It had rained for three weeks.
Three. bloody. weeks.
The trail across the plains had vanished into the mud long ago, leaving their caravan’s mounts to struggle as they plodded through the muck day after day.
As the rain ran down her back in full-fledged rivulets, Aphora could not help but question her choices.
They had crossed the River yesterday.
After the weeks of rain, the river was frothing, raging against the banks which sought to constrain its fury. She had never actually visited it before; it was, after all, a river associated with death for her people - not exactly a popular tourist destination - but the river's sheer size had blown her away. Even without the rain, the river was so wide that the other side could only be seen on a clear day.
Now, with the weather? It had been all but impassable, the river dangerously swollen, its waters swift and rushing. No ferry or captain had been willing to take them across, and she doubted even the best of her mages would have been able to create a temporary bridge several miles long.
But the Children of St. Martin had more tricks up their sleeves than Aphora had expected. After a few fruitless days of searching for someone willing to ferry them across, Tesha-Istana’s crew had “discovered” a passage leading underneath the River.
Aphora had no idea how they managed it, and she doubted Tesha would answer if she asked. But their underground passage had done the trick. Although the ground above them shook from the raging waters overhead, the tunnel held, and they had emerged on the other side.
Into the West.
Aphora had heard all the stories about the West, and she knew they were more than just stories. When the Desolyton finally came to an end, and the triumphant armies of the Empire marched deep into the West, sacking the capital of Gemlir and Malkob, thousands of elves had accompanied them, dismissing the legends about the West as ancient myths.
But the Sidhe, the gods of the West, were all too real. For reasons no one understood, they completely ignored the Corsythian troops; even as the Empire burned down the cities of the Gemlirians - the Sidhe’s own allies, they did not lift a finger to harm the Corsyths. But of the thousands of elves that crossed the River, only a few hundred had returned, each one haunted by the horrors that had stalked them.
No, Aphora believed the stories, but she had still been unprepared for what awaited them on the other side. From the moment her mount had emerged from the underground passage and taken its first step on the surface, an unrelenting feeling of fear and malevolence had hung over her and the rest of the elves in her company. Nothing had attacked them thus far, but her confidence in her plan had been shaken. Reflexively her hand patted her bag, searching for the comforting feel of the edekkû; she could only hope they had guided her true.
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Months Later
“Lady Aphora?”
She looked up from her makeshift desk toward the opening of the tent. A trickle of water flowed through the flaps, muddying the rug stretched across the dirt. She sighed, reluctantly closing the book she had been working on. “Come in.”
A man ducked through the flaps, rain dripping off his coat onto her floor. She closed her eyes for a moment, struggling to recall his name. Over the last few months, she had gotten to know her people better than before - many of her elves in the past preferred to dwell deep in the jungles, far from the Corinthian cities - but a few thousand names was still not easy to pick up. But the messenger’s name came to her.
Opening her eyes, she smiled at him. “Well, Mārs̆ipru, what do you need?”
The messenger straightened up, happy at the recognition. “Commander Tesha sent me for you, Lady Aphora. She believes she has found it.”
Aphora nearly knocked the table over as she abruptly stood up. “She found the entrance?” she demanded.
The messenger nodded. “She thinks so - Commander Tesha needs your help to open it.”
Aphora immediately turned, heading toward the back of the tent for her gear. Hastily pulling on her boots and a shawl to block out the worst of the rain, she joined the messenger. “Take me to her, Mārs̆ipru.”
The instant she left the tent, the rain pelted down on her, the constant, cold precipitation driving against her with the fury of the gods. They had only encountered a few locals on their trips - the lands of the former Gemlirian empire had been largely depopulated after the Desolyton, although some were now returning - but the locals, glaring at them with hatred in their eyes, had told them that the constant rains were not natural. They were the wrath of the Sidhe.
Aphora had done her best to keep her people safe and, thanks in large part to the Children of St. Martin, she had largely succeeded thus far. A thousand tents full of elves surrounded her, their white exteriors standing out like beacons in the dark, stormy day.
Yes, they had mostly succeeded - but not entirely.
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Although there had been no major attacks against them, more than a few of their number had mysteriously vanished in the night. Some, perhaps, had merely lost their nerve, fleeing back toward the safety of the lands beyond the River - although Aphora doubted that they would survive long enough to reach those shores. But others had been…found.
She shuddered as the image of their mutilated bodies flashed before her eyes. Flesh carved with cruel sigils, eyes gouged out, limbs hacked off and reattached in unnatural positions for some unknown dark ritual.
Aphora pressed on through the rain with renewed urgency. They had to find the entrance, as soon as possible. Maybe, once beneath the surface, they would finally be out of reach of the dark gods.
As they reached the gate of the camp, a squadron of soldiers was already waiting for them. Most were the Children of St. Martin, but a few of her trusted warriors greeted her as well. Aphora mostly trusted the Children; thus far they had been reliable allies, but she still preferred to keep a few elves around her, just in case. Compared to the rest of the Fey, the Children were downright angels, but at the end of the day, they were still Fey. Just ask the Seraphs, she thought, her lips twisting into a wry smile.
The excavation was an hour’s ride from camp as the site was situated at the top of a craggy hill on whose peak sat the ruins of a Gemlirian city, destroyed no doubt during the Desolyton. They had been forced to chase away a group of Gemlirian settlers that were slowly rebuilding the city, which only added to their urgency.
While still a mere shadow of their former glory, a number of Gemlirian lords further to the west had recently banded together and it was possible, albeit unlikely, that they might send forces to investigate the intruders. Aphora hoped they would be safely underground by then.
As she road up the shattered hill, her mind drifted, visions of her mother and her children fighting for space. With a shake of her head, Aphora dismissed the specters haunting her, hardening her resolve. She had to do this; she had to save them.
When they reached the dig site, Aphora left her stag behind, descending deep into the pit that the crew had dug out over the last few weeks. The rain poured down the walls unrelentingly, and the bottom was filled with two feet of cold, muddy water. Sandbags peeked out of the water every few feet, forging a relatively dry path through the pit.
But Aphora didn’t care about the water or the mud, as her attention was completely transfixed by the gate that rose before her.
A jade triangle was set into the wall, 80 feet below the city's ruins. Seemingly made of a single piece of rock, runes covered every inch of its surface. As she got closer, Aphora could tell that not a trace of power remained in them. The runes were dead.
Tesha-Istana stood by the door, bundled up far more heavily than the elves - the Children of St. Martin were not used to dealing with weather - but she beamed as Aphora approached. “My elders were right! We have found the gate where they predicted.”
Aphora closed the distance, staring up at the giant portal with a slight frown.
The Fey picked up on it. “Is there a problem?”
Aphora grimaced, running her hand along the chiseled face of the jade door. “The runes are dead. Whatever power was in them has long since been drained away.”
Tesha’s enthusiasm deflated in an instant. “There must be a way to open it.”
The rain pelted down on the pair as Aphora studied the runes, the muddy waters swirling around them as the pit transformed into a pond. Despite her years of training in the arcane arts, Aphora still struggled to decipher the full meaning of the runes. The script was archaic and the Fey runes, although similar to the ones she knew, differed just enough to make things difficult.
But a few hours later, as she turned to face the Child of St. Martin, Aphora allowed herself a smile. “I believe I have a solution.”
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Performing a ritual in perpetual rain at the bottom of a water-filled pit proved to be a bigger challenge than Aphora had initially expected. After trying unsuccessfully to drain enough water from the bottom of the pit to allow her to form the ritual circle, they had been forced to come up with a new plan. Their solution? Roofing over the top of a pit as big as a colosseum.
The task was too much for the Children of St. Martin to do on their own and thus, despite her better judgment, the elves had been forced to leave the relative safety of their fortified camp and work in ruins and surrounding forest, gathering the wood needed to complete the task. The workers in the forest had suffered almost constant attacks. Wild animals, enraged beyond all reason, launched suicide attacks against them, traps set by unseen hands closed in around them, and even spells cast by hidden assailants rained down in them. In the space of a few days, their losses were doubled.
But they had succeeded.
Once the pit was dried out, Aphora herself crafted the ritual circle before the Fey door, sacrificing enough ingredients to ransom a king. It was the largest and most complex ritual she had ever performed and as she stepped into the circle, she couldn’t quench the shiver of fear that ran down her back.
Most people who could harness the power of runes never advanced beyond minor spells, held back by a lack of knowledge, a lack of talent, or a lack of money. Or for most, all three. As a result, few had ever had the opportunity to perform higher-level rituals.
Aphora didn’t know exactly where the energy the runes used came from, but she had long since realized that what made runic mages special, what allowed everything to work, was their ability to serve as a conduit for that power. And when an unimaginable amount of power flows through your body, it’s accompanied by an equally unimaginable amount of pain.
She pushed the fear away as she sat down to begin the ritual, opening her soul to the power. I hope I don’t blackout this time.
Aphora didn’t remember much of what followed, as the torrent of power rushed through her, channeled through her body into her carefully crafted formation, and, from there, into the silent jade gate. She couldn’t hear the screams coming from her lips, the blood leaking from her eyes and ears as she focused her will on the runes. But at some point, the pain stopped.
As the runes on the door glowed with eldritch light, a hand fell on her shoulder. Looking up, she saw Tesha standing beside her, a wide grin on her face as her lips moved silently. My ears are blown out, she realized. She fumbled in her bag, downing a healing potion; a second later, the sound of the endless rain beating down on the roof overhead returned with a vengeance.
Stumbling to her feet, the elf and Fey leaders approach the arch. They stopped before the now-glowing jade gate, and the Child of St. Martin drew an incantation out of her bag - a password of sorts to the door.
The Fey looked over at the elf, a newfound measure of respect in her eyes. “Are you ready, Lady Aphora?”
Aphora nodded wearily, her throat protesting as she croaked out her response. “Indeed. Let’s open Arallû.”