The elves fell deathly silent as the queen gasped, choking as she slid forward on the sword. Her eyes were wide, her scornful pride finally chased away by the fear of a death long avoided. Gently, Aphora ran her hand down her mother's face, a few treacherous tear rolling silently down her cheeks as the queen breathed her last.
What remained of the queen's forces, harried on all sides by the qebru and maryannu, fled, clinging to the caldera's walls as they sought the shelter of the jungles beyond, while Aphora's forces advanced across the valley floor. The qebrū, suddenly finding themselves facing a foe that didn't have its back turned, retreated back into their caverns. Their red eyes peered out malevolently from the hundreds of dark entrances that lined the towering walls of the abandoned city. Jasper and Ihra, along with many of the elves, were sent to sort through the corpses on the battlefield, gathering any armor or weapons that were still in good enough condition to be worth saving. But their task was dangerous, the qebrū more than once seizing on the opportunity to attack and kill an unwary scavenger.
Meanwhile, the maryannu and a portion of Aphora's forces continued to chase the fragments of the queen's army. Carried aloft on their spectral wings, the maryannu soared beneath the dense canopy, striking with all the swiftness of a hawk when their prey was spotted. But no summoning lasts forever. When the last rays of the sun sunk beneath the horizon, the slain maryannu arose again, and accompanied by the rest of their comrades, the Dead to the Palace, their hunt concluded.
As the shadows grew across the caldera's floor, Aphora ordered a retreat. Afraid that the qebrū would launch an assault against the camp under the cover of darkness, the elves marched through the night, not stopping until morning found them miles away from the site of the battle. When a halt was finally called, Jasper did not even bother to set up a tent, choosing instead to simply pass out on the ground.
The next two weeks were difficult. Thanks to the maryannu, the elves' victory had come with relatively few losses on their side, but despite their success, the mood of the camp was subdued. Many of the elves in Aphora's contingent were old enough to remember the days of Als̆arratu’s glory, and had walked its streets with their friends and family - the very wights they had been forced to kill - so there were few that celebrated the victory.
Although the queen had been defeated, she had devastated the region in the few short days before the elves had caught up with her, and even with the collapse of her army, the danger had not entirely passed. A decent number of wights had escaped the clutches of the maryannu and now roamed through the jungles and plains surrounding Hargish, attacking the civilians who had survived the first attack.
Thus Aphora’s troops were sent on constant patrols through the valleys, searching for survivors and slaughtering the remaining undead. Those skilled in craftsmanship stayed behind in the ruined city, rebuilding as many homes as possible, and salvaging whatever food and other necessities they could find, as they struggled to support the growing population of refugees.
Jasper and Ihra were run ragged, riding out every day with Aphora’s forces on patrols. While Jasper's pool of essence was still small enough to be a liability on the battlefield, his skills were perfect for fighting the small groups of monsters they now encountered, which made his services in great demand. He knew he needed to meditate, to visit Kas̆dael in the void, but somehow, Jasper kept finding one excuse after another to put it off - there was always some more pressing need, real or imagined.
Ihra was lost in her own world. Her every possible moment was dedicated to scouring the countryside, searching for any trace of her nephews and nieces. At first, she was hopeful; far more of the city's population had managed to escape the city’s destruction than it originally appeared, and she redoubled her search with renewed confidence.
But more and more survivors trickled in, many of them brought back by her and Jasper’s trips, with no sign of her family. Time and again, she'd interview the ones they'd rescued, hoping to find someone who knew them, but the answer was always the same. By the end of the second week, Jasper watched her hope fade daily, her search ever more perfunctory and moribund. And then one day, Ihra chose not to go out on patrol.
She didn’t come out of her tent until supper. Perhaps tempted by the savory aroma of venison and plantains grilling over the fire, she finally emerged. Her pale white cheeks were suspiciously blotchy, her eyes rimmed red, as she quietly sat down beside him.
“Do you want to talk about it?” She ignored him. “Ihra?”
“No.” She said, in a still, small voice. “As long as I don’t know for sure, I can tell myself they escaped." She stared for a long time into the fire, her lips quavering, refusing to meet his eyes. "Let’s just talk about something else,” she finally muttered.
She wasn’t very talkative that night, but Jasper kept the conversation going. She stayed in her tent the next day too, but on the third, she joined Aphora's forces again - not on patrol, however. Instead, she remained in the city, helping the craftsmen fix up shelters for the refugees.
By the end of the third week, a portion of the city had been restored enough to provide homes for the survivors. As the number of survivors brought in begin to slow, it became clear that perhaps a third of the city’s inhabitants had survived, as well as a much larger proportion of the population of the surrounding valley. The inhabitants of the hamlets and villages had, for the most part, had enough warning to flee into the jungle, even preserving their flocks and possessions. But the majority of the crops in the field - only scant weeks from harvest - had been lost, leaving food a real concern for the coming winter.
Aphora sent her swiftest emissaries to the handful of cities closest to Hargish - Ikkarim, Gis̆-Izum, Birnah - requesting food and aid; reluctantly, she also sent news of the disaster to the king in Yas̆peh. The number of elves camping outside the city slowly swelled as new elves trickled in daily, many of them, curiously enough accompanied by women and children, wagons and baggage. The new arrivals joined the camp of the Children of St. Martin, and Jasper did not have much opportunity to interact with them, but it was clear to him that some other plan was afoot. In the end, Jasper was forced to wait another two weeks before things finally fell into place.
The tall banners were the first thing the handful of guards clustered on the ruined walls saw. A golden pike, the symbol of the king, gleamed against the dark sapphire canvas, and the low rumble of drums echoed across the plain as his men marched to their beat. Column after column of troops emerged out of the jungles, their pikes gleaming in the sunlight with an almost blinding light. It was the largest display of military might Jasper had seen since coming to Corsythia, but, he had to admit, the king’s army just didn't inspire the same fear and dread as the undead queen’s had.
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She ran her fingers through her hair nervously, gently tracing the large antlers that swept up from her head, as she waited for the king to arrive. She wanted nothing more than to ride forward, leaving her troops behind, and greet her old friend. But that was not her part to play, not anymore. This was not a meeting of friends, but a parley between two heads of state, and, unfortunately, the outcome was predetermined.
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The king rode on a large grey stallion, accompanied by a suite of attendants. A silver crescent sword - a gift from her, long ago - hung at his side, and his chestnut hair was swept back from his face, his long locks held back by the golden diadem that rested on his brow. His armor, despite its golden sheen and lustrous state, was no ceremonial suit, but a relic of the kings of Yas̆peh, one of their most prized spoils of the victory in their long conflict with Stryn. She noted, with a touch of sorrow, the whisper of grey within his hair, the wrinkles that creased a brow once unblemished.
Steeling her emotions, she tilted her head in respect. “Lord Kabāni, the forces of the undead Queen have been defeated, and we have begun the task of rebuilding the city. Many of the inhabitants have been rescued, but the city will need provisions to survive the winter.”
He sat stiffly on his steed, his normally kindly face stony and grim. “And the city that is burned, Lady Aphora? Was it not your actions that awoke the queen? Show me the city and we shall talk.”
A pang coursed through her heart at his gruff tone, but she simply nodded. “Of course, Lord Kabāni.” The elves led the king’s officials through the ruined city while his army begin to set up tents outside the walls.
The king’s face darkened as he surveyed the devastation. The formerly white, plastered walls of Hargish were sundered; large gaps had crumbled in many places, and their white coat was stained with soot and blood. The guild hall and barracks, the pride of the city square, had been demolished and, out of all the most important buildings in the city, the temples alone remained largely untouched, the undead having shied away from the divine presence.
The people roamed the streets, most of them clad in elven cloaks, with hollow cheeks and flat expressions. In the city square, long lines waited for the daily rations, the children playing quietly around their elders' feet.
When the tour was complete, they rode back to her camp, the two leaders side by side. The silence hung between them with an almost palpable presence, and Aphora fretted as she waited for him to speak.
“What am I supposed to do with you, Aphora?” The king sighed as he spoke. “You have put me in an untenable position. Your actions, no matter how unintentional, have destroyed a city of my realm. No matter our past, no matter how much I want to, I cannot just overlook this. You and I both know that I cannot afford to fight you if you should choose to resist - not with Stryn constantly watching for even the slightest sign of weakness to swoop down on Birnah - but neither I can return to my people without punishing you. My nobles are watching, and they will demand vengeance.”
Aphora watched his face, futilely trying to read his eyes. They were a pool of darkness, the inky voids a testimony to the Sappiyan royal family’s proud claim to fame - Mwyrawni descent. Privately, she had always suspected that they were actually descended from the Sidhe, but that was a heritage no one wanted to claim. But she saw nothing in those black depths, though the lines that creased his face told of sorrow more than anger.
“I know, Kabāni. I sought to save my people, but in the end, all that happened was that yours were harmed." She reached out a hand, patting his gently. "I know you cannot just overlook the situation, and I will not complicate your position any further. My counselors and I already reached a decision. Once we have finished stabilizing Hargish, our conclave will leave Sapiya and go into exile. This will surely please your nobles.”
Kabāni nodded gruffly. “Thank you; I do not wish to see you go, but your exile will solve many problems for me." He turned to her, curiosity in his eyes. "Where are your people going? Surely the elves of Onkodos Laos will not welcome you back, and there are few provinces these days that will welcome a new autonomous enclave.”
Aphora shook her head, a wan smile crossing her lips. “No, I'm sure we would be far from welcome in our beloved homeland - we will neither settle in the empire nor go to the north. I have cast the edakkû again and again, and their message is clear. We shall depart into the west.”
All anger dissipated from his face, replaced by shock and horror. “No!" He shook his head vehemently. "Absolutely not - I can’t let you do that. Even for a human, to go into the west is to court death, but for an elf? It is a death sentence. None come back alive from the banks of the great river. Aphora, no matter how my nobles may complain about Hargish, I will not send your people to die to ease my burdens.”
Aphora pursed her lips, resolve in her eyes. “It was not a decision I came to lightly; we will not be going alone. On the road to Hargish, we encountered a company of the Children of St. Martin on a sacred quest. The bones have told me to accompany them.”
He cocked his head, a frown spreading across his face. “Really? The Children are roaming in my lands?” Anger flickered in his eyes again, not at Aphora, but at his nobles. "It is their duty to inform if Fey are roaming my kingdom, friendly or not," he grumbled.
Aphora nodded, ignoring his complaints. "Yes, a rather large group of the Children was sent by their elders to reclaim an ancient colony, now long lost beyond the river. But they are confident they know its location and that it can be reclaimed.” She turned to him, the passion clearly writ across her face. “Think about the possibility, Kabāni. The chance to establish a realm with the Children of St. Martin, hidden deep below the surface, where we will be safe from the wars to the east and the terrors that roam the western plains. If we can find their fallen city and restore it, we may be safer in the west than we are here.”
She sighed as she saw his brows darken, and pressed her case. “The empire is falling, Kabāni. Perhaps the Gonian emperors will push back the invaders - if they do not succumb to the civil war brewing beneath their noses - even now the rightful heir parades through the streets of Celestia, his supporters bending the ears of the elves in Yammaqom. But even if the emperors push back the Zalancthians, and drive them into the sea, will the empire have any strength left to face the next conflict? The fallen empire of Gemliria and its allies are stirring again and their troops have already delved deep into your own borders on expeditions.”
Kabāni shook his head. “The empire has pushed them back before and will do so again. Has not my house stood against the treacherous forces of Stryn for generations? Why flee into the west, into the territory of the enemy itself?”
“Because they are not the enemy I fear.”
The king fell silent.
“Is it true then? The dwarves?.”
“The edakkû do not lie. Since the capital fell, every lot I’ve cast tells the same story. The dwarves, every greedy of their power, ever loathe to cast a spell, have realized that they alone among the known races still wield the power of yore. Their lords now dream of empires, and they have turned their eyes on the empire. Are our flocks not ripe for the taking, with no shepherds left strong enough to protect them?”
“The dwarves will march from their halls - I am sure of it - and ruin shall follow in their wake. That is why, Kabāni, I’m leading my people into the west. If we can establish a realm there, away from the coming conflicts, we can offer safety to the coming flood of refugees, and perhaps, in some small measure, I can find atonement.”
“But the west - Aphora, if you are wrong, if this underground realm is not hidden well enough, the Sidhe will hunt you down. Their hatred of elves knows no bounds. There is a reason that the elves consider the lands beyond the river to be the domain of death.”
He reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her to look at him. “Don’t do this, Aphora. What am I supposed to tell Keturah?”
She shrugged his arm off, refusing to look him in the eye, but despite herself, a few tears escaped. “She is safer with you in Yas̆peh, at least for the time.”
“And when I tell her that I let her mother march off into likely death, what then? You know she will blame me.”
She angrily brushed away the treacherous tears. “Tell her what you have to. We both have a part to play, Kabāni. You must be seen to punish me in front of your people, and I must try to establish a safe haven for the future.”
“Besides, you know me. Let the Sidhe come. They will soon learn the same lesson my mother learned-" her words deepened to almost a growl “-I am no easy prey.”