captured! He could possess some damn valuable information about the black-blooded ones for all we know!"

The Vasaeni!

Farren slapped her forehead as the thought occurred to her and sank to her knees. She could have stopped Xenro, had she simply brought them up, and warned him about the possibility of another Great War under way-- instead of disrespecting his fallen warriors. He would never have gotten angry, and nor would he have opened the cursed portal to Draedona's realm.

She could have had a much compelling argument, one which would make her look less like a selfish coward.

But like all arguments, the best response only came to her mind long after it was over.

Farren forced herself to utter the most aggravating of optimistic phrases, which usually made her want to punch who would dare say it to her. Look at the bright side!

She was officially on the run, lost her beloved axe, and would probably end up devoured by feral wolves or starve to death.

Farren looked closer, trying to squeeze some optimism out of the situation.

The nails pinning the posters to the tree trunks were sharp, she noted.

She plucked them, one and all, stowing them in her belt-pouch.

✦✧✦✧

Another day of sleeping out in the wilderness, and eating tart wild berries, and drinking stream water. Leaves and twigs now took permanent residence in her matted hair, tears and rips appearing on her cloak, and leather armour.

For the first two days, Farren could sense the occasional flicker of sorcery at the edge where the forest met the village, Council Mages riding by to and fro -- but the village remained deserted. Possibly the evacuation order had been extended.

But on the third day, there flared up magic somewhere far south in the woods.

Farren sat up bolt upright from her task of trying to stoke a fire.

A malevolent presence washed over her, a feeling of hopelessness and misery-- and she knew at once who it could be.

But what mischief is Lord Atruer up to now? Is he back for his promised revenge, now that Xenro is not here to lend me his help?

Stranger still, Atruer was not alone. In fact, he seemed to be engaged in some sort of sorcerous combat with another presence-- a mortal. Quite possibly a mage. She could not tell for sure, for they were far away, only their magical aura detectable to her.

Before Farren could make sense of what was going on, the mage's sorcery seemed to overpower the God, and the chaos seemed to drift farther away-- and minutes later, neither the mage nor the God could be sensed anymore.

From that day, the mages stopped coming, and there was only silence in the woods.

Still there was no sign of Xenro. Farren had gathered up courage once and tried, with all her might, to summon him with the ring. She went so far as singing in her tone-deaf voice a makeshift prayer-- hoping the sheer stupidity of it might bring him back just to make her stop, but to no avail. It seemed that the Realm of the Dead had devoured him whole after all.

On the fourth day, she could go on no more.

It made sense why Alastair had looked so poorly when the patrollers had captured him.

The woods of Kinallen were unyielding, the ground harsh and cold, most trees stripped bare from the onslaught of the second winter despite it being springtime. Farren could not risk delving in the deeper parts for fear of trolls, nor the seams of the forest lest a mage should show up.

But today, her desperation overpowered fear.

One weary step after another, she dragged herself to the one place she might find shelter, to the place where went the village folk to seek cures for their ailments, to mend broken bones and fractured wrists after drunken brawls at the inn. The place where she would've gone too, had she not won unfairly in the arm-wrestling match that day.

There in the shade of a giant fir, stood the village Witch-doc's humble cottage. This little house in the woods had once belonged to a hunter. The Velan Witch-doc had moved in some years past, back when Farren was a private.

The chimney puffed out a thin, silver column of smoke, chickens hopping around in what could be called the lawn. On one side lay a pumpkin patch, cabbages on the other. Nightshades bloomed in the pots set on the porch, despite the biting cold. Wooden stairs led to the front door.

Up she went, the steps squeaking beneath her boots. From the lawn, the chickens watched the newcomer with mild interest.

With trembling hands, she knocked on the door, trying to steady her breathing.

The Witch doctor helped all the village folk, charging little, sometimes nothing at all in the ways of payment. When the camp was devastated after the attack, he had come to their aid, offering all he could in the ways of healing medicines.

Surely he would help a soldier in need? One could only hope.

She hitched up her hood, so that her face, an unflattering version of which was all over the wanted posters now, would not scare him off right away.

But on the other side of the door there was only silence. No one answered.

"Hello? Anybody home?"

Farren doubted the declaration of the evacuation order had reached so far into the woods, no matter how loud Rendarr's yelling may have been. And there was smoke still billowing out of the chimney, the chickens looked well-fed.

Her stomach growled. At this point, she would even eat poultry feed, if it came to that.

When no one responded on the third, desperate knock, Farren was at her limit.

"Alright, I'm gonna break in."

When jiggling the doorknob achieved nothing, and the windows were shuttered, she had little choice but to barge in through the front door.

Rearing back a few steps, she flung herself forward, shoulder first, and made to slam into the door--

--only to have it swing open of its own accord at the last second. She went flying inside, slipped on a rug and fell face first in a heap of fireplace ash which had spilled from an upturned bucket. The door slammed shut on its own, and sure enough, nobody was home.

"Sweet Mother Draedona take my damned soul!" Farren scrambled to her feet, eyes unseeing, face dabbed white with ash and tripped over a pile of books set at the foot of an armchair. She rubbed her face, eyes stinging.

When she fluttered them open, Farren found herself in the middle of a cosy living room, surrounded by books and paperwork she had just knocked down. A slightly pungent smell of alchemy ingredients lingered in the warm air. To one side was a little kitchen, and on the other, mortars and pestles, scales, beakers and an alembic set upon a wooden table.

But nowhere could she see what a witch-doctor would normally have in their possession-- animal skulls, talismans, or at least a cauldron in which to brew their remedies. There on the shelves were but healing medicines, concocted with legitimate alchemical formulae, like a skilled alchemist would make.

Wait a damn moment.

He may have fooled the village folk, but there was no fooling Farren, who had seen her fair share of actual witch-doctors on Ebon street. The quiet, well-liked Velan fellow living here was anything but a witch-doctor. Rather, he was--

Her eyes fell on a piece of parchment she had stepped upon, and her heart began to hammer in her chest.

She snacthed up the paper, which looked like the front page of some sort of manuscript. In spidery handwriting, there was scrawled the title of the book.

'THE POTIONS BREWER'S GUIDE TO ALCHEMICAL THEORIES, VOL 14'

...Then below, in smaller letters, the author's name.

'RYFFIN WELLIS.'

She knew this name from the book Linder had brought that day. The illustrations of necromancy swam in her vision. This was him, the genius Velan researcher from the magical academy at Byton, who had disappeared without a trace some years ago. The alchemist whose passion was not alchemy, but Ancient Sorcery, who was the only one with the faintest idea about what the black-blooded ones truly were.

A part of her did not want to believe it. Could these manuscripts have been stolen, and the Witch-doc was naught but a thief?

But thieves did not help people for free, nor did they dedicate their lives to study of an obscure form of sorcery.

Heavy footsteps sounded outside, stairs creaking under someone's feet. The door began to swing open.

"How on earth did you get past the wards?" Came a deep voice, with a distinct, Velan highland lilt.

The Witch-doc had come home.