[Firefoot]

As the storm had picked up, flooding the streets and pounding on the roofs of Kanak, Siamak had stepped back inside the temple. To his surprise neither Morgôs nor Zamara were in sight, and he was alone in the large room. Perhaps the two had had more important matters to discuss than he had realized and wanted some privacy. Intriguing, indeed.

At that moment a messenger, soaked through from the rain, pushed through the temple doors. “High Priestess?” he called out, not so loud as to be improper in the temple but certainly loud enough to be heard should the High Priestess be anywhere nearby. There was no response. Then the messenger caught sight of Siamak, saying, “Oh, my Prince, you are needed at the palace, too. Evil things have befallen this day!” Siamak took the man in quickly. He was genuinely distraught, and a feeling of dread fell over Siamak.

“What has happened? Speak quickly!” he ordered.

“The queen... she has been murdered,” cried the man. An icy shock ran over Siamak. His mother - dead? How could this be?

“How did this come about?” demanded Siamak, feeling rather short of breath. A shadow passed over the man’s face.

“I do not know. She was found only a short while ago,” he answered. “But there is more.” The man was cut off sharply by a loud sound resounding through the temple. This wasn’t right. The messenger’s news could wait - Siamak had to find out what was wrong.

“Come with me,” said Siamak, and strode off toward the back of the temple. The man hastened after, nearly jogging to keep the pace. Siamak randomly selected a door at the back of the temple and plunged through it. He was met by a cloud of dust, irritating his eyes and making him cough. He could not tell which direction it was coming from.

“You go that way,” Siamak told the messenger. “Try to find the High Priestess. General Morgôs is with her.” The messenger obeyed and Siamak took the other direction. Rounding a corner, he found the source of the noise. The scene was almost too much to take in. It seemed a fight had taken place. A large marble statue had been overturned and broken, its pieces shattered. Behind it lay a darkly-clad man, his upper arm tattooed. Siamak vaguely recognized the symbol but could not place it. He realized the man was dead, spattered in his own blood. Nearby, lay the General. Siamak dropped down beside him, making sure he lived. Siamak was relieved to find it was so, but even in his lack of medical knowledge, he knew that Morgôs needed help quickly. He was covered in blood, whether his own or that of the dead man, Siamak was unsure. Siamak realized it was Morgôs’ arm that was wounded, and that he was losing blood quickly. He looked around frantically for something to stop the flow. His gaze lit on the dead man and the cloak which had been torn from his body. It was shredded, but Siamak was desperate and he hastened to retrieve any usable cloth from the dead man’s clothing. He wrapped the cloth tightly about the General’s arm, and though the black cloth was quickly bloodied, Siamak hoped that the blood flow would slow. He needed help. Where was that messenger? And where was the High Priestess?

Siamak sat back on his heels, unsure of what to do. Who would attack a temple? His eyes strayed again to the strange man’s tattoo. Black sun... knives... He knew he had heard of it somewhere. But where? Had the messenger come to warn him of attack? Suddenly Siamak feared that there might be more of these men hiding somewhere. Having no weapon of his own with him, Siamak pried the bloody knife from Morgôs’ grip, strong even in unconsciousness. Now armed, Siamak rose from his crouched position. The messenger had still not returned, and he needed to find help. Before leaving, though, he looked around once more, and a figure which had previously eluded his sight caught his eye. It was Zamara, lying on the tile floor. Siamak hurried over.

She was slightly dazed, but seemingly unhurt. Siamak had no time to waste, and he told her, “I’m going for help,” and hurried off. He passed through the hallways, heedless of the various statues lining the walls. Up ahead, he spotted the messenger and called out to him.

“Have you found them?” the man asked. Siamak nodded briskly. “The General is wounded, badly, I think, but the Priestess is seemingly all right. They were attacked.”

“Dear Rhais,” breathed the man. “Has Alanzia come even to your temple?” Siamak looked to the man sharply. He knew that symbol on the man’s arm was familiar! It belonged to Alanzian culture. That war was long over! What was happening to the world?

“Quickly, now, what was the rest of your news?” asked Siamak, fearing the worst.

“Our army was attacked by Alanzia. They are aided by strange monsters as none have ever seen,” answered the man. Fear was in his eyes. “We prepare for war.” Siamak closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Dear Rhais... What was he to do?

“Listen closely,” said Siamak with much more assurance than he felt. “I will go on to the palace to get help. I am needed there, and I will send a healer. The General and the High Priestess are that way.” He pointed. “Help them as best you can. I do not think there are any more Alanzians around, but be wary. Take this knife.” He handed the messenger the knife, and in doing so Siamak realized it was actually Alanzian craft and not the General’s as he had before assumed.

“Yes, my Prince,” said the man and hurried off with a brief bow.

Hoping he had made the right decision, Siamak departed from the temple. He took the messenger’s horse, tied outside the temple. He rode as hard as he dared in the treacherous footing, and then a little faster. The storm howled about him, and he was quickly soaked. He was numb to all emotion. His mother was dead and Pashtia was without a queen and all in the same day Alanzia had attacked them, seemingly without cause. Were the two connected? He would have to think it through later, when there was time to think. Now he had no time for anything but action.

As he came closer to the palace he saw more and more people despite the raging storm, most heading away from the palace. The snatches of rumor that met his ears were outrageous. The queen and king, not to mention himself and Gjeelea, were all dead, the whole army had been destroyed in a surprise attack, trade had been stopped, and monsters were descending upon the city to make it out from their tales. Even the Emissary, who had previously been mostly forgotten by common folk, had made it into some people’s tales. There was no telling where fact and fiction met.

The palace itself was only slightly less chaotic than the streets. He dismounted, handing the reins to a nearby servant, and hurried on into the palace. Guards were everywhere, and none of the servants appeared to be going about their business. He headed straight as he could to the great hall. He needed help for the General, to tell the King of his news, and to find out what was going on. Yes, he thought, the world really has turned up-side down this day.