Shadow of the West

[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.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

My Lord Sauron, give me, I beseech thee, the strength to defeat your enemies, and the will to see them punished for their treachery.

Khamul strode through the ranks of the orcs, his naked blade shining with the light of the Ring. Below him, where the square dropped from the top of the low hill upon which stood the former High Temple of the Goddess, he could see his son leading the mortal troops of Pashtia in their hopeless charge. The Pasthtians’ approach had been watched by orc spies and their quickest runners had been sent to assemble the captains. Ashnaz had taken command of the flank and Khamul took control of the main force upon the brow of the hill. The initial charge of the Men brought their force far up the hill, and at first the orcs gave way, as though overcome by the skill of the Pashtians. Slowly, painfully, and a terrible price, the Prince Siamak approached the place where his father stood amid the flaming ruins of the Temple. Smoke curled about the black shape of nightmare that had been the King, and despite the roar of battle there hung about his haggard form the silence of the void: as though the black space beneath his hood were the gateway to the realm of the dead. Despite their losses and their terror of the thing that awaited them atop the hill, the Men of Pashtia fought on, aided as they could be by those few civilians who yet remained in the City with the will and the ability to fight. What had begun as a well ordered battle became a brawl, as Men and orcs tore at one another with whatever weapons came to hand and, when none could be found, with their bare hands.

Slowly, the line of the orcs was driven back, closer and closer to where Khamul stood. The main force of the orc army had yet to be assembled and while those who were here gathered were the mightiest of the race, they were too few to withstand the full attack of the well-trained Pashtian Men. For too long had the army been made to watch as these monsters defiled the land and attacked its people. For too long had they been bereft of dignity by their displacement from the City by this foreign army, and for too long had they sat and done nothing, rendered leaderless and uncertain by the loss of their General. But now with the Prince Royal at their head, this young lad so quickly transformed into a Man, his unseen promise for so long hidden but now shining forth – with Siamak to guide them, they fought as Men possessed…and died by the hundreds. For though they were gaining ground, the orcs made them pay for each step up the hill with blood. The gutters ran red, and the stones smoked with gore. Still they pressed on.

Khamul screamed. It was a sound that stopped the Men of Pashtia dead, as it climbed above the sound of war and struck the very night dumb with mortal terror. The shriek of the Nazgul in his wrath clouded their minds with fear and doubt, and some among them faltered and began to turn. Only the Prince Siamak held them to their purpose in that moment, overcoming his fear and pressing ahead with the battle, felling the large captain of the main force of the orcs. But their hope was short lived, for Khamul’s scream was echoed of a sudden to their right, and from the alleys and roads which lay that way poured a new force of orcs, which swarmed toward them like maggots. The Emissary, the Lord of the Nazgul, was at their head and in his fury none could withstand him. The orcs upon the hill renewed their attack with greater ferocity as the Wraiths’ trap was finally sprung, and the Men were forced back down the hill into the waiting jaws of the orc re-enforcements.

Now it was the turn of the mortal Men of Pashtia to give way, but there was nowhere for them to run. Caught between the two forces of orcs, each one led by their terrible commanders, they were forced into a large circle which fought for its life. The Nazgul now fought alongside the orcs, slaying Men like cattle, and sending the living into a frenzy of terror. The Prince called about him the commanders of his army and ordered them to help him lead an attack down the hill. “To me! To me, Pashtians!” he cried, brandishing his sword above his head. “There is yet hope!” The army followed him and they attacked the orcs at one point, trying to drive trough the ring before it could be completely formed, and thus make their escape. The battle stood in the balance, and the very air held its breath.

From the distance came the clear sound of horns. The Men’s hearts were lifted with a nameless joy, and the orcs cursed the sound for the pain it caused their ears. “The Elves! The Elves are coming!” Siamak cried out. And from the other side of the hill, pouring through the ruins of the Temple, came a force of Avarin their silver blades shining in the night like stars, and with them came the High Priestess herself, calling out to the Men of Pashtia not to lose hope, and to fight on. They rushed down the hill, attacking the rear of the main force of orcs, and once more the battle began to turn. The Elves were not many, for the decimation of their people had been great and the survivors were scattered throughout the City, but the force which burned in them was an agony to the orcs, whose hearts quailed.

But the hope of the Men soon faltered and died, for at the sight of the Elves the Nazgul were thrown into a rage so great that they seemed to swell and grow, taking on unnatural size. They threw back the hoods of their cloaks and lo! upon their invisible brows they wore circlets of iron, and in their mailed fists their swords burst into cold flame. They rushed through the ranks of Men, killing and scattering them as though they were nothing, and they met the attack of the Elves, who fell back in terror. For though they were of the Elder race, they were the Avarin who had refused the call to go into the West. None among them had beheld the glories of the Valar, nor had any of them met with one of those who had journeyed hither and returned. To them, the power that had been given the Nazgul by their Rings of Power was as strange and as terrifying as to any mortal, and they soon fell back in despair of it.

All hope was now lost for the people of Pashtia, and the army began to flee. Men and Elves threw down their weapons and ran into the night, seeking either a hiding place or a hole more fit to die in. Few could withstand the fury of the Wraiths, but among those who did were the Prince and the High Priestess. They fought side by side now, but the numbers before them were too great. When their time came to die, it came to them in the form they most feared and dreaded. Through the ranks of the orcs came Khamul himself, their former King, now a monster and enemy of the land that he had ruled for so long. As he came upon them, the battle stilled and stopped and the only noise that could be heard were the distant screams of the dying.

They gazed into the empty space beneath his crown without speaking. “Fools,” he hissed at them with poisonous hatred. “Did you think that you could withstand the wrath of my master? Did you believe that you could displace me from the throne that is mine and place upon it a pretender?” Neither spoke. “Look upon me,” the Wraith continued. “Look upon your doom and die, knowing that Pashtia belongs forever to me!” He raised his sword above their heads.

But the blow did not fall. Khamul stood thus, transfixed, and though they could not see his visage they knew that he was looking at something beyond them. Turning, they saw nothing. But to Khamul’s sight, there approached a familiar shade. Pale and thin, like a mist, he saw the form of Queen Bekah. She stopped before him. “Faroz!” she cried. “Your time is at an end. You have offended against this land and against the Goddess Rhais. Your mission has failed. But you still have but one chance. Remove the Ring, and renounce your new Lord and you shall be spared your doom!”

“No!” he cried. “For me to renounce my Lord now will mean my certain death! You wish to see me destroyed!”

“You are already destroyed, Faroz. The man that you were is gone, and there is only a terrible thing of darkness in its place. Renounce what you have become and die as a mortal man. Receive this bounty or face your doom.”

The world stilled. Khamul stood unmoving and his lips formed a single word, feeling it as though he were tasting a morsel of food – Faroz – but it was a name which meant nothing to him now. “NO!” he screamed, and the rocks of the square began to quake in terror. “NO! I cannot renounce my Lord. You are dead, and a shade of the past. Go! I command it! My wrath shall not be stayed!” There came then a wind from the west, and Bekah disappeared before it. Khamul returned his gaze to the two before him, and their hearts failed, knowing that their doom was upon them.

But the shaking of the ground did not cease, nor did the wind. Both grew in strength until the walls of the City began to crumble and it seemed as though the very earth was rising up. There was a roar, and the sound of a rushing stone, and the world lifted throwing everyone to the ground. The Nazgul fell, screaming into the wind that assaulted them for to their ears there came a voice, a terrible voice, a woman’s voice of power and dignity beyond any they could endure, and to them it said but one word:

“Go.”

From the ruins of the High Temple to the Goddess Rhais there arose a great sound, like that of women crying, and to those who heard it, it seemed as though the spirits of all the women slain by the orcs or harmed by the Men of the West were crying out against their tormenters. The orcs screamed and ran, or fell gibbering upon their own weapons. The Nazgul clambered to their feet and shrieked into the gale, but their cries were powerless now, and impotent. For a time that seemed an eternity amongst the damned, the two powers stood thus, confronting one another with their rage, but like an ancient tree finally succumbing to a wind, the Nazgul fell. They dwindled in size and terror, and their voices fell. Turning, they fled. They threw off their robes and tossed aside their weapons, and were soon lost to all mortal eyes.

And the sun rose, bringing a new dawn.

[Firefoot]

The rising sun saw only Siamak’s back as he gazed into the west, his mind trying to piece together those rapid events that had just occurred. Khamul had raised his sword to kill them both, and then… something had happened. Siamak had not seen what Khamul had seen, nor heard what Khamul heard, yet in that time he had felt an immense well of hope and light spring up within him. But just as quickly as it had come, the feeling had gone, making the dark seem all the darker when Khamul had turned his eerie, eyeless gaze back to him. For a moment, all hope had left him and it had seemed as if the future of Pashtia (for it had seemed clear that there would be no future for him) flashed before him: the fields dried up, the people living in desperation and poverty, and ruling over all was the tyrant Khamul, himself no longer but a minion of the foreign lord. But with that one powerful word, “Go,” the vision had lifted. And again: a strange struggle of which he had no part and did not fully understand, except this time light and dark seemed to hang in balance before the dark quailed before the light and was gone. Khamul was gone.

At that, Siamak did not know whether to weep or rejoice, for Khamul had once been a good man called Faroz. Once he had been his father, and it was for this man that Siamak would weep. “Pashtia may have defeated him,” he murmured, “but he destroyed himself.”

Then he sighed, and turned to face the rising sun. Later, there would be time for thoughts and mourning, and right now, he was too weary to think much of it anyhow – but there was not time for rest yet, either. There was too much still to do. The walls will have to be rebuilt… and the temple. Rhais’ temple will have to be built up again. And… something will have to be done with Alanzia. Pashtia wasn’t meant to rule Alanzia. The Avari, too… but what’s done is done. So many of them dead, but the living will have to be cared for… Right now, though, the square will have to be cleaned up, and the captives freed. Before, he had given thought only to driving Khamul and the Emissary out of Pashtia, not to what would happen afterwards; now he saw that this was only the beginning. They had been ridded of a great evil, yet the stains of that evil remained and would be long in the cleansing. Some could never be cleansed.

“We have a long road yet,” Siamak said softly as he took in the scene of the bloodied, shambled square. He was startled somewhat to get a reply; he had forgotten Zamara’s presence.

“That we do, but the hardest, the most dangerous, part is done,” she said, and Siamak nodded. Yes, now the rebuilding would begin: rebuilding of both city and people.

As an officer of the army passed nearby, Siamak got his attention. “Yes, m’lord?” inquired the officer.

“Is anything yet being done about this?” Siamak gestured towards the bodies that lay sprawled about the square. The officer answered in the negative and Siamak continued, “The bodies of the Orcs will be piled up and burned. The Pashtians should be buried in a mound outside the city. Can you get this started, or pass the word on to someone who can?”

The officer nodded and saluted sharply. “It will be done.” Siamak nodded and the man strode off.

“We ought to go see what Khamul was about to do, over there by the temple,” commented Siamak, eyeing the hastily erected gallows. There were some soldiers who seemed to be taking care of it, but he wanted to know; if nothing else, it was something to be done. Zamara complied and Siamak led the way, mostly picking the way around the main battle, but still their path was obstructed by the bodies laying in the square. Siamak tried not to concentrate on it, but one figure caught his eye: it was the young soldier he had first met at the army’s camp. Siamak swallowed hard. He recalled the hope shining in the soldier’s eyes. He had fought for his country, and would not even see it restored.

“I didn’t even know his name,” he murmured. Then he continued on. He had given the soldier hope when he was living, but there was nothing he could do now.

As they walked, Siamak began to realize that there were pieces of his picture missing: what had happened to Tarkan after they had fled? And Gjeelea – where was his sister? Did she yet live? Then there was the battle – what had happened to their second force? Had they been cut off somewhere? And the Elves… it occurred to him to ask Zamara about this: “Zamara, what happened after I left? How came the Elves to the battle?”