[Nurumaiel]

Morashk slunk through the streets, glancing nervously here and there, and pausing every so often to gloat over the body of some unfortunate Pashtian. He could not help but feel pleased with himself. They, poor fools, had been killed, and he had escaped. He had been awake and prowling about when the accursed King arrived at the Lord Korak's home, and he had hurried to hide in one of those secret rooms. One of Korak's ancestors, living in the shadow of death, had prepared those rooms for himself so he could hide from his enemies. Korak had expected to hide from his own perils when the time came. But he had been too slow, too foolish. And Morashk... he had been clever enough to hide. He had escaped alive. He was burned, rather badly in some places, but he hardly noticed that, so exultant was he with being alive. And, in the case of more danger... he felt for the dagger that was tucked within the folds of his torn garments, and was reassured at the touch of the cold blade on his skin.

And now he was searching for his master. He hoped, in his heart, to find him dead. Then he would leave Pashtia and find some place where he would be master and not servant. But while there was doubt that his master was indeed dead, his loyalty bound him to search and then, perhaps, serve.

He searched the darker, hidden corners, the places he himself would choose to hide. And in one of these places, he found the Lord Korak. He looked like a lord no longer, for his rich clothes were soiled and burned. His hair and beard stood madly in every direction, his face was bruised and cut, and his eyes were wild. He looked like a man stricken with all the horrible things that existed in the land.

The Lady Hababa was lying on the ground near her son. Her eyes were closed and her face was as pale as death. It was not difficult for Morashk to see that she was indeed dead. But there was no wild fear in her face, and her dishevelled appearance was hardly noticeable, for her expression was that of the deepest peace, darkened only by a faint shadow of sorrow.

Morashk gazed at her indifferently for a moment, and then turned a look of scorn to his master. What a loathsome worm he was as he sat there, with all his hopes for the future laid waste by the same destruction that had brought Pasthia to its knees. What plans he had made, to become the King of this now burning wreck of nothingness! Morashk's lip twisted up in a sneer.

The Lord Korak became aware of the new presence, and he raised eyes filled with fear that quickly turned to relief and some contempt.

"Morashk," he said, his voice hoarse but still possessing its old arrogance, "I wonder that you escaped alive. But that is well for me. My mother is dead from fear and exhaustion, and I was afraid that I was left alone." Imperially he held out his hand. "Help me to my feet."

His servant reached down and grasped his hand, and attempted to pull him up, but stumbled at the dead weight that Korak allowed himself to be.

"A thousand curses upon your head, fool," the master growled. "There, leave your hands off! I will stand myself." He did stand, and cast a look of haughty scorn about him. "Let us go at once," he said, "before we're seen."

"And what, my lord, about your mother?"

Korak cast a glance towards her and hesitated for a brief moment. Then he waved his hand lightly. "We haven't the time for any of that," he said. "We might be seen. Someone will take care of her properly. She needs no help from us, and we can give no help." He began to walk rather falteringly forward.

Morashk still hesitated, and Korak turned to him with impatience.

"Come, fool, why do you hesitate? I have told you to follow me, and it is your task to obey." He did not notice the rebellious stiffening in his servant. "No more of this pausing and considering. I would let you stay, and more than likely meet your doom, for I do not believe the evils have passed with the night, but I need you to serve me. Come along!" He looked at the tense grimness of his servant's face, and his face became jeering as he drew closer. "Are you perhaps," he said, thrusting his face close to that of his servant, "thinking of my fair cousin Arshalous, and wondering if she might need your assistance?"

Swiftly, and with hardly a thought of what he was doing, Morashk swept the dagger from its hiding place and fixed it firmly in the Lord Korak's chest. He had endured it for too long, this constant jeering and mockery, these orders and anger if there was not instant obedience... he would endure it no longer. He watched the lifeless body of his master crumple to the ground, and he gave it a hard kick. Then he turned on his heel and strode away.