[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?”