[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.”