Shadow of the West

[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?”