CHAPTER 243: OF BLOOD, ASHES AND ORDER

Minuvae nodded idly as the words droned on. It was not good news. The Elders have begun purges to identify disloyalty. No one was outside suspicion. Many clans have fled into the deeper woods after being exiled and persecuted. Some left by choice, most were forced. They disappeared without a sound. Minuvae wasn’t overly surprised. The Elves were a communal people. Even though Minuvae was an exile, she was still given the time of day due to community tradition. That never changed. They spoke to her because it was expected, not because they wanted to.

Her status as an ex-adventurer also lent her words greater authority. Adventurers were always respected, especially those who climbed for gold and above, like her. That kind of rank spoke for itself. It's hard to disrespect and ignore the words of a hunter that fells Wyverns and Basilisks after all. People listened, even if they didn’t want to.

She knew her words had turned some of the minds of the other clans, even if they would never admit it. The war they were fighting against the Empire and the Hive was lost; it was apparent. The Elves cannot win via attrition, and the Empire was using exactly that. The fronts barely moved. The battles dragged on. Losses piled up. Supplies ran thin. The Hive didn’t break. The Empire didn’t stop. They were perfectly willing to trade their lives for Elven ones. One for one. Ten for one. It didn’t matter. Elves bred slowly, Slower than humans. Far slower than the Hive.

Much, much slower than the Hive.

The Hive was the most significant problem. A tide of carapace, claws, and fangs. They didn’t care if they died. They just charged when told. No tactics. No hesitation. Just movement. The Great Beast didn’t care about his losses. He didn’t need to. He knew the Elves would lose as long as he kept throwing bodies at them.

Then there were the special horrors of the hive, and those were what drove the final point home. That creature called Crownless could carve its way through the forest and leave a hundred dead clans in its wake.

“So what do we do now?” Kaelith asked, and she turned to look at him, one of the first supporters she had since she started this fool's errand.

In the back of her mind, she wondered how her people would remember her. Forward-thinking saviour or ignorant fool, maybe even great betrayer.

Her people were free for millennia, they answered to no one but their kin, but that ends with her. With her great betrayal. But what choice did she have? At least with this, they had a chance; one in a million odds is better than none at all.

“We get ready to fight, clans are still trickling in, but soon the lines will be drawn up. This will be war, and many of us will die. But still fewer will die in this stupid war than if we go down screaming against an Ancient.” Minuvae said with a grimace.

“Gather the clan leaders, Kaelith, it's time to make a speech,” Minuvae said as she put the report down.

Minuvae quietly walked towards the gathering of clan leaders; twelve clans had come to her side as compared to the twenty-eight that still stood loyal with elders.

They were outnumbered more than two to one in terms of Elves, but the imperials she was given made up for those numbers. Ordias sent word he would commence another advance when she gave the signal to split the Elven forces. This was classic Vampiric combat tactics, using mobility and flanking to try and hit an enemy from multiple directions, feinting and probing, constantly attacking, they held the initiative. It wasn’t the Elven way of fighting, but it would have to do.

She turned to face the clan leaders and let out a sigh.

“If anyone has any second thoughts and wishes to go back over to the other side, now is the time…” Minuvae muttered.

She knew by letting them go, they would just be more soldiers on the other side, but Minuvae knew the importance of choice. She was exiled because she wanted to live her life her way, she came back because she wanted to, and she became an adventurer because she wanted to. She wouldn’t rob her kin of the choice on which side to stand on.

This was strategically stupid, but she couldn’t make herself force them to stay, or detain them, or just kill them even. No, the Elves were a free people that would not change; if this were to be their last spark of freedom, she would allow her kin this choice. Every soul should be able to choose where they live… and where they die…

Nos’mar vîen dan les brencha, mórtan dan les racína

We are life in the branches, death in the roots

Minuvae quietly muttered to herself in old elvish, just soft enough for only her to hear. She looked around at the surrounding clan leaders.

“If you let us leave, you will have to face us in battle,” one clan leader said.

“I know,” Minuvae replied.

“We are kin, and so are those we will fight. I will not force you to take sides, live where you wish, die where you wish.” Minuvae said her gaze hardened into steel. Ꞧ𝘼₦Ô𝐛ЕṢ

Minuvae let out a sigh as she sat down on a nearby crate. In just a single year, she felt like she had aged a hundred.

“I don’t know if we are doing the right thing, all I know is no one cares if we get slaughtered. The world doesn’t care; when I was an adventurer, I saw how little the world cared when people died…

Did you know the Ostayans are extinct?” Minuvae said, and the news gave the clan leaders pause. They looked at each other for a moment.

“I can tell you don’t care, and honestly, I don’t either, but that's how most of the world works. They won’t care if we die either, our traditions, our way of life, no one will care beyond what they can scavenge from the ashes.

We need to save ourselves, and I know we aren’t going to survive by going along with that suicide pact the elders have set up.” Minuvae said as she stood up.

“We might become slaves, we won’t be free, but we’ll be alive. At least that way, the next generations might find happiness in their own ways.” Minuvae said.

Minuvae’s words hung heavy in the air. A few clan leaders exchanged uneasy glances, some clenched their fists, others looked away, their faces carved with silent doubt. One older leader’s lip trembled before he nodded slowly, accepting the bitter truth. Another shifted in place, eyes hardening with resolve. The air was thick with unspoken fears and questions, but no one spoke.

Minuvae caught their gaze one by one. Each reflected a fragment of her own turmoil, the weight of leadership, the burden of choices that might cost them everything. She felt a cold knot tighten in her chest. Was this truly the only path? Had she doomed her people by turning away from the Elders?

She drew in a slow breath, steadying herself. She must be the rock they cling to, even if inside she feel like crumbling.

She glanced up, voice softer now, almost a whisper.

“None of this is easy. None of it feels right. But if we don’t act, if we follow the path the Elders demand, we will vanish like the Ostayans. Forgotten, erased.”

A few heads bowed, acknowledging the harsh truth.

“We fight not for glory, nor for pride,” Minuvae continued, “but for survival. For the chance that those who come after us might know freedom, even if we cannot.”

She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them with renewed steel.

“Stand with me, or leave if your heart cannot bear this burden. But know this, we will meet you on the battlefield, as kin and as foes alike.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but in it lay a fragile thread of unity.

Minuvae extended a hand and said a parting word and a hope, perhaps even a cry to what mercy was left in this accursed world.

We do what we must

For those that come after…

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.♚.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

“So you lot sure you don’t wanna just turn back?” O’Neer said as he lit another of those foul-smelling sticks and offered one to Montis.

Montis just raised a hand to decline as he always did, and O’Neer just snapped the metal lid shut with a snap.

Montis and his delegation were in a Ranger Camp a bit further into the desert. The Vulpina Rangers have kindly offered their forward operating base as a place for the delegation to rest. Montis’s men were uneasy, and that was in no part helped by the Rangers constantly irritating and provoking his men. He even caught one Ranger trying to ride a Hive Soldier. To the Hive Soldier’s credit, it just stood there and grumbled as the Ranger tried to make it run as she sat on its back.

Montis looked around at the camp and saw a rusted-out camp, made of sheets of metal and odd, gnarled wood.

It all looked half-dead. Metal warped from heat, brittle with rust, stitched into place with frayed rope and old chain. Wood, if it could still be called that, was sun-bleached and crooked, twisted by wind and age into something more bone than tree. Structures leaned inward like they were trying to collapse quietly. Gaps in the walls let the wind crawl through, dragging dust and grit into every corner.

Old gear was scattered everywhere, broken carts, splintered crates, shattered blades with edges long worn away. Tarps sagged between poles, stained and rotting, too heavy with time even to flap. The whole place stank of ash and rust and something sweet and spoiled beneath it all. It didn’t feel like a camp. It felt like a carcass someone had forgotten to bury.

Even the ground looked tired. Dust packed down with old blood, blackened patches where fires had burned too long. Nails, bones, and bent nails jutted up from the earth like weeds. Nothing here was clean or quiet.

Montis glanced over at the armoury and saw a pair of what the Vulpus called Ironhands, which would be Gunsmiths in the Empire, tinkering with their long rifles and making bullets.

“Thanks for the supplies, by the way, hell of a way to make an impression,” O’Neer said as he popped open a metal can bearing the seal of Empress Cecilia.

The canned rations were another recent innovation by the Great Beast. The Nutrient Bars were good supplies, but they didn’t last very well in harsh locations like wet jungles and on the open seas. It was hard to keep it dry with all the humidity everywhere.

The Great Beast once again pulled some unheard-of yet practical ideas out of that giant head of his. He made the dwarves create a machine that could mass-produce small metal cylinders, which he called cans. Then he stuffed food into it to make a well-preserved and resilient ration for long-distance travel. Besides the obvious drawback of it being heavier to transport, it was an excellent ration system for soldiers.

“Mmmm tchiss schtuff’sh good…” O’Neer said through a mouthful of preserved beef.

“Glad you like it Captain.” Montis replied evenly.

“So stiff you Imperials are.” O’Neer said as he swallowed and took another drag from that burning stick.

“You know water, food and bullets are worth more than gold in these parts. So what you just gave us is worth quite abit around here. So you know by the authority vested in my post… or was it station? Ah something something I represent the Vulpina rangers so since you gave me some good stuff I’m obligated to return the favour in some way.” O’Neer said before taking another oversized bit of preserved beef.

“Tell me about the factions here.” Montis said as his adjutant flipped open a note book.

“Ah, well, that’s a long conversation,” O’Neer said, scratching at his chin, then using the same hand to wave off a fly buzzing near his face. “But for now, most of it falls into a few broad groups. Cities, Settlements, Bandits, Scavers, and of course, us Rangers. The biggest players are the Cities and the Bandits. Some Bandit factions control entire regions.”

He leaned back against a crate, the wood groaning slightly under his weight. “We call their leaders the Bandit Kings. Their places are hell. Slaves, penal camps, blood games. You name it, they’ve got it.”

Montis said nothing, just nodded slightly and kept his gaze steady, eyes flicking toward the distance where the smoke from another campfire drifted against the pale sky.

“Scavers are smaller,” O’Neer went on, as he flicked the burnt-out stick into the sand and lit another one. “They move around, picking through ruins and scrap piles. Old weapons, bullet casings, machinery. Whatever they can find. They trade with Cities and Settlements, but rarely with Bandits. More often than not, they get robbed or killed trying. Most Bandits just send out their own scaving teams instead.”

He paused to take a drag and exhale another cloud of acrid smoke through his nose.

“The Cities, now, some of them are hella big,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the horizon. “The largest is called Risen City. Named that because it rose up out of the dirt and ash after the Fall. About five hundred thousand people, last I heard. The smaller Settlements are usually on their own. Maybe a hundred folk, if that. Mostly farming, surviving, getting raided now and then.”

Montis shifted slightly, crossing one leg over the other, boots crunching dry grit beneath. He didn’t interrupt.

“As for us, the Vulpina Rangers,” O’Neer said, tapping the metal star pinned to his chest, “we’ve got a few forts and outposts scattered around. We try to keep things from falling apart. Keep the peace where we can, especially for the good folk just trying to live. The Cities and Settlements respect us. Show the Ranger star and most doors open.”

“How about conflict, fighting potential, force projection.” Montis pressed and he sensed his adjutant shift the pen poised.

“Ah, well, first you gotta understand how the Bandits operate,” O’Neer said, taking another puff from his burning stick. “They don’t just raid for supplies. They raid for bodies. Young lads for slave work, pretty daughters for brothels or concubines. That’s the kind of war they wage.”

“As for how we show strength... well, we do a bit of raiding of our own,” O’Neer said, grinning like a dog with blood on its teeth.

“Say we hear a settlement got hit, and we didn’t make it in time. We don’t just shrug and say that’s life. No. Those bastards always leave a trail.”

He tapped his sidearm, the metal clicking against the worn holster. “So we go hunting.”

“When we find them, and we usually do, we kill the bandits and string them up. Cut their guts open. Let their tyrant bosses see what happens when they try that kind of thing.”

“Once in a while, if a bandit faction gets a bit too bold, we hit their scaving teams and outposts. Kill all of them except one. Gotta have someone left to carry the message,” he said with a laugh.

“Course, sometimes we launch rescue runs too. Risky work. We only do it when we’re sure they’ve got a good number of captives. Usually not our own, since the Bandits don’t bother taking Rangers alive.”

He scratched the side of his nose, eyes flicking toward the fire. “Mostly it’s slaves. People grabbed from farmsteads or small convoys. Rescuing them’s worth it, but it’s always bloody. Bandits guard them tight, and neither side holds back.”

“Where are the cities located?” Montis asked.

“Mostly near the mountains, on the eastern side of the Vulpina Wastes. We don’t go near the western coast. Too close to the Isles of Shattered Bones,” O’Neer said, his voice darkening for a moment.

“Ethers too thick out that way anyway. Nothing grows. Mutated wildlife, twisted trees, waters teeming with Dark Naga. Don’t want to go near those. They see us as food,” he muttered.

“Our records say there was a great battle long ago on the western side. That it shattered the continent,” Montis stated.

“Yeah, our legends say the same,” O’Neer said with a grimace. “The Old Gods had a fight there. Broke the western coasts clean off. Heard most of our people were living near the sea back then. Lost more than half of us Vulpus in that fight. Just collateral.”

He spat to the side and rubbed at his jaw. “Then one of the fuckers actually got killed. Poisoned the water with their ether. The glow has been spreading east ever since. Lucky for us, the spread’s slowed over the last century or so.”

“Slowed?” Montis asked.

“Aye, slowed. But it’s still spreading. One city is already in bad shape. Fortune City, farthest west. Refugees from the western settlements are pouring in. We don’t know if it’ll ever stop,” O’Neer said.

“What happens when the ether reaches a place?” Montis asked.

“Mutations. Madness. Stillbirths. Birth defects. Crops fail. Water turns to poison. You can't live there anymore,” O’Neer replied.

“Can I suggest you bring us to Risen City? We are seeking something. Some old world gate. Ancient design,” Montis said.

O’Neer leaned back slightly, appraising him. “Oh, I know what you’re talking about. But you can’t access it. It’s out west, near what’s left of the coast. Ether’s too thick you’ll cook in your armour.”

“You know the exact location?” Montis asked.

“I know a vague location,” O’Neer replied.

“I have a proposition. My Empress has granted me authority to negotiate on behalf of the Empire. We go to Risen City and secure an agreement between the Cities and the Rangers. You help us find the world gate,” Montis said, but was cut off.

“And what do we get in return? Sending my men into the Western Lands will take more than rations and water. Same goes for the other Ranger captains and even our fancy leaders,” O’Neer said.

“We might be able to solve your bandit problem. The Averlonian Empire has a standing army in the millions. The Hive has even more. We can drown the Bandit Kings in war and blood. But we need a staging ground. And that means we’ll need more than just help finding the world gate. The Empress will demand annexation of the Vulpina Wastes,” Montis stated.

“Ooo... the folks here don’t like conquerors,” O’Neer grimaced.

“We’re not conquering. We’re offering Imperial protection. What will you do when the ether spreads too far? Your people might end up in Imperial lands anyway, as refugees. We’re already taking in thousands from the north,” Montis said.

“What’s happening in the north?” O’Neer asked, brow rising.

“Angels, Demons, and the Syndicate are at war. The Empress wants to secure the world gates to Hell as an insurance policy,” Montis said.

O’Neer paused, chewing at the inside of his cheek, his fox-like snout twitching. His ears shifted back slightly, tail flicking once behind him. His eyes, usually half-lidded with casual disinterest, sharpened as he stared into the fire. Fingers drummed slowly against his thigh, then stilled. There was a storm of thought behind his gaze, but nothing he was ready to let slip just yet.

“We don’t go to Risen City yet. I need a guarantee. I need to see that your Empire can fight,” O’Neer said finally. “This place answers to strength. There’s a bandit camp further north, a raiding base. Too fortified for us to take, but their raids are getting worse.

Help us bring it down, and your words will carry weight during the negotiation. Consider it an act of goodwill.”

Montis paused, then let out a short laugh, low, dry, almost relieved.

“That’s all?” he said, watching O’Neer raise a brow in return.

Now that’s easier than expected...