Dark Seduction RPG

[Nerindel]

Ghurdan sat proudly upon one of the horses they had stolen two nights ago, his spear in his left hand and his sword in the other, he watched Thorgom brandishing his axes with wild anticipation, he had been right to untie the warrior without Sevora's permission, better he die then one of his men, he thought grinning wickedly. He looked out at the Infidels before them. his grin widening as he realised that their suspicions had been correct, not all of the forces he had seen two nights ago stood before them, the archers were not present, he glanced left and right wondering when and where they would appear. But just them the Tribesmen drew back a little and Ghurdan saw Zasfal's Arrows arch in the clear sky. "CHARGE!!" he cried lowering his spear and spurring the horse onwards into his waiting foe.

He drove his spear into the body of the first of the wild Baobab men who were their enemies front line, then tossed him aside. He continued skewering the foot warriors until one smash a heavy club across it's shaft snapping it in two, Ghurdan threw it down, but as he turned to cut the man down he felt a heavy blow to his side, not strong enough to break his ribs, but strong enough to knock him from his horse. He rolled anticipating another blow, but it never came.

Just then the cold voice in his head yelled "Jasara!" Ghurdan jumped to his feet and looked around wildly, he saw her being assailed by one of the young horse riders, he pulled out his dagger and stabbing and slicing at his enemies he made his way towards her.....

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The first volley of arrows from their enemies had amazingly only killed one adult and two youngsters, Zasfal and the others had managed to dive out of the way. As arrows continued to skip off the rock face, he yelled to one of his companions to throw his bottle in the air towards their attackers, quickly nocking another flaming arrow as he spoke. His companion nodded once then threw the bottle high and out towards the archers, Zasfal fired, the bottle shattered with a loud bang as the flames met the liquid inside, sending flames raining down on their un-expecting enemies. Zasfal then threw his bottle and his companion did likewise exploding it into another torrent of flaming rain.

They then picked off the archers as they rolled on the ground trying to put out the fires on their hair and clothes or as they ran off screaming that the dark one was raining fire down upon them. They continued firing until their arrows were spent, then throwing down their bows and unsheathing their swords, the five that remained took a quick look at each other then leapt down and charged at the remaining archers of their enemies.

Zasfals Curved sword in one hand and his black hammer in the other he slashed and smashed at his victims, until all the archers were dead or fleeing, he breathed heavily and looked around, their was only three of his group still standing, one of the crew and one of the youngsters. Zasfal watched the main battle for a second, then raising his sword and hammer in air and ignoring the sharp pain in his left shoulder, he cried "For the greater glory of the Eye!" Then he charged headlong into the rear of his enemies.

His hammer connected with one of the riders knocking him from his horse, the white haired man got up quicker than he had expected, swinging his sword across Zasfal's chest as he rose, it cut his clothing as he jumped back out of reach, the end of the old man's sword nicking only his chin. Their swords clashed with a sharp ringing as the old man blocked his counter strike and so it went on for some time as each successfully blocked blow after blow. Zasfal saw an excited light in the old mans eyes, 'He is playing with me trying to tire me out!'. "No!" he screamed he was not going to let this old man beat him. He raised his hammer and with all the force he could muster he slammed it against the old mans sword arm, he grinned as he heard it snap and quickly he seized the opening, plunging his sword deep into the old mans stomach.

The mans eyes widened, then with one last gasp he crumpled to the ground, Zasfal put his foot on the dead mans body and pulled out his blade, "Ishak!" he heard another behind him cry. He quickly spun around to meet this new foe.

[ August 22, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Almost all their arrows were spent. The fourteen youngsters that had survived the hail of enemy arrows drew their swords and knives, and waited Najah's orders. Below the outcropping, gruesome skirmishes between young and old, Eye and resisters raged on. Najah noticed at least a few cases where a young convert was fighting a close relative. A wicked gleam was caught in Najah's gaze, and the girl drew her sword in her right hand and gripped the last arrow in her left.

"Charge!" she shouted shrilly, leaping from her spot and sprinting down the outcropping ledge to the nearest Baobab warrior. He was skilled and fought well, but Najah was not about to give in to the middle-aged man before her. In the split second Najah had between parrying his last blow, Najah stabbed the Baobab man in the stomach with her arrow and ran off to the next man; a Painted Sand warrior.

Najah grinned evilly, and chuckled when she found an opening in the man's defensive stance. "Serves you right," Najah laughed when the man went down and the girl dug her broadsword into his chest cavity. This was the battle the girl had been waiting for: Not just the chance to show the elders her worth, but also the chance to actually be able to fight and do something worth dying for. Not that Najah planned on dying during the battle...

Jasara was struggling with her fighting. The voice was telling her where the opponents were, and when something was sneaking up on her. But still, the Eye could not help her be physically stronger than her. Jasara felt lucky that she had gotten past one Painted Sand warrior, for those tribesmen were strong and bred to fight and defend. Suddenly Jasara wished that she was no longer there and was back at the Eye's encampment. Safe.

The next man to approach her was vaguely familiar. It was Husam, Jamilah's son-in-law. His brow was glistening with honest sweat, from defending what he believed in and what he was willing to die for. At least, Jasara hoped he was ready to die...Jasara would not give in to the elders and resisters now, not when she was so close to the end of all her strife.

But Husam was strong. Far to strong for Jasara, who had always left such matters to Nasir and Najah. Jasara struggled past every blow and lunge, and the girl knew that it must have been obvious to Husam how tired she was. Her dark hair was matted against her neck and sweat was stinging in her eyes when Jasara began to feel she could fight no longer. Jasara cried out, her voice slightly louder than the suddenly distant sound of clashing weapons. She called out, to no one in particular, just anyone who could help.

The Eye is with you, Jasara...

[ August 22, 2003: Message edited by: Aylwen Dreamsong ]

[Durelin]

"It was taken care of?" Sevora snarled under her breath as she slashed a tribesman across the face. The man screamed, dropping his weapon and throwing his hands up to cover his face. The blood began to drip through his fingers just as Sevora stabbed him through. For a moment she was safe, which was miraculous, considering they had been caught unawares! The moment was just enough time for her to pick up the dead man's short spear. Lucky. She had used this weapon before and favored it. She lacked strength and made up for it with speed, and, in her mind, this weapon was made for speed on foot, which she preferred. With the short spear she could use one hand or two hands, it was light, and the fact that it was short brought relief to Sevora. She had always had trouble keeping control of a spear butt that seemed so far away. A howling battle cry to her left alerted her of a charging tribesman with a wicked looking moonbeam axe. Sevora held her spear and knife at the ready, standing with knees bent and on the balls of her feet. She was ready to move. Dodging a stroke, especially one so powerful as from an axe, was always her first choice. But the man never reached her. Rahvin's belt knife lay deep in his throat, and the corpse was sprawled in the long grass. Sevora turned round with a grin.

"You would have done well yourself, but I had a clear throw," he said, almost smiling back as he pulled his knife from the corpse's throat. Good. He showed less emotion. Warfare was what had hardened him in the beginning, after all.

"No worries Rahvin, I thank you."

Suddenly Rahvin opened his mouth, apparently to yell, but Sevora had heard the footsteps. Or perhaps it had been instinct. She was not quite sure why, but she turned, and, ducking under a heavy swing from a studded club, Sevora launched herself from a crouch onto the man, her spear and knife hitting him first. She tasted sand and grit and grass, inhaled dust, and felt a warmness running in trickles around her fingers. Her hands were smothered in blood as she pushed herself up off the man. She pulled out her dagger and placed a soft booted foot to pry the spear from within the body's chest. Sevora half noticed Rahvin had just slit open a tribesman's stomach two paces behind her. With bloodied knife and spear, she turned and swept aside the man's bowels with her foot before she took a step forward. Another infidel stood a few paces away from her, and she readied herself to face his charge. This time Rahvin was busy with two enemies of his own. Sevora smiled and called to the man who was cautiously making an approach. It was strange. Why did this man seem hesitant? It was not fear. No, Sevora had seen no fear in the eyes of these men.

Suddenly the man let out a pain filled screech and fell to the ground, writhing and twisting in the dust. As Sevora watched in surprise, something whistled loudly in her ear, and she felt a rush of air pass by her head. Six yards ahead of her, an arrow struck the ground. Sevora ran her hand across her cheek, now seeing the arrow lodged in the man's leg. No scratch. They were poisoned tipped arrows, and not from the archers of the Army of the Eye. Sevora scowled, making a sound deep in her throat much like a growl, and charged a nearby tribesman. "When shall I face a true opponent?" She twisted her spear as she stabbed into the man's back. Would she never face a man in this battle?

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

A sharp pain in his left leg brought a reflexive slash of his sword. He was surprised to hit flesh, producing a strange yelp. Looking down by his feet, Sammael found the corpse of a large brown dog, with short, fine rough fur. A long gash ran up from the top of its front leg to across its large head, revealing white skull and its brains, now beginning to fall into the long grass and the dust. Sammael kicked the carcass over so the split side was not visible. He had already lost his horse to a couple of those dogs. He took one step before a man rushed him from the side. Steel crashed against steel, ringing through the air somehow, though it felt so thick, like fog. Throwing all his strength against the tribesman's blade, Sammael was rewarded with a loud crack and a howl of pain. The howl was cut short as Sammael's sword left the tribesmen's and ran him through. Sammael was surprised to find bone sticking out from the man's arm. He had never known you could do that to a man, break a bone so strongly.

Now two men came at him, screaming in battle rage. One swung a long spear with both hands, the other hefted a large axe, seemingly meant for chopping wood. Sammael did not doubt the axe would have no problem cleaving him. He dodged a swing from the wood axe, also dodging away from the other man. Slashing the axe-man in the side, Sammael realized he had made a mistake. The other tribesman's spear tip was too few feet away. With a surprised scream the man fell to the ground with an arrow in his arm. He still managed to hold his spear in one hand, and he jabbed at Sammael. With a powerful swing, Sammael pushed the spear away from him, and, continuing his forward motion, he brought all of his momentum down into his enemy's chest. The spear snapped in two, as the point of Sammael's sword found flesh first. The rest of the blade followed in a spray of blood, flecking Sammael's entire body.

As he drew his blade out, with some difficulty, he saw another enemy rushing toward him, a wooden club held so naturally. The enemy's eyes were filled with as cold and as deep a loathing and anger as any of the others he had looked into. Except that these brown eyes showed Sammael so much more, piercing him to the core of his being, making his blood run cold and his mind weep for the inhumanity of it. He wished to weep. For this enemy was a woman. Sammael's arms hung limp at his sides as he watched the woman charge toward him. His sword was just barely kept within his hand. Why was this woman on the battlefield, killing and in danger of being killed? The blood on her was not all from her enemies, he realized with a stinging jolt of pain pulsing out from his heart to throughout his entire body. Every heart beat brought unmistakable pain. Minutes seemed to pass, though in his mind that now seemed so far away Sammeal knew it was only a second. The club was raised higher, and she came closer. Those brown eyes loathed him. He braced himself for the blow that he would take willingly. From a woman, who could carry and bring new life into the world. Life…he had never thought how precious it was. Even to the Eye. That she should face death was unfathomable. Sevora and Dristi, Jasara and Khashi -- they were different; they were inhuman. They sickened him.

He would receive the blow from the woman, for the woman. But the blow never came.

Sammael's arm hurt and his sword was held only inches away from his face…blocking the woman's club. He could not. Now the tears ran freely down his face, though he flet shamed because of them. But even more because he still held his sword. He forced himself to look her in the eyes.

"I cannot harm you, woman." Or can you, will you, to protect yourself? He let his arm fall, and he fell to his knees before her. One by one, he was able to free his fingers from the grip on his blade. "I will not."

[ August 26, 2003: Message edited by: Durelin ]

[Nerindel]

As Ghurdan fought his way toward Jasara, he saw the youngster tire under the strain of the warriors fierce attacks, 'she will make a fine priestess, but no warrior.' he laughed coldly, as he finished off another infidel who blocked his way. Suddenly he heard her cry out, looking up he shoved his next assailant out of his way, threw himself on one knee and thrust his sword just in front of Jasara's face, pushing her roughly aside as he did, there was no time to be gentle with the girl.

Sparks flew as the two swords connected, the man was strong but Ghurdan was no novice to battle. He pushed off Husam's sword as he rose to his feet. He then feigned right, Husam obviously saw the feign for what it was and thrust left blocking the anticipated blow, but with the momentum of the block Husam left side became exposed, Ghurdan grinned evilly as he plunged his dagger into the mans exposed left side, his eyes wide as he looked down at the dagger in his side. But his eyes were dark with rage as he looked back at Ghurdan.

Husam would not give up so easily. Ghurdan could barely believe his eyes as the young man still clutching his left side, raised his sword in defiance, Ghurdan knocked it from the bleeding mans hands and raised his own sword to deliver the final blow, but Husam kicked his legs out from under him. Ghurdan sword slipped from his hand , enraged Ghurdan got up and tried to stab the man again, but Husam was ready and grabbed his wrist, they struggled for a few minutes, then Ghurdan punched him hard in his wounded side. Husam doubled over groaning , "Ghurdan!" a voice behind him called "Here!" it was Jasara and she had his sword. He put out his hand as she offered him the hilt, he gripped it tight "For the eye!" he growled as he spun round cutting the surprised warrior right across his chest. As the warrior lay on the ground unable to move, Ghurdan again raised his sword ready to deliver the killing blow........

[piosenniel]

Ealasaid's post: Ahmad kills Ghurdan

Riding among the mounted warriors of the Painted Sands, Ahmad spurred his horse forward with the first charge. The endless waiting had finally come to an end, he thought, as the blade of his sword connected with the first of the warriors of the eye. He brought his blade down in a fierce slash against the man’s collar bone, withdrew it, and ran the man through. He fell in a heap on the ground. Scarcely even glancing at the fallen man, Ahmad turned his horse to face his next foe.

For a while he could see Adhem fighting somewhere off to his right, but, after a time, lost sight of him. Somewhere to his left, Husam fought alongside the group of Baobab spearmen. Ahmad had seen him before the fighting started and, remembering his promise to Qirfah, now worked his way in that direction. He made slow progress as the warriors of the eye ceded no ground without first sacrificing life or limb. He had just caught sight of Husam engaged in fighting a Baobab girl -- was it Jasara? -- when he was clubbed hard from behind and knocked from his horse. Ahmad landed heavily on his left shoulder, but was able to roll with the momentum and regain his feet as the other warrior advanced.

The warrior raised his sword to drop a crushing blow that would have severed Ahmad’s sword arm, except that Ahmad was able to parry it with his sword. He then made a sharp feint to the right and moved in, smashing the pommel of his sword into the man’s nose. There was a sharp crack as the bones shattered in the warrior’s face. Blood spurted from the cavity where his nose had been, blinding the man. Ahmad finished him with a single thrust of his sword. Turning his attention back toward Husam, Ahmad saw that the girl had disappeared and been replaced by the scarred warrior he had seen earlier among the priestess’ envoy. Ghurdan, he was called. Jerking his sword free of the warrior he just dispatched, Ahmad leaped to Husam’s aid.

“For the eye!” growled the scarred warrior, raising his sword to administer the final blow to Husam. Ahmad’s blade intercepted the blow inches before it met its mark.

“Not so fast,” he growled in return. The two of them squared off, circling each other, swords at the ready. The scarred warrior smiled.

“Come on, boy,” Ghurdan taunted Ahmad. He lowered his blade slightly. “You dare to run up against me? You’ll shatter like glass against a stone.”

“Will I?” answered Ahmad. Testing his opponent, he made a quick feint with his blade. Ghurdan’s sword answered it with lightning quickness. Ahmad knew then that he would have to fight his best against this man. Anything less would mean his death. He made slash toward Ghurdan’s right side, which Ghurdan parried and followed with a thrust at Ahmad’s thigh. Ahmad dodged, knocking the blow aside with his sword as it passed. His left hand, which had been holding his reins, felt for the dagger he wore at his waist. Finding it, he and Ghurdan circled each other once more.

Again, Ghurdan smiled. This time, he beckoned to Ahmad with his left hand. Seizing the opportunity, Ahmad leaped forward, his sword raised. Ghurdan blocked the blow with his sword, and, for an instant, their hand guards locked and they stood nearly nose to nose. Sneering, Ghurdan drew his fist back to strike, but he had not seen the dagger in Ahmad’s left hand. He never saw it as Ahmad drove it deep at an upward angle under his ribcage into his heart. Ghurdan’s dark eyes glazed over, and his limp body dropped to the earth.

Disengaging himself from Ghurdan’s body, Ahmad ran to where Husam lay, bloody and still on the ground, yet still breathing. Ahmad bent over him, his eyes taking in the extent of the other man’s wounds. Blood poured from a stab in Husam’s left side. Taking off his head shawl, Ahmad pressed it to the wound in an attempt to staunch the bleeding.

“Is he dead?” whispered Husam.

“The scarred warrior? Yes, I got him for you.”

“Good.” Husam tried to smile, but his breath caught in his throat, changing the smile to a grimace, as a fresh wave of pain took him. Ahmad lifted him against his shoulder, still pressing the head shawl to the wound in Husam’s side.

“Ahmad, is it?” Husam asked after the pain had passed.

“Yes.”

“You know my wife, then.”

Ahmad nodded, a sudden dread entering his heart. “Yes, I know her.”

Husam raised his blood-caked hand and gripped Ahmad’s hand in his. “Take care of her for me. I know I am not long for this world. Go back. See that she knows I thought of her at the last. See that she wants for nothing.”

Gravely, Ahmad nodded again. He remembered another promise, the one he had made to Qirfah. As hard as he had tried, he had not managed to keep it. “I will,” he said grimly, giving Husam‘s hand a squeeze. “She shall want for nothing.”

Husam nodded, satisfied, and closed his eyes. “Tell her I love her.”

“It is done,” Ahmad reassured him, but it was too late. Husam’s grip on his hand had gone limp. He breathed no more. Ahmad laid Husam’s head back on the ground and with his fingertips, lowered his eyelids over the now sightless eyes. Finally, he laid Husam’s hands upon his chest and rose to go. The fighting still raged around him. There was no time to grieve or make his peace with the man’s memory. That would have to come later.

Nodding once to Nasr, who had caught his eye through an opening in the battle, Ahmad picked up his sword and returned to the fray.

[ August 27, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Nasr

Once they had done what damage they could do, the tribesmen archers made their way down to the main battle, to the positions that the Baobab were holding. Nasr and his five bowmen hurried to the line where the Elders were fighting. Three of them had drawn their swords and clubs, and two, following the others, still held their bows.

In the press of battle, Nasr caught a glimpse of Jamílah and he craned his neck looking for Husam, but could not see him. A small group of six of the young had pressed in about one end of the Elders' line, and were moving steadily in on two of the Baobab men – Ismat and Faruq. The two elders stood back to back, their blades flashing as they revolved in a small circle. The youngsters, a mixture of the Baobab and Painted Sands drew the noose in tighter, coming at the men from all sides.

By the time Nasr’s small band reached them, Faruq had gone down under the blows of two of the Baobab young ones. The stood over him, their weapons prepared for the death blow, when his hand snaked up like lightning, his right hand driving his dagger into the gut of the nearest one. ‘Tajir!’ he hissed with his dying breath, as he ripped open the flesh. ‘With my last strength I will take you from the service of the Eye.’ Tajir fell near him, crumpling in a bloody heap on the ground, his eyes already clouding over with death. Through lips frothy with bloody spittle, Faruq spoke reaching his hand out to touch the boy’s pale cheek with own cold hand. ‘You are Baobab. And so will you die . . .’ His words trailed off as the other young one dealt him the death blow.

Now Ismat faced the remaining five young ones. His left arm was useless, broken at the elbow from a blow by Nasir and from an arrow buried deep in the upper chest from Narisa’s bow. Her face was grim as she watched the others move in on the Elder of the Grey Parrot Clan, and she knocked another arrow taking aim to drive it deep into his heart. Her aim was knocked askew as an arrow from the advancing tribesmen drove deep into the arm that drew back the bowstring. She turned, surprised, her face a twisted mask of disbelief. The Baobab bowman had drawn his long knife, and now drove it deep into her side. Its point beveled up, sliced into her heart, stilling it.

Ismat fell as one of the three remaining youngsters drove his pointed stake into his belly. The youngster was cut down by the other Baobab bowman as Nasr ran to the side of Ismat, and knelt down, holding the dying man’s head in his hands. With the last of his strength, Ismat grasped Nasr’s hand tightly. ‘Take care of Duha for me, little brother. Tell her my last thoughts were of her and of our son, Munir.’ Nasr bent low and spoke softly in the man’s ear. ‘They are safe now. I will watch over them.’ With a short gasp and a soft sigh, the Elder’s spirit fled the battlefield. Nasr stood, grieved there was no time to lay him out in a respectful manner. There were still three of the young, bent on killing who they might.

Nasir, Jasara’s second in command, pulled the youngsters back into a defensive position as they faced the five Baobab tribesmen. No mercy shone in the eyes of the advancing older men. Their faces were set as hard and dark as if they had been chipped from obsidian. Swiftly, a hail of arrows from the two bowman flew to their intended targets. The youngsters, the fact of their youth giving them extra reserve, fought on mightily, rallying around Nasir in an effort to stem the onslaught. Their blows found purchase on the bodies of two of the Baobab who carried swords, and they knocked them to the ground. But they had no time to savour the kill, no hope of recouping the victory.

Nasr’s men cut them down where they stood. Their young bodies fell in a heap on the already bloodied ground – their spirits called out rudely into the waiting arms of death.

_____________________________________________

Nasr and Thorgom

He could see the sword flash in a killing arc. Nasr looked grim and picked up his pace, dodging blows as he ran to where Husam fought the tall warrior with the red Eye tattooed on his right shoulder. He saw Husam go down and Ahmad step in to kill the scar-faced warrior. From behind the warrior of the Eye stepped a giant of a man, his long dark hair hanging to his waist, intent on keeping the tattooed warrior from harm.

Nasr watched as the larger man raised his two headed axe, preparing to deal a fatal blow to Ahmad. With scarcely a pause in his steps, he picked up an abandoned spear, stuck slantways in the ground. Gripping it tightly in both hands, he ran full tilt into the large warrior, burrowing the long, sharp iron point of it in the hollow just below the breastbone. Nasr pushed on it with all his weight, until the man’s heart was pierced and the axe fell from his limp hands, now clutching uselessly at his chest. Thorgom staggered back, dazed from the force of the blow and the loss of blood. His knees buckled, and with an ooph! he hit the ground and fell to his side, his ragged breathing winding down in jerky steps to nothing.

By the time Nasr turned back to Husam, his spirit had already fled. Ahmad, his face grave, had gently laid the slain man’s head on the ground, and now he closed the sightless eyes, and laid the man’s hands on his chest. There was no time to grieve him. Nasr caught Ahmad’s eye and nodded once to him in recognition and in thanks.

And still the battle raged on, pulling them once again into the midst of it.

[ August 25, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Arien]

Dristi ran head first into the first tribesman she met drawing her knives in both fists, he was quite large and easily twice her size. He was clad in brown, but his chest was bare, and he weilded a hefty sword that glimmered in the sun as her raised it. He grined, showing a few rotting teeth as he raised it to strike down on her insignificant from beneath him. While he took his time to hoist his sword Dristi quickly ran forwad plunging the knife in her right hand into his chest but now his sword was quickly falling toward her head leaving little time to escape. She span out to her right, knife still in his chest, his sword hit the ground followed by him when she had withdrawn the knife from his bloody chest. She smiled at the blood-spattered body for a few moments, she was doing what she loved.

She turned from the body, her pulse racing as another two came for her, both their swords held high. She kicked one in the chest winding him, the other met her knives before the stroke of his sword fell. She had driven the two knives into the sides of his chest, they passed through his ribs and puncturing his lungs immediately, he was breathless instantly, his death was inevitable as he fell to the floor. The other, who had stumbled back lost sight of her till he felt a knife at his throat. She drew it swiftly across, making a clean cut. He fell to the floor, but not before he slashed her bare leg with his sword. Blood poured from it, but it was no fatal wound. Before she left his body she spat on it, cursing him as a sharpe pain shot up her leg.

She now slaughtered a few more gaining only a small number of scrapes on her part. Her eyes darted around wildly for her next victim, the sun beat down heavy and tiny beads of sweat started to for on her fore head. She turned back around to see how the rest were doing. This was a definite mistake as she was greeted by the face of one of the Eyes warriors, Damodred.

“Dristi,” he shouted pointing behind her, she span round and looked up. A great horse now shielded to sun from her eyes. But it was no relief, it was and enemy. She had to act quickly, she fell to the floor so not to be seen by the rider and slid under the horse. It was risky, she could have easily been trampled by the animal but then Dristi wasn’t thinking clear. Whenever she fought she was blinded by the butchery, the killing and this caused to make irrational decisions. For a few seconds the horse was stll until the rider realised where she had disappeared to. The horse was now thrashing around, stamping on the floor.

Dristi rolled with its movements, and almost once having her skull crushed when she had anticipated the movements wrong. In one sudden burst she thrust her knives into the horses underbelly, dragging them along so to large slits were carved into it, blood fell over her as the beast now thrashed around even more, but she managed roll out from underneath it. Just. The horse keeled the side tossing its rider absent mindedly to the side. It flaied one the floor for a while, but then was still.

However a more interesting scene was unfolding. Damodred now had his sword pointed at the man on the floor, it was a certain kill so Dristi did not bother to intervene till she heard the cry of her name. Damodred now was on the floor with his sword through his heart. The main he had failed to slay was now coming towards her, his own sword at his side.

“Ah, Dristi is it?” he spat, “are you not one of the Order?” His eyes burned, his hand fingering the hilt of his sword.

“Yes…and will I be introduced to my opponent?”she replied slyly, as the two now circled each other slowly.

“Adhem, remember it, it will be the name of your killer!” he drew his sword and held it high, sunlight danced upon it.

“Oh really?” she answered.

“Yes!” he ran to her, his sword pointed at her torso. She had only one option, she too started to run, she then slid to the floor again and passed between his legs. She herself was quite surprised she was not skewered on the end of his sword but there was no time to wonder. He had already turned and she was on the floor. Again he ran towards her, she grasped on of her knives and threw it at him. It hit him square in the right eye, he fell to the floor discarding his sword. Dristi rose and grabbed it and drove it into his back. Dristi threw the sword away and kicked him over, she retrieved her knife which now had Adhem’s eye on the end of it. Dristi stared at it for a moment.

“I’ve never done that before!” she laughed plucking the eye and holding it in her hand, “interesting…” but there was no time to relish her new attack, a fresh assailant was heading her way. So she placed the eye in her water flask, to keep it fresh. She would tend to it later.

[ August 24, 2003: Message edited by: Arien ]

[piosenniel]

Essenia

The fighting at the rear of the Umbrian column grew ragged. The Eye’s archers had, for the most part, joined the fray at the front of the line, leaving the troops at the back to face the harrying tactics of the farmers and the dogs. Essenia had long ago abandoned her own bow, its arrows spent. Now her knives flashed in a vicious pattern as the attackers darted in and out, harassing the warriors, scattering their attention by their feints from all sides.

There were thirteen warriors of the Eye holding the rear position, including Essenia. One by one they were being picked off by a diversionary tactic from one or two of the dogs, separated like sheep from the group and made easier targets for the farmers with their spears and cudgels. The warriors’ numbers dwindled until it was just Essenia and another Corsair who stood back to back defending their little patch of ground.

Of the six dogs who had at first begun the attack, there were now five still left, one of them having been disabled with a blow to its shoulder. And all nine of the farmers were still on their feet, though five of them now were slipping in among the downed to finish them off.

The five dogs and four farmers ringed the two Corsairs, ignoring the taunts of ‘What sort of men are you, that you would set so many on just two.’ The ring moved in closer, silent, their gaze steady on the two Umbrians.

‘We are this sort of men, wharf rat. We are hunting vermin, not honorable foe. We will do this as we have always done for such useless pests as you. Send in the dogs to rout you out, then follow up with the kill.’

With that he gave a series of three short, sharp whistles. The dogs, in a frenzy of slavering jaws and slashing teeth rushed in, some leaping at the arms and hands that held the weapons, others darting in low at the soft flesh of calves and thighs.

For their part, Essenia and the man met them bravely, slashing out as they could at the marauding canines. But it was not enough, and they were brought down at last . . . their last sight that of the men behind the dogs . . . their spears and cudgels raised . . .

[ August 25, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

After Jasara’s rescue by Ghurdan, the girl darted her way out of the major battlefield, fervently wishing for it all to be over. She had risked not only her own life, but also the life of Ghurdan. Perhaps she had sacrificed Ghurdan, even. Jasara stood on the lower ledges of the outcropping, overseeing the battle. Jasara knew she had been lucky, for she’d only been sliced in a few places before Ghurdan had come to the rescue. Dark red blood stained her tunic and breeches, seeping through the cloth. It could have been worse. She could have been killed.

Uri had gotten through several Painted Sand warriors before joining Jasara on the ledge. The two breathlessly and wordlessly watched the battle, as if they were part of neither side and were merely onlookers. They watched from the rear of the tribesman’s front of the battle, though sides had clearly been forgotten and meaningless when the two sides mixed for fighting.

Meanwhile, Khasia was in the midst of battle, using her spear to get through each foe. Occasionally she would pick up a lost weapon and use it as a surprise attack, but she was far too fatigued by then to hold a broadsword for more than a killing blow. Khasia went through a few very close calls, as most of her opponents were close to twice her size, but Khasia was destined to live through the battle. She knew it, and never gave up past every elder or warrior she fought. She fought calmly, using her agility as an extra weapon against larger men.

Nearing the ledged outcropping where Uri and Jasara stood motionless, Khasia finished off one more warrior before noticing something moving behind the stationary pair. What was it?

"Jasara! Uri!" Khasia cried, despite not knowing the threat. Her call came just a second late, as a huge dog leapt up and tackled Uri to the ground and three others began to encircle Jasara. Khasia sprinted up the ledge, spear in hand as she went to help Uri. The dog that was on top of Uri had proceeded to sink its teeth deep into Uri's left shoulder. At this attack Khasia stabbed the beast deep in the back several times before shoving it off of Uri.

Jasara had managed to shove away one dog for a moment longer, but the other two were ready to attack. Jasara dug her dagger deep into the chest of the first dog that attempted to attack her, but the dog was strong and swiped a clawed paw at Jasara's face as one last stand against the girl before it feel dead.

Uri leapt on top of one of the two dogs left, surprising the dog before the boy used all his strength to pull back the dog's neck. As Uri tried to snap the dog's neck, Jasara and Khasia took care of the last dog, with Khasia tossing her spear and Jasara throwing her dagger at and into the dog. When all four dogs were finished off, the three youngsters wordlessly returned to the battle.

[ August 24, 2003: Message edited by: Aylwen Dreamsong ]

[piosenniel]

Jamílah and Sammael

"I cannot harm you, woman." Or can you, will you, to protect yourself? Sammael let his arm fall, and he fell to his knees before her. One by one, he was able to free his fingers from the grip on his blade. "I will not."

He is the same age as Husam she thought to herself, a sudden weariness assailing her.

She had seen Husam fall from a distance and had not seen him rise again. Unable to get to him as the battle swelled and pressed against her, she had fought on, using her mace and her knives as needed. A trail of dead bodies lay behind her - the blood from their dying marked her with its dark crimson spatters. And now this man knelt before her. This strange man whose sword had clattered to the ground by his own willing . . .

She placed the flat of her left hand against his forehead, her fingers extending up like a fleshy crown upon his shaven head. He trembled slightly at her touch, raising his hazel eyes to meet her dark ones. The answering light she looked for in his gaze was not there.

‘You are some mother’s son . . .’ she murmured softly to him. The sounds of battle retreated from the small pocket of grace that held them apart from the chaos swirling round them. ‘A woman bore you in pain and joy . . . gave you life . . . brought you into the light . . .’ She shook her head slowly as she looked at him . . . her tears, spilling onto his head, ran down his forehead to gather in the shallow wells of his own eyes. ‘And now darkness has taken you . . .’

Her right hand let loose the mace she held. It clattered to the ground, abandoned as the sword it fell upon. From her belt she drew the obsidian knife she wore, the same she had used in so many birthings to sever the cord that held the baby to the mother. He gasped as she raised it, but did not pull away. With a practiced stroke she cut his throat from ear to ear, a great gaping, bloody smile of death . . . severing him from the dark, unnurturing mother he had chosen for himself . . .

The sounds of battle returned as his fallen form lay lifeless at her feet.

And just as sudden was the quick intake of breath . . . the soft ‘O’ of surprise that flickered on the features of her face. Some unknown craven’s spear . . . run through her from the back.

Jamílah’s face softened in recognition.

Death, that storied old crone, had found her, standing over the body of the young man . . . and beckoning with a toothless, knowing smile . . . sighing softly . . . Death reached to welcome her . . .

[Durelin]

Pio's post: Bemah and Naramarth

Bemah was covered in blood. Fighting at the rear of the battle had been heavy work, and he and his men and dogs had moved in a long practiced way: culling the targeted creature, singling it out and wearing it down, dispatching it with an economy of strokes, moving on to the next.

At one point, the hair of his victim held tightly in his hand, the neck arched back, his arm reaching round to slash the throat from left to right, Bemah laughed, a dark grim sound, but a laugh nonetheless. It took his fellows by surprise - that sound, mixing in with the others on the killing ground. ‘So many dead,’ he said in an economy of words, no laughter etching the features of his face, as he let go the dead warrior. His chin nodded out at the carcasses of those whom they had killed. ‘They die at our hands just as the goats and sheep from our herds do. Their deaths are worthless . . . less than worthless. They will bring no profit even to their Dark Master.’

‘Come, Bemah,’ his brother called to him, wiping his crimsoned hands along the thighs of his breeches. ‘We are not yet done.’

One of the last they faced was a tall slender man bearing a black, two handed sword. The great red stone set in its hilt caught the mid-day sun as the blade arced and slashed at the foes that surrounded him. ‘One of the priests! Look!’ Bemah’s gaze turned toward the man in the long black coat, noting the dark red colors of the robes he wore beneath it.

Bemah’s eyes narrowed at the sight. ‘One of the bellwethers,’ he said, pointing to Naramarth. ‘Cut him down and there will be one less to lead them.’

The circled behind him, letting Naramarth’s attention stay on the tribesmen who stood before him. With a signal from their master’s left hand, Bemah’s two dogs moved in, swift and low, their mighty jaws finding purchase on the knee backs of the priest; their sharp teeth clamping down hard through the layers of robes to bring the man to his knees. He could not twist in time to fend them off with his blade, and it fell clattering from his grip as the third dog launched himself squarely at the back of the man’s neck, his weight slamming against the man’s back, driving him face forward to the ground. Bemah called back the dogs as two of his companions rushed to the priest’s head, crushing it beneath the blows of their ironwood cudgels.

‘Come,’ called Bemah, now, to his brother, who leaned heavily on his club, his breath ragged from the exertion of one more kill. ‘We are almost done.’

[ August 26, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Durelin]

A stinging pain brought only a smile from Sevora. She finally faced a true opponent. Fingering the light slash down her cheek, Sevora eyed the tribesman before her. They circled, watching each other for a move. Sevora idly wondered who was quicker. He was inevitable stronger; his arms were quite muscular. And he held his spear with a natural deadliness, which made him all the more dangerous. Suddenly he lunged forward, and Sevora fell to the ground in order to dodge the man's spear. Rolling across the ground, Sevora was able to get a slash in the man's foot, giving her time to get up. This time she lunged at him, only to have her blow blocked by the man's own spear. She tried to stab him with her knife now that they fought in close quarters, but he knocked it away from his body with the butt of his spear and pushed it into Sevora's stomach. With a grunt of the air rushing out of her, she couldn't afford to take the time to catch her breath, and so she jumped back, gasping and wheezing. The man came at her, knowing he had yet another advantage over her, as she was weakened. Sevora dropped her knife in order to hold her short spear in both hands to block his spear thrust. Her spear only broke, and his spear kept going, till it struck her in the side.

It was pain unlike anything she had ever felt or even desired to feel. The pain gripped her entire body, locking her muscles. It seemed she could feel the blood scorching and freezing her bones as it rushed to leave her body through the gaping wound. Her breath was short, and icy sweat suddenly covered her. It was a strange mix of the cold sweat and the hot blood. Sevora knew that this was the pain of death. This was a pain that could not be forgotten or ignored in the slightest, even by the strongest and most practiced mind. This was the pain Rahvin had already experienced. That realization sent another pain to sting her soul. She looked up and…she saw. Her eyes still saw the world. She was alive for now. And she saw the tribesmen standing over her, his eyes locked on her. He still held his spear ready to use. He was making sure she was dead. She could see… Sevora put her hand into the blood pouring out of her side, cupping her hand to gather as much as she could. Then, looking up again at the man, the infidel, she flung her life source in his face, and was rewarded by an enraged yell. The man dropped his spear and pulled up his hands to wipe the blood from his eyes. In those few moments, Sevora managed to rise. She swayed where she stood and could only just feel her feet. So she grabbed the man to support herself…grabbed him by the throat. She faintly felt her legs. She stared into the eyes of her enemy, most of her blood gone from them, and tried to focus. To remain awake from her long sleep. The man's legs gave way before the gurgling in his throat stopped, so Sevora had no warning of her fall. She hit the ground hard, though luckily her arm took most of the impact. She could still feel it.

Suddenly someone else stood above her, as her killer had. Sevora wondered if this tribesman would be merciful and deliver a quick killing blow. If it was an enemy. She -- darkness consume her! -- she could not see! Her vision was blurry. She could feel a burning heat rising in her throat. She knew what this was. Her blood. Her life was running from her body, leaving just a case, an empty shell that was not she. Her soul was all that kept that body hers, and made her alive. Without it, her body, her casing, her shell, would rot, being food for the bugs. "I will hold power among the worms!" she said quietly, the blood running from her mouth in small trickles. It sprayed forth as she laughed, wheezing and hoarsely. The person knelt down, peering at Sevora, and she could just make out who it was. Only just. O how she wished to weep! If only she had the strength. It was Jasara. A blessing it was not Ghurdan or Dristi who saw her in such a state. Weakened to the point of destruction. Had the end come because the Eye had abandoned her? Or had her Master known she would…destroy herself. She had brought her own death upon her, had she not? She had underestimated both her enemies and her allies. Her so-called allies. Was Jasara an ally? A true ally? It was too late to worry about that. She had no more need of allies. But…

"What of my afterlife, Jasara? My Master abandoned me before my death. Will he welcome me back after it?" Sevora's blurred vision still saw Jasara's eyes clearly. Alight with a cold flame. What did her eyes look like now?

"Our Master should, for you have served him beyond measure."

"But I gave myself to my own destruction."

"Perhaps it is only time for you to serve out Master in a different way. In a different world."

Serve me… The cold, grating voice echoed through her mind, bringing a moment of fiery life back into her dying body. Her Master could replace her blood, her life! And he would! She would continue to serve him after death, beyond this world. In different ways. And he would welcome her.

"Yes…it is. I will serve. As you will, Jasara, here. You will become a Priestess to our Master, and you will rise to the Highest of the Order! No other Priestess has done so, but it is time women such as you and I were made known. Our Master calls me in the grave, but you, Jasara, you have much yet to do in this world of the living." She stopped, gasping for breath, choking on her own blood. She knew now that she must chose her words, for few she would be able to say. She could feel an icy hand waiting to clamp down on her heart. Was it her Master?

"Be a good cat, sister." Sevora began to laugh again, a high almost trilling sort of cackle, sounding so full of life that it did not fit with her pale face and the blood covering her lips and chin. Her eyes burned again. As her laughter died, her body died with it, and her spirit went in search of her Master.

[Durelin]

Nerindel's post: Zasfal Pulls Back the Remaining Troops

Zasfal pulled his sword for his last victim and turned to meet the next, but this last fight had taken him away from the main battle and from where he stood he could see that this battle was lost. The only Leader he could see was the priestess Dristi, her blood lust driving her.


As Zasfal made his way through the mass of bodies he stumbled and came face to face with the lifeless body of his captain. His eye's fell on the red hilt of Ghurdan's sword "Take what is rightfully yours" echoed a cold voice in his head, Zasfal hesitated. "You have proved yourself this day, lead and they will follow!" the voice urged him. He slowly gripped the hilt of the large broadsword, it strangely felt right in his hands he swung it left then right. "Yes, this is my destiny" he grinned.

He then made his way to Dristi, wielding the sea captains sword. "We must fall back!" he shouted to her above the clashing of swords. She didn't look pleased but agreed with his assessment. "Fall back! Fall back!" he cried. Grimly the men and what was left of the youngsters fell back with their dead and wounded to the western end of the valley.

Once sure the Infidels did not follow, they tended their wounded and set up pyres for the dead, "Oh! great Eye these warrior's have served thee faithfully and to honour them we sacrifice their bodies that they may join with you in the Great Abyss" Dristi prayed nodding her head for them to light the pyres.

As the men and children broke away, Zasfal remained and watched the flames as they burned against the cold night sky. He heard someone come up behind him, "we are moving out at once, I wish to return to the Citadel as soon as possible" Dristi's cold voice whispered beside him. He afforded her a short bow and went to make the men ready. Within half an hour they where slowly moving across the darkness of the desert, there heads hung heavily at their defeat. Zasfal grimly hoped that what they brought back was enough not to incur the wrath of the citadel.

[ August 26, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

The army of the Eye had lost its leaders. They had withdrawn, disordered, taking their dead and wounded with them to the western end of the valley.

In the aftermath of the battle, the green field, where once the tents of the tribesmen stood, was now littered with the bodies of the dead and dying. Asim, the remaining Elder of the Baobab, was now in charge, and he directed those still able to stand and walk to bring the bodies of their fallen companions back to the eastern end of the field. Those injured were also to be brought back and placed in the large tent they had set up there.

Nasr had fished out the small basket of healing herbs and potions which Jamílah had kept for herself from the stock she sent with her daughters. Somewhat familiar with his wife’s and his wife’s mother’s healing skills, he moved among the injured - helping those he could, and easing the pain of those who were dying. Several others of the Baobab assisted him - the soft murmuring of their voices giving assurance to their fellows as they plied them with the herbs and unguents; their tears flowing freely as friends and family passed on.

When they were done, and all who could be saved were resting peacefully on their pallets, the men gathered the sixteen bodies of the fallen and placed them on a great pyre of dried wood. Their sightless eyes were closed, their faces, smoothed out in death were turned upward to the evening sky, their arms folded over their hearts. Alongside them were placed the four dogs which had fought so well against the intruders.

The pyre was lit from all four directions as the tribesmen stood in silence about it. To the north, just a small distance away could be seen the remainder of the Painted Sands tribe, attending to their own eighteen fallen comrades.

And when the flames leaped high, licking the shells of those who had fought against the shadow, Asim stepped forward, speaking softly the words of passing, his murmurings carried up in the flickering flames and smoke, his pauses punctuated by the crackling fire. Those left living, beat the ends of their weapons on the hard ground, in a steady staccato, a deep cry at their losses issuing from their throats in one voice.

Then it was done. The fire raged on, fueled by additional wood the tribesmen threw on the pyre. Asim conferred with Ahmad, now the leader for the Painted Sands. The tribes would gather the horses and move their remaining number to where the women and children awaited them.

The injured were gathered into a wagon drawn by two horses and driven by one of the Painted Sands’ men. Nasr and two of his companions rode in the wagon with the wounded, tending to their needs. Nasr said farewell to Bemah and his men, promising to come in the spring, when the goat kids were ready, for those that Husam had bargained about.

Against the dark, star studded desert sky, the twin flames that consumed their fellow tribesmen burned steadily . . . growing smaller in the distance as they made their way eastward.

[Arien]

“Fall back! Fall back!” cried Zasful, reluctantly Dristi followed the rest. They brought their dead and injured too, and Dristi insisted on searching the dead before they were burnt. She walked along the rows of dead till her eyes fell upon the body of a priest, Naramarth. She had not expected him to survive the battle, and he had been no real use to them so his loss was not felt. She kept walking passed dead villagers and warriors, ignoring their slaughtered bodies as if they were non existent. Her eyes now came to Sevora. Sevora! She was dead, Dristi could not believe her own eyes that she was dead. She dropped to her knees and looked upon her face. It was cold, cold with death and defeat. And although this meant Dristi was finally rid of her it did not feel like it was supposed to.

She did not feel like laughing, or smiling or feeling happy that she was dead. She did not feel anything, she was numb. The one she had envied was now dead and she didn’t enjoy it! What was wrong with her?! Why should she even think of morning Sevora’s death, the woman tried to kill her, humiliated her and now the once great priestess had met her match in some foolish tribesman. Dristi could not understand it, her stomach churned and her breath was drawn deep. I hate her! So why do I feel like this? What is this weakness that I feel, even in death this woman still taunts me with her superiority! Tears started to from in her eyes, whether it was from her frustration or something else she could not tell. But they were quickly subdued and she rose.

“Oh! great Eye these warrior's have served thee faithfully and to honour them we sacrifice their bodies that they may join with you in the Great Abyss!” she nodded for the fire to be lit, and it was. Fuelled by wood and spirit that had been poured on the remains the air was soon filled with the smell of burning bodies . She watched them burn. Sevora was one of the last to be consumed by the flames. They licked her corpse tenderly and then engulfed her whole body. Then Dristi turned to the remaining warriors. “We head back to the Citadel, those who came from the village will return at their own biding, the rest are to return. We leave as soon as we can!”

After talking shortly to Zasful they were ready to leave at sunset. They were to walk during the night, no rest would be allowed until they reached the Citadel. Dristi headed the company, with Zasful and the others behind her. She walked at a steady pace under to haunting moonlight. The group looked like ghosts under its pale glimmer and its forgiving coolness. Not much was said, and Dristi did not speak at all, only murmurs from the remaining young ones were heard.

-----------------------------------------

Within a few days they reached the Citadel, the bustling streets showed no recognition of any word of their defeat, and there would be none. She had warned them before they had left if any word got out that they had nearly collapsed at the hands of tribesmen that person would be hunted down, personally, by her. She did not think that all of them took the threat to heart, maybe she would be busy in the coming months.

Dristi walked up the Citadel steps to where the high priest was waiting. She took only Zasful, Jasara and Khasia with her. They bowed low in reverence and the Dristi stood.

“So few of you return?” he snarled looking behind Dristi to their insignificant group. “And you, “ he lifted his hand to her face, brushing her hair from her face and then holding her chin up, “the only priest left?”

“Yes,” she answered sternly, “Sevora was gravely mistaken, they were harder to suppress than she had anticipated. Therefore she died at the hands of and infidel. This is all that survived, along with converts that came to honour The Dark Lord.”

“And the others?”

“All dead..”

“All?”

Dristi hesitated for a moment, “Yes all, those who did not convert are dead.”

“Good!” then he turned to Zasful, “The warriors are dismissed, they may leave knowing they fought for a just cause. Dristi, wont you bring our young guests into our home?” he smiled and walked into the Citadel. Dristi nodded to him and then to Zasful. She gathered the young ones and ushered them into the darkness of the Citadel.

--------------------------------------------

A few months later Dristi sat in the Sanctuary of Death, alone. She had on the traditional dress apart from the necklace that hung from her neck. But there was no jewel set into it, it was a circle of white, and then of brown and then black in the centre. It was there to remind her of the one who said he could defeat her. Sad really, but then the priestess would never admit it, she was too proud for her own good and her looks did not help her already inflated ego. And neither did that one taste of humanity that she had had. For once in her life she had felt sadness even if it was for an enemy she would never forget it. And she would never forget that battle where darkness had prevailed, just. And it was only because of a lie they did not loose. Lies, deceit, corruption it was what the darkness was about and why she loved it. And so the journey goes on, as it has always been, for as long as there is life, the darkness will never end.

[piosenniel]

Epilog

Year 20 of the Fourth Age

Throughout the years of his reign, King Elessar sent emissaries out to the outlying countries of Arda to extend the hand of friendship and the offer of peaceful relations with the Reunited Kingdom. It was on one such mission that Giladan, Errand Rider of Gondor, found himself, after many months of travel - coming into the outskirts of a small tented village in the Hither Lands, near a large bay along the Inner Seas.


‘Paw-paw! Look who we’ve found!’ ‘He’s come at last!’

It was early morning. The pale light of dawn just brightening the eastern rim of the sea. Nasr sat wrapped in his shawl near the fire. Fifty-seven years had not dimmed the light and kindness in his aging eyes. His dark hair had turned now a grizzled grey, and he sat close to the heat of the fire, warming his bones against the chill of the new day. Qamar sat near him, Naar at her side. The women were sorting through their stock of herbs, grey head leaning close to one with tight black curls shot through with silver, talking of what they would need when next the Painted Sands came through.

Nasr looked north, toward the source of the piping voices. There, in the distance, were his five year old twin great-grandchildren – Meelah and her brother, hanging onto the hand and cloak of a tall, fair man with dark shoulder length hair. He could see the man grinning as he listened to the chatter of the children. His great horse, walking carefully behind him, kept an eye out to the darting and weaving of the children as they danced and skipped at times about his rider’s leg and at times paused to hold his hand or grasp his cloak. ‘Little butterflies, they are,’ thought Giladan as he laughed with them.

Naar stood, giving a hand up to her mother. Her father waved her off, grumbling good naturedly as always that he could do it himself. The man and children drew near, and Nasr stepped forward to give a word of greeting.

Giladan listened courteously as he was welcomed, then pushing back his cloak behind his shoulders he began to greet them in kind and tell them of his mission. There was a collective gasp as he did so, bringing his formal announcement from the King to an abrupt halt. A look of puzzlement crept on his face as they pointed to the insignia he wore on his tunic – the White Tree, reminding them of their own Baobab they murmured, crowned with seven five-pointed stars . . . then, the questions began . . .

Had the Shadow gone now from the North? Was the Eye defeated? Who had done this? Was it the man of the five-pointed star? And more tumbled out in rapid succession. Giladan held up his hands, begging for respite. ‘How do you know all this,’ he asked, amazed at their questioning and surprised most by the fact that they seem to have expected him.

It was Qamar who answered him, speaking of their own battle against the darkness, and how they had prevailed, and then withdrawn for this long time now from the outreaching hand of the Shadow. At her words, Nasr’s eyes grew clouded remembering those who had fallen on the battlefield.

‘Tell her the story,’ piped in the little twins, urging their grandmother on. ‘Tell her about your Mami.’

‘Yes,’ urged Giladan, bidding them all be seated, as he took a place close to them, attentive to their words. Qamar looked at Nasr, and he gestured at her, saying, ‘Yes, tell him.’ She spoke quietly of her mother, speaking without embroidery about her life, about the sort of woman she was, and the signs she had seen in the bones she threw that had at first frightened her, then brought her hope. She spoke of the Man her mother had seen in the patterns she had thrown. The one who would come from the North, growing larger and stronger beneath the sign of the five-pointed star, as the pattern of the Eye grew smaller. It brought assurance to her that darkness would not prevail against the light, despite their numbers and their threats. And with this hope the tribesmen were rallied to hold their own against the Priestess and her army.

‘What happened to her?’ asked the King’s messenger, wanting to meet this woman, to let her know that her hope had not been misplaced, that Elessar, himself, bore the name of ‘Hope’ and had been victorious beneath the banner of the White Tree and Stars. The Shadow was defeated, the dark driven back until only a small remnant remained, like starving crows picking at the long gone remains of battle. Qamar did not answer him, her throat gone suddenly dry. It was little Meelah, her voice clear in the silence that had fallen, who spoke up. ‘She fought against the Eye, and she died . . . keeping us all safe.’

_________________________________________________

Giladan spent a fortnight with the Baobab, meeting also with the Painted Sands as they passed near the village. When it was time for him to leave he was loaded down with gifts for himself and gifts for the King and His Queen. Beautiful basketry from all the clans of the tribe was packed onto his horse leaving scarce room for him to ride. He would be making his way back toward Gondor, he told them, his time of service almost complete.

Meelah accompanied him out of the village, as she had seen him in. All questions and smiles and sparkling laughter. Her eyes flashing with the bounty of her life in the bright morning of his departure. He dropped to one knee, before her as he said good-bye, his grey eyes meeting her dark brown ones.

‘It has indeed been a pleasure to have met you, m’Lady Meelah.’

Giladan rose and mounted up, turning his horse northwest, in the direction of the Great Sea. Meelah stood for a while waving at him, watching his figure shrink into the distance as she fingered the silver coin he had given her – the imprint of King Elessar on one side, the Tree and Stars on the other. ‘Come spend it in Gondor one day, little one,’ he had told her. ‘I will,’ she said, holding it high above her head, letting the sun catch its shiny surface and throw sparkles on the ground.

Hands on hips, she watched as he dipped out of site behind a low rise, a small cloud of dust the only reminder that he had passed. An afterthought, almost, she called out to him in a clear voice.

‘Meelah is the name my Paw-paw gave me. Jamílah is how you will know me in Gondor . . . Jamílah, of the Bush Lizard clan.’

Turning, she ran back toward the village and the day that stretched out before her.