As Ilya stepped into the main chamber of the palace, her eyes were immediately drawn to the intricate patterns adorning the vaulted ceilings. Dozens of small tiles formed large, decorative circles and waves with swirling motifs of gold. The room was vast and wealthy. Rich tapestries hung from the walls, each telling the tale of Evestani victories and prosperity in golden thread, now overshadowed by the banners of the Greater Kingdom of Chernlock. A faint scent of incense lingered in the air, barely overpowering the stench of sweat.
Hawkwood moved alongside her while the two commanders for the King’s army and the Prince’s army were already present. Rows of soldiers stood along the walls, all standing at attention. They looked more ceremonial than proper soldiers were, dressed in polished armor that gleamed in the golden light of the chandeliers. Each stood before the recently erected banners of the Greater Kingdom of Chernlock.
At the center of the room, Sultan Sule sat with regal defiance, his iron chains sticking out against the fine cloths and opulent chamber. Heavy iron balls attached to the chains sat on the floor, forcing him to remain seated. His legs, his arms, his neck, all were locked in place and light runes etched into the chains sapped any magic he might have had. It was a bit excessive, in Ilya’s opinion. Like they thought he was going to sprout wings and reveal himself a dragonoid.
Despite the defeat lining the wrinkles of his face, his eyes bore the fire of a ruler. He stared dead ahead, determined. Determined for what, Ilya couldn’t say, but perhaps the chains were necessary after all.
Some of that determination slipped to surprise. His eyes widened upon seeing Ilya.
“Alya?”
“Her daughter,” Ilya said after a moment of staring.
“That’s the first thing he’s said since we found him,” Hawkwood whispered. “He just accepted the chains with outstretched hands and then sat down.”
“To be fair,” said Sydney, commander of the Chernlock portion of their combined army, “we have been a bit busy securing the city to spend time interrogating the man.”
“That will change shortly,” the Vaales commander said without a pinch of mercy in his tone. Ilya still didn’t know his name. He stood, staring relentlessly at the sultan, fists clenched as if the man had personally offended him.
Maybe he had. Maybe the commander just wanted the location of the treasury out of him. The heart of the golden city surely held vast stores somewhere. Or maybe he was more practical, wanting the locations of any commanders, soldiers, anyone who might put up a resistance, and other elements along those lines. Ilya didn’t particularly care. The man had invaded her lands, had almost killed her with his assassins at the Duke’s party, and had sentenced his entire nation to future occupancy and likely annexation by the Kingdom of Chernlock with his defeat.
But she was curious about one thing.
“My mother told me about you. She said you were a good man. Someone who wanted to do right by his people. Someone interested in peace even despite the history of conflict between us.” Ilya squatted down in front of the sultan, putting her on almost the same level. Her elvish height still had her a head above him. “Why the war?”
Sule drew in a heavy breath. More of that defiance in his eyes slipped away, this time replaced by sorrow. “When your god comes knocking, you don’t say no.”
Ilya frowned, disappointed. She had never met a god. Arkk had; Agnete had. Neither had particularly good things to say about them. In the short time between Agnete’s return and Ilya moving to the spire, she had heard Agnete’s… complaints. The god of creation, fabrication, and creativity was surprisingly rigid, focused entirely on THEIR machines and THEIR concepts to the point where Agnete had effectively been a prisoner, forced to fabricate more of those machines that made up the Anvil’s population.
Arkk, on the other hand, had a personal audience with Xel’atriss, Lock and Key. While he had been awed by the situation, he had confessed disillusionment as well. Xel’atriss was someone who, he was certain, could have resolved all issues with the Calamity with an absent thought. Yet THEY didn’t. THEY had THEIR agenda or focuses and couldn’t spare more than a thought toward the world down below.
She doubted either would have had trouble saying no to a god. Agnete effectively had said no with her return to this plane.
It was even worse when she realized that Sule likely had never met a god. From their interrogations of captured Evestani, she was aware that they referred to the avatar as their god. He was no god; just a man with enough power to make his eyes glow.
Standing, Ilya turned to the three commanders. “I am leaving,” she said, no longer interested in Sule or whatever fate the commanders had in mind for him. “I am returning to Mystakeen.”
“So soon?” Hawkwood said. “I thought you were going to stay for a time and ensure the city was secure.”
“The sultan and palace are secure. The garrison has been disarmed. We have secured the city. You have enough forces here to keep it secure, at least until the other detachments of your armies arrive,” Ilya said with a small nod toward the two commanders. “I have done my part. I am needed elsewhere.”
Fortress Al-Mir was under attack. It had been for a while now. Arkk had done something when she took control of the spire’s Heart, something that allowed her to see into his territory. She couldn’t move about his minions, but she could still see.
She saw a lot of damage.
He hadn’t tugged on the link between them. He hadn’t called her back. It rankled somewhat. The spire wouldn’t be able to get there in any appreciable timeframe—both of them knew that—but to be left ignored like she couldn’t help at all… Why had she even accepted the Heart in the first place if she wasn’t going to be useful with it?
There was use in capturing Evestani, but even then, Arkk had done most of the work in ridding the world of the avatar. Ilya just had to mop up the mess left behind.
Hawkwood and the other commanders could have handled it on their own, even if it would have taken longer and, likely, spilled more blood on both sides of the sword.
The tower now outside Elmshadow wasn’t wholly safe. From the area around it that Arkk had claimed, she knew there was still an army of the Eternal Empire outside, even if their numbers had been reduced. They weren’t invading the tower—they likely didn’t realize that most of the defenders had returned to Al-Mir—but that might not hold out forever. Ilya could get to the tower in a fraction of the time it would take to get across Mystakeen to the Cursed Forest.
She could at least help there.
“You turned what might have ended up a multi-month siege into twenty-four hours of work,” Sydney said, stepping forward to shake Ilya’s hand. “On behalf of King Lafoar, and the men whose lives you saved through your tower, thank you.”
Ilya wasn’t sure what to say to that. Her mother would likely have come up with a long diplomatic response, preaching about aiding one another in times of strife, maybe some words about going easy on the people of Evestani since they had already lost enough in this war.
Ilya simply nodded her head before turning away. “Good luck,” she said, shaking Hawkwood’s hand as well.
She didn’t bother offering her hand to the Vaales commander.
Before anyone could stop her with more questions or comments, she teleported across the city straight back to the spire. That was something she wouldn’t get tired of soon. She could be anywhere that was hers. She was anywhere that was hers, all she had to do was materialize. With her constant awareness of everything inside her territory, which was depressingly limited to just the spire—for now—she saw no real distinction between the two ideas. She was her territory.
Ilya wasn’t sure what Arkk thought of it. They hadn’t had time for lengthy, philosophical discussions on the nature of the Hearts or towers. From what he had spoken of, she was fairly certain that he still saw himself as himself. Ilya did as well, to an extent, but it was more like the spire was simply part of her. A new limb that she could flex as easily as her own arm.
With her constant awareness, she did a quick headcount. Arkk had loaned her several people who weren’t directly connected to her. She didn’t want to leave any behind in the city if possible. The order had gone out before she left to inform the commanders of her departure, so she was pleased to see that all had returned.
Except one person.
Ilya turned to Olatt’an with a small frown. “Do you know where Vezta is? I can’t find her in the spire.”
The old orc hummed, wrinkled face frowning as he turned to look around the command chambers as if he were only now noticing the monstrous woman’s absence.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Ilya said with a scowl. Vezta should have been here. She had been here when Ilya gave the order to rally up inside the spire.
“She knows instinctively how to make teleportation rituals,” Olatt’an said with an unconcerned shrug. “She’ll catch up.”
“I’m more worried about what kind of trouble she’s getting up to…”
But Olatt’an was right. And Arkk would know where she was. Ilya couldn’t tap into his minions, so there wasn’t much she could do about it unless she wanted to go out and scour the city.
It was much too large to find a single individual, even one as distinctive as Vezta.
“We’re setting off for Mystakeen,” Ilya said. “I hope we make it in time to help.”
Dakka marched across the land, clad in fresh shadow armor. Not everyone among her crew was so lucky. Plenty were making do with metal armor and weapons. Even she carried her old battle axe, just in case she needed the certainty of steel.
Two hundred orcs marched with her. Lyssa’s Shieldbreakers walked ahead of the orcs. Richter’s army of mostly humans filled out the flanks. Battlecasters followed behind, safely away from the front lines while they prepared and cast their magics. Two Protectors lumbered along, taller than much of the army. Gorgon slithered forward, syrens and harpies flew overhead, war machines jittered and shook as they trudged along, and Priscilla took the vanguard position despite her unhealed injuries.
Lelith’s bombardment team hammered those carracks and caravels into pieces the moment they sailed into range of the Cursed Forest. Now it was their turn to mop up what was left.
They didn’t have exact numbers. Originally, the Empire’s forces marching across Mystakeen with Evestani had been estimated to number between six and eight thousand. Two of those thousand remained in Woodly Rhyme and had fought at the tower. But four to six thousand seemed like a lot to fit on the mere four ships sailing up the swollen river. When magic was at play, common sense like that couldn’t quite be relied upon.
For all she knew, the insides of those ships were larger than their outsides. That seemed like something Zullie would have been able to accomplish.
Dakka almost hoped it was true, if only because they had dropped those magic-eating worms on the ships. What would happen when a larger-than-normal space lost its enchantments and suddenly reverted back to normal size while still holding too many people?
The thought had her grinning.
Still, she hoped some survived.
She needed something to take her frustrations out on.
“Good evening, Katja my dear. And how are you this fine day?”
Katja, elbow on the table, pressed a finger against her brow to keep steady a twitching muscle at the corner of her eye. She glared at Edvin, not bothering to don any expression more diplomatic than a glower. “Why are you here? I thought you got reassigned.”
“Now don’t be like that,” Edvin said, casually sliding into the seat on the opposite side of Katja’s desk in the office the Prince had deigned to give her.
Things had been going fairly well as of late. Ever since Mags left, her immaculate knowledge of the goings-on of Mystakeen made her effectively the chief advisor. Even if it wasn’t an official position, Cedric turned to her, and her words carried weight.
“Can I not visit old friends?”
“You don’t have friends,” Katja said. “You have allies of convenience who will cease to be allies the moment it isn’t convenient.”
“Isn’t the same true for you?” he asked, his tone lacking that friendly cheer that he so often kept up when trying to kiss someone’s ass. His stare lasted only a moment before he smiled once again. “But you’re right. I am here on business. Arkk is quite a busy man but he was able to take a second out of his conflict to send news both good and better.”
“No bad news?”
“Not for the Prince’s ears.”
Katja nodded in understanding. She opened a small notebook, dipped the golden tip of her pen in a small pool of ink, and waited.
“First, the best news: Through the combined efforts of Company Al-Mir, White Company, the noble armies of Chernlock, and the noble armies of Vaales, Evestani’s palace now flies the banner of the Greater Kingdom.”
“So soon?” Katja said, surprised. She knew of the multiple armies stationed on the border, waiting for the opportune moment to advance into Evestani and take back a pound of flesh, but last she heard, two days prior, they had only just started moving out. Even disregarding the time taken to advance across the land, she expected a siege to take place, one that would last for weeks, months, or even years depending on what kind of storehouses the capital might hold.
Edvin simply smiled. “Arkk,” he said.
As if that explained everything.
With a shake of her head, Katja marked down the note. Not that she thought she would forget.
“Very well. Then you had good news?”
“Quite. Evestani’s avatar is no longer among the living and the Evestani army within Mystakeen has surrendered,” Edvin said, only to pause and shift in discomfort. “What’s left of them, anyway. I saw a bit more of that fight than I really wanted while snooping about one of the scrying teams. The Prince’s little demon ripped them a new one and then some.”
Katja stiffened, her pen producing an ugly scratch in a line of otherwise pristine writing.
“Ah. Right. That’s the bad news,” Edvin said, noticing her jitter. “The demon has fallen.”
“Fallen?” Katja didn’t like that ambiguous term. “How so?”
“Literally. It fell out of the sky.”
Katja’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“Then it died during a battle between Arkk and the Eternal Empress—also an avatar, it turns out.”
“Dead?” she asked, just to make sure Edvin wasn’t playing more word games.
“The demon is no more. Whether those beings can be killed is a question for the philosophers of the Abbey, not for me.”
Katja let out a small sigh, relieved. Then, she remembered one of many, many contingencies that she and Arkk had come up with. One in particular, if they confirmed the death of the demon… She leaned in close. They knew the Prince likely had ways of spying on her. Scrying, perhaps. Maybe just someone sitting inside a secret passage in the walls, listening in.
She didn’t need to voice her question. She had worked with Edvin enough that he knew the expression on her face.
“It is unfortunate,” he said, tone neutral, “but it is what it is. Anyway, Arkk believes Prince Cedric will wish to venture to Evestani to assimilate the land and people. I’m sure they’ll meet and discuss such matters eventually and, if the Prince doesn’t wish to go, will come up with other plans to move forward.”
Katja leaned back, marking a few more notes down.
No assassination then. Not yet, at least, but it might be on the table if Prince Cedric didn’t get out of her territory.
“Such a meeting will have to be delayed, however. There is still ongoing fighting within Mystakeen. I have full faith in Arkk that he will settle matters soon enough. He simply wished that the Prince receive a progress report.”
Katja couldn’t help but scoff. Of course Arkk would manage. If Edvin wasn’t embellishing on the capture of Evestani’s capital—something that wouldn’t surprise Katja in the slightest—what couldn’t he manage?
“Very well. I’ll update Cedric,” she said, placing her pen on a small rest.
Cedric wouldn’t leave for Evestani today, but his days in Mystakeen were certainly numbered. One way or another. Finally, Katja would be back in power.
For so long as Arkk suffered her rule.
Katja would just have to make sure her rule didn’t cause him suffering.