The Tears of Kas̆dael

The ride north had been miserable. On the rare days that it was actually sunny, Amur-Corsyth was one of the most beautiful provinces in the empire. Only Celestia's picturesque ranges could truly rival it, though that northern province's climate was too cold to support the verdant overgrowth that filled Amur-Corsyth's narrow valleys and scenic plateaus.

But that paradise turned into a muddy, frigid hell whenever it rained. Which was nearly always.

The weather finally cooperated, though, as they drew within sight of Dūr-Sūqerbettû. Unfortunately, it wasn't the region's beauty that grabbed Eligon's attention, but a scene of utter devastation.

He'd only passed through the fortress once before, on an ill-fated trip to speak with the Lord of Merôm, but he remembered it keenly. With its twin keeps dominating the peaks of two lower hillsides, and a massive curtain wall completely sealing off all passage through the valley, Dūr-Sūqerbettû had been one of the more unique forts he'd visited.

Now, there was nearly nothing left. The walls and eastern keep were completely demolished, their massive stones mixed in with the muddy pools and deep fissures that riddled the valley floor where the village had once stood. The western keep had withstood the earthquake a little better, and a portion of its wall and lower floors still stood, but from the donjon's dangerous tilt, Eligon suspected it would likely collapse as well unless it was immediately stabilized.

He'd been dismayed when he'd first received the news of the opened portal, afraid of what it would mean for his plans to reclaim the capital. Visions of losing years of work and planning had tormented his thoughts as he'd ridden north with all haste. The message of Ardul's victory had come as a relief, but that relief was replaced by guilt and anger as he stared at the utter devastation. The stoneflesh will pay.

"Are you alright, my lord?" He came to his senses as a soft hand rested against his arm, and forced the anger off his face as he turned to face its beautiful owner.

"Aye, just tis worse than I feared," he replied, offering Naklāti a smile as he squeezed her hand. Somehow, despite the mud that covered practically every surface around them, she looked as fresh and untouched as if she'd strolled out of a salon, and he wondered, not for the first time, if she had actually chosen a beautifying spell at some point. It was probably just her elven heritage, though, he told himself.

But the moment was interrupted by an angry growl from his left as his soon-to-be and very reluctant father-in-law sidled up beside him. While Lord Ittûl's gaze was trained on the ruins of Dūr-Sūqerbettû, his brows drawn in anger, Eligon found it convenient that he had, once again, found a way to ruin their time together. Fortunately, it was rather too late for the Celestial lord to back out of the agreement, at least if the occasional illness that had plagued Naklati on the ride north foretold what he thought.

"Why have they not stabilized the keep?" Ittûl complained, seemingly unaware of Eligon's irritation. "Even if it cannot be rebuilt, at least the stones would be saved from the damage the others suffered."

"I doubt their fire mages would do much good," he replied dryly. "But I'm sure Lord Ardûl would be most grateful for any stone mages you can loan him." He took a small measure of satisfaction as the other man scowled and looked away, knowing full well that Ittûl had no such mages to spare. More than any other group in the Empire, the Celestians had intermarried with the elves to such an extent that they were practically an unacknowledged tribe, and like their northern brethren, their magic was almost exclusively bound to water, ice, and the rare lunar mage.

But the general's face softened as his daughter spoke up. "I'm sure father can spare a few ice mages for the task; they may not be able to fix the tower, but they can hold it up until a suitable mage can be found."

"Aye, that I can do," Ittûl grumbled.

Their speech was interrupted as the heralds at the front of their party raised their horns to their lips and with loud, staccato bursts announced his arrival. Until then, Eligon was pretty sure they hadn't been spotted, but the camp ahead erupted into a frenzy as the horns subsided. Not wanting to deal with the formality of a proper reception, he spurred his horse forward. It was time to see for himself what the Bloodspiller had wrought.

The broken plains frustrated his plans for speed, however. There was no sign of the once flat road that flocked with the merchants of Abaya and Merom. Instead, it had disappeared beneath a bewildering terrain of unstable ravines, ponds too deep to wade through, and the rotting carcass of the largest wyrm he had ever seen. It was yet another problem he'd need to fix, as the path through the narrow valley was a vital lifeline between the southern and northern provinces, one of the few routes on the eastern side of the Abulmaḫḫi Mountains that remained in the empire's full control. And as if to add insult to injury, the terrain delayed their progress long enough for the Djinn to prepare for their arrival.

Eligon's eyes slid easily over the Moon-kissed lord that rode at the forefront of the group coming to meet them, more interested in the brightly-colored Djinn that surrounded him. As a child in his father's court, he'd always wanted to see the famed scarlet and horned warriors of the secluded province, but none had ever bothered to answer his father's letters. Undaunted, he had sought them out in the marketplaces, only to be disappointed as he found the Djinn to be pale-skinned and dark-haired, unlike the tales; it wasn't until he'd grown older that he'd realized he'd only encountered Moon-kissed merchants.

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Curiosity, though, was a vice for lesser men, and the Emperor steeled his face as the Djinn entourage stopped before him and bowed their heads in greeting. "Nīnu aradûka imuqqutū lipānīka, S̆ars̆arri."

"Qūmū, aradī, u littalkunūs̆i Bēl-S̆amas̆." The archaic greeting rolled off his tongue easily, and the men straightened up as he continued. "Lord Ardûl, I presume?"

"Aye," the older man stepped forward, inclining his head slightly to the left in a gesture of respect. "If you'd like to rest, my lord, I've had a room set aside in my quarters until your tent can be erected, or if you'd like to begin with the report," he gestured to the men gathered around him, "my men stand ready."

"No point in putting it off," Eligon replied, sliding off the back of his horse and handing the reins to his servant, but he paused beside Naklati's horse and offered her hand. "But perhaps you, my love, should rest?" he offered hopefully.

But the blonde rolled her eyes. "We may be betrothed now, but I'm still your aide - unless you see fit to fire me?" Eschewing his hand, she dismounted by herself, though moving a bit more carefully than she had in the past, and plopped into the mud beside him. "After you, my lord."

As they followed the Djinn to his tents, Eligon studied the gathered commanders curiously. The majority of the commanders belonged to the southern Djinn, if their red skin was any indication, while the Moon-kissed filled out the rest of the ranks.

There were a few anomalies, though, that didn't seem to belong to either group. Two Corsyths stood on the left flank, one a gaunt, emaciated man wearing an imperial uniform, and the other a rather striking brunette with dusky skin. Beside them stood an elf woman, an odd-looking Djinn, and a durgu. Is that the supposedly exiled prince?

Eligon was uneasy at the thought of allowing the durgu free rein in his empire, especially after he had been at the scene of not one, but two, near disasters - first the Styrn kingdom's foolish attempt to conquer Birnah, and now this. Was it all a coincidence, or was the durgu somehow pulling the strings? He won't be leaving here until the truthsayers have thoroughly vetted him, he decided, so lost in his thoughts that he nearly collided with the Moon-kissed commander as he came to a sudden stop.

"Yas̆peh, Tōrîl, please stay - the rest of you can go," Ardûl commanded before opening the tent flap and gesturing for Eligon to enter.

The sweet smell of freshly brewed maqta greeted him as he entered the tent, and he gratefully accepted the warm mug a servant pressed into his hands. Stepping to the side to allow the others to enter, his eyes roamed the tent curiously.

Ardûl, he knew, hailed from one of the powerful merchant lords of Dūr-Yarḫa, but there were few signs of the excess he expected. The main chamber of the tent was sparsely decorated, with most of its center occupied by a massive wooden table buried in charts and papers, with a double row of seats arranged around it. The plush red carpet beneath the table, along with the finely lacquered maqta set, were the sole concessions to luxury in the chamber, and the emperor's opinion of the man ticked a notch higher.

He hadn't been sure what to expect of the Djinn. Despite their reputation as fearsome warriors, the truth was that they had few opportunities these days to fight, hiding away in their sheltered province where the only conflicts were occasional struggles between minor lords and infrequent skirmishes with the mountain tribes who rejected their king's rule. Fortunately, it seemed their general was, at the very least, a professional.

"Please, my lord, take any seat you like," Ardûl bid him as the Moon-kissed took a cup of maqta and circled round the table, waiting for Eligon to sit first. But the emperor waited until Naklāti had entered and received her maqta before taking her hand and leading her over. He took the head of the table, seating her to his left, and gestured for the general to sit at his right. Only then did the others join them - the Corsyth, who had already gulped down a large chunk of the maqta, and the odd-looking Djinn whose cup seemed untouched.

A tingle of paranoia ran down his spine, a sudden fear that the liquid might have been poisoned, and his concern must have reached his face as the Djinn picked up the cup and took a deep draught, choking it down with a grimace.

Seeing his expression, the Moon-kissed laughed. "You'll have to forgive Commander Yas̆peh, my lord. I've tried to teach him the fine arts of maqta, but he can't stand the stuff. Calls it unbearably sweet."

While Eligon found it hard to believe that anyone could hate the lunar nectar, the Djinn's name caught his attention. "Yaspeh?" he asked slowly. "As in, the Yas̆peh who entered the portal?"

"Aye," Ardûl answered, speaking over the man who had started to reply himself. "I've already gathered the reports of him and his party members of what they encountered on the other side, if you'd prefer to read those, but I thought you might want to speak with him in person. The other is Captain Tōrîl, the only surviving commander of the fort," he added, nodding at the Corsyth who had already found the bottom of his mug of maqta.

Eligon's attention was diverted from the Djinn as he stared at the ragged man. His skin was sallow, his eyes sunken, his body shrunken in on itself, but he could see the ghost of the man he'd been. "You fell in battle," he surmised, recognizing the signs of a particularly difficult resurrection, a fate he'd seen his father suffer after the fall of the capital.

"Yes, my lord. I tried to buy the villagers time to escape, but…he was too much for me."

"The Bloodspiller?" At the man's silent nod, Eligon decided where he wanted to start. "Tell me what happened."