[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...