Enakhra emerged from the temple, and beheld how things had changed.
The desert extended in every direction; the trees and greenery of the southern Kharidian region had gone. She could almost imagine that she had stepped into an entirely different plane, but for the temple looming behind her. She could only imagine that it was the work of her lord's forces, and she gloried in the desolation.
She turned back to the temple, where Palkeera was standing by the door, an inscrutable look on her face. If the desert itself was a mark of how much time had passed, the temple itself was even more so; the door had been worn down to a shadow of its former crimson hue, and paint peeled away from it in strips as wide as her arm. The thought that she would have to one day fix it crept into her mind idly, without much force behind it.
She turned back to the open desert.
"Kind of different now, huh?" Palkeera asked from behind her. Enakhra smiled grimly but did not look at the other Mahjarrat.
"Very," she replied, eyes scanning the horizon.
Soft footfalls behind them announced the arrival of the bone guard, who stopped at the mouth of the temple and gazed at the two with empty black eyes. Palkeera turned to look at it while Enakhra kept her gaze in the distance.
"Is, um, is he coming along?" Palkeera asked.
"Yes, itis," Enakhra answered idly. "If I leave it here, the connection will be broken."
Palkeera didn't answer, and only now did Enakhra turn to look at her. "What?" she asked, exactly as harshly as she intended to sound.
Palkeera gave a curious noise of non-committal and shrugged, a human gesture that irritated Enakhra more than she thought it should have. She turned to the desert again. Distantly eastward, she thought she could see the outline of buildings.
"Your moral code is not a concern to me," Enakhra said finally. "Akthanakos will remain as he is."
She did not look at Palkeera.
"What else has changed?" Enakhra asked as she tried to focus on the possibly-phantom city.
"All Menaphite civilization in the north of the desert has fallen," Palkeera said solemnly. "Ullek in the south has, as well."
"Ullek is gone?" Enakhra felt herself beginning to grin. "Oh, that's the best news I've heard all millennium." The thought of that obscene city being razed to the ground almost made up for all the years she'd spent with the thing that was standing behind the two patiently, staring, undoubtedly, at her. She filed away the thought of the engorged priests fleeing from their attackers to be used in case she needed a happy place to go to.
"Can you change?" Enakhra asked.
Palkeera looked down at her stomach and rested her hands on it. "I think so," she said softly. "Not often, however."
Enakhra nodded briskly and turned back to face Palkeera. "You say all civilization in the north has fallen?" It was a statement, more than a question.
Palkeera nodded. "From here to Kharid-et."
"Then what's that?"
Palkeera followed Enakhra's gaze to the outline on the horizon. She narrowed her eyes.
"I don't know," she said at last. "It isn't Kharidian, though. Their designs are traditionally less angular and more based on aesthetics-"
"The point, please." Enakhra said distractedly, still staring at the city.
"-it looks more like a demonic settlement from what I can see," Palkeera finished, sounding put out.
She appraised the situation mentally. The north was a warzone, if she'd interpreted Palkeera correctly. Unfortunately, north was also where the Ritual site was.
Kharid-et was to the north, and they needed to go through the pass. She was not strong enough to protect them both throughout that distance.
The buildings were still a blur on the horizon, but she'd seen enough.
"Then we go east," Enakhra said, and set off in the direction of the city, Palkeera following closely.
…
The camp, called Fury-of-War in the common tongue, consisted of a mixture of buildings crafted from sandstone and more impermanent tents and mud huts. Nestled on the eastern shore of the Kharidian desert, it was not the most pleasing to the eye, but, Abbagoth Tsutsaroth reflected as he gazed at the edge of the camp from his tent and watched a figure cloaked in black approach, it was at least as functional as the absurdly wasteful war-cities deployed by others in Zamorak's army.
As it drew closer, Abbagoth could make out two skeletons on either side of the figure. He recognized it, of course; Zemouregal, a Mahjarrat. Abbagoth did not trust the race, and Zemouregal only fueled that suspicion. Most were on the same side as him, of course, but it did not make them any more pleasant to be around.
Abbagoth began the long walk to meet Zemouregal. He wondered, without anxiety, what the Mahjarrat had come here for. The camp itself was fine and their operation in the Kharidian region had been going smoothly for a century. K'ril himself, Abbagoth thought with a small smile, would be proud. His uncle, who had been fighting in Forinthry for well over a thousand years, would not take particular note of what one of his recent descendants was doing in the desert, but it was a warming thought.
No, the functionality of the camp was not in question. He had nothing to fear from Zemouregal. If he was here, Zamorak had sent him, which meant that his lord was concerned about the overall success of Abbagoth's time spent in the desert. With the recent fall of Uzer (although that was not his doing) and the sacking of several Menaphite villages by Abbagoth's forces, there was no question that they were succeeding.
So it was without fear that the demon approached Zemouregal at the outskirts of the camp. The Mahjarrat regarded him with amusement and a mild sense of distaste. He glanced him up and down, as though attempting to decide which of the demon's features was the least appealing.
There was something else in his face that Abbagoth could not read. It was not anything he'd ever seen on a Mahjarrat's face before.
"Abbagoth Tsutsaroth," Zemouregal said, his features still frozen in the same expression. "It's been far too long."
Abbagoth grinned and extended his hand. Don't overdo it, the rational part of his mind warned him. Zemouregal is not a puffed-up aristocrat like the rest. The rest of his brain called the rational part a killjoy.
"Far too long," Abbagoth agreed absently. Zemouregal took his hand. The Mahjarrat's skin felt odd against his, and Abbagoth assumed his must feel the same way.
"Well," Zemouregal said, withdrawing his hand brushing it idly on his robes, "I trust your endeavors here have not gone to waste in my absence?" The nameless expression had left his face and he was grinning. It did not put Abbagoth at ease; when Zemouregal grinned, it meant that something was going his way.
"Shall we walk?" Zemouregal asked. "I can put my arm through yours. It will be very romantic."
Abbagoth returned the grin. "Certainly, although it would be bad form to be seen with someone out of wedlock."
A demon to the side of them almost laughed, but a quick glance from Zemouregal silenced him.
"If you feel that I have come down here to exchange witty repartee with you, Abbagoth, perhaps I shall take my news elsewhere," Zemouregal said sleekly to Abbagoth.
"News?" Abbagoth asked.
"Ah," Zemouregal said. "Now I have your attention." He glanced at the guard demon again, who stared stoically into the distance. "Let's walk."
The skeletons shifted mechanically into motion as Zemouregal started into the camp. Abbagoth kept pace at his side.
Around them, life seemed to grind to a halt. The camp was not usually a hub of activity on the best of days, but now it seemed as though everywhere the Mahjarrat passed someone had reason to freeze in place.
He didn't blame them, of course. Everyone had heard stories of Zemouregal. He raised armies from oblivion and had power in Zamorak's army second only to that of the god himself. Having dealt more personally with Zemouregal than many, Abbagoth did not believe those rumors, but he had to admit that the way Zemouregal held himself did not do anything to discredit them.
"What do you know of Mahjarrat nature, Abbagoth?" Zemouregal's voice was uncharacteristically quiet.
"Little," Abbagoth admitted. His tent loomed in front of him, and he wished that he was there and out of sight of the crowds. "Does your visit have something to do with Mahjarrat mating habits?"
"Would you like it to?" Zemouregal asked, raising an eyebrow.
Abbagoth snorted. "Get to your point, Stern Judge, if you have one," he replied.
"Not here," Zemouregal said. "In your tent."
Abbagoth glanced around. He knew, mostly, that he could trust the demons (and few humans) under him, but as much as he disliked Zemouregal, he knew that whatever it was that even the necromancer was uncomfortable saying aloud amongst others was serious business.
Abbagoth's tent, the grandest of all structures in Fury-of-War, was crafted of the best materials in the desert; purple silk, the rarest of all, adorned the sides in strips and made up the Zamorakian symbol blazed proudly just above the tent flap.
Despite this, Abbagoth considered it positively prudent compared to what many others in the army chose to reside in on the battlefield. Zemouregal's amusement as he regarded it seemed to confirm this.
Abbagoth preceded the Mahjarrat inside, as was proper. It was much cooler inside. Zemouregal did not seem to notice this change, which irritated the demon.
The skeletons were last, walking in perfect synchronization. "No," Abbagoth said shortly.
"Sorry?" Zemouregal asked.
"They are not allowed inside," Abbagoth said, indicating the undead.
Zemouregal smirked. "Do they frighten you?"
Fright was not one of the emotions Abbagoth felt when he looked at anything Zemouregal had raised. "They will wait outside," Abbagoth replied. He glared at the skeletons, which held his stare as one.
Zemouregal shrugged and snapped his fingers. The skeletons turned and left without hesitation.
"Better?" Zemouregal asked.
"What is the news you bring?" Abbagoth asked him.
Zemouregal rubbed his hands together. If Abbagoth didn't know him better, he'd say the Mahjarrat was feeling awkward. "Well," he said. "Are you aware of the Mahjarrat Enakhra?"
"Your celebrity crush, yes."
"Yes. No!" Zemouregal seemed flustered. Abbagoth cherished the moment. "It matters not. She has left her temple."
Abbagoth frowned. "Is this… bad?"
"Perhaps," Zemouregal said. "She has made no effort to contact any Zamorakian superior in approximately two hours. And as of this moment, I believe she is about one hour away from your camp."
"So you believe she has hostile intentions," Abbagoth said. "This is the same woman with her undying love for Zamorak, yes?"
"Save your snark," Zemouregal snarled. Abbagoth was doubly glad the skeletons weren't in the room. "I don't know what she intends, but I thought I should warn you. It's been a very long time since anyone's seen her. Things may have changed."
"Register my skepticism," Abbagoth said. "I will see what happens when she arrives. Will you be staying?"
Zemouregal's face twisted into a sneer. "Not on my life," he said. "Have fun on your playdate." With that, he turned, brushed past the guard and disappeared beyond the tent.
Abbagoth looked outside. Zemouregal was gone, and many of his people were standing around an empty space, looking confused.
"Back to work," he barked at them. Startled, they dispersed.
Abbagoth entered his tent once again. He felt a headache coming on, which was odd, as demons did not normally get headaches. As he settled down and placed his head in his hands, he reflected that he would never understand Mahjarrat, and that was probably a good thing.
Hey!
So, first things first, I'm sorry this chapter took so long. Blame crippling writer's block and summer vacation for that. This chapter didn't really turn out as well as I intended, either. Maybe I'm paranoid, but it seems… not as good as the others to me. So, I guess, if you don't like it know that I'm usually better.
Anyway, yeah, that's about it! Thanks for reading, and I will try to get the next chapter out much sooner than this one!