Shadow of the West

[Imladris]

The cool night was ripped with the screaming orcs as they neared Arshalous's mansion. She watched Semra slip into the shadows and disappear...it had taken some work persuading Semra to flee, but she had finally obeyed. And now what would she, Arshalous, do? Flee with Semra? Sit and wait?

Sighing, she walked to her chambers and knelt at the foot of her bed before an old and weathered trunk. Turning the key in the lock, she creaked the lid open, and took a slim dagger from within the trunk. The simple blade gleamed in the dim moonlight.

Gripping the handle, breathing quickly, she once again considered what she must do. Pashtia had fallen into darkness, there was naught she could do against the tide. Her death would serve no purpose, would not rescue Pashtia from the fist of the Emissary and his Lord. Flee today...fight tomorrow a voice whispered in her ear.

No....she could not flee. Fleeing stunk of cowardice and uncontroled fear.

Now she could hear the trampling feet of the orcs and glancing out the window she could see a dark shadow streak towards her. Even if she wished to flee it would be too late.

She glanced fondly at the scrolls of tales that were collected in her room, and it was then that Arshalous fully realized that they were in just another story still in the writing. And, as such, the time for great deeds had come. Too long had the citizens of Pashtia allowed The Emissary to manipulate them and their king to darkness. She was tired of sneaking in the shadows, wondering who to trust with the constant fear of betrayal poisoning her. Tonight she would fight against the black tide, and, in all likelyhood, die against this evil. She did not fear Death -- she embraced him for he would save her from existing where darkness and lies rose like a dying sun over the wasted land.

She girded the dagger at her waist and waited in her chambers. The orcs burst through the front door and rampaged through the house looking for her. Finally they found their way to her chambers. She gripped her dagger more firmly, and stared at the swarm of orcs in front of her, at their barred yellowed fangs dripping with spit. They rushed at her, but only one was able to force its way through the narrow entry and into the chamber. She slashed at him aiming for his throat, but instead struck his face and gashed his eye out. More tumbled into the room and she pressed herself into a corner, slashing wildly as she did so. One of the brutes knocked her down, another stepped on her wrist and kicked the dagger out of reach as she grasped frantically for it.

They bound her wrists and dragged her from the house, ignoring her furious struggle to escape.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

By the time Khamûl arrived at the mansion of the Lord Korak it was already ablaze. The servants had been dragged forth and killed by the orcs, and only the family remained alive. The old woman shivered in the night air and in her terror. Before her, confused and afraid was Korak himself. He had been called from his bed and was hastily dressed in a cloak and boots. As he saw the form of the Nazgûl rise up before him his face became ashen and his limbs shook. He tried to speak but the words would not come.

Khamûl’s laughter was as flesh being torn from the bone, and the old woman fell to the ground at the noise. Korak bent to help her but the orcs restrained him, and laughed at her weakness where she lay. “Lord Korak,” Khamûl hissed at him from within the folds of his robes. “You do not recognise me. I am your King and father-in-law.”

The Lord’s eyes went wide. “Faroz?”

“No,” he hissed in return. “Khamûl. I belong to the lord Sauron now, as does this land. You do not know Him yet, but you will, soon. Yes, all shall know Him soon.”

“I…I don’t understand,” the man stuttered.

“Then die in ignorance,” and the wraith raised his sword above his head, and it glittered in the firelight as though it were itself aflame. But Korak did not quail or look away. Finding some reserve of strength and courage in him yet, he held his back rigid and stared into the empty space where he deemed the wraith’s eyes would be. A company of orcs ran up, dragging along with them the shackled form of the Lady Arshalous. Khamûl stayed his hand, a new idea forming in his mind. His children had not been found here, as he had supposed. He would need to contain them, and the High Priestess, quickly – before they could spread the contagion of their disloyalty amongst the disaffected officers of his Army. The orcs were in control of the City, but beyond its walls the army of Men was encamped.

He lowered his weapon and gazed upon his son-in-law and the lady that was to have been his wife. Their eyes fell toward the ground as he bent the terror of his will upon them. “Bring them to the temple,” he ordered. They moved through the streets quickly, the Lord and Lady seeing about them scenes of monstrous cruelty the likes of which had never even intruded into their imaginations for they passed near to the quarter of the City that had been set aside for the Avari. Not an Elf remained alive, that they could see, but for those which were being kept alive for the depraved pleasure of their tormentors. The buildings were all aflame and there was about the scene a terrible silence that was worse than any scream of agony.

They soon reached the square which lay before the temple, where they found the High Priest Tarkan awaiting the return of Khamûl in chains. He ordered that they be chained together and made to stand before a hastily erected gallows. As this was being done a party of orcs arrived from the Palace, bearing with them a hideous cargo. They handed three horribly mutilated shapes to their lord and as he seized them he seemed to grow in size and malevolence, until the very ground seemed to crawl in revulsion of his touch. He turned to the prisoners and threw the things at their feet, and though the prisoners looked immediately away it was not in time to avoid seeing what their King had done. At their feet, blackened with violence and terror, their features distorted by agony, were the heads of the General Morgós, his wife Arlome, and of their son Evrathol.

He spoke to them then. “You have all conspired against me and will suffer the doom of death for that. But your passing can be quick. Tell me where your allies are and I shall order the orcs to place you upon that gallows now where your agony will be brief. Obey me, and this boon I shall grant you. Deny me and I shall give you to the orcs for their playthings. They shall keep you alive for weeks, months…and in the end you will plead for death. And when you do, you shall be brought before me, and I will strip you of your mortal flesh until all that remains is your cold and naked spirit, howling in the wind of my fury.”

[Imladris]

Arshalous remained silent. Cold tendrils of fear were choking her, and she was trembling violently as she tried to block out the screams of terror, the scenes of unspeakable horror, the stench of hopeless doom. She closed her eyes, and gasped for breath. The images of the heads of the elven family rose like phantoms in her mind, disappearing and reappearing at will whenever she tried to push them from her memory...

“You have all conspired against me and will suffer the doom of death for that. But your passing can be quick. Tell me where your allies are and I shall order the orcs to place you upon that gallows now where your agony will be brief. Obey me, and this boon I shall grant you. Deny me and I shall give you to the orcs for their playthings. They shall keep you alive for weeks, months…and in the end you will plead for death. And when you do, you shall be brought before me, and I will strip you of your mortal flesh until all that remains is your cold and naked spirit, howling in the wind of my fury.”

The prisoners remained strangely silent, and Arshalous wondered why. However horrific this being was, he deserved an answer, to not answer was half hearted defiance, weakness. If they did not answer they would die with their heads hanging in defeat. A full victory for the...twisted thing of evil who had once been their King. With an effort she raised her head, and stilled her trembling. "We have not conspired against you," she said with some difficulty. Her mouth was dry with fear, lips chaffed with the rising of the wind. "You were blinded with the soft coming of darkness; did not see what we saw, for you were blinded with pretty lies; did not realize what was clearly apparent to us. It was against that which we fought, which we conspired. Not against you, our once Lord King."

[Firefoot]

It was not long before Siamak was again hurrying through the dark streets of Kanak. After Jarult had oriented him to their position in the city, they had decided that it would be best to go straight to the army, camped outside the city walls. Siamak had wanted to see Morgôs, yet, even if the General were still alive, he could not afford the time to get to the palace, nor did Siamak know how he would get back in. And while he made his trip to the army, Zamara and Jarult were working out how to raise the rest of the city and, hopefully, get news.

So now he rushed on to the great gate of the city, which was closer than Siamak had realized. He only hoped that there would be few Orcs guarding it… he wondered hopefully whether they might have abandoned their posts in the ‘excitement’ going on in other parts of the city. From what he had seen of the vile creatures, he would not put it past them.

The further he went without hearing any sound of pursuit, indeed, any sign of life, the less uneasy he became. He still was wary, but it was nevertheless a relief to hear the Orcs’ cries coming from the center of the city growing fainter and fainter, almost out of earshot.

So when Siamak heard an Orkish cry not too far away, he could feel his heart jump into his throat. He quickly ducked into the shadows of a nearby doorway, waiting anxiously. When no Orcs came, however, Siamak realized they must be nearer to the gate than he had thought. He crept out of the doorway and down the street, drawing his sword quietly. He peered around the corner of the last building on the street and saw, as expected, the gate of the city. It was guarded by four Orcs, one of them apparently dead. The others stood round it, jeering at the corpse. Siamak pushed back a grim laugh. His father would regret the day he decided to replace the army of Pashtia with these… creatures.

He paused for a moment, but what had to be done had to be done, after all, and they had to get through that gate. Swiftly he jumped out from behind the building and within seconds it was done: the three remaining Orcs had joined their dead comrade. The one Orc who had actually seen him had not even had time to draw his blade. Siamak felt a wave of revulsion rush through him at the killings as he wiped his blade of the black Orkish blood on the garment of one of the Orcs.

Before leaving the city, he dragged the bodies of the Orcs out of the open. A needless precaution, perhaps, but he wasn’t taking any chances. A few precious minutes later he moved onto the gate. It was sturdy, but once unlatched it swung open easily and soundlessly on its hinges. This was the first part of the battle won: he was through the gate.

Siamak’s gaze quickly alighted on the glow of campfires a short distance away. “That way,” he muttered, and strode off. Perhaps two-thirds of the way there he was stopped by a youthful figure calling, “Who goes there?” Youthful, Siamak thought him, then realized that the soldier standing before him could not have been more than two years younger than himself.

“Hold that question for a few minutes, and I will answer it,” said Siamak. “I would ask you a question first…” Now came the first delicate part of his plan. He needed to know how the ordinary soldiers felt, and he felt sure he would not get an honest answer if they knew his identity.

“Go on…” said the youth, hand straying to sword hilt.

“Where do your loyalties lie?”

The soldier frowned at him and did not say anything for a long moment. “To Pashtia,” he finally answered. “I serve my country.”

“And the rest of the army… do they feel the same?”

He did not hesitate this time, answering sharply. “Who are you, and why do you want to know? You have come here, and it is our right to judge you before you judge us.”

“Very well,” answered Siamak. “I ask because much is afoot tonight, the services of the army will be needed, and in service to Pashtia, though not, perhaps, to its king. As to myself, I am the Prince Siamak. I must see the commanding officers. By the time we are done, the army needs to be ready to fight. Can you spread that word?” Siamak had watched the play of emotions on the young man’s face, from suspicion to disbelief to readiness, but shining through it all was hope.

He nodded. “Yes, m’lord, I will. Come with me.” He turned and led Siamak into the camp. He spoke to a few men before they reached a rather larger tent towards the middle of the camp. These pauses gave Siamak time to get a good look at the camp. Many men sat awake tonight, no doubt brooding over the unrest in the city. Now, Siamak could see that there was burning in the city by the dull orange glow and thick smoke billowing out over the city. Time was running out.

The two filed into the tent and Siamak found himself facing five men. The tent itself was fairly roomy; tables bearing various papers and maps were set up along the sides. Siamak guessed (correctly) that this was the makeshift headquarters now that the army had been ousted of its former spacious grounds.

“The Prince Siamak to see Captains Adbullar, Memon, Iskender, Gyges, and Aysun,” announced the soldier (though he gave no indication of which man belonged to which name), and with that he bowed and exited, leaving Siamak alone with the captains. The captains bowed as well in proper Pashtian fashion and sat down on low cushions. Siamak did likewise. He could not read their emotions and prayed that this would go easily and quickly. When none of them spoke, he plunged in.

“I am the Prince Siamak,” he said, though he knew it had already been stated, “and I act in the name of Pashtia. Khamul the king is no longer fit to rule and destroys his country; my sister Gjeelea is in agreement with this, though I do not know if she yet lives. In such circumstances the rightful rule of Pashtia falls to me.” He could not tell if the captains were accepting this, and so he played his trump. “In addition, the General Morgôs, whom I pray still lives, swore fealty to me some months ago, giving me the power to command him and thereby the army.” He could see that there was some surprise at this statement and that he now had their full attention. “I am in need of these services now. If something is not done tonight, Pashtia may well fall into the utter darkness and shadow brought by the Emissary of the west. Already, the light and glory of Pashtia has faded considerably. The land is despoiled, the people are disheartened and fearful, the army is disgraced and replaced by the foul race of Orcs. The time has come for you to fight for your country and yourselves, for your rights and your liberty, for your friends, your families, and all that Pashtia once was. The time has come, and there are no more bystanders. Either you aid your country or hasten its downfall. Which will you do?” He was resolved now, and a fell light was in his eyes. The captains looked upon him now with new expressions: one doubtful, one hopeful, one uncomfortable, one thoughtful, and the fifth resolute and ready.

“You ask something of us that would be treasonous, something that should require further deliberation,” objected the third man.

Siamak looked him straight in the face. “Treasonous only to a mad king, not to Pashtia. And there is no time for deliberation. The Elves are being destroyed; parts of the city are burning. The time to act is now.”

“If you will excuse us for a moment,” muttered the first man, and for the next couple of long minutes the five men turned to each other and held a whispered debate. Siamak was on the point of wondering if they would ever reach agreement when one pulled away from the others. “I care not what the rest of you decide. I will follow the prince who I deem to be the rightful lord of Pashtia.”

“And I,” said two more. With that, the remaining two agreed, not quite readily but not reluctantly either. In a short matter of time all five captains had sworn fealty and Siamak was outlining his plan.

“The Orcs in the city outnumber the men you have here, I think,” said Siamak. “However, they are otherwise occupied and will not be expecting a concerted attack. We must go in secrecy into the city and attack at once, before there is time for the Orcs to be organized. I do not know very much about what is happening in the city, however, I would guess that there is more afoot than the destruction of the Elves, and that Khamul and the Emissary will be down commanding things. If this is so, everything will probably come to a head in the middle of the city, in the square of the new temple. We know little for sure, though, so communication will be vital. We need to move into the city as soon as possible. All right?”

One of them nodded. “I hope this will go quickly. However, it will take some time to get the men assembled and organized…”

“I think,” said Siamak as they all stood to go, “that you will find most of them already set to go.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Khamul stepped close to the Lady Arshalous. He loomed over her, a black shape against the smoke and reek that lay over the City. He stayed that way for a time, gazing down at her, and at first she was able to return into the blank space beneath his cloak a gaze that was strong and determined. But quickly, her face faltered and fell, and she sagged visibly. But still Khamul bore down upon her with the force of his terrible will, pushing her to the ground where she kneeled as though under the scourge of whips. Khamul reached toward her with his hand, the Ring now glowing upon it like an angry red eye.

Seizing her about the neck he lifted her once more to her feet where two orcs took hold of her arms and held her upright, for she fainted from the black terror of the Breath that had come over her, and her neck burned with the fierce freezing cold of his black hand.

Khamul felt the presence of Ashnaz in the courtyard and he turned from his prey to greet his friend. To mortal eyes there was no way to distinguish between the wraiths, but to Khamul his friend glowed forth with the white light of virtue through the robes that obscured his true form. His blade was out and it shone red with blood and fire. "We have slain many of the Elves!" he cried, "but too many as well have escaped. There are those among the mortals of this realm who sympathise with the Avari, and who have helped them out of the City."

"What of the Royal Children?" Khamul asked. "Have they been found?"

"No. But there are rumours that at least one of them has left the City and sought the help of the Army."

Khamul hissed. "Treachery! Blasphemous treachery of the most detestable kind!"

"Indeed brother, but fear not. I have sent messages to the orc commanders. Most of their maggots have gone wild with their play. They have taken to fighting with one another over the spoils of this place, but there are enough of the dougtier races who have remained controllable. I have ordered that they be assembled here with all speed, although it may yet take some time."

"Good, good, brother, but we must not forget the demon Priestess and her followers. They must be found!"

"I have taken thought to that -- a batallion scours the quarter where they were last seen, they shall soon be found."

"Very well," Khamul cried. "Let the traitors come to us with their pathetic army. We shall crush them here, in the very square of their now dead Goddess, and with their bones we shall kindle a pyre in praise of Morgoth!"

[Firefoot]

Siamak had told the young soldier that he wanted the army prepared to fight by the time he was done with the commanders, but he was nevertheless surprised at how fast the word had spread throughout the large camp. Not a single horn had been sounded nor a shouted command issued, but all across the camp men were emerging from their tents, fully armed and ready for battle. Nor were they men half-asleep and irritated with the irksome hour between midnight and dawn. The same hope that had been evident in the young soldier’s face had run rampant throughout the camp.

The five captains were clearly surprised at this, and a couple cast curious looks at him, but otherwise they seemed to take this turn of events all in stride. One of them stepped aside and spoke a few words to an officer standing nearby, who then saluted smartly with a “Yessir,” and headed off. In a few moments the whole of the camp was in motion But the six of them headed through the camp, clearly going somewhere, though Siamak was not precisely sure where, and as they walked, they further developed their strategy for the taking of the city. Siamak was content to listen, knowing these men had far more battle experience than he did, and only occasionally chipped in with thoughts and ideas.

Their plan quickly took shape. On the assumption that the largest part of the Orcs would be gathered in the central square of the city, their first force under control of Adbullar and Gyges, just large enough to give battle, would attack these Orcs straight on. They would allow themselves to be overwhelmed and retreat back through the narrower streets where the Orcs would not be able to use their larger numbers to their advantage. On these streets as well would be stationed archers and small troops, under Memnon’s command, prepared to ambush the Orcs and cause confusion amongst them, preferably cutting off lines of communication. At the same time, a second force under Aysun and Iskender would have already gone around through the city in secrecy and would attack the Orcs on their rear. A delicate plan, to be sure: all depended on surprise and confusion of their enemies, and so many parts that could go wrong…

It was not until they stopped that Siamak realized that they were before the whole of the army, now nearly assembled into their ranks. Before the Captains began giving orders, Siamak put in one more word: “If possible, Khamul and the Emissary are to be captured. The Emissary’s men may be killed if need be, however, I would prefer not to have this be the start of a larger war with the foreign lord Annatar, though it may be so anyway. The important part is that Khamul is captured.” He paused for a moment. “Oh, and also: I am almost certain that there will have been some of the Avari (and maybe others as well) taken captive. If there is opportunity, a rescue attempt should be made.”

“As my lord wishes,” answered one of them with a nod. The orders that followed were a blur of divisions and names to Siamak. He did realize when one of them was about to give the order to set forth, however, and stopped him with a soft, “Wait.” The captain, the first to pledge his support, fell silent.

Siamak stepped forward, feeling the eyes of the thousands of men upon him. “Men, fellow Pashtians, tonight we begin a battle to wrest our country from a tyrant that has all but destroyed it. It is not just for your country that you fight, however; it is for yourselves, for your families, for your homes. Though it was myself and Gjeelea my sister and the High Priestess Zamara that began this revolution, it will be you that determine its outcome – your courage, your valiance, and your love. For though the foul Orcs outnumber you, they fight only because those are their orders. You, though, fight for a cause, that peace may once more reign over this once-fair land. For months you have watched as Pashtia fell deeper into the shadow of the west, unable to do anything. Now is your chance to turn the tide. The fate of everything you hold dear rests on this battle. Now is the time to fight so that when the dawn comes the red sun will rise on a new Pashtia!”

And so they set forth. They bore no torches to light their way, and even the moon had set, leaving them in total dark. How many hours before this endless night ended? Two? Three? More?

It seemed an eternity as the army trickled in through the gate. For himself, Siamak had deigned to go with the first force in the initial attack. This force set off directly through the city; Siamak highly doubted that they had achieved the gate unnoticed by all. His father would no doubt be searching for himself (and, of course, Gjeelea and Zamara), and it was difficult to move so many men in utter secrecy. And if they knew of anything, it would be best if this force were known and not the second force or the guerilla groups dispersed throughout the streets.

As they drew nearer to the square, the streets widened and their ranks broadened. They turned a final corner and the square was upon them, and the Orcs seemed to await them. Siamak had hardly time to process this information before the first clash of sword on sword rang through the air. A Pashtian horn sounded, and an Orkish horn answered it in harsh tones. Blood, red and black alike, ran in the square. The battle for Pashtia had begun.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Far from that central square where battle began to build in silence, in a small, unlit terraced house, silence also reigned. As still and expressionless as the statues at the gates of Pashtia, Zamara sat straightbacked and silent in a chair in Jarult's house, staring straight forward as if in some silent vigil. But it was not upon any target or landscape that her eyes were fixed, but rather at some point seemingly beyond the dingey creamy-grey of Jarult's wall, fixed upon that point with such fierce intensity that it seemed as if she had almost stopped breathing such was her concentration. The only sign of life that the Priestess showed were in her fingers, constantly moving: one moment absently straightening her robes in her lap, the second moment running the tips distractedly down the velvet of her cloak; and most of all, flitting almost nervously over her medallion, always darting away before they settled there, moths drawn to a flame but nervous and unsure of what would happen if they settled on the ruby's fierce, dark flame.

From her position at the window, the second figure in the room watched the Priestess sidelong through hooded eyes, as if waiting for her to make some move. Daliyeh and Zamara had talked long before, after Siamak had left, speaking with the urgency of those condemned about each other, about Pashtia, about the Queen, even about the goddess herself - a goddess that Daliyeh had begun to doubt ever since her very profession had been warped and blackened by her forced tending to the orcs; a goddess who Zamara had seen and hoped- no, believed would come to their rescue. Maybe it was on this point that they had fallen silent, neither wanting to shatter the other's vision and both desperate to hold onto what they had. So now the talking had ceased and only silence reigned: reigned over this tiny, frozen kingdom in which the two subjects, Priestess and Healer, used to taking command and being in charge, were utterly helpless. Frozen.

Suddenly Zamara started up, knocking the chair over in her haste, her eyes wide and her head cocked slightly to one side as if listening, a desert hare alert as the fox approaches. Daliyeh started slightly at the sudden movement, but was then fully on her feet. "What, what is it?" she whispered, fearfully.

"Did you not hear that?" Zamara replied, her tones also hushed. Daliyeh opened her mouth to reply, but Zamara held up a hand suddenly, her eyes staring into a different beyond as she listened intently. A smile, half fearful, half excited, flitted across her fine, dark features and she nodded almost imperceptibly. "There," she replied, her voice little more than a sigh. She smiled more widely this time and nodded as the sound repeated itseld, striding out into the hall and grabbing her cloak, throwing it over her shoulders. Daliyeh, perplexed, remained still, then she too heard the sound: a horn, a horn blowing in the distance. She gasped quietly, her hand coming to her mouth, then she ran out to Zamara where the Priestess stood with her hand on the doorknob. "Zamara, wait!"

The Priestess turned to look at her, and for a moment Daliyeh drew back as something in the younger woman's eyes flashed that was perhaps not entirely unlike what Zamara herself had seen in the eyes of the Nazgul: something ancient, deep and dark, beyond it's bearer and beyond Pashtia itself. But the old healer had seen much in the last few months that would have made any weaker than herself quell and fall away in horror, and she was made of stronger stuff than that: her hand remained on Zamara's arm. "Priestess, please, wait. Where will you go?"

"Siamak does not want me there; therefore I must go to him." The reply was soft yet measured and totally determined. Zamara seemed somehow distant: part of her had already reached the square where the battle was being fought, and stood already beside the young prince. But the part that remained now turned to Daliyeh, her dark eyes pleading with her, the blue flashing in the brown. "I must go to him, Daliyeh."

The old healer searched the priestess's face for a moment, trying to find some logic, some reason, some hope. But as Zamara turned the doorknob and stepped out into the darkness, all Daliyeh could see was the face of a young woman who had seen far more than she should have, a woman who had passed a premature death and who, in her second chance, now balanced the fate of a people on shoulders too young to bear it. She pursed her lips and let go of Zamara's arm, but signalled for her to wait a moment as she disappeared into the dim half-light of Jarult's home, emerging a few moments later bearing a long, slender item wrapped in cloth. Zamara gave her a questioning look as she took the surprisingly heavy item, then unwrapped it. Recognition dawned and, grasping the hilt of the old chamberlain's sword, she pulled it free from its hilt in a sudden fierce motion, turning the blade so that it glimmered dully in the moonlight, the stars flashing off a blade old yet fierce yet - not unlike the Pashtian people themselves. She smiled.

Replacing the sword in its hilt, the younger woman awkwardly wrapped the belt around her waist, and as she stepped out into the street the weight of it thumped against her leg, both awkward and reassuring at the same time. Looking up at the stars in the clear, desert sky that greeted her, Zamara imagined how many people were looking at those very same stars right at that very same moment; and how many of them would live to see the next morning. Turning back to the healer, Zamara took a deep breath and kissed the old woman's hands lightly in an unspoken thanks. Daliyeh smiled bravely in return, a mother watching her child go off to fight the impossible foe, and sniffed, turning away: hardened though Daliyeh had become by her trade, she was not past the tears that now sparkled in her old, dim eyes. "May the gods go with you, Priestess; may they help you to win this fight."

Zamara looked up at the stars above, then fixed her eyes again at Daliyeh, that look of wisdom beyond her years settling in them once more. She smiled sadly. "Oh, Daliyeh," she replied softly, the soft, wistful smile sighing across her features. "We cannot win this fight."

And with that she was gone, hood pulled up and cloak wrapped around her as she blended into the darkness of the starless shadows and hastened to find Siamak; hastened to the battle that would decide all of their fates.