Shadow of the West

[Novnarwen]

After the long conversation, Pelin had fallen back to sleep again. Tarkan on the other hand, had staid up. Rather uneasily, the Priest was walking around in the room, back and forth, muttering words of both prayer and despair. He couldn’t recall ever having been so insecure about something before. The feeling of being clueless and helpless had thus far been nothing but a distant feeling that had not dared touch him. Now, he felt it penetrating his mind, disturbing his thoughts and leaving him absolutely shaking with fear. Something had to be done; he knew that much, but what it was, he was still unsure of. How could he, a simple Priest, do anything now? The Orcs were swarming around in the city; a city that was beyond recognition. It had changed too much, and unfortunately for all of them, all of the changes had been for the worse! Ever since the Emissary had arrived, everything had gone wrong. The Queen’s death, he had to admit, was probably the greatest factor to why things had changed so drastically. Even though not a personal acquaintance of hers, he knew that nothing of this would have happened is she was alive. The accusations against the High priestess, the ruining of the Temples and the replacement of both Rae and Rhais were all in an odd way connected to the Emissary and his coming to Pasthia. It was particularly difficult though, to figure out what exactly had happened to the king. Was he only showing his true self, or was the Emissary responsible for driving the King to madness as well? It was obvious that the wild creatures roaming in the streets was also an effect of the cold-blooded murder of her Highness. Oh yes, he knew. It was a murder. When speculating in who the killer had been, he was disgusted by thinking that it was probably someone the king had hired, if it was not his half-brother himself.

He bit his lip. The lack of sleep and the worries that hung over him as a dark cloud had certainly had a great affect on him. Outside the sun was finally up; its rays reaching for him through the closed windows. For a few months ago, the Priest would have departed from his apartments by now with his head held high, and in his own odd manner, he would have found great pleasure in the nice weather. Currently, however, the once so proud Priest sat only silently to himself, and sighed when remembering what had passed. How ironic everything was; a few months ago he had dreamed of the life ahead, where he would be High priest of the new Temple, but when finally being here, present in the life that long had awaited him, he longed for what already was gone.

“Did you sit up all night, Father?” It was Pelin who had awakened from his slumber. He clapped his hands together, as if eager. It was nevertheless obvious that he was dreading this day; what had Tarkan decided?

When replying, it seemed that he was at loss for words. His tongue denied him to let it out, and he felt as if swallowing what he had first intended to say. How could he, a Priest, who was supposed to be a councillor, deny Pelin the decision he was waiting for, which ultimately was the answer to their troubles?

“Pelin, my good friend,” he started at last, urging Pelin to come sit next to himself before continuing. “It is true. I sat up all night…You have been such a good friend to me, even when I condemned you and acted unreasonably toward you. You have never deserved the treatment and the hard times I have given you, and I…. I, have never deserved your friendship.. and yet, you are here… You are here, and waiting for me to make a decision… when in truth, I’m not fit for that task… I cannot do it, because I don’t know what to do.” While talking, he looked down, studying the fabrics of the carpet that covered the stone floor. He felt ashamed, but he felt that it was the only thing he could do; for once he wasn’t telling lies or covering up his own feelings, he was talking from his true self that he had hid away for so many years. The feeling was indescribable; he felt neither good nor bad… just empty. Eying Pelin out of the corner of his eye, he started again:” I must talk to the priestess, but I don’t know how to… she is an escaped convict, and thus, I cannot approach her openly ...”

It was then that Pelin spoke. With lightening eyes, he calmed the Priest. “Leave this to me. I have an idea…” Tarkan opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing as Pelin rose hurriedly and aimed for the door. “Expect me back in a few hours. I promise that the news I’ll bring will be nothing but good. ”

Hearing his friend say this, he knew that Pelin had indeed forgiven him.

Feeling the strength and the steadfastness returning, two of the qualities that seemed to have gone missing the last couple of weeks, Tarkan eyed at last hope in the heavy darkness that was suppressing Pasthia into nothingness.

[Firefoot]

Siamak smiled internally at Zamara's response. It was becoming ever clearer to him why Khamûl would want to get rid of her; she had held a position of high repute, and had the personality to match it. She was scared, perhaps, but she did not back down. He was glad indeed that she was on his side.

His mood was sobered again as he explained the elves' situation: "It was not announced in these words, of course, but they are to be displaced from their homes and set apart in a special part of the city. Ever have they been speaking out against the changes being made, the occupation of the orcs in particular, and now I suppose the idea is to get them so that they can be watched more carefully. They are telling everyone it is so that they may practice their own beliefs in peace, but..."

Zamara's reaction was subtle, but Siamak caught a slight stiffening of her figure. After her own experiences, Siamak imagined that she understood all to clearly how it was to be caged in and watched carefully. "Surely their resentment will only grow?" she answered.

"It seems that Khamûl has thought of that, as well. Morgôs and his family are to stay here at the palace, as 'guests,' for what good it will do," said Siamak. "But even so, I don't imagine they will be able to do a whole lot - otherwise things could get nasty... not that it won't anyway," he added, almost to himself. "I think we can expect their support, when the time comes." Almost he was glad for the continuing worsening of Pashtia, for though the best case scenario would be for his father to return from madness and restore the kingdom, if he made the people even more unhappy they would be more the ready for change and more supporting of the ever-more probability of Khamûl's overthrow. Siamak doubted they would need to look far for support; the problem would be the immense opposition.

"So there is some good news in this," said Zamara.

"Small though it is, yes. And also: soldiers have been commanded to scour the city for you, but not yet has anyone imagined that you might be here in the palace itself. I think you will be safe for a little while yet." This was not much reassuring, to either him or Zamara. It would only be a matter of time, and Siamak did not know if they had enough. And if time was what they lacked, he could not afford to spend much more here with Zamara, if there was nothing else to go over.

He beckoned to Nadda who had been standing by, listening. "Have word sent to General Morgôs that I would speak with him today. Do not speak with him directly; give the message to one of his pages. I would not have you associated with this business by others if it can be avoided."

She acquiesced and departed from the room. Siamak again turned to Zamara. "I have no more news, good or bad. Is there anything else that you would speak with me about before I go?"

[Novnarwen]

The walk to the Palace was a rather uneventful affair. Despite the beautiful weather, people seemed to stay hid inside. Surely, there were obvious reasons why people preferred this, but it was still a pity; it was no longer possible for the average man to enjoy the simplicity of the weather as it seemed that all things were all other than gay. Still, one man, dressed in long black robes, was out and about. Entering the courtyard of the Palace, he halted for a moment, enjoying the tranquillity of the place that had always been filled with life. It certainly felt like ages since he had last been here, when the Emissary had first arrived. The King had thrown a banquet in his honour, as a welcoming gesture. Highly ranked citizens of Pasthia had all been invited to take part to drink and eat. The religious leaders, the former High priestess Zamara and Tarkan, had been there, as well as the nobles, Korak and Arshalous Even Môrgos and his family, the elves, had enjoyed the banquet in the King's hall. He, on the other hand, had enjoyed the gathering through a window.

In the early hours of that evening, he had located the perfect spot: a window, where he could watch the ongoing feast without being seen himself. All night he had stood there, his face glued to the cold window glass and his body leaning against the hard stone wall. Pleased by the accomplishment of the night, where he had learned of the King's decision, he was about to leave himself, when someone came up from behind and surprised him. At last, he had been spotted.

"Who're you?!" The gruff voice startled him. While day dreaming, he had almost forgotten why he was here!

"No one is being let in. Go away, beggar, or..."

The man in question interrupted;" I'm no beggar, and you will let me in." His eyes lit up as he said this, and with a sign the guard recognised, he let the black-robed man pass without further questioning. Followed by his dark shadow, he hurriedly climbed the stairs and went in.

The hall was almost unrecognisable in the dark. Squinting, he got used to the lack of light, and made his way to the end of it, where a door stood ajar. He didn't hesitate about entering; he would walk around in the Palace until he found someone who could help him deliver the message from Tarkan. His footsteps echoed in the empty room as he advanced from hallway to hallway. After almost ten minutes had passed, he finally met someone.

"Can I help you?"

"Can you deliver a message to the Prince and the Princess?" The figure asked immediately.

The young woman nodded, seeming confused. "I am just about to.. to….. the General," she said. Instantly, she looked uneasy, as if having said something wrong. He chose to ignore this, and asked again. After a moment, she nodded.

"You must promise me to tell no one of this, other than the people intended of course." Not waiting for the woman to reply, he continued.” I work for, or with, Tarkan, the priest." He spoke slowly, almost whispering. He took a step closer, making sure she could hear him clearly. "We know... We know about the priestess Zamara.." By the sound of her name, the servant jumped, looking terrified. "H-h-how..?" she pressed forwards, but the man didn't listen. Instead he took her by the arm and led her around the corner. "Listen to me. Tarkan is a wise man; by the help of the Gods he can see things; things that are, as you just confirmed, true. Now, don't think any more about that. Just listen. If you don't do as I say, it might prove fatal; fatal for you, the priestess, yes, even the Kingdom itself."

Hearing these words, the woman seemed to understand that she had just been involved in something she had never intended. The man studied her, hoping that she would do as he told her. In a brief second he thought he had done the ultimate mistake trusting her with this, but hearing her sigh, he knew that he had succeeded after all. What remained was the message itself.

"The priest must see Zamara. They must meet. At what time and where, I don't know, but Tarkan has something to tell Zamara; something of great importance. Now, off with you, and tell the Prince and the Princess precisely what I have told you. They may not send word for me, I have other business to attend to, but a messenger should be sent to Tarkan's residence as quickly as possible with the appropriate time and place."

He waved her off, and was about leave, when she stopped him. "May I ask who you are?" she said.

It suddenly occurred to him that he had in fact not introduced himself, but seeing the situation he found himself in, he realised that he had been wise. Being asked now, he could nothing but smile. "I am a servant, as you are ....?"

"Nadda," she said eagerly.

He left as quickly as he had come.

[Firefoot]

Only minutes since she had left, Nadda again stepped into the room with Siamak and Zamara. "Back so soon?" asked Siamak, puzzled. There was almost no way she could have been to Morgôs and back.

"Well... I didn't actually go to the General yet," explained Nadda, hurrying on before Siamak could say anything. "I was interrupted by another servant, he did not give his name, but he had a message for you and the Princess... and you, High Priestess. He came from the High Priest. Somehow, they know... know you are here. He said it was a dream, or something. But he insisted that the priest meet with you, High Priestess. He said a message should be sent back declaring the time and place. I came back here right away, as it seemed more important than your message to the General. I hope I have not done ill?"

"You did right," answered Siamak, both troubled and puzzled by this news. "This is indeed more important; I will have to talk to Morgôs later. Forget that message for now. My sister should be alerted of this; tell her to come here. That is, if there is no more to your message?"

Immense relief was etched on Nadda's face. "No, that is all he said."

"Very well. Go quickly to Gjeelea." He turned now to Zamara. "What do you think of this news? It is disturbing, I should say. I fear a trap. Do you think you shall go? I would go with you; it would be better that you are not alone."

[Kransha]

Morgôs didn’t feel well. He rarely felt well these days, but today he felt particularly bad: the sort of bad that portends infectious disease and illness, the sort of bad that forces the stomach to tie itself up into knots, the sort of bad that induced great pangs of agony…the sort of bad that Elves were not supposed to feel. He coughed silently, clapping a fisted hand to his dry, blue-lipped mouth to stifle the already miniscule noise even more. He felt oddly self-conscious, which was also very unusual for him, but he had a good reason. Everything around him seemed as stifling as his sickly and chronic coughing, dark and barren. The usual air of strength that filled him was gracelessly dimmed, its energy sapped. His only consolation was his reasoning. At least, thought the semi-General, his motives were well based.

The King was either mad or ingenious, and both options included a sub-clause portending mental instability. Khamûl’s newest orders were most outrageous, and news of his edict was already spreading through the land. Some might accept it as a righteous course of action, but who besides his mad zealots and those he had installed in seats of power actually agreed with him anymore? The power of Pashtia’s ruler was simply too great to challenge, so no one dared to, save for straggling resistance movements. Rebellion was expected during any campaign of change or reign of an unpopular king, but the rebellion that was bandied about to rival Khamûl’s orc hordes was so motley and so feeble it could not have crushed the regime of a tyrannical gardener. Pathetic was a word that might be applicable, but Morgôs tried not to think about rebellion at all. Getting involved in such a thing, for better or worse, would be bad for him. If he ever came into contact with revolutionaries, it would probably be in battle, with his blade dealing death to them at every turn. Such an order might well come from Khamûl. In reality, any order might come from the King in this twisted state, but Morgôs didn’t care now what came. He only hoped that the King would give him some order, just so he could restore the magistrate’s faith in him.

As the General meandered down the halls of Kanak’s royal palace, he began to piece together what had happened over the past weeks. The Emissary was now, officially, allied with Pashtia, he and his mighty sovereign Annatar. At one fleeting moment in all this time, after a bizarre and painful epiphany just before the sundering of reality occurred, Morgôs had known that this was a dark pact, his terrible dream revealing the fact to him. But suddenly his mind lay clouded and he could not grasp the fact any longer. He knew, and, with grim ease, accepted the alliance as he considered it. Whatever the decision of the King was, or his opinion, he had to accept the word of Khamûl as he had the word of his father and his father’s father before him. Once, he might’ve felt a vague spirit swelling in him, one of dogged rebellion and willingness to arouse, to rise and be counted with his own words. Today, as he wandered, the icy cold of the palace marble chilling his calloused, bare feet, he felt none of this. Instead, he heard a distant voice in his mind – his own – speaking quietly; thinking hard.

His wife and son would be at the palace soon, and a suite of some fashion was being furnished for his family. He almost laughed cynically – a suite, a set of rooms, when once he had had a mansion! Arlome would not be pleased, but she would accept it. Her adjustment would be hardest. Evrathol might have an easier time of it, but not by far. Morgôs would have to send envoys to get the books in his library and bring them by the wagon-load, if the King might allow it. What if the King said no? His thoughts lay as they were whisked from his mind on the wrinkled pages of every tome; they were of dire importance to him. If the King denied him this request, could he challenge this denial?

No, he could not refute the king. Doing so would mean death, even if the king spared his mortal life. His soul would be damned without question, not by the king or the law, but by his own past foolishness. Morgôs had never been impulsive, except on one occasion, and the words he’d spoken then haunted him now, as they sometimes did. He never dwelled on the decision he’d made…he could barely remember how long ago it had been. The General had never realized before that the decision would so alter his life as it had, but, as he contemplated, he was forced to admit that the decision had, in fact, had profited far more than it had been a detriment. If he still knew what he’d known before, he would be far more alarmed by the resonance of that past choice he made, but since the memory had evaporated, he was left with only gnawing regret.

The gnaw became a voice again, but not one he was used to, even though it was familiar.

“My lord, do not do this, I beg of you.”

The voice was familiar; his own. It sounded vaguely younger, but far darker in retrospect, and full of a terrified consternation. The next voice that rang coolly in the blank darkness was young, but spoke with an archaic, ancient style of nobility and regality, like a figure of old lore or literature might. “Wouldst thou betray me, my brother?” stabbed the voice into the expanse of night, sounding mortified, “I trusted your kind; saw them through the woes done unto them by my forefathers. I liberated them. Is this my reward?” There was little real anger or rage in the voice, but a betrayed vocal tone rode it. The first voice responded pleadingly. “Your cousin’s senses fly from him, lord – he may no more be looked to for aid or counsel. He is the consul of a dark thing, a fell and dark behemoth. He deceives you with his shadowed words.” – A dark warning.

“O’er time thou hast spoke truth to me, Warlord,” reprimanded the second voice, with caustic sting in its tongue, “and I have not turned from thine advice, but today the shadows dissemble in my hall. Join them, if thou wishest, but speak not to me of such evil.” The first voice interjected readily, diving in with no thought before doing so. “By my life and yours,” the second voice exclaimed, “do this not, for if you do you shall doom us all. Know you not what they call your kinsman? ‘The Black’ is his rank, and terror is his title. Leave him to his demise and live in his stead.” This dread word forced the second voice to rattle and tremble, but it spoke with a cold, sardonic voice instead. “And what assurances have I, Warlord my brother?” said it, using a similarly archaic acknowledgement, “If my kinsman is on the path to victory, what can I glean from this? Thou hast naught to dissuade me.” The challenge was swiftly answered. “I have my service, King of Kings,” retorted the first voice after a willowy pause, “for all time.”

There was hesitation then in the second voice. “For all my children?” it questioned, “And theirs after them? Grant me this, and thou shalt have thy way.” It affirmed at last. There was no pause in the first voice. “I shall.” Spoke that voice, not eagerly, but all truthful and willing. A grin could be seen through the pale darkness on the lips of the second speaker as he continued. “Warlord Morgôs Karandûn, if thou shalt render thy services to my sons forever after, and serve the throne unbidden, then I may rest in my grave assured of the safety of my sons. But, thou must only serve the true King of Kings, and no false lord or regent but the true heir of my house. If so, I shall be at peace - my dynasty preserved by thee in battle and in peace, for I have known your service to be of infinite value. Vow, Morgôs, that thou shalt not shirk this sacred duty to me, and my cousin will make his foolhardy way across the Sea of Ice alone.”

Again, no hesitation on the part of the first voice, though the words came with a terrible strained reluctance, as if there were millennia in between each resounding syllable. “To this end,” it said, “I will bind myself to them.” The second voice quickly bore up the banner of these words. “Be warned, Warlord,” it said, “I know you to be deathless. Until the day thou art slain, your service must not end. Thou art fettered to my line and shall uphold it in the highest until it falls…And if it falls, Warlord, thou shalt fall with it.”

“Forever shall I serve you, King of Kings.”

“Very well. Word shall be sent to the west of my dissuasion.”

“Thank you, my lord. Your wisdom is as deep as your armies are strong”

“And they shall be far stronger in time, my brother, thanks to you.”

Shaking uncontrollably by now, Morgôs staggered towards the halls that allowed entrance to the King’s meeting chambers, heavily guarded in this savage time. The time for drastic action had come, if he was to keep his promise and not be condemned to some sort of dark domain after life had ended for his disloyalty.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara tried to think, her mind whirring and calculating as she stared almost angrily out of the window, her arms crossed and on forefinger thoughtfully tapping out a steady rhythm on her opposite forearm: keeping her thoughts steady and calm, trying to stop herself from panicking. Maybe the news of her death sentence and it's true horror had not yet sunk in; maybe it would not until too late. Either way, the Priestess seemed calm and collected when she next replied.

"Disturbing indeed, Prince Siamak," she murmured, frowning slightly. She sighed, almost dreamily. "I do wish Nadda had got this servant's name, just for something to make it less suspicious, even if one cannot cling to anything in these times..." Turning fluidly, Zamara looked at Siamak. "What do you think, Siamak? Should we risk it?"

Siamak frowned, shaking his head as he thought. "I think there is more to this message than meets the eye, Priestess. This servant...he did not give a name, and he then delivered a brief, mysterious message to a servant directly rather than sending the message through a chamberlain as would be more proper. An altogether secretive affair. What is more, while he did not give a name of his own-"

"- he now knows Nadda's," Zamara finished, nodding, her tone regretful. "And he knows I am here as well - she is young and easily swayed, Siamak, a trait that has been useful for us but which, I have no doubt, means that this servant left in no doubt that I am indeed here." She sighed, shaking her head, almost angrily. Nadda was perfect for the tasks they needed - simply to send messages to and fro, and to bring her what she needed discreetly. But when she was directly questioned? The young servant girl had no experience to dodge the questions as an older staff member would. But who of the older servants could be trusted now? Some had served the royal family their entire life: their livelivehood and even their lives depended on that set way of thinking. But then...but then, the older servants had grown up with the old gods and worshipped them their whole lives, worshipped, brought offerings, joined in the festivals, even got married or had family members laid to rest by the Priests and Priestesses of the old gods. And the weight that this sort of legacy had could not be ignored. The Priestess smiled slightly, heartened against the odds that maybe, if the time came, some would come to her aid.

But the more specific questions were currently pressing, and the smile faded within a second from Zamara's fine features as she once more considered this strange visitor. Something here stinks...the stench of incense on a funeral pyre. The question is: whose funeral is it? She shuddered slightly, tightening her jaw, and turned back to Siamak. "Firstly, we need someone else who can help us. Another of the servants. I am aware of the risk this has," she continued, holding up a hand as the young man began to voice his concerns. "But we need someone who can be trusted to keep our secrets and get out of the palace into the city maybe, if the need comes. One of the chamberlains maybe?" A figure sprung to mind and Zamara clicked her fingers as she remembered the name an instant later. "Jarult! Was that his name? A chamerlain here, I remember seeing him when I came to speak to your mother, and at the banquet... What?"

Siamak was shaking his head. "No good. Jarult was dismissed some months ago, along with several other members of my mother's train."

"Surely not all of them?" the Priestess replied incredulously. "That old nurse, the woman who helped with Bekah's funeral proceedings, an...Alanzian." Realisation hit Zamara and she stopped, resignation streaming over her features. "She is gone as well, isn't she?"

Siamak nodded grimly. "Homay has gone as well; a rebellion against the palace some time ag..." At Zamara's alarmed face, Siamak halted, shaking his head hurriedly. "Never mind, I shall talk to you of that later maybe, now is not the time to be deviating. What do you think of the priest's supposed proposition?" Siamak's tone told Zamara of the prince's obviously dubiousness on the matter, but despite the young royal's uncertainty, she could not shake the hope that maybe, just maybe, this was something she could trust. When fear is flowing steadily through the cracks, one grabs any bucket that one can and prepares to bail like hell - sometimes regardless of what one might miss in the frenzy.

"I...I would like to meet him, Siamak."

The prince paused for a second, trying to arrange his next sentence respectfully: a strange role reversal bearing in mind he was potentially in line for the throne and she was a doomed fugitive. After a moment's diplomatic mental shuffling, he replied carefully, "Do you think that wise, Zamara?"

Zamara sighed deeply, shrugging her shoulders as she folded her arms tightly as if against a breeze, and turned back to the window, where no breeze stirred outside the window. It was quite early morning, several hours still to go until midday. Time for morning prayer, she thought, but her thoughts seemed almost detached from the reality of the silence where the singing of the priestesses and acolytes and the answering chants of Rea's priests should have wafted on the breeze to the palace on the soft spring breeze. But spring seemed not to have alighted on the city this year: the gay, gentle breeze did not stir the deadly still trees that now drooped in the Pashtian sun, and even the very birds, normally ready to come from as far as Alanzia simply to sing their harmless, cheerful tunes through the streets and courtyards seemed to have forgotten. Or been silenced.

After a silence so long that Siamak was about to prompt the Priestess for an answer, she replied, her voice like that of a school teacher. "Do you know, Siamak, of the great plague that hit Pashtia some two or three centuries ago? Nearly half the city was wiped out by it, and the arguements still rage about what caused such a terrible disaster. But whatever the cause, many cures were tried out: poultices of goats' milk and herbs, bandages of nettles, spells, prayers, chants... But do you know what it was that was found to work?" She turned her head to look straight at Siamak. "Rancid fat."

Zamara seemed to smile to herself slightly, turning back to the window as Siamak remained silent and puzzled at this bizarre, rather foul punchline. After a second, she continued, matter of fact yet thoughtful. "You see, Siamak, it seems that in times of direst trouble, it is not always beautiful and shining cures that can work - sometimes one has to try shadier and somewhat, may I saw, more dubious cures, in the hopes that maybe, just maybe...a solution just might be found."

The pair were quiet for a moment and Zamara turned fully to Siamak once more, smiling slightly at him in the silence where the birds and the bells should have echoed through the city. A moment later, Siamak grinned. "Rancid fat it is then, Priestess."

[Firefoot]

"Rancid fat it is then, Priestess." Foolhardy though it may be, Siamak was persuaded that maybe there was some hope in such a venture. "So on to the time and place, since Tarkan left to us to decide. Though it would be risky to leave the palace, I think Tarkan would probably noted were he to come. And should we be discovered, we would not be able to escape the palace."

Zamara thought for a moment, then nodded. "Then the time should be in the evening, when people are returning home from their jobs. Two or three more cloaked figures on the street would not be marked at that time."

"Then, or a little before so that we do not return overlate," agreed Siamak. They would not want to be caught on the streets after curfew; then they really would be easy targets. "But where? Someplace where you would not be sought. What of the Temple of Rhais? Surely no one would think to find us in the place from which you fled?"

"Everyone who enters the Temple of the goddess is watched. We cannot go there," said Zamara.

Slowly they exhausted several options, from down by the wharf to the less-frequented inns to an alley in the market place. All had some faults: too crowded, no way out should they be discovered, too obvious... the list went on.

"Then I have but one more idea," said Siamak, clearly hesitant on the idea. "We could go directly to Tarkan, in the guise of worshippers to the temple." He was not sure he liked it; surely such a place would be full of the Emissary's men and other supporters of the king.

"Do you think that wise?" Zamara dubiously echoed Siamak's earlier question.

"I don't know. We are sending word to Tarkan anyway; perhaps we could ask him how safe such a venture would be," answered Siamak. Is this pushing luck too far? "We can also wait until Gjeelea gets here to send any kind of message; she may have a different perspective."

"That would be well," answered Zamara.

Neither of them said anything for a moment. Siamak was thinking about what Zamara had said about needing another servant's help. Abruptly, he asked, "Weren't you helped by another servant last night?"

"Yes, a man. Raefin."

"He's older, right? More loyal to the old ways?" asked Siamak.

Zamara seemed to realize what he was driving at. "Yes; I think we could rely on his help. He already knows I am here, so we need not risk telling more people."

"That's what I was thinking," Siamak said. "Once Nadda gets back, we can have her go find him."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Khamûl listened to the creature’s report intently. “The filthy Elves have all been rounded up and sent to their new homes,” it was saying. “There were some as wanted to protest their treatment but we stopped their mouths.”

“Surely you did not kill them?” the King was startled.

The orc shifted his eyes uneasily toward the Emissary who stood in his customary place behind the King’s shoulder. Watching the dark Man, the orc replied slowly as though reciting a speech that had been written for him. “There were some, majesty, who showed us violence as we escorted them. While every attempt was made to apprehend them, some gave us no choice and we were forced to slay them.” The creature’s voice as it said this speech was oddly strangled, but at its conclusion the beast let out a great sigh and shifted his eyes from Ashnaz’s, relieved at his release. “We got them all there in the end, at any rate,” it continued in its normal tone and manner.

“Good,” the King replied. “It is lamentable that some chose destruction rather than accept our protection. I wonder why they would make such a choice? Elves have ever been a mystery to me.…” He trailed off into silence. The quiet went on, filling up the corners of the Great Hall, now greatly changed from before. The banners had been torn and beslobbered with the filth of the orcs, and the cushions had been removed from the dais. Upon the high stone there now sat an iron throne, and if any but the orcs and the Emissary were allowed into the court it would have caused all Pashtians great confusion, none of whom were used to chairs or furniture other than a low divan or pallet. The King slumped in the throne, made rather smaller by its size. He wore the Ring now openly upon the chain at his breast and his hand clutched at it unceasingly. He wore his ceremonial crown of gold despite the weight of that massy metal.

Finally, he waved his hands and dismissed the orcs, who dragged themselves from the room grumbling and spitting in their debased tongue. When they were gone, Khamûl spoke to his friend without turning around, so that his eyes gazed off into space. “I would speak with my general. I must find some way to stop these ridiculous rebellions.”

“I would advise against that, Majesty,” the Emissary replied softly. “The reports of him are increasingly alarming. He has grown violent and insular. Some say that he is mad.”

Khamûl felt the wisdom of his friend’s words, and was about to turn away from the idea, but then there came a touch upon his neck, cold fingers that brushed him gently but insistently. His hands moved to his flesh, “What?” he spoke aloud, and the Emissary stiffened and looked at the air about the King’s head as though gazing at an enemy.

“Come my King,” he said quickly, taking Khamûl by the shoulders, “let us take a turn about the garden.”

But the touch of the fingers at his throat grew tight and the King was forced to remain where he was. There was a tickling at his ear as though someone were whispering to him, but there were no words. Instead he only felt as clearly as though she were there with him the presence of his wife. “Bekah!” he said, and at the word the Emissary drew in a quick breath that hissed between his teeth like a serpent. Drawn by the sound, the King turned about quickly and saw a look in his friend’s face that he had never seen before. It was like a black mask of hate and malice, gazing into the space about the King’s head, and his hands were raised like claws. Ashnaz was muttering something beneath his breath in a tongue of the West, and Khamûl felt the power of the words crackle about him. There was a pressure then, against his chest, and he knew that his friend was seeking to banish the shade of his wife.

He was caught in that moment more painfully than a small animal in a trap. He did not know whom he wanted to prevail in this contest, for while Ashnas was his one true friend and ally, surely his wife would not have come back to him for no purpose. Perhaps she had come to tell him who had killed her? At the thought he felt the grip of her fingers tighten upon his throat and he gasped for air. Ashnaz’s face grew wild with rage and he thrust his hands outward, violently buffeting the air, and the presence of Bekah fled. But as it did so, it managed one word for the ears of the King. Morgôs

The King fell back into the weight of his throne and Ashnaz was instantly there. “Are you well, my friend? She is a powerful spirit and it took much of my strength but you are safe now. Did she – say anything to you?”

Khamûl was at the very point of answering his friend, and whether it was the remaining influence of the visitation or some small part of his former self that had been fanned into new life by it – or perhaps some combination of them both – something bid him withhold the truth from the Emissary. “No,” he replied. “She tried, but thanks to you she was not able.” He placed his hand upon his friend’s shoulder.

The King rose from the throne and walked down the dais, waving his friend away with one hand. “No no,” he said, “You need not come with me, I am fine. I just need to lie down for a time. I need you to look into the search for the priestess, it is taking far too long to find her.” Ashnaz paused momentarily, but then bowed and left the chamber.

The King waited until his friend was gone, and then went looking for his General.

[Nurumaiel]

Lady Hababa lay in her room, her hands fidgeting restlessly with the bed-covers and her face troubled. It was awful to be always in her room, unable to get up and move about. She knew that things were ill with the world outside, but she could not know what was happening unless Korak told her. She had no way to prepare for disaster, or to try to stop it. She would not see it until it had already fallen.

She feared much for her son. Arshalous, his own cousin, hated him. If his own cousin hated him, surely there were countless others. And these were days where murder would seem such a little thing. Even Gjeelea...

Hababa was so fond of Gjeelea. She had to care for her simply because she was her son's wife; but she also loved her for herself. But she could not deny that Gjeelea detested Korak. She had married him so she would have a husband. But she cared nothing for him. There were so many, from so many different places... how many enemies there were!

"I would not care if they killed me," she said aloud, but in a murmur. "I almost wish they would. But I could not bear for them to kill my son! I cannot believe it would be better if he were dead."

She was weary. She lay her head back with a little sigh and closed her eyes.

[Bêthberry]

All of Pashtia, all of the Royal City, reeled under the terrible conditions brought to the people by the horrid alliance with the Emissary and his dark lord while the nobles and the wealthy dallied with how to meet the situation and save their skin. They fiddled while Pashia burned.

The war with Alanzia had done much to destroy the wealth of the farmlands, most of which lay in decay without proper planting and strewn with the detritus of war, blades, axes, poleyards, broken wagons, rotting corpses, dead horses. So great was the horror of death and the stench that even the well springs of the water were turned foul and harboured unseen the founts of disease and pestilence, which weakened and brought down vast numbers of people.

Then the orcs did their worst, butchering citizens and elves indiscriminantly, terrorising the populace with their blood thirsty slaughter and cruel bullying, destroying hope wherever it might raise its head. Jarult would have died a slow wasting death of despair, forgotten in his small corner of a room, mummified in the dry heat, had he not had Daliyah to cheer his spirits and keep up his strength despite his physical decline. And she, she would have been unable to bear the indignities and repulsive events she was called upon to fulfil had she not been able to speak with him from time to time.

Yes, the Healer had been recognized by the invading hoard. When orcs had been wounded in skirmish, in putting down rebellion, in forcing themselves upon the populace, she had been called in to minister to their hurts. Such care was loathsome to her. To be in the same room with them brought vile odours to her nose; to be brought into close proximity with their stinking bodies nearly made her faint with revulsion. And to touch them was the vilest form of desecration known to her art. Yet somehow Daliyah found the strength of character to control the turmoil in her stomach which would have rebelled and spoken unwillingly of her disgust, spewing its contents over the orcs as they spread their filth among her people. And she willed her hands to hold steady as they sutured wounds and cleansed the pustulence which she was sure flowed through the orcish veins. And her face she held rigid as a stone mask carved on the new temple to the usurping god, not risking a quiver of nostril nor a quirk of muscle nor a blanch of horrified countenance.

Was she a traitor? Each time she was called upon to heal an orc’s hurts she shuddered inside, asking herself that question. Was she simply saving a cruel beast to go out and perform greater harms upon her people? Yet if she had refused, and been despoiled and beaten and tortured cruelly to the death , would her people have benefited? Would others have stepped into her absence and healed her people? It was this possibility which hardened her spirit into a morose stone automaton so she was able to go forth again and again amongst her people. In fact, Daliyeh won a small victory of sorts, for by her ministrations amongst the orcs and the Emissary’s army she became known and accepted to the invaders. Soon, her venturing forth on the streets and alleys and byways became invisible to them and her ways were no longer scrutinized as were those of the ordinary citizen. From being first an object of ridicule and derision, she became a sort of ghost, walking forth where others could not and no longer noticed. And so she reached more of her people and so she passed beyond the ken of the evil which sullied her land.

This day she came to the house of Korak to see his ailing mother the Lady Hababa, for servants had sent whispered words that the old lady was tired and ill and needed solace and herbs to ease her pain. Daliyeh brought with her oils to soothe the paper-thin flesh, flavoured liquids to coat the dry mouth and cracked lips, herbs to strengthen faith and bitter berries pounded with honey to sweeten pain. If she found any of the wasting fever, she would be forced to require the ancient Lady to withdraw to the Hospice where the chance of spread of disease would be lessened. Few followed her into the Hospice for there those with the Black Fever spent their final days, their tongues rolling out of their mouths in delirium, their eyes rolling back into their heads, and their skin bursting with pustules and black splotches. No one followed Daliyeh as she brought those patients to their final bed of rest. Would Hababa be one of those, Dalieyeh wondered? She hoped not, for she remembered the old woman fondly and bore some friendship for her.

[Orofaniel]

"There is someone to see you, sir," the servant muttered gravely. She looked deeply disturbed and very uncomfortable where she stood in front of the two elves. Although the garden was looking much brighter now compared to what it had looked like a couple of days ago, the servant did not look as if she noticed it.

"Please, show our guest in," Evrathol then muttered looking at his mother. Who could it possibly be? As far as he knew, they weren't expecting anyone today.

The servant did not move, as she was afraid that anything would happen to her if she did.

A man appeared behind her. Evarthol had never seen him before. The stern features in the man's face told Evrathol that this man was not going to bring them any good news.

"Your servant is too slow, my good sir. I was forced to enter your gardens as I was afraid I would have been waiting for hours and hours - maybe days- if it had been up to your servant alone," the man said. Their newly arrived guest was mocking the servant as he said this. "How very rude of you sir," Evrathol replied quickly. "This family's servants are the best servants, and I will not hear anyone speak ill of them," Evrathol continued. The stranger looked surprised; it was not a regular thing to defend a servant.

Arlomë’s face changed as well, when she noticed how very how this conversation had developed. It was surely not a good development. "Please, servant, you may return to your duties," she said quickly. The servant did not need to hear that twice. She was almost running back into the apartments.

"What brings you to our humble house?" Evrathol then asked the man; his tone was unfriendly, almost hostile. "I am in the King's errand," the man replied quickly, and he seemed to take no heed in Evrathol's way of speaking. "He wants me to bring you an offer; to move into a very special part of the city..." he then continued, now smiling weakly.

"And since this is a most noble offer, The Majesty expects you to accept it with great gratitude.”

Evrathol had never heard such insane offer; he was enraged. This was indeed the most preposterous thing he had ever heard. He even doubted it was an offer; by looking at the man’s face expressions it sounded more like an order. There was something vicious and loathsome about this creature, and Evrathol had known it ever since the stranger had entered the garden. Arlomë looked as if in shock, and so Evrathol put his arm around his mother. "This will never come to pass," he said beneath his clenched teeth so that only she could hear it.

"Oh, how very sweet of you to look after your dear mother, but I’m afraid we will leave within the hour. I have already some of my men collecting some of your belongings," The man said, now turning his back on them. "And if we refuse?" Evrathol replied sharply.

"To refuse is not the wisest thing to do here, sir," the man answered calmly. "The King offers you something greater than this humble garden and this simple house. I do not think His Majesty will be thrilled to hear that you have denied his most gracious offer. Actually I think His Majesty would take that refusal as if a refusal to his will. We don't want that, do we? Remember, the people of Pashtia are the King's humble servants; the elves no less. You must do as he wishes, for that is your duty."

The man then started to walk towards the door opening. "Oh, and I'm sure His Majesty will grant the lady a most delicate garden......"

He waved as he entered the door and called joyfully;” We will leave within the hour."

"That is the most vicious man I ever saw," Arlomë told her son. "He cannot simply order us to move from our home after all these years. It is not going to happen. Where is Morgos?" She seemed desperate and full of anxiety. Evrathol felt likewise, and could not answer any of her questions. But by mentioning his father's name, he thought of the library. Evrathol knew that his father would not allow anyone to walk within the four walls of the library.

"I think the General would want us to clear out from the library," Evrathol then said. "Pardon?" Arlomë said and looked at him. "I do not think father would appreciate us leaving the library to this scum. We should go to the library and fetch Morgos' most valuable things. That is the least we could do."

"I agree; let us go," Arlome replied.

**

Their home had been quiet and peaceful, up until very recently. Now their home was filled with noisy men and if that wasn't anough; Orcs! Arlomë and Evarthol shivered by the thought of those foul Orcs that wandered around in their home as it had been theirs. It disgusted them.

The two elves made their way to the library. Luckily the elves were still allowed to walk inside their apartments without being harmed in any way. The door to the library was locked, which probably meant that the room was untouched by the intruders.

Arlomë sighed. It would be impossible to force the door open. What were they going to do? "Not to worry, I know where the General keeps his keys," Evrathol whispered. "Yes, so do I, but we would not be able to get our hands on them in time," she said with a small gesture of disappointment. "No, mother, the keys are right here," Evrathol then said pointing down towards the floor. "I'm confused; your father keeps his keys in his chambers. Mind you, his chambers are in the other part of the apartment," Arlomë then said. She seemed disturbed by the way Evrathol was not taking this grave matter seriously. "Do not tell me you have not seen it," Evrathol then said, looking at her with great surprise. "Seen what?"

Evrathol did not waste a minute to show her Morgos great secret. He got down on his four and let his hand move gently underneath the end of the threshold. He felt the tiny keys and picked them up. His mother looked amazed. "How did you know?" she asked him. "Right now we do not have the time for stories; Let us proceed," Evrathol then said, and to avoid further questions, he let his mother be the first one to enter the Library.


**

Evrathol had still not quite understood the things he found in the library, secretly hidden in Morgos' books. He simply could not understand it.

[Novnarwen]

Just before nightfall, Tarkan had had the pleasure of receiving a messenger from the Priestess. The knocking on the door had giving the Priest a fright, especially when considering the rather insecure situation the Priest found himself in. At last however, he had managed to get himself to open the door. Despite the unrecognisable figure in the doorway, he knew that this man could mean nothing but good news. After all, if it had been bad, which meant that the King most likely would be involved, there would have been someone else standing at his door; his half-brother would have sent the horrific monsters that were guarding, and roaming the streets, frightening the citizens of Pasthia; the creatures that were thirsting for blood. In other words, the King would not have sent a mortal man. The feeling of relief had grasped him within the second of having seen this man’s face, and the realisation of Pelin’s success had given him hope.

"Tarkan?" The Priest had nodded eagerly, not quite sure what to expect. Pelin had succeeded, but what exactly that meant, he was still unsure of.

"I’m Raefin. I have a message from..." Hearing the word 'message,' the priest had gasped in horror. The thought of someone hearing Raefin utter these words made him shiver. “Come in, and be quiet!” he urged, waving his hand at him, almost pushing him through the door.

Raefin had staid for about thirty minutes. Attentively, Tarkan had listened to the messenger, while a rush of thoughts occupied his mind. The Priestess wanted to come here? Impossible, he thought at once. The orcs came regularly by his apartment, “checking that everything was all right.” He didn’t dare think of what would happen if they found the Priestess here. She was a convict, an escaped prisoner, and what awaited her if se as caught was beyond his wildest imagination. Furthermore, if he was caught with her, conspiring against the king, it would without a doubt have great consequences for him as well. For a second, he had hesitated. Had he been too rash when sending Pelin off to arrange a meeting? Why did he care if Pasthia was put to ruin, if only he lived? Shaking his head, he had taken a step closer towards Raefin.

“The Priestess, and perhaps I, will be in grave danger if we meet here,” he had said, with a mild voice. ”The orcs come here every now and then, and if we are caught together,” the Priest had shivered as he spoke, “there will be little hope..” Raefin had seemed to understand, and with an eager voice he had asked what the Priest proposed for a meeting place instead.

“The ruins of the old Temple.”

“The Temple of Rhais?”

“No, the old Temple of Rae. Who will suspect a convict, a former Priestess of Rhais, in the old Temple of Rae?” Tarkan smiled faintly; it was indeed brilliant.

Raefin’ eyes had lit up at once, with both wonder and concern. For a moment he had kept his mouth shut, as if not daring to speak. Suddenly, however, he had erupted into a storm of questions and claims. “What are your intentions?” he had called out. Tarkan had tried ignoring him at first, but with this last question floating in thin air with nothing to follow, he had grabbed a hold of the man and pressed him against the wall. “What are my intentions?” His voice was far from mild. When getting angry, the priest always seemed to literally grow arger than life. This also seemed to be the case this time. “I’ll tell you what my intentions are! I have already risked my friend Pelin’s life by giving you my message. And now, I’m risking my life to restore this Kingdom. What are my intentions?!? What are my intentions?!? Now, you can either deliver my proposal to the priestess; that we meet in the old Temple of Rae, just before the time of the curfew, or you can refuse to give this message.”

Letting the Raefin go, Tarkan breathed heavily. “Do not let your own ego hinder the Priestess in making her own decisions. I advice you to do as I have told you, or it will have severe consequences for us all. I will be there.”

These words had seemed to have a certain effect on the middle-aged man, and without another word he had made his was towards the door. “So, the mystery man, or your friend, is named Pelin?”

Before Tarkan could give any reply, the man had gone.

***

The priest sat alone in one of the smaller rooms of his apartments. About twenty minutes had passed since Raefin had been here. Outside, it was already getting quite dark, and the streets had grown dead silent, even though it was still not beyond curfew. In a while he would have to get ready, and walk down the empty streets; first straight ahead, then left into an alley, and a few minutes ahead, he would see the old Temple. He had been there, just after the orcs had officially destroyed it, and been amazed of what still remained. The altar was still intact, and so was the room in the centre of the Temple. The thick, stout walls were there, and even though the Temple could no longer be used for worshipping, one could still find shelter for both wind and rain under what remained of the roof. If one hid in the long shadows the remaining parts of the building still cast, one could almost be sure of not being discovered, especially considering how seldom orcs, or other of the Kings guards, passed. However, Tarkan had other plans. Yes, the Temple itself could probably do as a location, but he had had something else in mind when talking to Raefin.

The old Temple of Rae had been built quite long ago, and even though Tarkan lived whilst it was being built, it was first during his service as a priest he had grown familiar with the secret the Temple kept closely to its heart. Beneath the altar in the Temple itself, was another altar; the Temple had a secret underground tunnel that led to a cellar, which intentionally had been situated directly under the real altar of the Temple. While ordinary people where sacrificing fruits for instance on the main floor, some of the priests kept secret rituals where they sacrificed more; animals, and in some rare cases humans, which were mostly castaways, beggars or tramps. In the elder days they had believed that Rae was on the edge of forsaking them, as their daily sacrifices were too little. The Priests were just doing everyone a favour by going a little bit further, and were in truth only seeing to the people’s best interests. He himself had participated once in a while in these rituals together with Pelin’s father. The two of them did not think highly of each other, yet Tarkan had agreed on training his son. Through Tarkan, and other young priests who took the responsibility for the elder Priest’s sons, the rituals and its tradition were kept intact, and kept a part of the secret worshipping of Rae.

Thinking of Pelin, Tarkan frowned. His friend had told him he would be back in a few hours, but the priest hadn’t expected Pelin to take think long, especially considering that the messenger from the Priestess had been here. It was odd, indeed. When remembering Raefin’s last words, he wondered whether everything was all right. The mystery man? Had Pelin not introduced himself?

It hit him, and thinking it over, he knew that it had been a smart move. The Priest smiled satisfyingly to himself: Pelin had been discreet, and thus, all was well.

[Amanaduial the archer]

The message came to Zamara almost an hour after the sun had gone down: almost an hour after curfew. Time spent pacing furiously in her stark little room, lying on her bed in contemplation, staring anxiously out of the little window into the city that she was exiled from. Anything to stop her giving way to desperation. It was as she was staring out into the city, long after the last tendrils of the sunset, the ragged ribbons of Rae's headdress, had faded from the sky above the desert, that there came a discreet knock upon her door. Zamara blood froze, an icy flood of water rushing over her; the knock was not the one that she had decided upon with Nadda, and neither Siamak or Gjeelea used that door. Unsure of what to do, ready at any second to bolt for the hidden door or take her chances out of the window, Zamara remained motionless and silent - and as the door swung open, she opted for the secret door and flung herself through it, rolling gracelessly once inside as she pulled the door behind her. Stifling a cry as she fell awkwardly on her arm, she ignored the pain and crouched there, still, silent and alert, a rabbit in an unfamiliar warren as the fox sniffed outside it's door.

For a moment, there was no sound, then the sound of a man swearing sounded - most unregally, she thought with a grin of relief as she recognised Siamak's voice. As she heard him begin to stumble back out of the door, she darted back out of the tunnel entrance, holding a finger to her lips and flapping the other hand at him desperately so that he wouldn't gasp or call out. The prince started at the sudden movement of the ghostly figure coming apparently out of the wall, hand flying to his sword hilt, before he recognised Zamara and dropped his hand, sagging slightly. Behind him, Gjeelea sighed with relief, her hand at her breast, then shut the door quietly. As Zamara came towards the pair, Siamak started forward angrily. "Zamara, you gave us such a shock, how could you-" the outburst was brief but furious before the young prince caught up with him and he looked away, dropping his eyes and stopping in his tracks before he reached the Priestess.

But rather than offending her, Siamak's outburst secretly pleased Zamara and also warned her inwardly: despite all appearances, against the fact that this young man had taken the weight of the world and all the responsibility of his country's fate upon his young shoulders, he remained a youth, a mere child compared to those he was up against. And indeed, was his enemy not his father? The thought touched Zamara. Was there ever a tale sadder than the story of a boy who had no choice but to go to war against his father...

She held up a hand against his words, instead hastening him onto his news, the stifling solidarity of the past few hours having made her restless and anxious. "What news, Prince Siamak, what news?"

Siamak nodded and, straightening up, commenced what could have been a formal military report. "Reafin went to see the Priest Tarkan an hour before curfew; he was not seen by anyone, and the Priest recieved him-"

"Yes, yes, and?" Zamara knew she must have sounded rude, but the urgency of her predicament swept this over.

"He will see you, Zamara, of course!" Gjeelea spoke this time, blurting the words out as she came forward and took the Priestess's hands. Her eyes glittered in the dimming light of the room with a brightness that Zamara had not previously seen, an excitement that had earlier seemed devoid in a gaze dull with hopelessness. The older woman gave a great sigh of relief and squeezed the princess's fingers. "Thanks Rhais..." she almost laughed. "So we are to go to his house? It should be risky; the orc patrols will be out if we go at night and-"

"The meeting will not be at the Priest's house, Zamara," Siamak interjected. "Tarkan had some...concerns about that particular location," he continued carefully. Zamara raised one eyebrow, but didn't comment. Now was no time for sniping comments, especially not when she he so precious few allies already. Siamak continued. "He suggested a meeting in the ruins of the Old Temple of Rae."

"In the... What, in the ruins?" Zamara's reply was practically a squawk as she gawped at Siamak. The prince shrugged almost apologetically. Zamara's lips moved as she began to mouth a few sentence-starters, then, almost self-mockingly, she repeated once more the tried and tested diplomatic words that Siamak had used not that long earlier. "Do you think that wise, Siamak?"

The prince picked up on the irony of the phrase, smiling thinly, then nodded. Gjeelea backed him up before Zamara could speak, even if she had known what to say. "It makes sense, Zamara. Just think: who would think to look for there for you of all people?"

Not my goddess, that is for sure. Zamara pursed her lips at the grim thought, but it was true enough. Her uncertainty about the Temple of Rae had always been there, since she was a little girl and had heard stories about it; and as she grew up, the rumours and unease that passed in the circles of Rhais had increased in her hearing. It filled her with an uncertainty and even a slight dread that went beyong the rivalry and seperation of the two denominations of priesthood. Sacrifice was not a regular practise in the Temple of Rhais, but for Rae's followers... certainly, tales of human 'sacrifices' were not easily ignored by Zamara, not when they went against every moral, every thought, every teaching that Zamara had ever had.

O Goddess, how could you find me in such a place?

Tarkan was older than the young High Priestess by some years: he would know the rumours. And if they were true, maybe he had even initiated that sort of practise...

Zamara shuddered, flinching physically. No. She could not think that. She could not let it get in the way of what was practical at the moment. She could not let it get in the way of the hopes of Pashtia.

"Priestess, is that not alright? Would you prefer us to change the meeting place?" Gjeelea's voice cut into Zamara's thoughts and she looked up sharply at the young woman's anxious face. Yes, she was indeed a very pretty little thing, but strong featured and noble also, her dark hair framing her sallow, strong boned face with a beautiful determination. It was no wonder that Korak had wanted her; it was no wonder that she made such a picture of a Queen...

"No." Zamara's reply was short. She took a deep breath and continued more eloquently. "No, that is fine, of course it is fine. After all, we cannot have any more delays..." Even as she spoke, Zamara was turning to her bed, where the black cloak lay, folded and refolded by Zamara in her anxiousness and wish not to stay still. As she picked it up, she looked back at the two royal children, who stood unmoving, watching her incredulously. "What is the matter? Come now, we need to move soon, there is not a moment to waste!" she cried almost impatiently.

"...Tonight, Priestess?" Siamak asked carefully.

"We can bide our time all we like, your majesty, but if the desert fox waits too long in the dunes, he will eventually miss his prey." And some kind of eagle will swoop down and pick him up for dinner into the bargain as well... she added mentally, but did not voice the grim thought. Spinning the voluminous black cloak out behind her in an arc of thick liquid jet, she enveloped herself into its folds of velvety midnight. Eyeing it with some distaste for the way it had been imposed upon her by the Emissary, Zamara nonetheless could not miss the irony of the garment's use to her now: the perfect cover of darkness, the very item that had once helped her, and maybe would help her again, escape the orc patrols of its donator. You are too kind, Master Snake, she smiled in satisfaction.

"The Priest does not..." Siamak stopped, smiled slightly and rephrased his statement. "Shall I send someone out to warn the Priest of your coming?"

Zamara smiled and winked at him. "Thank you, Siamak," she replied, grinning. The prince rolled his eyes, an odd act of cameradie, and departed through the secret tunnel, leaving Gjeelea and Zamara. The Priestess took the princess's hands in her own and squeezed them, smiling nervously at the younger woman. "This is it, Princess Gjeelea...are you sure you are to come with us?"

The princess nodded. "I wouldn't dream of missing it, High Priestess. Stay here for a minute or two, then follow me to my rooms - we will go say ten minutes after my brother, so as not to alert suspicion. It will be yourself, my brother, Reafin, Nadda and I...is that enough?"

"I think it would be unwise to risk any more."

"You're right, of course, you're right. Just the five of us then." Gjeelea's nervous yet excited smile mirrored Zamara's as she squeezed the Priestess's hands anxiously. With that last gesture, she was gone towards the tunnel. But as she left, Zamara called her back with a word. "Gjeelea?"

The princess turned around and Zamara, unsure of how to express what she wanted to say, simply contented herself with that one simple, ageless phrase. "Thank you."

Gjeelea nodded, smiling, then ducked into the tunnel and was gone. For the second time that day, Zamara was left alone to think but this time - this time at least, her thoughts had some direction. Some hope.

There is always hope. As long as there is the Goddess, there is hope.

[Firefoot]

Siamak threaded his way back to his room. Zamara was clearly edgy about the meeting, and even more so about the choice of location. Actually, it surprised him just how vehemently Zamara had responded. Sure, it was the temple of Rae not Rhais, but did that really matter so much? It was after all, a seeming safe location. He shrugged it off. She had agreed to it, so that was that.

Back at his own chambers, he drew on a dark blue cloak, both to hide his identity and his weapon. If seen, the sword would certainly raise suspicion, but he dared not go without tonight. And certainly, his going would be marked should he be recognized. He set his hand on the doorknob, ready to leave, then hesitated. He had half a mind to go back and leave with his sister and Zamara. The streets were not safe for women anymore, especially not after curfew (as he was pretty sure it was). He dismissed it with a shake of his head. They were competent; they would be fine.

Drawing his cloak close and pulling up the hood, he left the room. He went in the most direct way he knew. He hoped he would not be stopped at the gate; at this time of night, he thought he might, but he could never be sure anymore. When he stepped into the courtyard, he found that he was in luck. Heading toward the gate was a group of the Emissary's men, large enough that no one would notice an addend. He stepped in behind them, just the right distance that anyone but they would assume he was with their group. As Siamak knew they would be, the men were waved through by the guards (more than one of them an orc). All affiliations of the Emissary were virtually allowed free rein. When they turned the corner, Siamak continued straight, breathing a sigh of relief but not relaxing his guard.

He kept to the sides of the streets, passing stores already closed for the night. The streets were deserted. Only a few months past this hour would have still been considered evening; there would still be laughing, talking people on the streets, and probably a few hopeful hawkers trying to sell their wares. Not now. This was dark, lonely, and depressing.

Sometime later he was approaching the ruins of the old temple. He had not been there since it had been destroyed, and found now that "ruins" described it rather poorly indeed. Why, most of the structure was still standing! If one were to squint in the dim light, they might take it for a whole building. Well, maybe not quite, but still, the purpose here had clearly not been destruction.

There was no one in the near vicinity, so Siamak, not seeing Tarkan, called out softly, "Tarkan?" He had no idea whether or not Tarkan knew he was coming, and so did not know what to expect.

He thought he saw some movement near the temple walls. "Who's there?" came a wary voice.

Siamak subconciously put his hand on his sword hilt. He could not see any distinctive figures, and was still concerned over the possibility of a trap. He took a few steps toward the temple. "I see we are equally cautious, so you will understand when I do not first give my name. For now, know that my companion is coming shortly," Siamak answered carefully. He did not intend to hide himself from Tarkan forever, only until he was sure that it was only Tarkan who was here. For now, he stood ready and awaited a reply.

[Amanaduial the archer]

All was still in the palace.

The cold, dusty desert air blew off the sands to the East of the Desert, chuckling as it played through the dark corridors and whispering mischieviously in the ears of the fitfully slumbering inhabitants of the rooms, empty and cold in their materialistic glory. The rich, thin material of hung up clothes and disturbed bedcovers stirred lazily, beads clattering sleepily and jewellery derisively tossed gently in the fidgetting fingers of the wind, before the palace's liveliest intruder danced away to find some sport in the streets below, sprawled in submission around the palace.

Outside, watched only by the silent, watchful moon above, the palace's other intruder was making her escape from her only sanctuary: venturing into a city that professed not to want her, and to a people to whom she was a vanishing last hope. The wind whispered through the servants quarters, playing past two disturbed beds, one a man's and one a young girl's, and followed their owners outside to where the man, cloaked against the night air and the night creatures, held open a furtive side gate. Three figures, slim, effeminate shadows against the muffled lamp above the gate, slipped through it guiltily but without fuss, and as silently as the moonlight, they fled to the sidestreets, keeping to the shadows. As the gate closed behind her, one of them hesitated, taking a long look up at the palace, her eyes yearning for some semblance of the life she had once had to return, for the darkness to lift; then the other, a taller woman whose dark curls peeped out of her hood, took her hand and, with a final farewell to her life, Gjeelea hurried on with Zamara after Reafin and Nadda.

To a spectator, the journey would seem uneventful for the four furtive figures, but to Zamara every second of the dark, dangerous journey was a battle against every nerve in her body and every wit in her senses telling her that to hide forever would be a preferable option. The city doesn't want you, Zamara, leave them to their evil and return to the Goddess... Painfully alert as she was of every inch of her surroundings, the Priestess nearly tripped into Reafin's back as he stopped dead, and the suddeness of his movement nearly made her cry out. Regaining her composure, the Priestess tried to calm her heavy, frightened breathing, and stepped around the servant, her soft footsteps the only sound in the dark street - a street that opened to the Temple of Rae.

Nothing moved. Even the wind seemed to still, hushing itself into silence as it watched the tableau in front of the ruins. Narrowing her eyes, Zamara took another step forward out of the safety of the street's entrance and looked around, squinting into the darkness for some movement or sign of life, of the Prince - of a trap.

Risking everything and overcoming the lump that seemed to be building inside her throat, Zamara uttered a single word, her voice echoing desolately into the stone temple and making Nadda leap in it's apparent volume. "Tarkan?"

Silence once more.

Then movement.

Zamara stepped back, fear leaping like a wolf to her throat as she grasped her staff tightly for whatever comfort or protection it could give - and nearly cried out in relief as the person who moved forward threw back his hood and in the dry and desolate moonlight, she recognised Tarkan's face. A sudden, overwhelming relief almost overcame her as she darted towards him and, after a moment's pause, the Priest and Priestess embraced formally. "Tarkan," Zamara began, her voice a whispered sigh. "Thank- thank you so much for coming."

"It was my duty, Zamara." Not for the first time, he did not prefix her name with it's title, and in that instant Zamara was reminded of her distrust for the older man. They may have been allies, but friends was pushing it; by not calling her 'High Priestess', he was, she was reminded bitterly, simply telling the truth - but it could also have been an expression of her ever-present wish for her high position. She took a mental step back, reminding herself to be careful.

Careful? You have come to discuss high treason, Zamara: taking care would be far too belated for any caution now to save.

“Tarkan, the Prince, is he here yet? He set off some time before us- ”

“I am here, Zamara.” The strength of Siamak’s youthful yet strong voice from the velvet darkness comforted Zamara. Tarkan nodded once. “Have you brought any others?”

Caution, however, belated, caught up with the Priestess. “A few,” she replied shortly, but not so curtly that attention might be drawn to it as she added, “and you?”

“Just one,” the priest smiled. “Just one.”

“Ah, your mysterious young friend, Pelin, I suppose?” Siamak spoke this time, his voice a little sardonic. Tarkan’s chin jerked up angrily as he looked around, but apparently could not quite place the young prince’s exact position as his eyes returned to Zamara then sought in the darkness behind him, around the Old Temple. “Yes…yes, Pelin is here with me, as always,” he murmured somewhat distractedly. The distance in his voice did not escape Zamara but although she frowned slightly, she said nothing, contenting herself with her silence: the Priest’s mind and its motions would soon be revealed to her, Rhais providing. Sure enough, the Priest turned to her again and his voice returned to a conspiratorial whisper. “Shall we go into the temple? I fear it is not…” he took a furtive glance around, apparently simply for dramatic effect. “…safe.”

Zamara’s hesitation must have shown, for the Priest frowned slightly, his face still dimly visible in the unveiled moonlight as he half-smiled. “There is nothing to be afraid of, Zamara; the Rae’s Temple is as unlikely a place as any for you to be found –”

“I am not afraid, Tarkan,” Zamara cut in. Taking a deep breath, her voice softened and she nodded more calmly at the Priest. “Lead the way.”

Tarkan nodded solemnly and turned towards the temple as he began to lead the silent, secretive procession of the night-conspirators towards his old domain. Hearing Siamak come up beside her, Zamara half turned her face to him and felt the prince’s hand brush hers reassuringly. Smiling, she leant towards him and murmured, “Tell the others to follow but without being seen: the Priest may be our ally, for the time being, but I refuse to trust any man who wilfully refuses to reveal his name.” The Prince nodded and silently peeled away from her towards his sister and the two servants still hiding from the moon in the street opening. Zamara took a deep breath and, bracing herself against all the darksome rumours she had heard of the Temple, she followed Tarkan. But in the night time, when shadows are rife in the streets, they have a way of finding their way into one’s mind…

Feeling her sandaled toes brush against something soft and surprisingly moist, Zamara looked down and, to her surprise, saw a subtly hidden patch of moss by her right foot: the stone under which it had made its home must have been disturbed by Tarkan’s foot. Bending down, the Priestess touched the moss supersticiously, her fingers gently stroking it’s half-dried out surface. “Protect me, Goddess,” she whispered almost inaudibly. The chill desert wind stirred once more, chiding her onwards, and Zamara straightened up again, raising her chin and setting off after Tarkan.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The meeting with Morgos had been less than satisfactory. The Elf was now clearly mad, so lost was he amid the rumours of his own mind and the shattered and fragmented papers of his past. Khamul had left the room in disgust with himself for having thought that there would be help from that quarter. As he had departed the General’s wife and son had been brought to him by the orcs and the King had seen their looks of despair at what had become of the once great man.

He went to the banquet hall where he had first dined with Ashnaz all those months ago. There was to be another banquet tonight. The Emissary was there ahead of him, with all his men and the great orc captains. There was to be a celebration this evening of the Final Cleansing of the land. With the Elves now safely stored in their section of the city, the threat of rebellion was much lessened. The hall was filled with the raucous laughter of the orcs, and the words of the Emissary’s men which rang against the stone as steel blades. As always, the King was taken aback by their strange beauty, but this night they were particularly radiant – glowing with the purity of the work they had done this day in purifying the land of Pashtia. The King bowed his head in gratitude before Ashnaz’s chief lieutenants, and even hefted his cup in token of thanks to the orc general, before settling down to his meal beside the Emissary.

They ate in quiet, for his friend was curiously distracted by some dark thoughts that hovered about his soul. Khamul brushed up against his friend’s mind ever so gently, caressing him with his desires, but he found only a blank wall of concern. “What is it that torments you this night, my friend?” he asked.

The Emissary merely glared down at their food. It took a few more gently prods from the King before he would speak. “I fear for this land, my King. In my soul, I fear for it. There have been dark misgivings in my heart all this day, and they have been growing. There is treachery afoot.”

The King sighed. “There has been treachery afoot since the day you arrived, I am ashamed to say. So jealous are my people of you and of the friendship and loyalty you have shown me.”

“No,” the Emissary replied, “this is different. I have tried to commune with the Lord Annatar so that he might help me, but some power there is that blinds me to him this night,” his hands began to shake and his face went white. “I know not what it is…” he reached for his goblet of wine and swallowed deeply. Khamul was stunned by his friends manner and turned to his own cup for comfort. At the first sip, he realised how thirsty he was and drank another quickly. But still his thirst increased and soon his cup was empty. His head began to swim with the vapours of the drink. He looked about the room and saw that all those in it had begun to act strangely. Some had slumped over the table, while others staggered about or raved madly. But all drank, as though seized by the kind of thirst that afflicts desert travellers. The King looked down at his cup, and noted for the first time that there was a strange after taste to the wine…

He leapt up from the table and staggered back against a wall. As a monarch, he had long been trained in the ways of poison, but so shaken was he by the manner of his friend, he had not noticed until too late. His vision swam, and he could barely watch as those around him began to fall to the ground, their mouths opening in agony, a sickly yellow froth coming forth. He reached out for Ashnaz and took him for support, and in the eyes of his friend he saw the same terror or mortality that was in his heart. They fell to the floor.

A few seconds or hours later a pair of sandaled feet came before them. They looked up into the face of the old healer, Daliyah. She looked down at the King and the Emissary with a mixture of exultation and rage that shocked the King. She spat upon the Emissary saying, “That is for the death of my mistress!” and then she spat upon the King, “And that is for what you have done to Pashtia!”

A great blackness opened beneath the King’s feet and he pitched forward into the depths, wailing like a lost spirit…


…but he did not die. There was a light in the darkness, and it grew into an Eye. It was as though the Ring had become alive, and moved to look at him. The King clutched the Ring and the Eye and held it close to his breast. A voice spoke to him.

The time has come for you to join me fully, my friend. You have been divested of your mortal frame. Now you shall live forever through me, in the purity of your spirit.

“My lord Annatar!”

Nay, that is not my name. It is but a cloak that I use to turn the eyes of my enemies. For I am Sauron, lord of all.

“Sauron! Save me! I do not wish to die. My kingdom needs me, they must be saved!”

Aye, and that they will. But first you must join with me. You must swear yourself to me for all time. Do this, and I will give you the strength you need to wreak your vengeance.

“I have already pledged myself to you my Lord Sauron. Take me to your service.”

No. You have pledged yourself to the service of my weaker shadow; to the façade of craven friendship that I put on so that my enemies will not know my real strength. You must swear allegiance to me – behold!

And the King saw the truth. Before him, Pashtia burned as the orcs rampaged through it, enraged by the death of their captains. Unrestrained now by any Men, they ran unchecked through the land, filling it with a darkness more deep than any it had ever known. He saw the Elves being slaughtered by their hundreds; he saw his own family being taken from out of their rooms and dragged kicking and screaming into the courtyard where a gallows had been hastily erected by the orcs to hang all those whom they deemed responsible for the murder of their leaders. And then he saw another sight, more terrible. He saw the Emissary, his friend, Ashnaz – and the meaning of the Name was now clear to him – he saw the black hands of the Man about the throat of Bekah, choking the life from her, lusting after her destruction. He saw her broken body, and the blood that ran through the streets of his City…

….and he exulted. Such was the reward of treachery! So do those who opposed him deserved to be treated!

One Ring to rule them all! One Ring to find them!
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them!

YOU ARE MINE!

Khamul arose from the ground, the poison having done its work and passed him to the other side of mortality. At his side was his friend, but none could see them, for even though they did not wear their Rings they were invisible. Only a dark and terrible presence filled the orcs who had come to see the ruin of their generals. They fell back from the shapeless forms, gibbering in terror. “Bring us garments,” his friend cried, and soon black raiment were given them, pulled from the bodies of the slain Men of the West. They draped the clothes about them, giving form to their formlessness and a horrible shape to their terror. They stood forth before the orcs and proclaimed themselves for what they had become: “Behold the Nazgul in our power! Heed our commands and hear in us the will of our Lord Saruon!” The orcs fell to ground and prostrated themselves, crawling upon the floor like worms.

“Bring order back to this land! Cease the burning and the pillage, but send all our troops to the dens of the Elves and put them all to the sword. Spare none. See to it that the General and his family join their people. Round up the family of the King, bring them here and hang them from the gallows.” A rough cheer went up around the room as the orcs streamed from the palace like ants.

But the wraiths had one last command. “One battalion shall come with us to the temple. There is treachery there that requires our own attention. We shall kill all that we find there!” They raced from the Palace, screaming for blood, and their cries echoed into the night like the wails of lost creatures, only to be replaced by the screams of the orcs…

[Firefoot]

Siamak ducked back to relay Zamara’s bidding to the others. He was now wary of leaving the cover of shadows, even though little to no other light lit the open areas. Perhaps it was simply the setting of their meeting, or the purpose, or just Tarkan’s manner (which was irritating him, though not for any tangible reason), but Siamak’s unease had doubled since arriving at this place. This unease was confirmed when the still silence was broken by the raucous shouts of Orcs echoing in the city. Siamak’s skin prickled. What had happened? Surely it was only coincidental that Orc cries should be heard only after they had met up with Tarkan. What if this really was a trap? Taking a few deep breaths, he shrugged off the feeling of fear. If ever there was a time when he needed to think clearly, this was it.

He approached the figures cloaked in the shadow of a nearby building. The corners of his mouth turned upwards in reassurance, though this action relieved the tension not at all. “You are to follow us, but stay out of sight. Neither Zamara nor I trust Tarkan much.” He paused for a moment, listening. The Orcs were drawing slowly nearer; their peril heightened with each passing moment. He shared a brief look with his sister. “Be careful,” he whispered, then he was gone, following after Tarkan and Zamara.

He hurried after the way the two had gone, stepping into the temple proper. Granted, the temple was not whole, but still the temple of Rae seemed somehow unfriendly in contrast to that of the goddess, which had always felt more welcoming despite his misgivings about religion. He felt that this place held secrets – and not pleasant ones, either.

Seeing movement at the far end of the room, Siamak headed in that direction, wondering where they were going. He saw as he drew nearer that Tarkan was taking them back into the hallways and rooms behind the worshipping area. He paused a moment to make sure Gjeelea, Nadda, and Raefin were following all right before continuing. Had it not been for the lack of light, they would have had no problem, what with so many of the walls being partially demolished.

He caught up with Zamara and Tarkan near the top of a stairway that led down into the ground. Under normal circumstances he would have missed it entirely, but then, under normal circumstances he wouldn’t be here at all, he realized wryly. Tarkan had already begun to descend and the Priestess, by her stiff stance, appeared to be bracing herself up to go after.

“All right?” asked Siamak softly. She nodded jerkily and began the downward climb, Siamak a step behind her. The steps leveled off abruptly, leaving them at the start of a tunnel, into which Tarkan was already heading. The tunnel was cool, damp, and unlit and had a death-like quality to it. Perhaps he was being cynical, but Siamak noted that it had all the trappings of a perfect place for an ambush, among them being no other apparent way out. He wished that Tarkan had not chosen such an eerie location.

“What is this place?” he asked Zamara, careful not to let Tarkan overhear.

“I’m not sure,” she answered, but Siamak got the distinct impression that she had at least a suspicion of where they were headed. He was no longer sure that he wanted to know.

The tunnel was not so long as fear and distrust would have it seem, and they soon came to a small room, perceived by the feeling of space rather than the sight of it. Tarkan lit a torch from an unseen source, uncloaking the room of its darkness, though there wasn't a lot to see. Most prominant of the room's features was a table, an altar possibly, at the far wall. Siamak was now certain he did not want to know what was done down here. After lighting the room, Tarkan turned to face them. He did not, however, speak first.

“Now, Tarkan,” Siamak addressed him, deliberately not using the man’s title. Though his tone was polite, his words were to the point. “You have brought us here on very little information, expecting us to take you on faith. You did not tell, nay, refused to tell your purposes for calling this meeting; the only reason you gave us for coming was an apparent threat that you knew somehow where Zamara was hiding. We have come; now, is it too much to ask for some information?”

[Imladris]

The night was still...uncomfortably so, thought Arshalous as she glanced at the window, the scroll she was reading falling unheeded to the floor. Again the thought of her wedding day haunted her and she tried to not remember that she would soon be married to the lost king of Pashtia...

Dread filled her, numbed her with its chillness. She had not heard from the Princess, and she feared that the few who would stand and fight would consider her lost to the Enemy. That must not happen, she thought fretfully as she began to pace before the fire.

And yet, weren't they right if they thought she was lost to the Enemy? What could she do....there was nothing she could do with the Emissary lurking everwhere...

She slumped to the floor and wished that Semra was here to brew her a cup of tea. Speaking of Semra where was she? She had been sent to bring some flowers to the lady Hababa...Arshalous' stomach knotted unpleasantly at the thought of Hababa...she feared she was dying...another person lost...

Semra should have been back by now...what kept her in the dark?

And then, it seemed to her, that she heard a horrible sound -- a faint sound of screaming, and terrible cries...

The door slammed open and Semra hurled herself through it. Her face was white, eyes wild with fright. "They are slaughtering the elves, my lady!" she cried, her body shaking with fear.

Horrifyed, Arshalous glanced out the window, wondering if more orcs were coming for the innocent, for those who plotted for the demise of the Emissary and his friends...And it seemed to her that she heard footsteps echoing in the air...would she soon hear the chants of orcs, lusting for blood?

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

Calmly, he descended the stairs. From behind, he could hear several pairs of feet following. When reaching the bottom, a rush of memories seemed to penetrate his mind. He had been so young at the time; he’d been proud to finally be acknowledged as a priest, especially amongst the elder, and did not question the meaning with the secret rituals. Why should he? He’d striven to be become a priest; surely, he was not interested in ruining everything he’d worked for. Later, he had given thought to this, whether these rituals really were in favour of the people, but not regretting any of it, he had let it be. He breathed heavily. The smell of rot and earth was exactly how he remembered it, as well as the damp air. The room itself seemed smaller than what it had been, but then again, it had been more than ten years ago since he had last been here.

As the company, consisting of the former Priestess, the prince, three of his servants and Pelin arrived, Tarkan lit a torch. He took a short walk around in the room, and lit the other ones that were hanging on each of the four walls. Tarkan took a moment to look at them. The now illuminated room revealed their expressions, which were filled with surprise and wonder. It was obvious that none of them knew that the Temple had a cellar underground.

“You have brought us here on very little information, expecting us to take you on faith. You did not tell, nay, refused to tell your purposes for calling this meeting; the only reason you gave us for coming was an apparent threat that you knew somehow where Zamara was hiding. We have come; now, is it too much to ask for some information?”

It was the prince who spoke first. Immediately, the priest wanted to reply. Instead, however, he waited. With a movement, he urged Pelin forwards. “Go upstairs and keep watch. If anything is out of the ordinary, stamp your feet three times on the floor above us. Now, go,” the priest whispered. He didn’t know why he wanted to keep Pelin’s task secret, but he concluded it was for the best. He didn’t want anyone panicking now, not when he was so close. Besides, this would probably be the only chance he and Zamara got to talk; it would be the only chance to try save the Kingdom from ruin.

Pelin didn’t at all seem satisfied by the task he had been given. He objected, but Tarkan insisted. “You must do as I say,” he said. “Go.” At last, Pelin took his leave. Seeing him take off, climbing the stairs, Pelin cast Tarkan one last glance; the priest could have sworn he saw hatred in the young man’s eyes. Could this really be the case? Shaking his head, he convinced himself that this was not so. Furthermore, he had to focus on the most important thing; he had a story to tell.

“Information ...” he began. “Why do you think I wanted to meet you, Zamara?”

The former priestess stood motionless in the somewhat dim light. Looking at her, he could see that she was thinking. He was sure she had an idea, but for some reason she did not answer.

“To make a long tale short, I will start with saying that some time after the former King’s successor was born….” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Prince smiling. When seeing this, he felt angry by the injustice he had suffered. Why should he, as the son of a King, live as a simple Priest? The old hatred towards his brother, Faroz, and the prince flared up as it had hundred of times before. Gjeelea, he could not hate, regardless of her relations. The priest had to put great effort into hiding his true feelings, but not letting go of his hatresd he watched the prince standing unprotected before him. Within a second, the prince could be history. No, no, it was dangerous; he had to control himself.

“the Queen gave birth to yet another, who was named Faroz,” he continued, well aware of having left out Faroz’s official title. This seemed to have stirred the young heart of the Prince.

“King Faroz,” Zamara said, as if reminding him.

Turning to Siamak, he said slowly:” He, Faroz, might be your father, but he is not King, and he has, in truth, never been.”¨


**

On the floor above the Priest and his guests, Pelin stood waiting impatiently. The feeling of being excluded felt as being torn open, turned inside out. It wasn’t the first time he was being left out of secret meeting or other such events, but it hardly seemed just in this case. It was after all he who had managed to arrange this meeting in the first place. The Prince's three servants were allowed to stay. He, an educated soon-to-be priest was not to. Did he not deserve to be present?

A distant sound made him shiver. For an instant he managed to suppress his hatred towards the priest, who again had regarded him as subordinate, as he knew that this was about to change.

**

In the cellar a gasp of surprise ran though the company. Offended, the prince stepped forwards, but with a strict tone Tarkan said:” Please, you wanted information. You’ll have your turn. Now let me continue.” It seemed rather odd that the priest’s words could have such an effect on his listeners; his words had silenced them, but as he was touching a very sensitive topic, he thought it would be harder to keep them quiet. Questioning the King, his position, even his Royal birth, was after all not just an everyday conversation. In fact, Tarkan had crossed the line, and if ever reported he could be accused of treachery. He raised an eyebrow realising that this, in some way, was treachery.

“The questioning of Faroz’s true birth, reminds me of the question that I’m sure you’re eager to ask. Who, if not Faroz, is King?”

“You?!?" One could make no mistake; Gjeelea's mocking voice rang through the room. “This is pointless, nonsense,” she called out. “I’m not going to stand here listening to this mad man, who’s trying to convince us that the King is any other than our father. Siamak, Priestess, let us leave.”

For an instant, the situation seemed to get out of control. The Priest stood motionless watching Gjeelea’s outburst. He hadn't even known she had been present. Instantly, the situation had got out of hand. She, he thought, would be the hardest to convince. “My dear Princess, this is exactly where you come in,” he started. All of a sudden, it was clear to him that she too had a certain role in this, maybe the most important of all.

“Come in where?” she said. Her voice was anything but calm; she looked rather frustrated. Whether it was about the Priest’s last claim, or the fact that the Prince and the Priestess appeared to be eager to listen further, he did not know. Anyhow, while he had her attention, he decided to go for it. It was now or never.

“A great noble in Pasthia possesses the evidence; the evidence that proves Faroz’s falseness. It proves that he is not King, and is indeed not the flesh of the former King. There is proof, and you’re the only one who has the power to gain it. You are the only one who can make this right.”

Tarkan didn’t wait for the word the question ‘how?’. Taking a step closer, he looked with penetrating eyes at the princess. “The Lord Korak, your husband, has it. He has the former King’s will. He has the letter he gave to me, his son, on his deathbed, where he acknowledges me as heir and King!”

He watched the horror in their eyes as he spoke and finished. None of them moved. The three servants seemed to have stopped breathing.

“But… but.. how do you know Korak has it?” It was Zamara who spoke.

The priest was rather surprised, but satisfied, to have the priestess on his wavelength. He was glad he had reached out; maybe the ‘Royal’ Children would come along as well.

“A vision. A vision, sent from the Gods.”

“A vision? You tell us a vision has made you believe you’re the former King’s heir? You tell us a vision has made you believe that Lord Korak has evidence to support your belief?” Shaking his head, the prince sighed. It was obvious that neither the Prince, nor the Princess could take much more of this. Their faces and body language revealed more than their words; they were sorry for ever having agreed to this meeting, apparently thinking it pointless, as being under the impression that this was a tale of a lunatic, but most of all however, there was fear in their eyes. What if Tarkan spoke the truth?

“It seems that I have much to explain still.” The priest paused. “A vision yes. In fact, the same vision that told me the priestess here was alive. Where could I possibly get this information, if not sent by the Gods? After all, no one, except you, knew.” he cast a glance at Siamak and Gjeelea and the servants behind them. “Now, the rest of the story is just obvious. Korak wants to be King, isn’t that correct?” He didn’t wait for a reply or a movement, he just carried on. ”If he came forth with the secret information he beholds, he would never be King. Now, married to the daughter of the man who is believed to be King, he has still the chance to achieve his goal. He has no reason for revealing his little secret. You, Gjeelea, are the only one who can trick Korak. The prince, I have no doubt, will help you. So, this leaves me to the ultimate question; we have the power to stop the insanity of the King, we have the power to put an end to the Emissary’s influence and we have the power to make Pasthia as it once was, are you willing to grasp this chance?”

Silence.

“And… what exactly is my role in this?” Zamara asked, seeming confused.

“Oh, isn’t it obvious; uniting the religions of Pasthia…. With me, you will rule.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara stared at Tarkan in openly bewilderment - and more than a little skepticism which the past few months had taught her never to leave behind. With me, you will rule... Even out of context, the words seemed unreal to Zamara,and the fact they could be addressed to her a simple impossibility. Or maybe not so simple.... The Priestess's forehead wrinkled as she frowned and she massaged it with the tips of her two forefingers.

"You believe yourself to be the true ruler of Pashtia?" she asked softly. Tarkan nodded mutely in reply.

Either this was a belated stroke of genius or a cruel twist of fate: a desperate misplaced son, or a madman? Either way, Zamara wasn't entirely sure how it would help them. Not usually desolate, Zamara found the suffocating helplessness that she was becoming dangerously familiar with threatening to drown her as she turned away, arms folded, her head dropping back to stare at the ceiling, closing her eyes and sighing deeply. How did this help them, but to deepen their problems? To find themselves with such a dilemma... one thing was for sure though:

"If the King finds out, he will kill you," she said simply, without looking at Tarkan. Her eyes were fixed on the altar, or rather, on the wall behind it. The stones of one area seemed strangely disalligned with the rest around them, and yet slotted so perfectly together: so perfectly, in fact, that they were incongruous with the rest of the stones. Frowning, she began to walk towards the altar.

"I know, Zamara; that is why we must be so regretably secretive about this whole meeting..." Tarkan even gave a wry smile, but it was lost upon Zamara as she wandered behind the altar, carefully giving it a wide birth as if even being close to it could pass on its infectious evil.

"That and the fact that we have a hunted fugitive in our midst," Gjeelea cut in scathingly, wiping away the priest's smile. She sighed exasperatedly, throwing up her hands. "And another soon, I have no doubt: a dangerous madman! For Rae's sake, Tarkan, you tell us we risked our lives for this? Put the future of our country in danger for these...rantings?! Brother, let us leave this place-"

"The future of Pashtia is already in danger, sister, do you honestly think it can get any worse?" The normally restrained Siamak snapped the words viciously, making Gjeelea start slightly. The tension in the air was building between the siblings, suffocating in the small, dank space, crackling through the air like static; yet Zamara seemed almost unaware of it. Hushing them almost inaudibly, the Priestess raised her fist and tapped her knuckles first softly, then harder, against the stones. Thunk, thunk, thunk...and an echo: the row of hollow taps were followed by an empty, echoing tap that proved Zamara's suspicions. She smiled slightly, her slim lips curling up prettily as her long fingers stroked the stones gently. An exit.

Turning back, she noted that her discovery had not been noticed as Gjeelea stood almost nose to nose with Tarkan, the princess fiery and furious in her fear, the Priest remaining desperately calm, his hands out placatingly. Siamak shot the Priestess a strange look, then froze, silencing the pair with a sharp hand movement and a single hissed command.

After an instant, Zamara heard it too.

The Prince turned to the older woman, his eyes wide and alert. "Screams! Do you hear them? They...oh gods, Zamara, they are coming for us!"

"Sh-hh," Zamara hissed, holding up her hand as she cocked her head to the side, her eyes gazing upwards as if she might percieve the danger through the very stones themselves. Sure enough, there it was again: a high, terrified wail piercing the night before being sharply, chillingly cut off, the absence after it disappeared even more terrifying than the sound itself. And afterwards came the inevitable yet horrifying sound: orcs.

Swearing as she had never done before, Zamara cast around desperately, then made for the stairs; she heard Siamak call her name, but did not stop. Her robes held up high around her legs, Zamara sprinted up the ancient stairs, taking them two, three, four at a time in her desperation and fear, her long, dark hair streaming behind her. And as she reached the top and ran to the open entrance of the Temple, she saw, even with her weakening eyes, a sight that prophets would tremble before: a mass of orcs, pouring out of every corner.

And Pelin nowhere to be seen.

A roar of recognition went up and Zamara ducked like a rabbit into it's warren. But Gjeelea met her on the stairs and the woman was thrown against the side of the walls. Although she called the woman's name, Gjeelea reached the top only a second after Zamara had descended. The priestess could not see the younger woman's expression, and saw only how the girl froze, staring tranfixed at the mob - and then she bolted.

Biting off the woman's name even as she called it, Zamara choked down the last syllable: Gjeelea had her hood up, she may not yet have been recognised - let them keep it that way if possible. Dragging Reafin roughly up the last few steps, Zamara hissed furiously in his ear, "Follow the princess. Get her to safety: to the house of Lady Arshalous maybe. If she dies, I'll kill you." With that last, perfectly earnest sentiment, Zamara half threw the man out of the entrance and, stunned, he stumbled away after the Princess, his steps turning to a sprint.

Unable to spare any more time to the princess's fate, leaving it up the power of the goddess, the girl's own wit and Reafin's (hopefully) fleet feet, Zamara ducked back into the tunnel, closing the door behind her and, as an afterthought, bolting it. Pelin's fate was his own now: he had done a runner and left them, that was the harsh reality of it, and if either of the royal children came to harm because of it, Zamara knew quite honestly in her heart that she would destroy him. Besides, she smelt a rat... The lock would not last for long - it was an old, rickety contraption, built for sturdiness and not for looks, but against that blood-frenzied, barbarian horde, a fortress could not stand for long. Sprinting back the way she had come, Zamara was almost sobbing as she half fell into Siamak. "Orcs! Thousands of them!" she gasped desperately. Siamak's sword was drawn in a flash, the steel glimmering dangerously in the half light, although the smallness of it and the one man who held it against the might of what she had just seen seemed painfully hopeless and tiny: the last defiant gesture of an ant against the foot that descends to squash it. "Where is Gjeelea?"

Zamara shook her head. "Gone - Reafin is with her, but she bolted. I am sorry, Siamak..."

The prince hissed a single syllable under his breath, then looked up the stairs. "And we-?"

Zamara did not reply, instead grabbing the man's sword and running behind the altar. With all her might, she smashed it against the wall. The stones did not give. Yelling out in frustration and desperation, she pounded the hilt against the stones again, again, again. Behind the stones, something gave. Hands suddenly wrapped themselves around her own and she felt Siamak's muscles ripple under his cloak against her upper arms as he drew back to the side and, his hands almost crushing hers, crashed his entire weight against the hollow part of the wall behind the sword. With a deafening crash, the wall fell - revealing a hollow passageway.

Raising her eyes to the sky, Zamara sent a prayer of thanks to the gods - for, to be sure, after this, there was certainly someone watching over them and, priestess or not, she wasn't sure she really cared quite who at this very instant. Siamak unwrapped himself from around her and started into the tunnel and Zamara followed - then hesitated. Turning back into that awful room, she called to Tarkan. "Tarkan - will you not follow us?"

The Priest stood alone, a single figure in the suddenly large room, hopelessly small against the door that dwarfed him. Yet even as he hesitated, the sound of voices was heard directly above them. Unable to spare another instant, Zamara turned back into the tunnel and, grabbing for Siamak's hand for guidance in the darkness, she ran for her life - the image of that singular figure, painfully alone and deserted by the one he had trusted most in the world, burned on her mind...

[Firefoot]

A trap. Siamak had feared it was so, should have known it was so when he heard the Orc cries even as Tarkan led them into a deep little cellar with only one (apparent) way out and started rambling on about some preposterous claim. He had not seen the forlorn look on Tarkan’s face, had not even considered that it was not Tarkan who had betrayed them but Pelin. Gjeelea had had the right of it, it seemed, and now, Gjeelea was… somewhere. A prayer to Rhais for his sister flashed through his mind. He could not dwell on Gjeelea, however, for Zamara’s and his own plight was more pressing to him.

Hand in hand, they fled through the dark tunnel. He held his other hand, holding the sword, out in front of him, fearing to run smack into an unseen wall. He heard a crash behind them; apparently the tunnel had been broken into. Tarkan’s fate was his own, now, and frankly, Siamak felt little pity for the man he figured had betrayed them, especially considering that it would not now be long before there were Orcs hot on their trail. He hoped there was an exit to this tunnel, that this wasn’t just a dead end leading into some farther room.

They rounded a corner and could see faint moonlight filtering through the cracks of a wooden door. They came to an abrupt halt and in the same motion were checking for the bolt. Like the other door, it latched from the inside, however, the door being less used, the bolt had rusted and become stuck in place. Siamak struggled with it as the seconds ticked by. He could hear Orcs in the passage now, both by their heavy, iron-shod footsteps and their loud, uncouth cries. Still, the bolt would not give, though he could feel the imprint of rusted metal upon his palms. It helped not at all that he could not see an more of it than a dim outline, and that when he stepped back from it.

In desperation, he finally picked up his sword which he had propped against the wall. He muttered a warning to Zamara to stay clear as he raised his sword and jammed the hilt down upon the bolt. He felt it give a little, and repeated the action. It came completely free of the door and in the hard downward motion Siamak could feel his knuckles scrape against door. In some dim corner of his mind he felt pain, but this hardly registered. The Orcs had become increasingly louder and within a few heartbeats’ time would be upon them. With a mighty shove, the door swung open and after hurriedly sheathing his sword, Siamak and Zamara were running again.

The tunnel had opened into a dingy alley about two blocks down from the temple. Siamak neither knew nor cared why, only that it did. They approached the street with heedless caution. Looking one way, Siamak could see in the torchlight the temple and the hundreds of Orcs swarming about it. Subconsciously he realized that the torches could be either their greatest aid or downfall: beyond the torches, he knew the dark would seem all the darker and hide those in it.

Hearing the Orcs’ clamor close behind them, they plunged down the street, keeping close to the buildings for what cover they would provide. They had not even reached the corner of the street, however, when a shout went up that could not be mistaken even in the Orcs’ foul language.

They had been spotted.

The two cloaked figures flew down the street, at a faster pace than before if that was possible. They turned the first corner they came to, then a second shortly after that. They had unfortunately been far enough apart that the Orcs had not lost track of them. Siamak did not know how much farther he could run, but fear drove him on. Almost immediately after a third corner Siamak caught sight of a narrow alleyway that connected this street and the next with only a low fence between them. He reached out and pulled Zamara after him, disappearing from the street. They half jumped, half climbed over the wooden fence, which rose to about Siamak’s waist. Now it would take a few minutes for the Orcs to figure out where they had gone. They slowed their insane pace, more out of necessity than desire, and stayed close to the buildings.

Siamak began to get his bearings again as he realized that they had run from the business section of the town into a more residential area, albeit a rather poor one. He also judged that they were nearing the wharf by the faint but distinctive smell of fish. He wasn’t sure if knowing where they were helped or not, but it was at least vaguely comforting to know their location.

In desperate need of a breather, they ducked into a narrow space between two houses with a couple of scant bushes providing some cover. Both knew the value of silence, but their heavy breathing came in deep shuddering breaths that would seem to give away their precise location. They strained their ears for some sign of the Orcs. Evident confusion and anger reigned at the disappearance of their quarry, and it seemed an eternity before they moved on to the next street. To their relieved surprise, none came down the street on which they hid. The shouts faded and Siamak dared to whisper, “Now what? Even if we wanted to, we could get back into the palace. We cannot go back to the temple – any of them, for that matter. Nor can we go far; the farther we must go, the more likely we are to find some more Orcs. We need someplace to hole up, at least for the night, so that we will be able to get news in the morning.”

Both were silent for a moment, thinking. Then Zamara replied, “Best would be if we knew the home of someone we could know to be willing to help us, but I wouldn’t know who.”

“My guess is as good as yours. I would imagine that few people are truly loyal to the crown as it is now and would support us, if they were part of a large enough group – let’s say 80 percent of the families on this street – those odds would seem to favor us.”

Zamara finished Siamak’s thought. “Except most of them would be too scared, especially in a secretive support like this, turning the odds against us.”

Again, they fell silent. Their situation really was quite hopeless, and all paths seemed ill. Suddenly they heard movement in the house on their right. They froze. Surely no one had heard them?

A shuttered window above them was opened a crack. Siamak was not sure whether he wanted to be seen or not. They were desperate, and Siamak decided to trust his luck once more this night. He stood, saying, “We mean no harm; we are hiding from the hosts of Orcs in the city and have nowhere to go.” Zamara stood up as well beside him.

The person at the window did not say anything for a long moment, and when he did his voice was little more than a whisper: “Prince Siamak?”

Siamak stood for a moment in shock, his mind placing the pieces together in slow motion. “Jarult?” he asked, though he already knew. He pushed back his cloak’s hood enough for his face to be seen. Chance of all chances! In all of Kanak, they had picked the one house that belonged to the single person whom Siamak knew could be trusted. “And this-” he nodded toward Zamara, “-is the High Priestess Zamara.”

[Novnarwen]

For a moment, he had hesitated. Had the Emissary failed him? Instantly, he regretted questioning the Emissary’s power. He was not an ordinary man. In truth, he was far from it. Of course he would come. They were together on this.

He found himself wandering in the dark garden of the Palace. No one could be seen, there was utter silence. It was almost unbearable; the dark and the silence, but most of all the waiting. Already, he had been out here for hours. Worst of all was that he had promised Tarkan to be back within a few hours. Was he waiting for him? What if suspected something? He could only pray that he would be able to come up with a good excuse. Hopefully, the Prince's servant had arrived at Tarkan's residence and confirmed the meeting with Zamara. If not, if having failed convincing Nadda that Tarkan had a genuine wish of seeing Zamara, waiting here would be pointless.

Time went on. The moon was being stingy; the small portion of light it cast, wasn't enough for Pelin to keep him occupied with anything. He sat motionless in the dark, tired. Almost sleeping, he heard and recognized the voice that was coming from behind.

“Lord,” Pelin said silently, turning to the shadow. Bowing lightly, he told the tall figure about the meeting.

“Has it been confirmed?”

“Yes!” he hesitated. “Well… only by the priestess. I’m heading back to the Priest now. He’s hopefully been contacted by now, and then the meeting is confirmed.”

“Where, again?”

“Not decided,” Pelin said quickly.

There was silence for a moment.

“How do you expect me to locate Tarkan and Zamara then?”

“Find someone who can follow Tarkan, and me.”

With these words, the meeting had ended, and Pelin, obsessed with getting off and away, had run all the way back to Tarkan’s apartments.

Descending the stairs, he found his way back to the room he had been dismissed from just half an hour earlier. The sensation of having succeeded, finally being in control, was exhilarating.

“Pelin! We must go! Run through this tunnel! Hurry! Hurry!”

He watched the priest motioning him over. Ignoring him, he reached the bottom of the stairs. It was this moment he had looked forwards to, imagined, for so long. He could not believe he was standing here, in front of the Priest, the man who had always treated him unjustly, the man who had been treacherous, the man who had turned into a traitor of the King. Surely, he would pay. He himself would get his reward; his devotion and sacrifices would not have been wasted. The Lord Ashnaz would see to that.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The rage of the Nazgûl was great as they found the temple deserted, their prey fled. Ashnaz shrieked his fury into the gathering clouds and smoke as Khamul threw down the remaining statues of the goddess, shattering their stones and breaking them with his sword. They ordered the orcs into the streets, sending them to seek out and to destroy the traitors. Then they took counsel with one another. They sought first to speak with Sauron, but his mind was once more distant from them, and obscured by some intervening force. They strove in will for a time against their enemy, but could not overcome it. Once, during the struggle, something in it had reminded Khamul of his former wife, Bekah…

With the failure of their attempt to seek their lord, they turned to one another. “I will see to the final destruction of the Elves,” Ashnaz said quietly. “I shall take the better part of the army and descend upon their quarter of the city with our vengeance.”

“And I shall seek out my children and see that they are hanged upon the gibbet,” Khamul hissed. “They will hide for a time, but I know where they shall go.”

“Indeed,” Ashnaz replied, who could see the thoughts forming in the mind of the creature who used to be Faroz, “they shall seek the Lady Arshalous and the Lord Korak, for they believe that only they can destroy you!” They laughed then, a hideous sound that sent the orcs scuttling for the far reaches of the square, their ragged hands covering their ears in disgust.

“Fools!” spat Khamul. “What care have I for letters or petty pieces of paper signifying who is rightful heir to the land? What need have I for a wife? We shall seize this land by the power and will of our Lord Sauron and rule it for the sake of his holy war. The armies of this place are mighty, and shall be mightier still. Already we have conquered Alanzia and now Pashtia has fallen. With the united powers of these realms, the whole of the East shall belong to us within a few years, and we can then move against our enemies in the West!”

They cried out and the stones of the surrounding walls shook in terror of the sound. Ashnaz raced toward the Elven quarter with the best part of the battalion at his back. For his part, Khamul raced through the streets to the home of Korak, sending the orcs ahead of him with orders to seize the Lady Arshalous and bring her to the place of her cousin.

There, he would show the people of this land the true meaning of power…

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

“Pelin! We must go! Here! We must run through this tunnel! Hurry!” Eyes wide, the Priest called in bewilderment. He looked at Pelin, anxious to run. How happy he was to see Pelin alive! When he had heard the sound of orcs roaming above, he had almost been certain that something had happened to Pelin. He had hoped that Pelin had managed to flee before the orcs had been able to harm him though. The sight of him now, him, standing at the bottom of the stairs in the dim light, made his heart jump. For a moment, the priest had thought he would leave the ruins of the Temple alone, perhaps never to see his friend again. For the first time, he was overjoyed by being wrong.

“The others, Zamara, the Royal children and their servants, have gone.” Breathing heavily, he pointed. Hurrying, he headed for the tunnel door. Not even he, who had spent many hours, even whole nights, had known about the secret tunnel. He had no idea where it led, but he knew one thing; this tunnel would be the only way out. With orcs swarming above, he had no chance of escaping if going up through the hatch again. A moment, the priest only listened to the sounds coming from the ground floor of the Temple. At last he concluded that there were only minutes before they would find the hatch and enter. If he had any hopes of not being discovered, he would have to leave now.

“Pelin! Come! Hurry! We don’t have much time!” Looking over his shoulder, he watched Pelin standing motionless in the middle of the room. His face was blank, and Pelin’s eyes gave him nothing but empty stares. What was wrong with him? Was he wounded? Horrified, he cast a glance before him; the tunnel stretched forwards; running through it was his only chance.. Seeing his friend, however, in such a state, he knew that evil had touched him. There was something wrong. Running over, he took Pelin by the hand. Instead of the willingness he had expected, there was resistance. With a melancholic smile, Pelin grasped him around his wrist, forced him to let go and pushed him over. Falling to the ground, the priest stared at his comrade in amazement.

“W-w-what is g-g-oing on...?” He stopped. Watching Pelin, he knew that evil had indeed touched him, but not in the way he had first thought. “No! No! Noooo! But... why?!? WHY?!?”

***

Pelin

The screams of the priest made him halfway smile. The pathetic creature lying on the ground in front of him had once been his tutor. He had never imagined seeing the Priest in such a state; his desperate presence seemed to grow lost with the truth that Pelin had been wearing a mask, that he was a man in disguise.

Pelin listened to the Priest cry. “What have you done?” Curses and foul words followed, ringing violently in his ears. Unaffected, Pelin started wandering about. He was in reality unsure of how to handle this. How was he to approach the doomed man? For all he knew, the priest had a knife or another dangerous object inside of his robes, and could within seconds take his life. He frowned, thinking. The power of the Lord Ashnaz had not left him. The Priest would get his punishment; telling the truth would be the mild part. With this his self esteem rose, and he felt the sensation of being in power. He was in control, he was the one who had surprised, not the other way around; surely, he would manage to take advantage of this.

“Why?” Pelin repeated. The priest sat up, staring fiercely at him. Pelin ignored him. It was his hour; the priest could try escaping, but deep inside, Pelin knew that he would stay put at least until the whole truth was revealed to him. By nature, Tarkan was a curious person; he would want to know how and why Pelin had deceived him.

“Why?!?!” Pelin said at last, his calm voice erupting. After the minutes of silence, he had dared break it. Taking a step closer, he cast the figure on the floor a disgusted look. “Constantly, you have been on my mind for the last couple of months,” he started. “You are correct. We have little time, or rather,you have little time. I won’t throw your precious time away, so I’ll be short.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

The door opened a crack and Zamara froze, feeling Siamak's body stiffen against hers at the same instant. Closing her eyes, she sent a prayer to Rhais, or to Rae, or...or to anyone who might be there. Since she had heard the voice in the Temple, that kindly voice, she had suspected as much: had suspected that there was more than her own goddess out there. That voice had conveyed hope, however distant: a voice from a land where there was yet light, when all the Priestess could see was darkness. What does it matter now? You couldn't understand the words she said: they were in another language. If you cannot understand the Goddess, how can she possibly understand or help you?

Trust in mankind, Zamara; trust in the man who is at this minute risking his life and everything he ever could have been for you.

Zamara opened her eyes. As the shutter opened further and the fingers of the light reached out to stroke her face, her eyes glittered darkly in reply. Reaching out, she caressed the hilt of Siamak's blade: the Prince himself seemed paralysed, his eyes fixed on the shutter.

"Prince Siamak?"

The words were little more than a whispered croak, disbelieving, fearful, yet with hope: the voice of an enemy? Zamara's brain barely processed the tone as her eyes widened and she tightened her finger's around the one weapon that the fugitive pair had between them. But Siamak reacted quite differently - as he pushed back his hood from his face, just for second, Zamara's heart stopped. Suicide. But the Prince's expression was one of glee as he took a tentative step forward. "Jarult?" he replied softly, his voice as incredulous as the stranger's. The stranger gave a muffled gasp and Siamak grinned widely, pushing his hood back fully and starting toward the window. Fearing to speak, although she knew they were doomed now, Zamara grabbed Siamak's arm desperately - but the prince seemed unconcerned. He half turned towards her, giving a small smile. "Zamara, it is alright: he is a friend." Ndding at her as he spoke, he turned to the stranger. "And this...is the High Priestess Zamara."

The stranger didn't move and Zamara was unable to see his face in the light against the backdrop of alleyway darkness, but she noticed, with the clarity of one who is about to die, that his hands were trembling very slightly. There came a scream from far off and Zamara ducked reflexively, spinning around, her fingers still twisted in Siamak's cloak, and the prince started, his hand jumping to hers. Wild-eyed, Zamara looked back at Siamak and whispered hoarsely, "Footsteps..."

The stranger must have heard them as well, for the shutter closed with a snap, shutting out the thin sliver of light and with it any hope of rescue. Or did it?

A moment later, there came the sound of multiple bolts being drawn back behind Zamara. Her hand leaping to her mouth to stop herself screaming, Zamara jumped back from it, flattening herself against the opposite alley wall - but the withered, lined face that appeared at the doorway was a vaguely familiar one. Her eyes widened and Siamak rolled his eyes. "Finally..." he muttered, grabbing her by the wrist and propelling the stunned woman forcibly into a dimly lit corridor, sparsely furnished but somehow homely: more homely than any place that either Siamak or Zamara had dwelt in for several months at least. Jarult's home.

Looking around the room, Zamara felt her knees buckling beneath her weight. Catching herself against the wall, she took a deep breath, trying to steady her fluttering pulse. Holding out a hand, she bowed her head to the man opposite, the man who had quite possibly just saved her life. "Jarult?" she hazarded, going from the word Siamak had hissed earlier. The man nodded and took her hand. Suddenly lost for words, Zamara simply gave him a grateful smile. "Thank...thank you. Thank you so much..."

The man waved her words away with his free hand, shaking his head as a broad smile cracked his weary face in half. "No, no, High Priestess, don't thank me; Siamak, you have no idea how I have longed for your face over these months."

"And I yours, old friend," the prince replied. As they began to talk, Zamara crept towards the window, her thoughts straying. The house seemed to consist of two modestly sized rooms on the ground floor and probably the same above, as most of the houses in the poorer districts did; as most of the houses around the Temple of Rhais did as well. The poor turned to the gods in the hopes of finding something more worthy in the next world than had been given in this, something that made this one worthwhile....as she had, she supposed. Zamara's fingers crept inside her cloak and she touched upon the medallion that she still wore, the one item that she would wear until her death, whether her position was recognised or not. Closing her eyes, Zamara reached out with her mind as she did in prayer. Thank you.

...and a flash of light crashed across her vision. The Priestess stumbled against the wall of Jarult's home...but it was no longer there, replaced by rough, dark stone, cold even through her cloak. But it was nothing to the cold that was coming, the chill that she could feel approaching, creeping slowly, insistently through her body, seeping like damp into every inch of her soul. Against it and the buffeting wind, the Priestess tightened her cloak around herself, shrinking against the unfamiliar wall, and all around her she could see shades rushing around her, past her, barely recognising her existence. And in return, she could not see their faces, could barely distinguish anything of them, grey shades of their former selves - living ghosts.

Another great flash of light seared Zamara's eyes and she winced, yet somehow, rather than covering her eyes, she strove to see beyond it. That was no flash of lightning: it had not rained or even come close to the storm that would be required for nearly a year. For a storm to come so suddenly and without any warning was impossible...

But impossibility didn't come close to what Zamara was about to witness.

Voices...voices....they rose in volume and pitch, getting gradually louder as the cold got steadily more intense, scraping their nails against her eardrums as the volume rose to a scream, high and terrified, chanting strange words over and over. A shade fell at Zamara's feet and reached up to her - but her desperate words were whipped away and after an instant she shrivelling away, like ashes scattered to the window. Paralised, Zamara raised her eyes to look up...

Just as there had been in her dream. Horsemen...there were horsemen riding upon the shadow, shades of men, cloaked and covered from head to toe in black, their faces invisible, each bearing a sword in one hand. And on the other hand...

Zamara's fingers tightened on her medal and one of the horsemen jerked visibly, his horse rearing as his hands pulled back viciously against it's bit. As Zamara gripped the medal fiercely, standing her ground against the wind and the storm of shadows, the figure raised it's sword and pointed towards her...

...but the blow never came - or not from the horseman anyway. A sudden, stinging slap across her face sent her reeling against the wall and she bit back the pain, lashing out with one hand and in the process letting go of the medal. The woman who had slapped her laughed and leapt back, spry for an older woman - or maybe just well practised. She smiled grimly, raising one eyebrow. "Welcome back, High Priestess - how do you feel? What...what happened?"

Zamara's eyes widened in disbelief and she struggled to sit up further, slumped as she was against the wall. Blinking several times, she cocked her head to one side. "Daliyah?" Her response to seeing the woman, so coincidental and perfect in its timing, was as disbelieving as Siamak's had been upon recognising Jarult. The old healer smiled and nodded, squeezing Zamara's hand. The Priestess gazed at her, amazed - then remembered the flash of light across her vision and the terrified foreign chanting and sat up. "By Rhais...Siamak, the elves! The Emissary is destroying them!"

[Novnarwen]

“I’m tired of your manipulation and controlling. Now, at last I’m in control, and there’s nothing you can do to change that.” As Pelin spoke, it seemed that time stood still. Tarkan could not believe what he witnessed. Had Pelin been in league with the King all this time? Clearly, Pelin hated him. For what reason, he was unsure. The Priest admitted willingly that he had been harsh with Pelin from time to time, but that this could be the source of such hatred Pelin expressed, he simply couldn’t understand.

Sinking to the floor, as he could not bear sitting straight, he tried to recall Pelin’s moves over the last months. There was nothing.. or.. maybe.. Tonight! When Pelin had left early in the morning, he had said he would be back in a few hours, and yet, he had not returned before nightfall. Shuddering, he realised that Pelin’s deception had been carefully planned. Tarkan himself had been a part of a game, a game, he hoped, that had yet to announce a winner.

He stared at Pelin for a while, not knowing what to say. There was no way out. Pelin was about twenty years younger, and could easily block the tunnel entrance if he tried running towards it. He could even call the orcs to come assist him. No, he needed to keep Pelin, keep him down here as long as possible.

“I d-d-don’t und-d-derstand. You’ve d-done all of this b-b-because you’re ang-gry with me?” Tears were in his eyes as he said this. Stuttering madly, he held on to the thought of his freedom if he managed to out-manoeuvre Pelin in some way. “This was the only opportunity we had to set things right!” he called. He felt the energy in his body leaving him, draining him from the will and strength he needed to overcome this. What bothered him the most was that the situation he found himself in, was a situation he’d never pictured himself being in. Treachery! Treachery! Pelin had deceived him!

“That is what I am doing. I’m setting things right.”

“What you’re doing is wrong! How can you betray me? How can you in good conscience send me to certain death, when you know that I was the one who raised you!” There was no power in the Priest’s voice as he spoke, only words of a desperate man trying to convince his executioner to let him go. “I’ve been… like a father to you.“

“You have been no such thing! You have laughed at me when I’ve tried my very best, humiliated me in public to promote yourself and thus, I have been excluded from meetings ….” There was a slight pause before he continued, “and banquets.”

“The banquet? The arrival of the Emissary?” The absurdness of this event seemed never to end. “That’s over six months ago, and I was there as the half-brother of the King more than a Priest,” he muttered. Was Pelin holding everything he could recall as unjust against him? For over six months he had plotted his destruction, and for over six months he had hid it. How blind I have been, he thought, the only person I have come to trust with time, has betrayed me.

He heard the yelling of the foul orcs above his head. He felt hatred, but not towards Pelin. His feelings were directed towards the evil that had poisoned Pasthia over six months ago. Pelin was a weak person, more so than he had ever realised. Power and control had been what Pelin had striven for, and when not receiving it from Tarkan, his friend had been driven to madness by the Emissary. He wondered if Pelin had ever met the King. It didn’t matter though. Nothing did. He bit his lip. He was wrong. The importance of Zamara and the Royal Children’s successful escape mattered. They might not have believed his story. Eventually, they would however.

The hatch broke open.

“Take him to my master. He wants him alive,” Pelin said instantly. The coldness in his voice gave everything away. If it was up to himself, Tarkan would be dead already. Watching Pelin, he saw him smirking as he continued; ”If he tries anything, you’re welcome to do whatever you wish. Make sure it’s painful. Understood?”

The moment he was dragged up from the floor, and the stank from the orcs filled his nostrils, he prayed in the name of Rae that his only hope, the Priestess and the Royal Children, had made it.

[Firefoot]

"By Rhais...Siamak, the elves! The Emissary is destroying them!"

Siamak, surprised by Zamara's sudden outburst, looked up at her. "What?" He had been quickly filling Jarult in on the events of the past day or so, starting with Zamara's sudden arrival at the palace. He was certain of Jarult's trustworthiness, and he figured that Jarult would aid them best if he was knowledgeable of the situation. For his part, Jarult listened mostly in silence, nodding as the pieces fell into place. He would have heard the news, of course, but for example Zamara's escape had been a mystery to him. In light of Zamara's recent statement, however, the old Chamberlain was momentarily forgotten. "What do you mean the Emissary is destroying the Elves? How do you know?" He nearly winced at that last question - bad question, best not to know. He knew Zamara wouldn't be lying at any rate, though maybe she was dazed or something after all that stress... "Never mind. Just what do you mean?" Siamak knew he sounded frazzled, and he was - he had finally been relaxing in the relative comfort and safety of Jarult's home when she had dropped this news on him.

"It's what the Orcs were sent out to do tonight," explained Zamara with certainty. "They were ordered to destroy the Elves.” Siamak could see some memory of a horror in Zamara’s eyes, not as something she had experienced but rather witnessed. Not surprising: from what he had seen of Orcs thus far, which was not a lot but enough, they would only be content with utter annihilation.

Siamak sighed. He had thought their part of the excitement of this night was over, but clearly they had more yet to do. “Well, we’ll have to do something. Without aid, the Elves are as good as done for: they will be unwarned and what’s more, they have already been herded into a small section of the city. But… we could be too late. How long has it been since the Orcs came to the temple? They will have had at least that long; surely the assault has already begun. Save being destroyed with them, what is there for us to do?”

In the quiet of the room, Jarult’s voice was heard clearly, “Prince Siamak, there are others beside yourselves who are loyal to Pashtia as it was, as it ought to be. They will support you; you are not in this alone.”

“Could the city be raised?” asked Zamara speculatively. “Do we have time?”

Siamak was thinking along a different line. “The army,” he murmured. “Not the Orcs, but the real Pashtian army. They have been ousted of their positions in all but name, their role having been taken by the Orcs. They are trained armsmen, and can be alerted quickly. And the General, he is Avari, surely he will help-” Siamak faltered for a moment. He is an Elf, the Elves are being destroyed… “I do not know how much time we have, but it is not much. The Elves will fight back; this will give us some time. Both the army and the civilians” – he nodded towards Zamara, acknowledging her previous comment – “need to be raised. This night has led from one risk unto another, and it now may be that this is our last chance – all or nothing.”

[Imladris]

The cool night was ripped with the screaming orcs as they neared Arshalous's mansion. She watched Semra slip into the shadows and disappear...it had taken some work persuading Semra to flee, but she had finally obeyed. And now what would she, Arshalous, do? Flee with Semra? Sit and wait?

Sighing, she walked to her chambers and knelt at the foot of her bed before an old and weathered trunk. Turning the key in the lock, she creaked the lid open, and took a slim dagger from within the trunk. The simple blade gleamed in the dim moonlight.

Gripping the handle, breathing quickly, she once again considered what she must do. Pashtia had fallen into darkness, there was naught she could do against the tide. Her death would serve no purpose, would not rescue Pashtia from the fist of the Emissary and his Lord. Flee today...fight tomorrow a voice whispered in her ear.

No....she could not flee. Fleeing stunk of cowardice and uncontroled fear.

Now she could hear the trampling feet of the orcs and glancing out the window she could see a dark shadow streak towards her. Even if she wished to flee it would be too late.

She glanced fondly at the scrolls of tales that were collected in her room, and it was then that Arshalous fully realized that they were in just another story still in the writing. And, as such, the time for great deeds had come. Too long had the citizens of Pashtia allowed The Emissary to manipulate them and their king to darkness. She was tired of sneaking in the shadows, wondering who to trust with the constant fear of betrayal poisoning her. Tonight she would fight against the black tide, and, in all likelyhood, die against this evil. She did not fear Death -- she embraced him for he would save her from existing where darkness and lies rose like a dying sun over the wasted land.

She girded the dagger at her waist and waited in her chambers. The orcs burst through the front door and rampaged through the house looking for her. Finally they found their way to her chambers. She gripped her dagger more firmly, and stared at the swarm of orcs in front of her, at their barred yellowed fangs dripping with spit. They rushed at her, but only one was able to force its way through the narrow entry and into the chamber. She slashed at him aiming for his throat, but instead struck his face and gashed his eye out. More tumbled into the room and she pressed herself into a corner, slashing wildly as she did so. One of the brutes knocked her down, another stepped on her wrist and kicked the dagger out of reach as she grasped frantically for it.

They bound her wrists and dragged her from the house, ignoring her furious struggle to escape.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

By the time Khamûl arrived at the mansion of the Lord Korak it was already ablaze. The servants had been dragged forth and killed by the orcs, and only the family remained alive. The old woman shivered in the night air and in her terror. Before her, confused and afraid was Korak himself. He had been called from his bed and was hastily dressed in a cloak and boots. As he saw the form of the Nazgûl rise up before him his face became ashen and his limbs shook. He tried to speak but the words would not come.

Khamûl’s laughter was as flesh being torn from the bone, and the old woman fell to the ground at the noise. Korak bent to help her but the orcs restrained him, and laughed at her weakness where she lay. “Lord Korak,” Khamûl hissed at him from within the folds of his robes. “You do not recognise me. I am your King and father-in-law.”

The Lord’s eyes went wide. “Faroz?”

“No,” he hissed in return. “Khamûl. I belong to the lord Sauron now, as does this land. You do not know Him yet, but you will, soon. Yes, all shall know Him soon.”

“I…I don’t understand,” the man stuttered.

“Then die in ignorance,” and the wraith raised his sword above his head, and it glittered in the firelight as though it were itself aflame. But Korak did not quail or look away. Finding some reserve of strength and courage in him yet, he held his back rigid and stared into the empty space where he deemed the wraith’s eyes would be. A company of orcs ran up, dragging along with them the shackled form of the Lady Arshalous. Khamûl stayed his hand, a new idea forming in his mind. His children had not been found here, as he had supposed. He would need to contain them, and the High Priestess, quickly – before they could spread the contagion of their disloyalty amongst the disaffected officers of his Army. The orcs were in control of the City, but beyond its walls the army of Men was encamped.

He lowered his weapon and gazed upon his son-in-law and the lady that was to have been his wife. Their eyes fell toward the ground as he bent the terror of his will upon them. “Bring them to the temple,” he ordered. They moved through the streets quickly, the Lord and Lady seeing about them scenes of monstrous cruelty the likes of which had never even intruded into their imaginations for they passed near to the quarter of the City that had been set aside for the Avari. Not an Elf remained alive, that they could see, but for those which were being kept alive for the depraved pleasure of their tormentors. The buildings were all aflame and there was about the scene a terrible silence that was worse than any scream of agony.

They soon reached the square which lay before the temple, where they found the High Priest Tarkan awaiting the return of Khamûl in chains. He ordered that they be chained together and made to stand before a hastily erected gallows. As this was being done a party of orcs arrived from the Palace, bearing with them a hideous cargo. They handed three horribly mutilated shapes to their lord and as he seized them he seemed to grow in size and malevolence, until the very ground seemed to crawl in revulsion of his touch. He turned to the prisoners and threw the things at their feet, and though the prisoners looked immediately away it was not in time to avoid seeing what their King had done. At their feet, blackened with violence and terror, their features distorted by agony, were the heads of the General Morgós, his wife Arlome, and of their son Evrathol.

He spoke to them then. “You have all conspired against me and will suffer the doom of death for that. But your passing can be quick. Tell me where your allies are and I shall order the orcs to place you upon that gallows now where your agony will be brief. Obey me, and this boon I shall grant you. Deny me and I shall give you to the orcs for their playthings. They shall keep you alive for weeks, months…and in the end you will plead for death. And when you do, you shall be brought before me, and I will strip you of your mortal flesh until all that remains is your cold and naked spirit, howling in the wind of my fury.”

[Imladris]

Arshalous remained silent. Cold tendrils of fear were choking her, and she was trembling violently as she tried to block out the screams of terror, the scenes of unspeakable horror, the stench of hopeless doom. She closed her eyes, and gasped for breath. The images of the heads of the elven family rose like phantoms in her mind, disappearing and reappearing at will whenever she tried to push them from her memory...

“You have all conspired against me and will suffer the doom of death for that. But your passing can be quick. Tell me where your allies are and I shall order the orcs to place you upon that gallows now where your agony will be brief. Obey me, and this boon I shall grant you. Deny me and I shall give you to the orcs for their playthings. They shall keep you alive for weeks, months…and in the end you will plead for death. And when you do, you shall be brought before me, and I will strip you of your mortal flesh until all that remains is your cold and naked spirit, howling in the wind of my fury.”

The prisoners remained strangely silent, and Arshalous wondered why. However horrific this being was, he deserved an answer, to not answer was half hearted defiance, weakness. If they did not answer they would die with their heads hanging in defeat. A full victory for the...twisted thing of evil who had once been their King. With an effort she raised her head, and stilled her trembling. "We have not conspired against you," she said with some difficulty. Her mouth was dry with fear, lips chaffed with the rising of the wind. "You were blinded with the soft coming of darkness; did not see what we saw, for you were blinded with pretty lies; did not realize what was clearly apparent to us. It was against that which we fought, which we conspired. Not against you, our once Lord King."

[Firefoot]

It was not long before Siamak was again hurrying through the dark streets of Kanak. After Jarult had oriented him to their position in the city, they had decided that it would be best to go straight to the army, camped outside the city walls. Siamak had wanted to see Morgôs, yet, even if the General were still alive, he could not afford the time to get to the palace, nor did Siamak know how he would get back in. And while he made his trip to the army, Zamara and Jarult were working out how to raise the rest of the city and, hopefully, get news.

So now he rushed on to the great gate of the city, which was closer than Siamak had realized. He only hoped that there would be few Orcs guarding it… he wondered hopefully whether they might have abandoned their posts in the ‘excitement’ going on in other parts of the city. From what he had seen of the vile creatures, he would not put it past them.

The further he went without hearing any sound of pursuit, indeed, any sign of life, the less uneasy he became. He still was wary, but it was nevertheless a relief to hear the Orcs’ cries coming from the center of the city growing fainter and fainter, almost out of earshot.

So when Siamak heard an Orkish cry not too far away, he could feel his heart jump into his throat. He quickly ducked into the shadows of a nearby doorway, waiting anxiously. When no Orcs came, however, Siamak realized they must be nearer to the gate than he had thought. He crept out of the doorway and down the street, drawing his sword quietly. He peered around the corner of the last building on the street and saw, as expected, the gate of the city. It was guarded by four Orcs, one of them apparently dead. The others stood round it, jeering at the corpse. Siamak pushed back a grim laugh. His father would regret the day he decided to replace the army of Pashtia with these… creatures.

He paused for a moment, but what had to be done had to be done, after all, and they had to get through that gate. Swiftly he jumped out from behind the building and within seconds it was done: the three remaining Orcs had joined their dead comrade. The one Orc who had actually seen him had not even had time to draw his blade. Siamak felt a wave of revulsion rush through him at the killings as he wiped his blade of the black Orkish blood on the garment of one of the Orcs.

Before leaving the city, he dragged the bodies of the Orcs out of the open. A needless precaution, perhaps, but he wasn’t taking any chances. A few precious minutes later he moved onto the gate. It was sturdy, but once unlatched it swung open easily and soundlessly on its hinges. This was the first part of the battle won: he was through the gate.

Siamak’s gaze quickly alighted on the glow of campfires a short distance away. “That way,” he muttered, and strode off. Perhaps two-thirds of the way there he was stopped by a youthful figure calling, “Who goes there?” Youthful, Siamak thought him, then realized that the soldier standing before him could not have been more than two years younger than himself.

“Hold that question for a few minutes, and I will answer it,” said Siamak. “I would ask you a question first…” Now came the first delicate part of his plan. He needed to know how the ordinary soldiers felt, and he felt sure he would not get an honest answer if they knew his identity.

“Go on…” said the youth, hand straying to sword hilt.

“Where do your loyalties lie?”

The soldier frowned at him and did not say anything for a long moment. “To Pashtia,” he finally answered. “I serve my country.”

“And the rest of the army… do they feel the same?”

He did not hesitate this time, answering sharply. “Who are you, and why do you want to know? You have come here, and it is our right to judge you before you judge us.”

“Very well,” answered Siamak. “I ask because much is afoot tonight, the services of the army will be needed, and in service to Pashtia, though not, perhaps, to its king. As to myself, I am the Prince Siamak. I must see the commanding officers. By the time we are done, the army needs to be ready to fight. Can you spread that word?” Siamak had watched the play of emotions on the young man’s face, from suspicion to disbelief to readiness, but shining through it all was hope.

He nodded. “Yes, m’lord, I will. Come with me.” He turned and led Siamak into the camp. He spoke to a few men before they reached a rather larger tent towards the middle of the camp. These pauses gave Siamak time to get a good look at the camp. Many men sat awake tonight, no doubt brooding over the unrest in the city. Now, Siamak could see that there was burning in the city by the dull orange glow and thick smoke billowing out over the city. Time was running out.

The two filed into the tent and Siamak found himself facing five men. The tent itself was fairly roomy; tables bearing various papers and maps were set up along the sides. Siamak guessed (correctly) that this was the makeshift headquarters now that the army had been ousted of its former spacious grounds.

“The Prince Siamak to see Captains Adbullar, Memon, Iskender, Gyges, and Aysun,” announced the soldier (though he gave no indication of which man belonged to which name), and with that he bowed and exited, leaving Siamak alone with the captains. The captains bowed as well in proper Pashtian fashion and sat down on low cushions. Siamak did likewise. He could not read their emotions and prayed that this would go easily and quickly. When none of them spoke, he plunged in.

“I am the Prince Siamak,” he said, though he knew it had already been stated, “and I act in the name of Pashtia. Khamul the king is no longer fit to rule and destroys his country; my sister Gjeelea is in agreement with this, though I do not know if she yet lives. In such circumstances the rightful rule of Pashtia falls to me.” He could not tell if the captains were accepting this, and so he played his trump. “In addition, the General Morgôs, whom I pray still lives, swore fealty to me some months ago, giving me the power to command him and thereby the army.” He could see that there was some surprise at this statement and that he now had their full attention. “I am in need of these services now. If something is not done tonight, Pashtia may well fall into the utter darkness and shadow brought by the Emissary of the west. Already, the light and glory of Pashtia has faded considerably. The land is despoiled, the people are disheartened and fearful, the army is disgraced and replaced by the foul race of Orcs. The time has come for you to fight for your country and yourselves, for your rights and your liberty, for your friends, your families, and all that Pashtia once was. The time has come, and there are no more bystanders. Either you aid your country or hasten its downfall. Which will you do?” He was resolved now, and a fell light was in his eyes. The captains looked upon him now with new expressions: one doubtful, one hopeful, one uncomfortable, one thoughtful, and the fifth resolute and ready.

“You ask something of us that would be treasonous, something that should require further deliberation,” objected the third man.

Siamak looked him straight in the face. “Treasonous only to a mad king, not to Pashtia. And there is no time for deliberation. The Elves are being destroyed; parts of the city are burning. The time to act is now.”

“If you will excuse us for a moment,” muttered the first man, and for the next couple of long minutes the five men turned to each other and held a whispered debate. Siamak was on the point of wondering if they would ever reach agreement when one pulled away from the others. “I care not what the rest of you decide. I will follow the prince who I deem to be the rightful lord of Pashtia.”

“And I,” said two more. With that, the remaining two agreed, not quite readily but not reluctantly either. In a short matter of time all five captains had sworn fealty and Siamak was outlining his plan.

“The Orcs in the city outnumber the men you have here, I think,” said Siamak. “However, they are otherwise occupied and will not be expecting a concerted attack. We must go in secrecy into the city and attack at once, before there is time for the Orcs to be organized. I do not know very much about what is happening in the city, however, I would guess that there is more afoot than the destruction of the Elves, and that Khamul and the Emissary will be down commanding things. If this is so, everything will probably come to a head in the middle of the city, in the square of the new temple. We know little for sure, though, so communication will be vital. We need to move into the city as soon as possible. All right?”

One of them nodded. “I hope this will go quickly. However, it will take some time to get the men assembled and organized…”

“I think,” said Siamak as they all stood to go, “that you will find most of them already set to go.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Khamul stepped close to the Lady Arshalous. He loomed over her, a black shape against the smoke and reek that lay over the City. He stayed that way for a time, gazing down at her, and at first she was able to return into the blank space beneath his cloak a gaze that was strong and determined. But quickly, her face faltered and fell, and she sagged visibly. But still Khamul bore down upon her with the force of his terrible will, pushing her to the ground where she kneeled as though under the scourge of whips. Khamul reached toward her with his hand, the Ring now glowing upon it like an angry red eye.

Seizing her about the neck he lifted her once more to her feet where two orcs took hold of her arms and held her upright, for she fainted from the black terror of the Breath that had come over her, and her neck burned with the fierce freezing cold of his black hand.

Khamul felt the presence of Ashnaz in the courtyard and he turned from his prey to greet his friend. To mortal eyes there was no way to distinguish between the wraiths, but to Khamul his friend glowed forth with the white light of virtue through the robes that obscured his true form. His blade was out and it shone red with blood and fire. "We have slain many of the Elves!" he cried, "but too many as well have escaped. There are those among the mortals of this realm who sympathise with the Avari, and who have helped them out of the City."

"What of the Royal Children?" Khamul asked. "Have they been found?"

"No. But there are rumours that at least one of them has left the City and sought the help of the Army."

Khamul hissed. "Treachery! Blasphemous treachery of the most detestable kind!"

"Indeed brother, but fear not. I have sent messages to the orc commanders. Most of their maggots have gone wild with their play. They have taken to fighting with one another over the spoils of this place, but there are enough of the dougtier races who have remained controllable. I have ordered that they be assembled here with all speed, although it may yet take some time."

"Good, good, brother, but we must not forget the demon Priestess and her followers. They must be found!"

"I have taken thought to that -- a batallion scours the quarter where they were last seen, they shall soon be found."

"Very well," Khamul cried. "Let the traitors come to us with their pathetic army. We shall crush them here, in the very square of their now dead Goddess, and with their bones we shall kindle a pyre in praise of Morgoth!"

[Firefoot]

Siamak had told the young soldier that he wanted the army prepared to fight by the time he was done with the commanders, but he was nevertheless surprised at how fast the word had spread throughout the large camp. Not a single horn had been sounded nor a shouted command issued, but all across the camp men were emerging from their tents, fully armed and ready for battle. Nor were they men half-asleep and irritated with the irksome hour between midnight and dawn. The same hope that had been evident in the young soldier’s face had run rampant throughout the camp.

The five captains were clearly surprised at this, and a couple cast curious looks at him, but otherwise they seemed to take this turn of events all in stride. One of them stepped aside and spoke a few words to an officer standing nearby, who then saluted smartly with a “Yessir,” and headed off. In a few moments the whole of the camp was in motion But the six of them headed through the camp, clearly going somewhere, though Siamak was not precisely sure where, and as they walked, they further developed their strategy for the taking of the city. Siamak was content to listen, knowing these men had far more battle experience than he did, and only occasionally chipped in with thoughts and ideas.

Their plan quickly took shape. On the assumption that the largest part of the Orcs would be gathered in the central square of the city, their first force under control of Adbullar and Gyges, just large enough to give battle, would attack these Orcs straight on. They would allow themselves to be overwhelmed and retreat back through the narrower streets where the Orcs would not be able to use their larger numbers to their advantage. On these streets as well would be stationed archers and small troops, under Memnon’s command, prepared to ambush the Orcs and cause confusion amongst them, preferably cutting off lines of communication. At the same time, a second force under Aysun and Iskender would have already gone around through the city in secrecy and would attack the Orcs on their rear. A delicate plan, to be sure: all depended on surprise and confusion of their enemies, and so many parts that could go wrong…

It was not until they stopped that Siamak realized that they were before the whole of the army, now nearly assembled into their ranks. Before the Captains began giving orders, Siamak put in one more word: “If possible, Khamul and the Emissary are to be captured. The Emissary’s men may be killed if need be, however, I would prefer not to have this be the start of a larger war with the foreign lord Annatar, though it may be so anyway. The important part is that Khamul is captured.” He paused for a moment. “Oh, and also: I am almost certain that there will have been some of the Avari (and maybe others as well) taken captive. If there is opportunity, a rescue attempt should be made.”

“As my lord wishes,” answered one of them with a nod. The orders that followed were a blur of divisions and names to Siamak. He did realize when one of them was about to give the order to set forth, however, and stopped him with a soft, “Wait.” The captain, the first to pledge his support, fell silent.

Siamak stepped forward, feeling the eyes of the thousands of men upon him. “Men, fellow Pashtians, tonight we begin a battle to wrest our country from a tyrant that has all but destroyed it. It is not just for your country that you fight, however; it is for yourselves, for your families, for your homes. Though it was myself and Gjeelea my sister and the High Priestess Zamara that began this revolution, it will be you that determine its outcome – your courage, your valiance, and your love. For though the foul Orcs outnumber you, they fight only because those are their orders. You, though, fight for a cause, that peace may once more reign over this once-fair land. For months you have watched as Pashtia fell deeper into the shadow of the west, unable to do anything. Now is your chance to turn the tide. The fate of everything you hold dear rests on this battle. Now is the time to fight so that when the dawn comes the red sun will rise on a new Pashtia!”

And so they set forth. They bore no torches to light their way, and even the moon had set, leaving them in total dark. How many hours before this endless night ended? Two? Three? More?

It seemed an eternity as the army trickled in through the gate. For himself, Siamak had deigned to go with the first force in the initial attack. This force set off directly through the city; Siamak highly doubted that they had achieved the gate unnoticed by all. His father would no doubt be searching for himself (and, of course, Gjeelea and Zamara), and it was difficult to move so many men in utter secrecy. And if they knew of anything, it would be best if this force were known and not the second force or the guerilla groups dispersed throughout the streets.

As they drew nearer to the square, the streets widened and their ranks broadened. They turned a final corner and the square was upon them, and the Orcs seemed to await them. Siamak had hardly time to process this information before the first clash of sword on sword rang through the air. A Pashtian horn sounded, and an Orkish horn answered it in harsh tones. Blood, red and black alike, ran in the square. The battle for Pashtia had begun.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Far from that central square where battle began to build in silence, in a small, unlit terraced house, silence also reigned. As still and expressionless as the statues at the gates of Pashtia, Zamara sat straightbacked and silent in a chair in Jarult's house, staring straight forward as if in some silent vigil. But it was not upon any target or landscape that her eyes were fixed, but rather at some point seemingly beyond the dingey creamy-grey of Jarult's wall, fixed upon that point with such fierce intensity that it seemed as if she had almost stopped breathing such was her concentration. The only sign of life that the Priestess showed were in her fingers, constantly moving: one moment absently straightening her robes in her lap, the second moment running the tips distractedly down the velvet of her cloak; and most of all, flitting almost nervously over her medallion, always darting away before they settled there, moths drawn to a flame but nervous and unsure of what would happen if they settled on the ruby's fierce, dark flame.

From her position at the window, the second figure in the room watched the Priestess sidelong through hooded eyes, as if waiting for her to make some move. Daliyeh and Zamara had talked long before, after Siamak had left, speaking with the urgency of those condemned about each other, about Pashtia, about the Queen, even about the goddess herself - a goddess that Daliyeh had begun to doubt ever since her very profession had been warped and blackened by her forced tending to the orcs; a goddess who Zamara had seen and hoped- no, believed would come to their rescue. Maybe it was on this point that they had fallen silent, neither wanting to shatter the other's vision and both desperate to hold onto what they had. So now the talking had ceased and only silence reigned: reigned over this tiny, frozen kingdom in which the two subjects, Priestess and Healer, used to taking command and being in charge, were utterly helpless. Frozen.

Suddenly Zamara started up, knocking the chair over in her haste, her eyes wide and her head cocked slightly to one side as if listening, a desert hare alert as the fox approaches. Daliyeh started slightly at the sudden movement, but was then fully on her feet. "What, what is it?" she whispered, fearfully.

"Did you not hear that?" Zamara replied, her tones also hushed. Daliyeh opened her mouth to reply, but Zamara held up a hand suddenly, her eyes staring into a different beyond as she listened intently. A smile, half fearful, half excited, flitted across her fine, dark features and she nodded almost imperceptibly. "There," she replied, her voice little more than a sigh. She smiled more widely this time and nodded as the sound repeated itseld, striding out into the hall and grabbing her cloak, throwing it over her shoulders. Daliyeh, perplexed, remained still, then she too heard the sound: a horn, a horn blowing in the distance. She gasped quietly, her hand coming to her mouth, then she ran out to Zamara where the Priestess stood with her hand on the doorknob. "Zamara, wait!"

The Priestess turned to look at her, and for a moment Daliyeh drew back as something in the younger woman's eyes flashed that was perhaps not entirely unlike what Zamara herself had seen in the eyes of the Nazgul: something ancient, deep and dark, beyond it's bearer and beyond Pashtia itself. But the old healer had seen much in the last few months that would have made any weaker than herself quell and fall away in horror, and she was made of stronger stuff than that: her hand remained on Zamara's arm. "Priestess, please, wait. Where will you go?"

"Siamak does not want me there; therefore I must go to him." The reply was soft yet measured and totally determined. Zamara seemed somehow distant: part of her had already reached the square where the battle was being fought, and stood already beside the young prince. But the part that remained now turned to Daliyeh, her dark eyes pleading with her, the blue flashing in the brown. "I must go to him, Daliyeh."

The old healer searched the priestess's face for a moment, trying to find some logic, some reason, some hope. But as Zamara turned the doorknob and stepped out into the darkness, all Daliyeh could see was the face of a young woman who had seen far more than she should have, a woman who had passed a premature death and who, in her second chance, now balanced the fate of a people on shoulders too young to bear it. She pursed her lips and let go of Zamara's arm, but signalled for her to wait a moment as she disappeared into the dim half-light of Jarult's home, emerging a few moments later bearing a long, slender item wrapped in cloth. Zamara gave her a questioning look as she took the surprisingly heavy item, then unwrapped it. Recognition dawned and, grasping the hilt of the old chamberlain's sword, she pulled it free from its hilt in a sudden fierce motion, turning the blade so that it glimmered dully in the moonlight, the stars flashing off a blade old yet fierce yet - not unlike the Pashtian people themselves. She smiled.

Replacing the sword in its hilt, the younger woman awkwardly wrapped the belt around her waist, and as she stepped out into the street the weight of it thumped against her leg, both awkward and reassuring at the same time. Looking up at the stars in the clear, desert sky that greeted her, Zamara imagined how many people were looking at those very same stars right at that very same moment; and how many of them would live to see the next morning. Turning back to the healer, Zamara took a deep breath and kissed the old woman's hands lightly in an unspoken thanks. Daliyeh smiled bravely in return, a mother watching her child go off to fight the impossible foe, and sniffed, turning away: hardened though Daliyeh had become by her trade, she was not past the tears that now sparkled in her old, dim eyes. "May the gods go with you, Priestess; may they help you to win this fight."

Zamara looked up at the stars above, then fixed her eyes again at Daliyeh, that look of wisdom beyond her years settling in them once more. She smiled sadly. "Oh, Daliyeh," she replied softly, the soft, wistful smile sighing across her features. "We cannot win this fight."

And with that she was gone, hood pulled up and cloak wrapped around her as she blended into the darkness of the starless shadows and hastened to find Siamak; hastened to the battle that would decide all of their fates.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

My Lord Sauron, give me, I beseech thee, the strength to defeat your enemies, and the will to see them punished for their treachery.

Khamul strode through the ranks of the orcs, his naked blade shining with the light of the Ring. Below him, where the square dropped from the top of the low hill upon which stood the former High Temple of the Goddess, he could see his son leading the mortal troops of Pashtia in their hopeless charge. The Pasthtians’ approach had been watched by orc spies and their quickest runners had been sent to assemble the captains. Ashnaz had taken command of the flank and Khamul took control of the main force upon the brow of the hill. The initial charge of the Men brought their force far up the hill, and at first the orcs gave way, as though overcome by the skill of the Pashtians. Slowly, painfully, and a terrible price, the Prince Siamak approached the place where his father stood amid the flaming ruins of the Temple. Smoke curled about the black shape of nightmare that had been the King, and despite the roar of battle there hung about his haggard form the silence of the void: as though the black space beneath his hood were the gateway to the realm of the dead. Despite their losses and their terror of the thing that awaited them atop the hill, the Men of Pashtia fought on, aided as they could be by those few civilians who yet remained in the City with the will and the ability to fight. What had begun as a well ordered battle became a brawl, as Men and orcs tore at one another with whatever weapons came to hand and, when none could be found, with their bare hands.

Slowly, the line of the orcs was driven back, closer and closer to where Khamul stood. The main force of the orc army had yet to be assembled and while those who were here gathered were the mightiest of the race, they were too few to withstand the full attack of the well-trained Pashtian Men. For too long had the army been made to watch as these monsters defiled the land and attacked its people. For too long had they been bereft of dignity by their displacement from the City by this foreign army, and for too long had they sat and done nothing, rendered leaderless and uncertain by the loss of their General. But now with the Prince Royal at their head, this young lad so quickly transformed into a Man, his unseen promise for so long hidden but now shining forth – with Siamak to guide them, they fought as Men possessed…and died by the hundreds. For though they were gaining ground, the orcs made them pay for each step up the hill with blood. The gutters ran red, and the stones smoked with gore. Still they pressed on.

Khamul screamed. It was a sound that stopped the Men of Pashtia dead, as it climbed above the sound of war and struck the very night dumb with mortal terror. The shriek of the Nazgul in his wrath clouded their minds with fear and doubt, and some among them faltered and began to turn. Only the Prince Siamak held them to their purpose in that moment, overcoming his fear and pressing ahead with the battle, felling the large captain of the main force of the orcs. But their hope was short lived, for Khamul’s scream was echoed of a sudden to their right, and from the alleys and roads which lay that way poured a new force of orcs, which swarmed toward them like maggots. The Emissary, the Lord of the Nazgul, was at their head and in his fury none could withstand him. The orcs upon the hill renewed their attack with greater ferocity as the Wraiths’ trap was finally sprung, and the Men were forced back down the hill into the waiting jaws of the orc re-enforcements.

Now it was the turn of the mortal Men of Pashtia to give way, but there was nowhere for them to run. Caught between the two forces of orcs, each one led by their terrible commanders, they were forced into a large circle which fought for its life. The Nazgul now fought alongside the orcs, slaying Men like cattle, and sending the living into a frenzy of terror. The Prince called about him the commanders of his army and ordered them to help him lead an attack down the hill. “To me! To me, Pashtians!” he cried, brandishing his sword above his head. “There is yet hope!” The army followed him and they attacked the orcs at one point, trying to drive trough the ring before it could be completely formed, and thus make their escape. The battle stood in the balance, and the very air held its breath.

From the distance came the clear sound of horns. The Men’s hearts were lifted with a nameless joy, and the orcs cursed the sound for the pain it caused their ears. “The Elves! The Elves are coming!” Siamak cried out. And from the other side of the hill, pouring through the ruins of the Temple, came a force of Avarin their silver blades shining in the night like stars, and with them came the High Priestess herself, calling out to the Men of Pashtia not to lose hope, and to fight on. They rushed down the hill, attacking the rear of the main force of orcs, and once more the battle began to turn. The Elves were not many, for the decimation of their people had been great and the survivors were scattered throughout the City, but the force which burned in them was an agony to the orcs, whose hearts quailed.

But the hope of the Men soon faltered and died, for at the sight of the Elves the Nazgul were thrown into a rage so great that they seemed to swell and grow, taking on unnatural size. They threw back the hoods of their cloaks and lo! upon their invisible brows they wore circlets of iron, and in their mailed fists their swords burst into cold flame. They rushed through the ranks of Men, killing and scattering them as though they were nothing, and they met the attack of the Elves, who fell back in terror. For though they were of the Elder race, they were the Avarin who had refused the call to go into the West. None among them had beheld the glories of the Valar, nor had any of them met with one of those who had journeyed hither and returned. To them, the power that had been given the Nazgul by their Rings of Power was as strange and as terrifying as to any mortal, and they soon fell back in despair of it.

All hope was now lost for the people of Pashtia, and the army began to flee. Men and Elves threw down their weapons and ran into the night, seeking either a hiding place or a hole more fit to die in. Few could withstand the fury of the Wraiths, but among those who did were the Prince and the High Priestess. They fought side by side now, but the numbers before them were too great. When their time came to die, it came to them in the form they most feared and dreaded. Through the ranks of the orcs came Khamul himself, their former King, now a monster and enemy of the land that he had ruled for so long. As he came upon them, the battle stilled and stopped and the only noise that could be heard were the distant screams of the dying.

They gazed into the empty space beneath his crown without speaking. “Fools,” he hissed at them with poisonous hatred. “Did you think that you could withstand the wrath of my master? Did you believe that you could displace me from the throne that is mine and place upon it a pretender?” Neither spoke. “Look upon me,” the Wraith continued. “Look upon your doom and die, knowing that Pashtia belongs forever to me!” He raised his sword above their heads.

But the blow did not fall. Khamul stood thus, transfixed, and though they could not see his visage they knew that he was looking at something beyond them. Turning, they saw nothing. But to Khamul’s sight, there approached a familiar shade. Pale and thin, like a mist, he saw the form of Queen Bekah. She stopped before him. “Faroz!” she cried. “Your time is at an end. You have offended against this land and against the Goddess Rhais. Your mission has failed. But you still have but one chance. Remove the Ring, and renounce your new Lord and you shall be spared your doom!”

“No!” he cried. “For me to renounce my Lord now will mean my certain death! You wish to see me destroyed!”

“You are already destroyed, Faroz. The man that you were is gone, and there is only a terrible thing of darkness in its place. Renounce what you have become and die as a mortal man. Receive this bounty or face your doom.”

The world stilled. Khamul stood unmoving and his lips formed a single word, feeling it as though he were tasting a morsel of food – Faroz – but it was a name which meant nothing to him now. “NO!” he screamed, and the rocks of the square began to quake in terror. “NO! I cannot renounce my Lord. You are dead, and a shade of the past. Go! I command it! My wrath shall not be stayed!” There came then a wind from the west, and Bekah disappeared before it. Khamul returned his gaze to the two before him, and their hearts failed, knowing that their doom was upon them.

But the shaking of the ground did not cease, nor did the wind. Both grew in strength until the walls of the City began to crumble and it seemed as though the very earth was rising up. There was a roar, and the sound of a rushing stone, and the world lifted throwing everyone to the ground. The Nazgul fell, screaming into the wind that assaulted them for to their ears there came a voice, a terrible voice, a woman’s voice of power and dignity beyond any they could endure, and to them it said but one word:

“Go.”

From the ruins of the High Temple to the Goddess Rhais there arose a great sound, like that of women crying, and to those who heard it, it seemed as though the spirits of all the women slain by the orcs or harmed by the Men of the West were crying out against their tormenters. The orcs screamed and ran, or fell gibbering upon their own weapons. The Nazgul clambered to their feet and shrieked into the gale, but their cries were powerless now, and impotent. For a time that seemed an eternity amongst the damned, the two powers stood thus, confronting one another with their rage, but like an ancient tree finally succumbing to a wind, the Nazgul fell. They dwindled in size and terror, and their voices fell. Turning, they fled. They threw off their robes and tossed aside their weapons, and were soon lost to all mortal eyes.

And the sun rose, bringing a new dawn.

[Firefoot]

The rising sun saw only Siamak’s back as he gazed into the west, his mind trying to piece together those rapid events that had just occurred. Khamul had raised his sword to kill them both, and then… something had happened. Siamak had not seen what Khamul had seen, nor heard what Khamul heard, yet in that time he had felt an immense well of hope and light spring up within him. But just as quickly as it had come, the feeling had gone, making the dark seem all the darker when Khamul had turned his eerie, eyeless gaze back to him. For a moment, all hope had left him and it had seemed as if the future of Pashtia (for it had seemed clear that there would be no future for him) flashed before him: the fields dried up, the people living in desperation and poverty, and ruling over all was the tyrant Khamul, himself no longer but a minion of the foreign lord. But with that one powerful word, “Go,” the vision had lifted. And again: a strange struggle of which he had no part and did not fully understand, except this time light and dark seemed to hang in balance before the dark quailed before the light and was gone. Khamul was gone.

At that, Siamak did not know whether to weep or rejoice, for Khamul had once been a good man called Faroz. Once he had been his father, and it was for this man that Siamak would weep. “Pashtia may have defeated him,” he murmured, “but he destroyed himself.”

Then he sighed, and turned to face the rising sun. Later, there would be time for thoughts and mourning, and right now, he was too weary to think much of it anyhow – but there was not time for rest yet, either. There was too much still to do. The walls will have to be rebuilt… and the temple. Rhais’ temple will have to be built up again. And… something will have to be done with Alanzia. Pashtia wasn’t meant to rule Alanzia. The Avari, too… but what’s done is done. So many of them dead, but the living will have to be cared for… Right now, though, the square will have to be cleaned up, and the captives freed. Before, he had given thought only to driving Khamul and the Emissary out of Pashtia, not to what would happen afterwards; now he saw that this was only the beginning. They had been ridded of a great evil, yet the stains of that evil remained and would be long in the cleansing. Some could never be cleansed.

“We have a long road yet,” Siamak said softly as he took in the scene of the bloodied, shambled square. He was startled somewhat to get a reply; he had forgotten Zamara’s presence.

“That we do, but the hardest, the most dangerous, part is done,” she said, and Siamak nodded. Yes, now the rebuilding would begin: rebuilding of both city and people.

As an officer of the army passed nearby, Siamak got his attention. “Yes, m’lord?” inquired the officer.

“Is anything yet being done about this?” Siamak gestured towards the bodies that lay sprawled about the square. The officer answered in the negative and Siamak continued, “The bodies of the Orcs will be piled up and burned. The Pashtians should be buried in a mound outside the city. Can you get this started, or pass the word on to someone who can?”

The officer nodded and saluted sharply. “It will be done.” Siamak nodded and the man strode off.

“We ought to go see what Khamul was about to do, over there by the temple,” commented Siamak, eyeing the hastily erected gallows. There were some soldiers who seemed to be taking care of it, but he wanted to know; if nothing else, it was something to be done. Zamara complied and Siamak led the way, mostly picking the way around the main battle, but still their path was obstructed by the bodies laying in the square. Siamak tried not to concentrate on it, but one figure caught his eye: it was the young soldier he had first met at the army’s camp. Siamak swallowed hard. He recalled the hope shining in the soldier’s eyes. He had fought for his country, and would not even see it restored.

“I didn’t even know his name,” he murmured. Then he continued on. He had given the soldier hope when he was living, but there was nothing he could do now.

As they walked, Siamak began to realize that there were pieces of his picture missing: what had happened to Tarkan after they had fled? And Gjeelea – where was his sister? Did she yet live? Then there was the battle – what had happened to their second force? Had they been cut off somewhere? And the Elves… it occurred to him to ask Zamara about this: “Zamara, what happened after I left? How came the Elves to the battle?”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara turned to the Prince, and for a second her expression was slightly dazed. The elves…where had the elves come from… But what did it matter! Today, most glorious of all days, the Priestess had seen proof of everything she had put her life into, had been finally confronted with the one being she had always believed in but had never thought she would see… For the Priestess felt far from dazed: her eyes, filled with a new light, sparkled with tears at the memory of what she had seen, what she had heard, what had saved them. She closed her eyes, savouring that voice that had for one second consumed the world, the resonance so beautiful that she could still hear the voice reverberating around her voice…

“Priestess?”

Her eyes opened again and the Priestess returned to the real world, the world of the broken down Pashtia – but a city with hope.

“The elves…of course…” she drove her mind back to before the encounter, pushing her hand through her now-tousled dark hair. The echoes of what had happened came flooding back to her and slowly, with that sense of bright-eyed excitement, she relayed a quick account to the Prince.

~*~

Making her way through the dark streets, Zamara stuck to the shadows, but in this part of the city there were few people around – and fewer orcs. She moved more purposefully than before, her hood overshadowing her face as she briskly moved through the alleyways. But despite the heavy, velvet cloak wrapped around her slim body, the usual heat of the desert city did not seem to reach through: there was a certain chill in the night that did not quite fit, that blew through her mantle, making her shiver – although it was perhaps not entirely the wind that caused the her shivering. Around her, the shutters of the Pashtians were, as ever, closed shut, the people inside hiding from the dark new army of the city that polluted her streets, but they were perhaps not quite as tight shut as usual, and as Zamara passed through the streets, she felt eyes on her all the way. But they were not malevolent eyes: down in these poor streets, the people had little to be loyal to this new, wicked king for. Their individual lives did not stand in balance, as the lives of the nobles did, and they did not feel the same aristocratic power struggles – but similarly, their lives simply did not matter. If a tyrant was to rule Pashtia, they would be the ones to suffer.

As she came nearer to the centre of the city, Zamara could feel herself tensing up, wary and, although she had spent every ounce of strength hiding it from Siamak, terrified. Her breathing shallow and rapid although she was still only walking briskly, she made her way towards the Temple through the alleyways rather than via the main central courtyard – in the circumstances, the latter would have been suicide. Seeming to stalk the Temple – her temple, her own temple! – she hid in the shadows around the side of the Temple. Now was the time she had to take a chance that could be potentially fatal: she had to trust that there would be someone inside the Temple and, what is more, that it would be someone she could trust. Her acolytes, what had happened to them? Sending a quick prayer to Rhais, the Priestess took her chance: she was but a few streets away from the Palace, where the sound of orcs was terrifyingly loud, but, like a dormouse across a lit kitchen, she sprinted out into the moonlight and up the steps, darting through the wide doors.

The creaking of the door seemed painfully loud as Zamara pushed it behind her, and she looked guiltily around – the bitter irony of this did not escape her: she was a fugitive in her own temple. Taking a few steps forward, her sandals soft against the floor, she took a chance: although her throat felt as if it had been unused for years, she spoke. “Hello?”

A muffled gasp came from one side of the huge room and Zamara almost visibly jumped, her hand flying to the sword that hung unfamiliarly around her slim waist, immediately regretting the stupid impulse that had caused her to speak aloud. But the gasp certainly did not sound like that of one of the vicious orcs – indeed, Zamara rather doubted they were creatures much given to much gasping or such frivolous things. Taking a step forward, she peered with her short sighted eyes into the dim of the room, shuddering as she saw that the figure of Rhais was still painfully absent – not only fallen now, but entirely removed, as if her mammoth figure had never been there, as if her serene stone countenance had never watched down upon her worshippers. Avoiding the space as if she was looking upon something obscene, Zamara took another cautious step forward and, taking a risk, she pushed her hood back to reveal her face. Steeling herself, she again, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Hello?”

“Oh my goddess, it cannot be…surely it cannot be you…” a figure, clad in white as always, approached from the gloom, and the familiarity of her pale robes almost made Zamara weep. The Temple was not deserted: where many had been forced to flee – the older priestesses, those with homes, families – others could not: it was none other than Tayfar, her youngest, favoured acolyte, who came towards her through the darkness. Tears springing to her eyes, the High Priestess half-ran forward and, almost overcome with relief, Tayfar fell into the older woman’s arms, almost weeping with relief. Zamara stroked her hair, hushing her softly like a child – as she supposed she was, really. The girl’s dark hair was in need of a wash, and her robes, now Zamara examined them from closer up, were dirtied, the hems scuffed: she was in need of looking after, in short, and Zamara had not been there to do that. She held the child tighter, then felt her stiffen. Letting go, the Priestess allowed Tayfar to draw back, and saw that her eyes were wide and pale in the darkness. Pushing her cloak back from her waist, Zamara wordlessly revealed what had startled the girl: the sword. Tayfar looked horrified at seeing one of the city’s symbols of peace holding a tool of death, but Zamara’s face remained almost expressionless. “We have come upon some desperate times, Tayfar,” she said, softly.

Tayfar swallowed, her eyes fixed on the weapon, before she looked away, wiping her hands nervously on her robe. At the sound of a sudden roar that went up some way away – probably in the main courtyard – she visibly started, eyes wide, and Zamara felt another wave of pity for the girl: she had been alone in all of this. But there was no time for such thoughts now – however upset and scared the girl was, the Priestess knew that it was a feeling felt throughout the city. Taking the girl by the hands, she looked into her eyes. “Listen to me, Tayfar – the elves, do you know what has become of the elves?”

The acolyte looked at her, her eyes blurred with confusion at the seemingly abstract question. “The elves?” she repeated stupidly.

Outside, the sounds of gathering forces were increasing, and, although she may have just been imagining it, Zamara was sure that it was not only orcish voices that she was hearing. In her increasing frustration and panic, she felt the sudden urge to shake the girl by the shoulders, but resisted, trying to stay calm. “The elves, Tayfar, the elves. Have you heard what has happened? The ghetto – have you heard anything of it?”

Tayfar shook her head fearfully, but apparently with dread, not with a lack of knowledge. “Oh…oh Priestess, it’s horrible…rumours came earlier on tonight-”

“Rumours? From who?”

The younger girl looked slightly embarrassed and avoided Zamara’s eyes for a moment. “There…there are others who come to this Temple, no longer so much to worship, High Priestess,” she replied, a little ambiguously. Panicked, Zamara pressed her, and this time Tayfar looked her in the eye and replied, “People such as myself, Zamara.”

Those with nowhere else to go. Had that not always been the secondary use of a Temple? As a refuge, a sanctuary for those without any other home, spiritually or on a more mundane level? Zamara nodded her comprehension and bid the girl go on. After a moment, Tayfar gathered herself and continued, quickly relaying how the ghetto had been raided by the orcs led by two hideous monstrosities – “creatures of human form, but who seemed almost to ride on the air” – and none had been spared in their viciousness. Zamara felt a chill down her spine, again a sensation that had nothing to do with the cold night air: inhuman riders on the very wind. Just as she had seen in her dreams – her nightmares. “None got away?” she asked, quietly.

Tayfar shook her head eagerly, leaning forward conspiratorially, a comic effect bearing in mind that they were in broad view of anyone who happened to walk into the Temple. “Oh no, Priestess, that’s the thing: some, many even, escaped. They have taken refuge in various places in the city, or so I heard…” she trailed off doubtfully. Zamara nodded vehemently. “I have no doubt of it, Tayfar: there are those yet in this wretched city who sympathise with the Avari, and they are blessed for it.” Although not if the King gets his hands on them, she added mentally. Then came the question she had been dreading – the question of whether the one particular being they needed had survived or not. Taking a breath, she asked the next question. “But…but General Morgos, the Captain of the Guard – what became of him?”

Tayfar did not immediately answer and this time Zamara very nearly did shake her, raising her voice very slightly; the girl’s silence spoke volumes, and the tomes which they entailed did not detail the answer which Zamara needed to hear. “What became of General Morgos?”

“He is here.”

The calm, self-possessed voice made Zamara spin around, her sword out in a flash, held in one remarkably still hand as she pointed it in the direction of the voice – or the direction she hoped the voice had come from, for the vast, high-ceilinged Temple room spread the echoes all over. Her other hand tightly gripped Tayfar’s wrist, pushing the girl behind her protectively. “Who is there?”

The voice did not reply this time – instead, from the gloom all around the dark temple, a shadow solidified into a silhouette, and then into a form which came forward and was recognisable to Zamara as…

“General Morgos! You’re supposed to be dead! And how’d you get in here? I never heard you!” Tayfar’s squeak broke the building silence. Zamara almost smiled, despite herself, at the girl’s comically over the top reaction, turning her head to see that Tayfar’s mouth was literally hanging open. For probably the first time that Zamara had ever had the pleasure of witnessing it, the elf smiled.

“You heard I was beheaded though, yes?” The General’s smile took on a grim air. “No…no, sadly that was not my body beside my wife’s and my son’s, although by the time those foul scum had finished with it, you could not have known the difference.” Morgos started to come forward slowly, his hand always warily on his swordhilt although his eyes were addressing Zamara. “The elf who died in my place was a lieutenant of mine, an acquaintance of I know not how many years – a friend and a fine man who put the lives of my family even over his own.” His smile had faded now and his expression was sorrowful as he looked down. “He died protecting them.” He sighed deeply and covered the remaining distance between the pillar in whose shadow he had been shrouded and the spot where the Priestess and acolyte were standing, and closer up Zamara now saw that he had himself not escaped the ghetto unscathed: a wide scar ripped across his forehead and his clothes were stained – although the blood was so dark now that it was debatable to whom exactly it belonged. He continued after a moment, the smile returning a little as he turned to Tayfar. “And as to how I got in, well…”

“Elves can move very quietly indeed when they want to,” Zamara finished for him, the trace of a smile on her own face. Sheathing the sword, she stepped forward and clasped the General’s hand tightly in a way that was most unladylike but expressed more fully than any priestly gesture her gratitude basically for his life. But time was ticking away – outside, the sound was mounting and, even as she stood there, the Priestess became completely sure that she heard a human voice outside. Which could mean only one thing: Siamak had arrived. “General, we have not a moment to lose – Prince Siamak has rallied your army, I hope, and intends to bring them to battle against the foul army of Khamul.”

“The remains of the army? They can never win!”

“-which is exactly where you come in, General, if you will help us.” Zamara took a deep breath, still holding the General’s hand tight, and continued. “General Morgos, if you will rally the Avari also…”

The elf regarded the woman watchfully for a moment, but it was no more than that. He nodded briefly, let go of her hand and bowed curtly. “It is done,” he replied simply. And with that he was gone, running to the back of the Temple. Voices were heard speaking quickly in a tongue that Zamara did not understand but which was nigglingly familiar, then the sounds of hurried footsteps hastened away. The General came back into what light there was so that Zamara could see his face, and she was shocked to see him actually grin. “Give it half an hour, High Priestess, and the elves will be ready here to go to battle.”

Outside a horn sounded, answered by another. Zamara nodded grimly. “Make it less than that, General, and we might just make it.”

[Nurumaiel]

Morashk slunk through the streets, glancing nervously here and there, and pausing every so often to gloat over the body of some unfortunate Pashtian. He could not help but feel pleased with himself. They, poor fools, had been killed, and he had escaped. He had been awake and prowling about when the accursed King arrived at the Lord Korak's home, and he had hurried to hide in one of those secret rooms. One of Korak's ancestors, living in the shadow of death, had prepared those rooms for himself so he could hide from his enemies. Korak had expected to hide from his own perils when the time came. But he had been too slow, too foolish. And Morashk... he had been clever enough to hide. He had escaped alive. He was burned, rather badly in some places, but he hardly noticed that, so exultant was he with being alive. And, in the case of more danger... he felt for the dagger that was tucked within the folds of his torn garments, and was reassured at the touch of the cold blade on his skin.

And now he was searching for his master. He hoped, in his heart, to find him dead. Then he would leave Pashtia and find some place where he would be master and not servant. But while there was doubt that his master was indeed dead, his loyalty bound him to search and then, perhaps, serve.

He searched the darker, hidden corners, the places he himself would choose to hide. And in one of these places, he found the Lord Korak. He looked like a lord no longer, for his rich clothes were soiled and burned. His hair and beard stood madly in every direction, his face was bruised and cut, and his eyes were wild. He looked like a man stricken with all the horrible things that existed in the land.

The Lady Hababa was lying on the ground near her son. Her eyes were closed and her face was as pale as death. It was not difficult for Morashk to see that she was indeed dead. But there was no wild fear in her face, and her dishevelled appearance was hardly noticeable, for her expression was that of the deepest peace, darkened only by a faint shadow of sorrow.

Morashk gazed at her indifferently for a moment, and then turned a look of scorn to his master. What a loathsome worm he was as he sat there, with all his hopes for the future laid waste by the same destruction that had brought Pasthia to its knees. What plans he had made, to become the King of this now burning wreck of nothingness! Morashk's lip twisted up in a sneer.

The Lord Korak became aware of the new presence, and he raised eyes filled with fear that quickly turned to relief and some contempt.

"Morashk," he said, his voice hoarse but still possessing its old arrogance, "I wonder that you escaped alive. But that is well for me. My mother is dead from fear and exhaustion, and I was afraid that I was left alone." Imperially he held out his hand. "Help me to my feet."

His servant reached down and grasped his hand, and attempted to pull him up, but stumbled at the dead weight that Korak allowed himself to be.

"A thousand curses upon your head, fool," the master growled. "There, leave your hands off! I will stand myself." He did stand, and cast a look of haughty scorn about him. "Let us go at once," he said, "before we're seen."

"And what, my lord, about your mother?"

Korak cast a glance towards her and hesitated for a brief moment. Then he waved his hand lightly. "We haven't the time for any of that," he said. "We might be seen. Someone will take care of her properly. She needs no help from us, and we can give no help." He began to walk rather falteringly forward.

Morashk still hesitated, and Korak turned to him with impatience.

"Come, fool, why do you hesitate? I have told you to follow me, and it is your task to obey." He did not notice the rebellious stiffening in his servant. "No more of this pausing and considering. I would let you stay, and more than likely meet your doom, for I do not believe the evils have passed with the night, but I need you to serve me. Come along!" He looked at the tense grimness of his servant's face, and his face became jeering as he drew closer. "Are you perhaps," he said, thrusting his face close to that of his servant, "thinking of my fair cousin Arshalous, and wondering if she might need your assistance?"

Swiftly, and with hardly a thought of what he was doing, Morashk swept the dagger from its hiding place and fixed it firmly in the Lord Korak's chest. He had endured it for too long, this constant jeering and mockery, these orders and anger if there was not instant obedience... he would endure it no longer. He watched the lifeless body of his master crumple to the ground, and he gave it a hard kick. Then he turned on his heel and strode away.

[Firefoot]

Siamak was quiet for a moment after hearing Zamara’s account. As amazing as her story was, it was her manner that intrigued him more. It was as if that joy that he could only feel in a small part of his mind was present in full measure in Zamara. Indeed, the whole city felt full of it. He wondered tiredly how it was that he felt mostly mournful while the whole rest of the city rejoiced. He pushed the thought from his mind momentarily.

“Then General Morgôs… he lives?” Siamak inquired, and feeling some ray of hopeful joy at this thought.

For the first time, a flicker of a shadow passed over Zamara’s features. “I do not know; I have not seen him since the initial charge.” The light returned to her eyes. “I am sure he live somewhere in this city, though. He is an able leader and a skilled swordsman – and of the Avari, besides.”

Siamak nodded, not voicing his retort: It takes but one arrow – or sword-stroke – to slay the mightiest of warriors.

By this time, the pair had reached the temple and Siamak could see definite signs of a struggle. A handful of soldiers was gathered around, with most of their attention directed at a single form – the Lady Arshalous.

“What happened here?” asked Siamak.

“We are unsure,” said one of the soldiers, bowing slightly. “She burns with a fever like we have never seen before, though we can see no cause for it. The only mark on her is the burn on her neck. There are some who report that the Lord Korak and High Priest-” the soldier hesitated, clearly unsure of the proper title, before continuing, “-Tarkan had been held here as well. They are gone, now; presumably they escaped in the confusion of the battle. We think that they were to be executed,” he added with a nod towards the gallows.

Siamak’s brow creased. Tarkan was to be executed? Had he not led them into a trap? But if Tarkan lived still… perhaps he would find out. Perhaps not. Now Arshalous demanded attention. “Take the Lady Arshalous up the palace to be cared for. Send also for the healer Daliyeh.” And he gave instructions on where to find the old healer. “The old chamberlain, Jarult, is also welcome back at the palace.” If the soldier was confused by any of this, he did not mention it but accepted the orders with grace.

“Well,” commented Siamak, “now we know somewhat of Tarkan’s fate – it seems the only important thing left to find out is what happened to Gjeelea.”

“And it seems that shall not be unknown for long; look!” Siamak turned to where Zamara was facing and felt his own face pale at the sight. Some soldiers carried a makeshift stretcher, and even at that distance Siamak felt no doubt that the still form upon it was his sister. In the same instant he and Zamara hurried off in that direction; Siamak prayed they were not too late. He went straight up to the closest soldier, asking, “Is Gjeelea all right? Is she living?”

The soldier had sorrow in his eyes. “She lives, yes; the wound on her is fresh. But I have seen enough wounds to know when one is fatal. The princess will not live long.”

“For Rhais’ sake, then, let me see my sister!” said Siamak. Surely this was not true…

The soldiers did not dare argue and lowered the stretcher gently to the ground. Gjeelea’s eyes flickered open and she smiled slightly. “Ah, Siamak… Khamul’s gone, isn’t he.” She seemed to be having difficulty breathing.

Siamak nodded. “Yes… he – and the Emissary, and the Orcs – all fled at dawn. They’re gone.” Gjeelea smiled, but there was sorrow on her face as well. For the second time in as many days – as many years, even – Siamak found understanding with his sister.

“I heard… the sounds of the battle… and I knew that it was you… and Zamara,” she added looking to the Priestess. “I knew that you would do it… I tried to come…” Gjeelea’s breathing had become more ragged and her eyes now drifted shut. As much as he wanted to deny it, he knew that his sister was dying. So much death…

Abruptly, she spoke again. “You’ll be king, of course… Farewell, brother dear... Priestess…” And Siamak smiled a little, hearing the nickname she had always before used in scorn now used in affection. Then the message registered with him: you’ll be king, of course. He wondered that he had not thought of it before, and then turned his attention back to his sister. Her eyes shut again as her chest rose and fell, then rose no more. Siamak knew she was gone. Farewell, dear sister. Alas that they had not resolved their differences sooner, that it had taken a war to bring them together. He sighed, supposing that late was better than never.

Siamak rose from his kneeling position and addressed the soldiers. “Have her body taken up to the palace, that the necessary preparations might be made.” It seemed to him that he heard someone else talk, for the steady voice certainly did not match his turbulent state of mind. He gave the soldiers no more mind as his thoughts drifted. Was this the price of war? The price of peace? Or were they one and the same? Maybe it did not matter, for much good had happened as well – ultimately, more good than evil, for the evil had been banished. And through his sorrow, Siamak felt that flicker of joy grow stronger, for the evil and its sorrow would remain in the past, becoming only distant memory, while joy – and life – went on.

[Bêthberry]

Well might it be said, 'Healer, heal thyself,' for Daliyeh was herself wrapped in strange chills and had been since she had fled from the Lady Habiba's home. The woman had been beyond all care when the healer had arrived to see her. All Daliyeh had been called to do were the final acts of comfort to ease those who are passing to the well at the end of the world: annointing the woman with the scent of apples and placing pips under her tongue. Thankfully, that act had been completed before the bestial chaos arrived at the Lord Korak's home. Daliyeh had barely escaped, for with the arrival of the orcs came the same suffocating shadow which had nearly overwhelmed her at the palace hall when she had sought to stop He-who-had-been-king and his foul Westerling associates.

Somehow she had stumbled through the streets to her home. So chilled was she her ribs felt they would break if she dared move them to breath, like icicles falling from the trees on the mountaintops during Pashtian winters and splintering into shards. It was old Jarult who had nursed a small fire secretively at her side. At first it did nothing to warm the healer. Then in painfully whispered tones she advised Jarult to throw into the cauldron hazel nuts and a salmon as a last resort. The fat of the fish spattered and burnt both Jarult and she, yet both found themselves liberated from their fears of the Men of the West. Jarult then fed Daliyeh small sips of the broth and slowly the chill withdrew from her body.

"It is the old wisdom, is it not?" Jarult had asked her.

She nodded. So it was that both were of strong will and able body when the messenger arrived with the summons to the palace. Come ill or well, they marched resolutely through the streets, dismayed at the destruction of the orcs no less than of the tremours of the earth.

~ ~ ~

At the palace the healer was directed quickly to attend to the Lady Arshalous, whose chilled flesh spoke also of her near touch with undeath. Daliyeh build a large fire of scented leaves and laurel bush and set a cauldron to boil, filling it with white berries and hazels and salmon. Then making a poultice of the fruit and flesh, she held it to the burn on the lady's neck. It sizzled the flesh and smoked but Arshalous opened her eyes. Yet it was a long night that the two women passed before Arshalous was recovered.

And when the morning sun washed over the sky and inked into the cold rooms of the palace, the body of the Princess was brought before the healer. It was a fate too mournful for Daliyeh and she wept openly over the corpse of the daughter, as broken as had been that of her mother.

And when she was done with her observances for Gjeela, with the oils and apple scents, Daliyeh went out amongst the homes of the people, for there too were many others awaiting the dark folds of her arts on their journey to the world beyond.