[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.