Shadow of the West

[Bêthberry]

The clouds streamed overhead like merchants off to work at the market, intent on their business and without a meandering glance to the side or elsewhere. Some blew quickly out of the frame of Bekah's vision; others massed more solidly overhead, sending shadows inking down over roof and tower and wall. It would rain soon, Bekah thought, the kind which falls heavily and quickly and which puddles deeply on the streets and gullies, falling so quickly the earth cannot contain it, and then, just as quickly, disappearing. For now, the shadows boxed around the new construction, darting forth and back, as if climbing this paen to the sky god ahead of everyone else. As she watched the tower?s construction, daily, growing taller and taller, Bekah wondered what had prompted this sudden desire to rival Rhais. Zamara had been too busy with these events, talking among those who revered Rhais, to visit her daily and help with her correspondence after her injury but Bekah knew the High Priestess was concerned.

It had been a fall, Bekah ruminated, a fall of remarkable proportions, although not her own, but the King's. She had as yet been unable to suggest as much to the High Priestess, and so her metaphor remained in the eyes of the court the literal truth. In the past month Bekah had often played over in her mind the events of her last audience with Khamul, becoming more firmly convinced in her mind that the King was no longer capable of attending to the best interests of his own nation, so firmly drawn was he to this Emissary. Or was it that ring, which he had been willing to harm her over, to regain possession? "Who or what has possessed Faroz?" Bekah asked, over and over.

Also over the past month, she had considered who she might turn to to express her concerns, with Zamara unable to respond to her request for help with the correspondence. Arlomë had disappeared behind the walls of her own estate, where Morgôs was apparently yet again lost in the kind of ritual seclusion which he more and more was retreating to. "The Avari hold themselves to be a higher kind," Bekah thought to herself, "yet they seem so little involved with their responsibilities to the affairs of this world." She worried that the nation's chief officer of the army was so absent. "No wonder people wished to limit the Avari's time of service," she thought. Yet who could she turn to? Arshalous was a vain and petty woman, more concerned with the rivalries of her house than those of state. Her children had not once returned to speak with her of events or their monumental decision. Tarkan was a brooding question who had never yet shown any discipline or strength and Bekah mistrusted him as one of the architects of this tower to Rae. Korak? Was that her only recourse? Bekah turned away from her thoughts to watch the construction again.

The workers looked like scarabs, scurrying back and forth, overshadowned now by the tower to Rae itself. Bekah became mesmerised watching the movement of worker and cloud, the second overshadowing the first, swirling like tea leaves over a sugar cube until it is lost to sight. The light seemed to slink away and she was overcome with cold and her senses dulled. Something appeared over the tower, forming out of the clouds. An eye? Was that it? Tall battlements very far away came into focus, with strange creatures flying around it. A red flaming eye pierced her thought and gloated over her;she felt herself fermenting with intense hatred and cruelty. She would have swooned had Homay not appeared at her side, to lead her gently towards the cushionss of her meeting room.

The old nurse watched as her old charge slowly came round, the yellow patches of her face dissipating into the caramel colour of her tawny skin.

"You have had the same experience, again." she murmured to the Queen.

Bekah nodded and waited for her breath to return. "This time, more clearly. It is this Melkor, I am certain. He has overtaken our god Rae and wishes to destroy our faith in Rhais."

"The healer is here, Majesty, to attend to your arm. Perhaps you can talk of this with her." Bekah assented and collected herself, willing her body into a more formal deportment and whispering silent prayer to Rhais.

Rather than becoming shorter and fewer, these visits with Dahliyah the healer had become longer and more frequent. With the loss of contacts from the nomadic trading tribes and the cessation of communication from her brother the King of Alanzia, Bekah found another voice which kept her informed of events. Dahliyah was not the only healer in the royal city but she was one of the foremost, welcomed in the poorest hut as well as the palace. She said it improved her art, to learn as broadly of illness as possible, and, indeed, she had been instrumental in warding off a plague some years ago when she recognised its breeding grounds. At that time, she had saved Siamak from the fever and had won Bekah's grateful respect and thanks. The healing arts as well were interesting to Bekah, for she often surmised that more was involved than simply the application of herbs and poltices, balms and unguents.

And so it was that Bekah herself felt drawn to Dahliyah when the Healer was called in to attend to her injury. The soft and warm hands of Dahliyah gently touching the skin of her arm had soothed and calmed her and in return the Healer had found in the Queen a woman of similar age with a mind similarly keen and perceptive. And so it came about that after Dahliyah reset the splint on Bekah's arm, cleansing the skin with scented waters and soothing oils, she would often stay and talk over tea and sweet pastries which Tabari the maid always brought out in fine array.

The first visit had given Dahliyah ample opportunity to surmise the nature of the Queen's injury but she did not become a healer to the royal palace without understanding the nature and need for discretion. Perhaps it was this innate sense of discretion which allowed certain topics to be raised. Whatever it was, Dayliyah and the Queen came to talk often of the Emissary, the gift to the King, and the new context in which Pashtia found itself. Through her Bekah learnt that the people were made uneasy by this unexpected visitor and by the rapid changes in their normally placid routine. Bekah in fact learnt many things that were swept under the carpets and not discussed openly. This visit today brought many disclosures, Bekah describing her strange visions of fiery creatures and seething hatred as she watched the construction of the Tower and Dahliyah herself sharing her concerns, for this day she was greatly uneasy herself.

"You will be careful and not fall again, Majesty," Dahliyah advised as she finished the last tape which bound the Queen's arm, looking up into Bekah's eyes.

"I shall, Healer. Now I know how dangerous is the ground I tread and I will step more carefully," acknowledged the patient.

"The King will be pleased with that. I am sure he regretted your pain."

"He did, in his way. Yet he is much distracted these days. From all reports, he has other affairs to attend to."

A frown passed almost imperceptibly over Dahliyah's face, yet it did not pass unobserved.

"You are ill at ease yourself today, Healer. May a friend inquire what causes your discomfort?"

The woman leaned back in the cushions upon which they reclined and wished in her heart she could rid herself of her wound as easily as she helped relieve those of others. Yet there were others, many others, some much younger than she, who also were as pained to the point of being poisoned as she. Dahliyah decided it must be told, for a code of secrecy would only allow the beastial cruelties to continue.

"There are indeed many things happening in our city, many dark deeds which cry out for justice. Almost every day one hears stories not only of women, but of young girls who disappear or who have endured an unspeakable wound which poisons their life. Children fear to go out at night and parents watch fretfully at the door."

"Children attacked? Children? Many? I have heard nothing of this. What quarter of the city?"

"That is the troubling issue, Majesty, in that mostly the assaults occur in the poorer sections of the city. And some..." Dahliyah hesitated.

"Do not hesitate to speak the truth of what you know, my friend. We are facing so many momentous decisions that we cannot afford to silence any issue."

The Healer nodded. "At first the affronts were limited to the Aquaba quarter and then they spread to the nearby Halava section. Then, a week ago, there were two assaults near the villa of the Emissary, where he and his attendants are staying. The girls were badly harmed and as yet are mute with fear and shame."

"The Emissary's attendants. Fifty men with nothing to do. Yet are they not watched by our soldiers? "

"Majesty, our General has not been seen for some time. Our guards grow inattentive."

"And these men of the West are free to roam to satisfy their bestial urges."

Dayliyah shuddered; it was a movement the Queen could not ignore.

"You know something in particular of this? You are intimately involved? Speak, my friend, that I may offer some solace such as you have given me."

"Of the guards, no. I have merely been asked to attend to some of the families. But Majesty, the guards are not alone in their indignities."

Bekah looked directly in Dahliyah's face, her mouth forming the name that she dared not speak aloud, the name that, like The King, was spoken of with the formal address of the definite article.

Dahliyah closed her eyes, hung her head, her entire body slack with anguish. "I am a mature woman; I know life; yet never have I had my wishes ignored, my being denigrated, my self subjected to physical defilement. Except by this man who claims to be bringing peace and allegiance to our land." She opened her eyes and looked up at the Queen.

"I was returning home late, late one night, almost early morn, from attending a difficult birthing. At first, I saw nothing in the streets, but felt a cold, whispering wind, as if the walls had secrets they wanted to tell. Then behind me suddenly he appeared, a sneer on his face, a glowing sense of power in his eyes. He gloated; he grabbed me, and then he fling me aside, with a knock to the head. I awoke later, as the sun rose over the wall, and found myself bruised and bleeding."

"And now, how are you?"

"I will recover. Others will not. This cannot continue."

"Nor will it," said the Queen.

At that moment, Homay entered bearing Tabari's trays of sweets and tea. Homay's eyes showed her awareness of the conversation but her manner was the manner of all faithful servants who understand when and where to raise questions. With a nod from Bekah, she remained to share the afternoon repast, and the conversation drew on to other matters. Then, Tabari appeared, announcing that the Emissary was seen arriving at the Palace, summoned no doubt by the King.

Dahliyah rose. "I must return to my other patients."

Bekah rose also with her. "I ask you, my friend, to speak to my other friend, the High Priestess, of these matters. We must find a way to curb this influence of this false god, this Melkor."

Dahliyah bowed and withdrew, Tabari showing her out. "Tabari," called the Queen, "please send word to the Emissary that I wish to see him, if he has time." Tabari bowed acknowedgement and went out in search of him.

"Homay, you have heard the story. We must move discretely, but carefully, as the King places great trust in this man."

Homay nodded. "I will deliver what messages you wish."

"First, speak discretely to Korak of this matter, leaving out the name of the Healer but not that of the villian. We must arouse concern for our children. And ensure that the High Priestess hears as well. I would want Arlome to know as well, for perhaps she can persuade the General of the seriousness of this matter where I cannot. And, perhaps, if events prove terrible, my brother must know as well." Homay left the audience room by the Queen's private rooms, taking the private stairway which few knew of. None would know, in later days, how the Queen's concern for these events made its way around the city, for the voices of Dahliyah and Homay were protected, but it did, for always the stories of others will come to be told, however forcefully or cruelly some promote their own story as the only one.

At that moment, Tabari appeared, announcing the presence of the Emissary himself.

"You do me a great courtesy, Emissary, in finding time to speak with me when the King has called for you."

"I have learnt that in your city the influence and power of women is respected, and I come to pay my respects." The Emissary spoke these words smoothly, without a trace of sneer or irony in his voice, for he was apprehensive over the apparent rift between the King and Queen. Neither his Lord Annatar nor he had counted upon the Queen having such influence and he wished his mission to proceed successfully.

"You speak of respect for women. Your words are aptly made, for that is the subject I wished to address with you." As Bekah spoke with the man she watched him idly fingering something in his pocket, a mannerism she had recently seen Faroz take up. Is it possible there are two rings? She wondered. Does this foreign Lord earn homage and fealty through an object? In the background thunder could be heard and the clouds overhead massed to block the rays of sunlight which had flooded into the Queen's audience room. Bekah could feel the earlier ferment of hatred and fear return, creating icy prickles in her hands, arms, feet.

"There are reports of indignities visited upon our women. Troubling reports."

"Are these new reports?" commented the Emissary. "Surely such things are always with any culture."

"That would appear to be your understanding of people. Your god Melkor seems to favour brutality and cruelty. Our goddess does not. Nor our god." Bekah was not sure this was the best approach to take with the Emissary, but it was one she felt compelled to for some reason. And it was not, at least, the approach which in the short term resolved matters between them. For his part, as the interview grew more and more hostile, the Emissary began privately to curse to himself that Faroz was a fool for making an adversary of his wife instead of a helpmate. When she confronted him with his own involvement in events, he could contain his anger no longer.

"You fool. What do you know of events that are approaching? What concern is it of yours?"

"A concern of my people, whom I serve." At this point, Beka felt a blue rage of anger for this man who was destroyed everything she had spent her adult life trying to create.

"A former enemy? Serves her people?" He laughed, and as he did so the storm clouds broke and the tower was engulfed with a dark mist which seeped into the royal palace. Ashnaz felt an arrogant power stream into him as the thought that this woman could not be silenced with words entered his mind. He tightened his grip on the ring hidden under the folds of his tunic and he walked towards her menacingly. Bekah took two steps back towards the table which held the remains of the afternoon tea. When the Emissary lunged at her, she grabbed a knife and thrust it at his face, aiming for his eye. She barely missed, but left instead a deep trail of cut flesh down his face from forehead to jawline. He reached for her wounded arm, but she repeatedly slashed and stabbed with the knife, cutting his shoulder, his arm, his chest, until finally she had rent his tunic so much that the pocket was torn. The ring fell to the marble floor with a hollow ping and rolled away under the cushions.

Ashnaz roared with fury and heartbreak at the loss of his ring, but his howls were lost in the thunder. Eyes red with rage he stormed the smaller women, bringing his hands to her throat, his long fingers digging deeply into her flesh, cutting off her voice. She fell backwards and he overtop of her, energy surging into his hands as they pressed down, breaking bone, cartilage, windpipe. Bekah could at first see into his eyes, see a manical evil light them. Then as her vision dimmed she appealed to her goddess. "Rhais, Rhais, do not allow these male gods to win. They will enslave us. They will kill us. They will destroy you. Rhais."

How long Ashnaz lay there, his hands tight around Bekah's neck, he did not know. A streak of lightning burst through his senses and he climbed to his knees, searching desperately for his ring. Finding it finally, he struggled, his hands shaking, to put it on, his silent sobs subsiding once he felt the oneness with Annatar. Clarity broke through into his mind and he thought swiftly of what he must do. He tidied the scene, arranging the cushions, returning the knife to the table. His blood which had spattered was now, like himself, invisible, but his wounds remained.

He looked around, saw out the balcony window an opportunity, and decided upon it. He lifted Bekah's body, feeling it still warm and soft and supple and smelling the light scents of her perfumes and bathwaters lingering over her. He breathed deeply. She had been a handsome woman. Then he staggered to the railing, calling upon the powers of his Lord Annatar and his god Melkor, and knocked some pieces of stonework over. He threw the body of the Queen after them. She landed arms outstretched, a sandal knocked off her foot, in her garden, at the foot of the statue to Rhais, where he had once watched her worship. He swore, cursed the feeble flesh of woman, and disappeared into the secret reaches of the palace which Khamal had disclosed to him.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The rain was pouring from the roofs of the Palace in cataracts as Rae visited his fury upon the hapless form of Rhais. His water carved deep channels through the earth, washing away whole banks of the River, causing it to twist about and shift, like a serpent in its own death throes. The sands of the dessert, just beyond the frail verdant strip of land that clung to the edges of the River, was turned to mud that slipped and sucked at the feet of those travelers unfortunate enough to be caught in the open by the deluge. In the streets and ways of Kanak, people ran for shelter in doorways and beneath such trees as they could find, but the waters rose and the streets became small rivers of muddy water. In the poorer quarters, entire households had their earth-packed floors become slippery muck that ruined their goods. In the richer homes, the torrent flooded the central courtyards and servants were hurriedly dispatched to bail away the waters before they breached the homes and ruined the silks and furniture of the nobility. The fury of the storm was great, and many in the City cast their eyes to the new Temple. Some felt that the God was angered in some way, while others hoped that He might see the new structure and take pity on them.

From out of the west there raced a solitary horseman. The animal had been cruelly driven beyond the endurance of mortal flesh, and its sides streamed with a thick foam of sweat that withstood even the punishment of the rain. His rider bore armour upon his back that had been rent and tattered almost beyond recognition, and his eyes were as red and ragged as his mounts. Those who still remained out of doors paused in wonderment as the rider tore along the road toward the City, the hooves of his tormented horse creating an endless series of geysers as they charged through the water that churned toward the River, seeking there the welcome embrace of Rhais after its torment by Rae.

In the Palace, the wailing of women could be heard even above the roar of the wind and of the water that fell in droves upon the garden. A sodden form, its humanity still lingering but slowly fading by the moment, lay upon the floor of the grand hall. About it there spread a pool of gentle pink as the rain from its garments mixed with the blood, forming a puddle upon the marble floor. The old woman Homay knelt by the form, beating her breast and crying out a grief that none there could understand, for she spoke now in her tongue of old. It was the first time that any had dared speak the language of Alanazia in that hall, but no-one tried to stop her. Beside her knelt the healer Dahliyah, gazing down, her own lamentations mixing with those of the aged Nurse. She had come immediately but there had never been any hope for the wretched wreck of humanity that they had brought before her. One look at her neck had told her the tale of violence that had unfolded. Behind the women stood two more forms: the aged Chamberlain Jarult gazed downward as though he had seen the end of the world, his hand mechanically making the old sign of warding against evil, over and over again. Beside him was the Lady Arshalous, and though she was soundless her eyes were large with terror at what had befallen. Surrounding these few figures, removed by a slight distance as though in respect or fear, were dozens of courtiers, soldiers and servants. Neither rank nor privilege was observed as they ranged about the ragged form: noble stood shoulder to shoulder with serving girl, and soldiers shed tears while aged women looked on dry-eyed with shock.

In a far corner, lost almost in the shadows that clung there, was the lone form of the King. He crouched into himself, his cloak cast about his head. Neither guilt nor terror nor grief had penetrated his mind yet, for at the sight of his wife’s body, ravaged and shattered, his world had become a mighty white blank and all he could feel was the overwhelming numbness of a loss unlooked for, and incomprehensible. He repeated to himself over and over, he did not know why, “I did not love her. I did not love her.” It was a confession. It was a lament. It was an accusation.

After a time a hand touched him upon the shoulder and he turned to look into the eyes of the healer. Her gaze was hard and she was speaking to the King, but he could not hear her for the roar of the rain – or perhaps it was the pounding of his heart. She spoke again, firmly but not unkindly. “Khamul,” she said, “your wife needs you.”

“What?” he stammered stupidly.

“She requires the final purification, majesty. The day is already well advanced and with this rain it will be difficult to build a sufficient pyre by morning. We must begin immediately.”

“Yes,” he said as though he were a statue new come to life. “The pyre. We must build the pyre by tomorrow. She cannot wait longer than that.”

“No,” she said soothingly, taking him by the hand and leading him through the crowd toward the Queen. “We women shall prepare her for the journey, but her husband must begin the purification. Oil has been brought, all you need do is anoint her eyes. Then we shall wash her and wrap her in silk, the pyre shall be built and tomorrow your children will lay her upon it.” She spoke these home truths to calm the King, and to give him something familiar to cling to. She knew how important these rites became to those who had to go through them. At the time of loss, the mind shuts down and refuses to act – only ritual gave it any form or movement. As she led the King forward she felt the familiar listlessness of grief in his arm, but she noted that his other hand clutched at his heart in a fist so tight that his tunic was bunched into a painful knot. She sensed then a terrible coldness radiating from the King, and centered upon whatever it was that lay beneath the folds of his silk. It was a familiar sensation, and painfully so, for she had felt the same when she had been attacked by the Emissary. The shock of recognition was so great that her step faltered and she almost let go the King’s hand but she composed herself in time and led him on.

The crowd parted and Faroz went toward Bekah. She was cold to the touch now and he knelt down to look at her. She was still lovely, and in the moment that he regarded her the lifetime that they had spent together came to him clearly. He had not loved her, but he had depended upon her and respected her. The memory of the last time that they had been so close came to him like a knife in the chest, and his eyes lingered upon the splints that were wrapped about her arm. In that second he felt as though he were responsible for her death and could almost have leapt to his feet and confessed to the crime, but for the weight of the Ring about his neck which bore him down. A small plain bowl with some oil in it had been placed upon the floor near her head, and he reached out to put some on his finger. His gaze went to the hideous marks upon her throat, the shape of her murderer’s hands clearly outlined in black upon her skin. Her eyes were still open and they stared at him, but he felt in them neither reproach nor forgiveness, for they were as lifeless as stone. He closed them, and anointed the lids with the cleansing oil to prepare her for her journey. He spoke the ritual words: “Farewell my wife, and my Lady. May you find peace and honour among the dead as you did in life. Those of us who remain will ever remember you and turn to your shade for guidance. Watch over our children, and await me in the next world when I shall come to you and enclose you in my arms once more.” His eyes closed and the first tears came. “Forgive me, Bekah.”

[Nurumaiel]

Lord Korak led the Princess into his mother's chamber, where she stood by the fire. She turned when she saw them, and hastened to them. She curtsied to the Princess, and Korak leaned forward to kiss her cheek briefly. She looked the two of them up and down. "You're both quite wet from this rain," she said. "Korak, hasten to your room at once and change into something dry. Highness, perhaps you would not object to wearing some gown of mine... we will hang your own by the fire to dry."

"What foul weather," said Korak, his voice low and grumbling. "This will certainly delay the builders."

"But aside from that, you are light-hearted, son?" Lady Hababa questioned.

"Aside from that, I am light-hearted," he replied, and he departed, wondering if it were really true. What was there to bother him? All things were going the way he wanted them to go. The temple was being built, he was to marry the Princess soon, and he had, for once in his life, spoken to Arshalous in a way which left her room only for feeble answers. Yet he seemed caught in a mire, sinking slowly, yet steadily.

Lady Hababa turned to the Princess with a shudder. "My heart is not light," she said. "I fear that some great evil will fall upon us. I feel that some great evil has already befallen." She sank onto a chair, and sat there shivering for some time, while Gjeelea went into the inner chamber to change. When the Princess returned, clad in one of the old woman's loose gowns, she brightened somewhat and took the wet clothes from the Princess' arms, draping them over the back of a chair by the fire. Then she gestured for the Princess to sit down, while she flitted here and there, straightening things up. "It is always a great comfort to me to work," she said. "It keeps my mind occupied, and banishes, for a time at least, the thought of dark things."

"You fear that dark things are at hand?" said Princess Gjeelea.

"I do, at times," said Lady Hababa. "Yet, Highness, you mustn't listen to the worries of a tottering old woman. My mind is always uneasy in a storm, and when my son is away I worry for him. Perhaps it is the fact that he has spoken to the Lady Arshalous more often lately. Their spiteful words are certainly not music to my ears! Nay, my fears are groundless, I am sure, and merely brought by my recent worries. Now let us talk of cheerier things, for I hear my son's step in hallway."

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Lady Hababa brought a smile to Gjeelea's face; something about the woman was unbelievably kind and warm. For a moment the princess wondered why Lord Korak grew to be a man of such grim bitterness. Lord Korak entered and sat on the other side of the room, away from Gjeelea. A slightly perplexed look came across Lady Hababa's aging face, but she dismissed it and sat on a cushioned chair between the betrothed couple.

"It is cheery news indeed, Lady Hababa, that we should be married within the month," Gjeelea murmured, looking down at her lap as she spoke. Her voice was indifferent and uncaring. What other current affairs could be considered as 'cheery'? The princess wondered at the lack of actual happiness in her life. "Surely it pleases Korak?"

"Indeed," Korak uttered the simple agreement in a low grumble, an impatient grunt that brought Gjeelea's gaze flickering upward to meet his. Outside, a similarly low, almost inaudible rumble could be heard. Thunder? Gjeelea worried suddenly.

"Oh, this weather is truly dreadful," Lady Hababa complained, glancing over at the chair upon which Gjeelea's wet clothes were hung to dry. Then she looked to Gjeelea. "You really should stay until the storm is over."

"If it does not trouble you," Gjeelea said with a false smile. "I would very much enjoy your company until the storm passes."

"That is well then," Lady Hababa smiled as well. She looked at her son. "When will the wedding take place?"

[Imladris]

Arshalous shivered in the rain and wiped her dripping hair from her face. At her feet was the body of the queen -- her queen. Stone was scattered about her limp form as if the balcony had crumbled beneath her, letting her fall to the ground below. Thunder clapped and lightening flickered in the darkened sky. Arshalous' heart chilled as she saw the red marks that stained the queen's fine throat. No...she had not met her death that way...she had fallen. Doubt gnawed at her as she stared at the marks...but then she turned away. She must not think of that and she must not find out if her suspicions were true. Such knowledge would be deadly she was sure...

She turned away and rushed to her home. She was weary, she was frightened by the events of the day. She refused to think of her aunt, the mother of Korak...she cringed at the thought of grief that would surely be on Hababa's face when she discovered the plottings that had been whispered in the dark.

But right now she did not want to think about the plots, the deception, the strangeness of the Queen's death. The haunted, cold lump in her stomach was going to be ignored, washed away by a cup of soothing tea. Semra made such excellent tea...

"Semra!" she called, wringing her sodden garments at the door step. Her call echoed in the vast halls of her villa and there was no patter of footsteps or the answering call of her servant.

Arshalous licked her lips. Semra had never ignored her before she had always been a faithful servant. "Semra!" Maybe she had fallen alseep or was buried in a story that Arshalous had given her leave to read...Arshalous hurried to Semra's small bedroom but found it empty. "Semra!" she shouted, trying to stifle the vague feeling of concern.

Arshalous stared at the pouring rain, trying not to think of the rumours that were whispered of monsters of stories now arisen praying upon children and women. Surely one would not dare enter the house of noble. But...and she could not shake this gnawing thought...but what if one of them had been responsible for the queen's death?

With a surge of fear, Arshalous darted outside, running, trying to find Semra. She calmed her pace, laughing at herself. She was being a fool, letting the wild imaginings of children take hold of her.

She heard a moan, and she turned. Semra was there, lying in a puddle. Mud streaked her pallid cheeks, a tear trembled on her eyelash. She was as cold, oh so very cold.

"Semra!" Arshalous whispered, taking the girl in her arms and kissing her forehead. "What happened to you?"

Arshalous carried Semra into the villa, washed her face, made her warm. Soon Semra's eyes flickered open and she whimpered softly. "It was horrible my lady....there was a shadow darker than the blackest night and he came near to me, and I felt a chill wind that seeped into my body, driving all warmth from it. I was filled with fear, and...and the next I knew you were there and I was here. But it was so terrible my lady...it was as if I could feel an echo of the thing's being, and it was...devoid of all good thing..."

Arshalous stared at the wall and paced before the fire. "Oh Rhais," she whispered, "what has become of us?"

[Nurumaiel]

"The precise date is not yet settled, Mother," said Korak, drawing his gaze from the fire to her face. Something was stirring within him. He felt restless, nervous. Was it merely because he found himself under the scrutiny of both his mother and the Princess? Perhaps the ominous rumbling of the thunder put him ill at ease. "We must speak with her father the King, of course," he went on, keeping his voice even with great effort, "and we must also speak the matter over with you. We want to ascertain that both her family and my own are able to attend on the day we set. But, as my Princess says, it will certainly be within the month." He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

Lady Hababa saw the glance, and saw also that it contained no tender love in it, not even an emotion concealed deep within. His possessive use of the word 'Princess' rang false, as if he were merely putting on a show. Lady Hababa started. Was he merely putting on a show? She had known for a long time that his first reason to marry the Princess was to put himself in a position to be King, but it had never occurred to her that he cared nothing for her, save that she should put him in power by her lineage. Lady Hababa felt a wave of what was almost anger pass through her. If he married the Princess he would make his life miserable, and her life miserable as well. He could not be happy wed to one he did not love. She resolved to speak to the Princess about the matter as soon as they had a moment alone.

There was a silence. The fire crackled and sparked, the one cheery thing in the room. A gloom seemed to have settled upon all. Gjeelea looked very ill at ease; Korak fidgeted restlessly in his chair and cast nervous glances here and there; Lady Hababa sat tall and straight and pale.

"Confound the weather!" Lord Korak burst out, standing up and beginning to pace back and forth. "How uneasy it makes me! I feel as if a host of dark creatures were pounding at my door and bidding me let them in so they could cast me into pits of despair." He cast himself in the chair again, but only a few moments had passed before he was on his feet and pacing again. Lady Hababa sat motionless and silent, unable to think of one word of cheer. Cheer, and all hopes of it, had vanished, and only a dark, creeping gloom remained.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The rider achieved the Palace only to find it in uproar. Servants and courtiers alike were streaming from the building, braving even the fury of Rae, to spill forth their news upon the City. It came to him in snatches, fragmentary words that flew by him in the howling rain like the cries of nightmare. The Queen was dead, murdered in her own chambers by an invisible terror that none could find. The King had ordered that the Palace be searched and that the City itself be sealed. Even as the rider handed the reins of his shattered mount to a trembling servant, the stables were emptying as messengers were dispatched to all corners of Kanak. The Port was to be closed, the great gates shut. The nobles with estates in the countryside raced to get out of the city before all escape was denied them, but the messengers of the Court rode like men possessed, and few would be able to return to their beds this night. The message of the outrage spread through the city like flame, leaping from rooftop to rooftop almost without the benefit of tongues to give it voice, and as the rain intensified in its fury, the City of Kanak gathered itself beneath the funereal pall of the clouds and awaited the hammerstroke of doom.

The rider staggered into the great hall, directed there by the guards who recognised immediately the token that he bore. With a glance he took in the full horror that had come over his world. The Queen was being taken from the room upon a bier by the women who would tend her this night, while the King sat upon his divan looking at no-one and saying nothing. The Chamberlain was stooped before Khamul, as though awaiting orders that might never come. Few others remained, for a mad panic had seemed to grip the Court and having no other direction, the people fled back to their homes like frightened animals. The rider knew his duty, however, and he strode toward the dais, his left hand holding aloft the broken sword that was his token, and in his right hand he clutched a filthy canvas bag in which something of rough shape dangled like a grotesque fruit.

The King’s eyes took in the sight of the shattered weapon that the messenger bore. He looked at the rider’s mud- and blood-spattered raiment and he knew that this day’s feast of horrors had not yet come to an end. The rider fell to his knees at the foot of the dais and laid the sword upon the lowest step. At the same time, he set the bag with its contents upon the floor next to him, and those who saw the motion noted how he seemed to avoid contact with it as much as he could. “Hail Khamul!” the rider croaked through a throat made raw with the dust and toil of many hard miles ridden at great speed. “I am Barak, son of Arghal, third arant of the Viper battalion.”

The King’s own voice was raw and naked as he made the customary reply. “Greetings Barak, son of Arghal. What news from the Vipers?”

“None, my King, for the dead send no news.” The young man, for young he was, his beard was but little more than a long stubble upon his chin, faltered in his message.

“The dead?” the King echoed, but this time with more animation. “He who bears the broken sword should not speak in riddles. What has happened to the Vipers?”

“They are destroyed, Khamul. Only myself and three others remain, and they were too sorely wounded to make the journey with me to speak of our doom. I brought them as far as the town of Carthan and left them there with the women.” The court fell silent. An entire battalion? The thought swept through everyone there and all eyes turned to the King.

Faroz sat up straight, and his eyes fired with rage. “You lie!” he cried in despair.

“No,” the young man’s voice cracked and tears began to mingle with the rainwater that streaked his face. “I do not, Majesty. We were attacked by a horde of…of monsters! They were many, and they fought like…like nothing I’ve ever seen! Animals show more care for their well being. But these creatures came at us again and again with such reckless hate. We slew them in their hundreds but still they came, seeming only to become angered by their losses to greater fury. They killed everyone, majesty, I alone and my companions escaped to warn you of these demons!”

The King rose up and strode down from his seat to strike the rider across the face. The sound of the blow echoed through the chamber like a thunderclap. The young man’s eyes grew wide with terror. “Command yourself!” the King said sternly. “You speak of demons and monsters, but I know the truth. Your battalion was waylaid by nomads of the desert and you fled in terror for your lives.”

“No, my King!” the rider cried. “Behold the truth of my tale!” he snatched up the bag and opened it, but before he could draw forth its contents the material slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor and its terrible cargo spilled forth. A bloody mass rolled a few feet and then stopped against the lowest step of the dais, right by the King’s foot. It was a head, but the face upon that head was certainly not human. Glaring yellow eyes and sharpened fangs leered up at those who looked at it. Even dead and wretched as it was, the cruelty and malice that had driven it in life was evident in its features. The Court recoiled in terror at the sight.

Faroz kneeled to look more closely at the creature. He spoke softly to Barak. “You have not told us all that you saw yet.”

“No,” he replied. “These beasts were not alone, Khamul. There were Men there with them. Men who did not fight, but who drove the monsters on, lashing them and screaming at them to fight, though such efforts hardly seemed necessary…”

“These men,” Faroz said, “you recognised them?”

“Yes, Khamul. They were Alanzian soldiers.”

There was a deep and resonant silence in the great hall as the King and his people took this in. The rain poured on in the courtyard ceaselessly and the clouds rolled overhead. When the King spoke, his words, though quiet, carried to all corners of the room. “Jarult, summon my children, they must be told of their mother’s death. Send also for the High Priest and Priestess for they must prepare my wife’s funeral. The entire city shall observe the Mourning Watch this night: see to it that all homes burn a censor of incense to her memory, and order that all women do lamentation for their departed Mother.” The Chamberlain bowed and began to go, but the King spoke one more command to him. “Call also for my General, and all nobles of the first rank. We shall prepare a Council for War.”