Shadow of the West

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara stared at Tarkan in openly bewilderment - and more than a little skepticism which the past few months had taught her never to leave behind. With me, you will rule... Even out of context, the words seemed unreal to Zamara,and the fact they could be addressed to her a simple impossibility. Or maybe not so simple.... The Priestess's forehead wrinkled as she frowned and she massaged it with the tips of her two forefingers.

"You believe yourself to be the true ruler of Pashtia?" she asked softly. Tarkan nodded mutely in reply.

Either this was a belated stroke of genius or a cruel twist of fate: a desperate misplaced son, or a madman? Either way, Zamara wasn't entirely sure how it would help them. Not usually desolate, Zamara found the suffocating helplessness that she was becoming dangerously familiar with threatening to drown her as she turned away, arms folded, her head dropping back to stare at the ceiling, closing her eyes and sighing deeply. How did this help them, but to deepen their problems? To find themselves with such a dilemma... one thing was for sure though:

"If the King finds out, he will kill you," she said simply, without looking at Tarkan. Her eyes were fixed on the altar, or rather, on the wall behind it. The stones of one area seemed strangely disalligned with the rest around them, and yet slotted so perfectly together: so perfectly, in fact, that they were incongruous with the rest of the stones. Frowning, she began to walk towards the altar.

"I know, Zamara; that is why we must be so regretably secretive about this whole meeting..." Tarkan even gave a wry smile, but it was lost upon Zamara as she wandered behind the altar, carefully giving it a wide birth as if even being close to it could pass on its infectious evil.

"That and the fact that we have a hunted fugitive in our midst," Gjeelea cut in scathingly, wiping away the priest's smile. She sighed exasperatedly, throwing up her hands. "And another soon, I have no doubt: a dangerous madman! For Rae's sake, Tarkan, you tell us we risked our lives for this? Put the future of our country in danger for these...rantings?! Brother, let us leave this place-"

"The future of Pashtia is already in danger, sister, do you honestly think it can get any worse?" The normally restrained Siamak snapped the words viciously, making Gjeelea start slightly. The tension in the air was building between the siblings, suffocating in the small, dank space, crackling through the air like static; yet Zamara seemed almost unaware of it. Hushing them almost inaudibly, the Priestess raised her fist and tapped her knuckles first softly, then harder, against the stones. Thunk, thunk, thunk...and an echo: the row of hollow taps were followed by an empty, echoing tap that proved Zamara's suspicions. She smiled slightly, her slim lips curling up prettily as her long fingers stroked the stones gently. An exit.

Turning back, she noted that her discovery had not been noticed as Gjeelea stood almost nose to nose with Tarkan, the princess fiery and furious in her fear, the Priest remaining desperately calm, his hands out placatingly. Siamak shot the Priestess a strange look, then froze, silencing the pair with a sharp hand movement and a single hissed command.

After an instant, Zamara heard it too.

The Prince turned to the older woman, his eyes wide and alert. "Screams! Do you hear them? They...oh gods, Zamara, they are coming for us!"

"Sh-hh," Zamara hissed, holding up her hand as she cocked her head to the side, her eyes gazing upwards as if she might percieve the danger through the very stones themselves. Sure enough, there it was again: a high, terrified wail piercing the night before being sharply, chillingly cut off, the absence after it disappeared even more terrifying than the sound itself. And afterwards came the inevitable yet horrifying sound: orcs.

Swearing as she had never done before, Zamara cast around desperately, then made for the stairs; she heard Siamak call her name, but did not stop. Her robes held up high around her legs, Zamara sprinted up the ancient stairs, taking them two, three, four at a time in her desperation and fear, her long, dark hair streaming behind her. And as she reached the top and ran to the open entrance of the Temple, she saw, even with her weakening eyes, a sight that prophets would tremble before: a mass of orcs, pouring out of every corner.

And Pelin nowhere to be seen.

A roar of recognition went up and Zamara ducked like a rabbit into it's warren. But Gjeelea met her on the stairs and the woman was thrown against the side of the walls. Although she called the woman's name, Gjeelea reached the top only a second after Zamara had descended. The priestess could not see the younger woman's expression, and saw only how the girl froze, staring tranfixed at the mob - and then she bolted.

Biting off the woman's name even as she called it, Zamara choked down the last syllable: Gjeelea had her hood up, she may not yet have been recognised - let them keep it that way if possible. Dragging Reafin roughly up the last few steps, Zamara hissed furiously in his ear, "Follow the princess. Get her to safety: to the house of Lady Arshalous maybe. If she dies, I'll kill you." With that last, perfectly earnest sentiment, Zamara half threw the man out of the entrance and, stunned, he stumbled away after the Princess, his steps turning to a sprint.

Unable to spare any more time to the princess's fate, leaving it up the power of the goddess, the girl's own wit and Reafin's (hopefully) fleet feet, Zamara ducked back into the tunnel, closing the door behind her and, as an afterthought, bolting it. Pelin's fate was his own now: he had done a runner and left them, that was the harsh reality of it, and if either of the royal children came to harm because of it, Zamara knew quite honestly in her heart that she would destroy him. Besides, she smelt a rat... The lock would not last for long - it was an old, rickety contraption, built for sturdiness and not for looks, but against that blood-frenzied, barbarian horde, a fortress could not stand for long. Sprinting back the way she had come, Zamara was almost sobbing as she half fell into Siamak. "Orcs! Thousands of them!" she gasped desperately. Siamak's sword was drawn in a flash, the steel glimmering dangerously in the half light, although the smallness of it and the one man who held it against the might of what she had just seen seemed painfully hopeless and tiny: the last defiant gesture of an ant against the foot that descends to squash it. "Where is Gjeelea?"

Zamara shook her head. "Gone - Reafin is with her, but she bolted. I am sorry, Siamak..."

The prince hissed a single syllable under his breath, then looked up the stairs. "And we-?"

Zamara did not reply, instead grabbing the man's sword and running behind the altar. With all her might, she smashed it against the wall. The stones did not give. Yelling out in frustration and desperation, she pounded the hilt against the stones again, again, again. Behind the stones, something gave. Hands suddenly wrapped themselves around her own and she felt Siamak's muscles ripple under his cloak against her upper arms as he drew back to the side and, his hands almost crushing hers, crashed his entire weight against the hollow part of the wall behind the sword. With a deafening crash, the wall fell - revealing a hollow passageway.

Raising her eyes to the sky, Zamara sent a prayer of thanks to the gods - for, to be sure, after this, there was certainly someone watching over them and, priestess or not, she wasn't sure she really cared quite who at this very instant. Siamak unwrapped himself from around her and started into the tunnel and Zamara followed - then hesitated. Turning back into that awful room, she called to Tarkan. "Tarkan - will you not follow us?"

The Priest stood alone, a single figure in the suddenly large room, hopelessly small against the door that dwarfed him. Yet even as he hesitated, the sound of voices was heard directly above them. Unable to spare another instant, Zamara turned back into the tunnel and, grabbing for Siamak's hand for guidance in the darkness, she ran for her life - the image of that singular figure, painfully alone and deserted by the one he had trusted most in the world, burned on her mind...

[Firefoot]

A trap. Siamak had feared it was so, should have known it was so when he heard the Orc cries even as Tarkan led them into a deep little cellar with only one (apparent) way out and started rambling on about some preposterous claim. He had not seen the forlorn look on Tarkan’s face, had not even considered that it was not Tarkan who had betrayed them but Pelin. Gjeelea had had the right of it, it seemed, and now, Gjeelea was… somewhere. A prayer to Rhais for his sister flashed through his mind. He could not dwell on Gjeelea, however, for Zamara’s and his own plight was more pressing to him.

Hand in hand, they fled through the dark tunnel. He held his other hand, holding the sword, out in front of him, fearing to run smack into an unseen wall. He heard a crash behind them; apparently the tunnel had been broken into. Tarkan’s fate was his own, now, and frankly, Siamak felt little pity for the man he figured had betrayed them, especially considering that it would not now be long before there were Orcs hot on their trail. He hoped there was an exit to this tunnel, that this wasn’t just a dead end leading into some farther room.

They rounded a corner and could see faint moonlight filtering through the cracks of a wooden door. They came to an abrupt halt and in the same motion were checking for the bolt. Like the other door, it latched from the inside, however, the door being less used, the bolt had rusted and become stuck in place. Siamak struggled with it as the seconds ticked by. He could hear Orcs in the passage now, both by their heavy, iron-shod footsteps and their loud, uncouth cries. Still, the bolt would not give, though he could feel the imprint of rusted metal upon his palms. It helped not at all that he could not see an more of it than a dim outline, and that when he stepped back from it.

In desperation, he finally picked up his sword which he had propped against the wall. He muttered a warning to Zamara to stay clear as he raised his sword and jammed the hilt down upon the bolt. He felt it give a little, and repeated the action. It came completely free of the door and in the hard downward motion Siamak could feel his knuckles scrape against door. In some dim corner of his mind he felt pain, but this hardly registered. The Orcs had become increasingly louder and within a few heartbeats’ time would be upon them. With a mighty shove, the door swung open and after hurriedly sheathing his sword, Siamak and Zamara were running again.

The tunnel had opened into a dingy alley about two blocks down from the temple. Siamak neither knew nor cared why, only that it did. They approached the street with heedless caution. Looking one way, Siamak could see in the torchlight the temple and the hundreds of Orcs swarming about it. Subconsciously he realized that the torches could be either their greatest aid or downfall: beyond the torches, he knew the dark would seem all the darker and hide those in it.

Hearing the Orcs’ clamor close behind them, they plunged down the street, keeping close to the buildings for what cover they would provide. They had not even reached the corner of the street, however, when a shout went up that could not be mistaken even in the Orcs’ foul language.

They had been spotted.

The two cloaked figures flew down the street, at a faster pace than before if that was possible. They turned the first corner they came to, then a second shortly after that. They had unfortunately been far enough apart that the Orcs had not lost track of them. Siamak did not know how much farther he could run, but fear drove him on. Almost immediately after a third corner Siamak caught sight of a narrow alleyway that connected this street and the next with only a low fence between them. He reached out and pulled Zamara after him, disappearing from the street. They half jumped, half climbed over the wooden fence, which rose to about Siamak’s waist. Now it would take a few minutes for the Orcs to figure out where they had gone. They slowed their insane pace, more out of necessity than desire, and stayed close to the buildings.

Siamak began to get his bearings again as he realized that they had run from the business section of the town into a more residential area, albeit a rather poor one. He also judged that they were nearing the wharf by the faint but distinctive smell of fish. He wasn’t sure if knowing where they were helped or not, but it was at least vaguely comforting to know their location.

In desperate need of a breather, they ducked into a narrow space between two houses with a couple of scant bushes providing some cover. Both knew the value of silence, but their heavy breathing came in deep shuddering breaths that would seem to give away their precise location. They strained their ears for some sign of the Orcs. Evident confusion and anger reigned at the disappearance of their quarry, and it seemed an eternity before they moved on to the next street. To their relieved surprise, none came down the street on which they hid. The shouts faded and Siamak dared to whisper, “Now what? Even if we wanted to, we could get back into the palace. We cannot go back to the temple – any of them, for that matter. Nor can we go far; the farther we must go, the more likely we are to find some more Orcs. We need someplace to hole up, at least for the night, so that we will be able to get news in the morning.”

Both were silent for a moment, thinking. Then Zamara replied, “Best would be if we knew the home of someone we could know to be willing to help us, but I wouldn’t know who.”

“My guess is as good as yours. I would imagine that few people are truly loyal to the crown as it is now and would support us, if they were part of a large enough group – let’s say 80 percent of the families on this street – those odds would seem to favor us.”

Zamara finished Siamak’s thought. “Except most of them would be too scared, especially in a secretive support like this, turning the odds against us.”

Again, they fell silent. Their situation really was quite hopeless, and all paths seemed ill. Suddenly they heard movement in the house on their right. They froze. Surely no one had heard them?

A shuttered window above them was opened a crack. Siamak was not sure whether he wanted to be seen or not. They were desperate, and Siamak decided to trust his luck once more this night. He stood, saying, “We mean no harm; we are hiding from the hosts of Orcs in the city and have nowhere to go.” Zamara stood up as well beside him.

The person at the window did not say anything for a long moment, and when he did his voice was little more than a whisper: “Prince Siamak?”

Siamak stood for a moment in shock, his mind placing the pieces together in slow motion. “Jarult?” he asked, though he already knew. He pushed back his cloak’s hood enough for his face to be seen. Chance of all chances! In all of Kanak, they had picked the one house that belonged to the single person whom Siamak knew could be trusted. “And this-” he nodded toward Zamara, “-is the High Priestess Zamara.”

[Novnarwen]

For a moment, he had hesitated. Had the Emissary failed him? Instantly, he regretted questioning the Emissary’s power. He was not an ordinary man. In truth, he was far from it. Of course he would come. They were together on this.

He found himself wandering in the dark garden of the Palace. No one could be seen, there was utter silence. It was almost unbearable; the dark and the silence, but most of all the waiting. Already, he had been out here for hours. Worst of all was that he had promised Tarkan to be back within a few hours. Was he waiting for him? What if suspected something? He could only pray that he would be able to come up with a good excuse. Hopefully, the Prince's servant had arrived at Tarkan's residence and confirmed the meeting with Zamara. If not, if having failed convincing Nadda that Tarkan had a genuine wish of seeing Zamara, waiting here would be pointless.

Time went on. The moon was being stingy; the small portion of light it cast, wasn't enough for Pelin to keep him occupied with anything. He sat motionless in the dark, tired. Almost sleeping, he heard and recognized the voice that was coming from behind.

“Lord,” Pelin said silently, turning to the shadow. Bowing lightly, he told the tall figure about the meeting.

“Has it been confirmed?”

“Yes!” he hesitated. “Well… only by the priestess. I’m heading back to the Priest now. He’s hopefully been contacted by now, and then the meeting is confirmed.”

“Where, again?”

“Not decided,” Pelin said quickly.

There was silence for a moment.

“How do you expect me to locate Tarkan and Zamara then?”

“Find someone who can follow Tarkan, and me.”

With these words, the meeting had ended, and Pelin, obsessed with getting off and away, had run all the way back to Tarkan’s apartments.

Descending the stairs, he found his way back to the room he had been dismissed from just half an hour earlier. The sensation of having succeeded, finally being in control, was exhilarating.

“Pelin! We must go! Run through this tunnel! Hurry! Hurry!”

He watched the priest motioning him over. Ignoring him, he reached the bottom of the stairs. It was this moment he had looked forwards to, imagined, for so long. He could not believe he was standing here, in front of the Priest, the man who had always treated him unjustly, the man who had been treacherous, the man who had turned into a traitor of the King. Surely, he would pay. He himself would get his reward; his devotion and sacrifices would not have been wasted. The Lord Ashnaz would see to that.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The rage of the Nazgûl was great as they found the temple deserted, their prey fled. Ashnaz shrieked his fury into the gathering clouds and smoke as Khamul threw down the remaining statues of the goddess, shattering their stones and breaking them with his sword. They ordered the orcs into the streets, sending them to seek out and to destroy the traitors. Then they took counsel with one another. They sought first to speak with Sauron, but his mind was once more distant from them, and obscured by some intervening force. They strove in will for a time against their enemy, but could not overcome it. Once, during the struggle, something in it had reminded Khamul of his former wife, Bekah…

With the failure of their attempt to seek their lord, they turned to one another. “I will see to the final destruction of the Elves,” Ashnaz said quietly. “I shall take the better part of the army and descend upon their quarter of the city with our vengeance.”

“And I shall seek out my children and see that they are hanged upon the gibbet,” Khamul hissed. “They will hide for a time, but I know where they shall go.”

“Indeed,” Ashnaz replied, who could see the thoughts forming in the mind of the creature who used to be Faroz, “they shall seek the Lady Arshalous and the Lord Korak, for they believe that only they can destroy you!” They laughed then, a hideous sound that sent the orcs scuttling for the far reaches of the square, their ragged hands covering their ears in disgust.

“Fools!” spat Khamul. “What care have I for letters or petty pieces of paper signifying who is rightful heir to the land? What need have I for a wife? We shall seize this land by the power and will of our Lord Sauron and rule it for the sake of his holy war. The armies of this place are mighty, and shall be mightier still. Already we have conquered Alanzia and now Pashtia has fallen. With the united powers of these realms, the whole of the East shall belong to us within a few years, and we can then move against our enemies in the West!”

They cried out and the stones of the surrounding walls shook in terror of the sound. Ashnaz raced toward the Elven quarter with the best part of the battalion at his back. For his part, Khamul raced through the streets to the home of Korak, sending the orcs ahead of him with orders to seize the Lady Arshalous and bring her to the place of her cousin.

There, he would show the people of this land the true meaning of power…

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

“Pelin! We must go! Here! We must run through this tunnel! Hurry!” Eyes wide, the Priest called in bewilderment. He looked at Pelin, anxious to run. How happy he was to see Pelin alive! When he had heard the sound of orcs roaming above, he had almost been certain that something had happened to Pelin. He had hoped that Pelin had managed to flee before the orcs had been able to harm him though. The sight of him now, him, standing at the bottom of the stairs in the dim light, made his heart jump. For a moment, the priest had thought he would leave the ruins of the Temple alone, perhaps never to see his friend again. For the first time, he was overjoyed by being wrong.

“The others, Zamara, the Royal children and their servants, have gone.” Breathing heavily, he pointed. Hurrying, he headed for the tunnel door. Not even he, who had spent many hours, even whole nights, had known about the secret tunnel. He had no idea where it led, but he knew one thing; this tunnel would be the only way out. With orcs swarming above, he had no chance of escaping if going up through the hatch again. A moment, the priest only listened to the sounds coming from the ground floor of the Temple. At last he concluded that there were only minutes before they would find the hatch and enter. If he had any hopes of not being discovered, he would have to leave now.

“Pelin! Come! Hurry! We don’t have much time!” Looking over his shoulder, he watched Pelin standing motionless in the middle of the room. His face was blank, and Pelin’s eyes gave him nothing but empty stares. What was wrong with him? Was he wounded? Horrified, he cast a glance before him; the tunnel stretched forwards; running through it was his only chance.. Seeing his friend, however, in such a state, he knew that evil had touched him. There was something wrong. Running over, he took Pelin by the hand. Instead of the willingness he had expected, there was resistance. With a melancholic smile, Pelin grasped him around his wrist, forced him to let go and pushed him over. Falling to the ground, the priest stared at his comrade in amazement.

“W-w-what is g-g-oing on...?” He stopped. Watching Pelin, he knew that evil had indeed touched him, but not in the way he had first thought. “No! No! Noooo! But... why?!? WHY?!?”

***

Pelin

The screams of the priest made him halfway smile. The pathetic creature lying on the ground in front of him had once been his tutor. He had never imagined seeing the Priest in such a state; his desperate presence seemed to grow lost with the truth that Pelin had been wearing a mask, that he was a man in disguise.

Pelin listened to the Priest cry. “What have you done?” Curses and foul words followed, ringing violently in his ears. Unaffected, Pelin started wandering about. He was in reality unsure of how to handle this. How was he to approach the doomed man? For all he knew, the priest had a knife or another dangerous object inside of his robes, and could within seconds take his life. He frowned, thinking. The power of the Lord Ashnaz had not left him. The Priest would get his punishment; telling the truth would be the mild part. With this his self esteem rose, and he felt the sensation of being in power. He was in control, he was the one who had surprised, not the other way around; surely, he would manage to take advantage of this.

“Why?” Pelin repeated. The priest sat up, staring fiercely at him. Pelin ignored him. It was his hour; the priest could try escaping, but deep inside, Pelin knew that he would stay put at least until the whole truth was revealed to him. By nature, Tarkan was a curious person; he would want to know how and why Pelin had deceived him.

“Why?!?!” Pelin said at last, his calm voice erupting. After the minutes of silence, he had dared break it. Taking a step closer, he cast the figure on the floor a disgusted look. “Constantly, you have been on my mind for the last couple of months,” he started. “You are correct. We have little time, or rather,you have little time. I won’t throw your precious time away, so I’ll be short.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

The door opened a crack and Zamara froze, feeling Siamak's body stiffen against hers at the same instant. Closing her eyes, she sent a prayer to Rhais, or to Rae, or...or to anyone who might be there. Since she had heard the voice in the Temple, that kindly voice, she had suspected as much: had suspected that there was more than her own goddess out there. That voice had conveyed hope, however distant: a voice from a land where there was yet light, when all the Priestess could see was darkness. What does it matter now? You couldn't understand the words she said: they were in another language. If you cannot understand the Goddess, how can she possibly understand or help you?

Trust in mankind, Zamara; trust in the man who is at this minute risking his life and everything he ever could have been for you.

Zamara opened her eyes. As the shutter opened further and the fingers of the light reached out to stroke her face, her eyes glittered darkly in reply. Reaching out, she caressed the hilt of Siamak's blade: the Prince himself seemed paralysed, his eyes fixed on the shutter.

"Prince Siamak?"

The words were little more than a whispered croak, disbelieving, fearful, yet with hope: the voice of an enemy? Zamara's brain barely processed the tone as her eyes widened and she tightened her finger's around the one weapon that the fugitive pair had between them. But Siamak reacted quite differently - as he pushed back his hood from his face, just for second, Zamara's heart stopped. Suicide. But the Prince's expression was one of glee as he took a tentative step forward. "Jarult?" he replied softly, his voice as incredulous as the stranger's. The stranger gave a muffled gasp and Siamak grinned widely, pushing his hood back fully and starting toward the window. Fearing to speak, although she knew they were doomed now, Zamara grabbed Siamak's arm desperately - but the prince seemed unconcerned. He half turned towards her, giving a small smile. "Zamara, it is alright: he is a friend." Ndding at her as he spoke, he turned to the stranger. "And this...is the High Priestess Zamara."

The stranger didn't move and Zamara was unable to see his face in the light against the backdrop of alleyway darkness, but she noticed, with the clarity of one who is about to die, that his hands were trembling very slightly. There came a scream from far off and Zamara ducked reflexively, spinning around, her fingers still twisted in Siamak's cloak, and the prince started, his hand jumping to hers. Wild-eyed, Zamara looked back at Siamak and whispered hoarsely, "Footsteps..."

The stranger must have heard them as well, for the shutter closed with a snap, shutting out the thin sliver of light and with it any hope of rescue. Or did it?

A moment later, there came the sound of multiple bolts being drawn back behind Zamara. Her hand leaping to her mouth to stop herself screaming, Zamara jumped back from it, flattening herself against the opposite alley wall - but the withered, lined face that appeared at the doorway was a vaguely familiar one. Her eyes widened and Siamak rolled his eyes. "Finally..." he muttered, grabbing her by the wrist and propelling the stunned woman forcibly into a dimly lit corridor, sparsely furnished but somehow homely: more homely than any place that either Siamak or Zamara had dwelt in for several months at least. Jarult's home.

Looking around the room, Zamara felt her knees buckling beneath her weight. Catching herself against the wall, she took a deep breath, trying to steady her fluttering pulse. Holding out a hand, she bowed her head to the man opposite, the man who had quite possibly just saved her life. "Jarult?" she hazarded, going from the word Siamak had hissed earlier. The man nodded and took her hand. Suddenly lost for words, Zamara simply gave him a grateful smile. "Thank...thank you. Thank you so much..."

The man waved her words away with his free hand, shaking his head as a broad smile cracked his weary face in half. "No, no, High Priestess, don't thank me; Siamak, you have no idea how I have longed for your face over these months."

"And I yours, old friend," the prince replied. As they began to talk, Zamara crept towards the window, her thoughts straying. The house seemed to consist of two modestly sized rooms on the ground floor and probably the same above, as most of the houses in the poorer districts did; as most of the houses around the Temple of Rhais did as well. The poor turned to the gods in the hopes of finding something more worthy in the next world than had been given in this, something that made this one worthwhile....as she had, she supposed. Zamara's fingers crept inside her cloak and she touched upon the medallion that she still wore, the one item that she would wear until her death, whether her position was recognised or not. Closing her eyes, Zamara reached out with her mind as she did in prayer. Thank you.

...and a flash of light crashed across her vision. The Priestess stumbled against the wall of Jarult's home...but it was no longer there, replaced by rough, dark stone, cold even through her cloak. But it was nothing to the cold that was coming, the chill that she could feel approaching, creeping slowly, insistently through her body, seeping like damp into every inch of her soul. Against it and the buffeting wind, the Priestess tightened her cloak around herself, shrinking against the unfamiliar wall, and all around her she could see shades rushing around her, past her, barely recognising her existence. And in return, she could not see their faces, could barely distinguish anything of them, grey shades of their former selves - living ghosts.

Another great flash of light seared Zamara's eyes and she winced, yet somehow, rather than covering her eyes, she strove to see beyond it. That was no flash of lightning: it had not rained or even come close to the storm that would be required for nearly a year. For a storm to come so suddenly and without any warning was impossible...

But impossibility didn't come close to what Zamara was about to witness.

Voices...voices....they rose in volume and pitch, getting gradually louder as the cold got steadily more intense, scraping their nails against her eardrums as the volume rose to a scream, high and terrified, chanting strange words over and over. A shade fell at Zamara's feet and reached up to her - but her desperate words were whipped away and after an instant she shrivelling away, like ashes scattered to the window. Paralised, Zamara raised her eyes to look up...

Just as there had been in her dream. Horsemen...there were horsemen riding upon the shadow, shades of men, cloaked and covered from head to toe in black, their faces invisible, each bearing a sword in one hand. And on the other hand...

Zamara's fingers tightened on her medal and one of the horsemen jerked visibly, his horse rearing as his hands pulled back viciously against it's bit. As Zamara gripped the medal fiercely, standing her ground against the wind and the storm of shadows, the figure raised it's sword and pointed towards her...

...but the blow never came - or not from the horseman anyway. A sudden, stinging slap across her face sent her reeling against the wall and she bit back the pain, lashing out with one hand and in the process letting go of the medal. The woman who had slapped her laughed and leapt back, spry for an older woman - or maybe just well practised. She smiled grimly, raising one eyebrow. "Welcome back, High Priestess - how do you feel? What...what happened?"

Zamara's eyes widened in disbelief and she struggled to sit up further, slumped as she was against the wall. Blinking several times, she cocked her head to one side. "Daliyah?" Her response to seeing the woman, so coincidental and perfect in its timing, was as disbelieving as Siamak's had been upon recognising Jarult. The old healer smiled and nodded, squeezing Zamara's hand. The Priestess gazed at her, amazed - then remembered the flash of light across her vision and the terrified foreign chanting and sat up. "By Rhais...Siamak, the elves! The Emissary is destroying them!"

[Novnarwen]

“I’m tired of your manipulation and controlling. Now, at last I’m in control, and there’s nothing you can do to change that.” As Pelin spoke, it seemed that time stood still. Tarkan could not believe what he witnessed. Had Pelin been in league with the King all this time? Clearly, Pelin hated him. For what reason, he was unsure. The Priest admitted willingly that he had been harsh with Pelin from time to time, but that this could be the source of such hatred Pelin expressed, he simply couldn’t understand.

Sinking to the floor, as he could not bear sitting straight, he tried to recall Pelin’s moves over the last months. There was nothing.. or.. maybe.. Tonight! When Pelin had left early in the morning, he had said he would be back in a few hours, and yet, he had not returned before nightfall. Shuddering, he realised that Pelin’s deception had been carefully planned. Tarkan himself had been a part of a game, a game, he hoped, that had yet to announce a winner.

He stared at Pelin for a while, not knowing what to say. There was no way out. Pelin was about twenty years younger, and could easily block the tunnel entrance if he tried running towards it. He could even call the orcs to come assist him. No, he needed to keep Pelin, keep him down here as long as possible.

“I d-d-don’t und-d-derstand. You’ve d-done all of this b-b-because you’re ang-gry with me?” Tears were in his eyes as he said this. Stuttering madly, he held on to the thought of his freedom if he managed to out-manoeuvre Pelin in some way. “This was the only opportunity we had to set things right!” he called. He felt the energy in his body leaving him, draining him from the will and strength he needed to overcome this. What bothered him the most was that the situation he found himself in, was a situation he’d never pictured himself being in. Treachery! Treachery! Pelin had deceived him!

“That is what I am doing. I’m setting things right.”

“What you’re doing is wrong! How can you betray me? How can you in good conscience send me to certain death, when you know that I was the one who raised you!” There was no power in the Priest’s voice as he spoke, only words of a desperate man trying to convince his executioner to let him go. “I’ve been… like a father to you.“

“You have been no such thing! You have laughed at me when I’ve tried my very best, humiliated me in public to promote yourself and thus, I have been excluded from meetings ….” There was a slight pause before he continued, “and banquets.”

“The banquet? The arrival of the Emissary?” The absurdness of this event seemed never to end. “That’s over six months ago, and I was there as the half-brother of the King more than a Priest,” he muttered. Was Pelin holding everything he could recall as unjust against him? For over six months he had plotted his destruction, and for over six months he had hid it. How blind I have been, he thought, the only person I have come to trust with time, has betrayed me.

He heard the yelling of the foul orcs above his head. He felt hatred, but not towards Pelin. His feelings were directed towards the evil that had poisoned Pasthia over six months ago. Pelin was a weak person, more so than he had ever realised. Power and control had been what Pelin had striven for, and when not receiving it from Tarkan, his friend had been driven to madness by the Emissary. He wondered if Pelin had ever met the King. It didn’t matter though. Nothing did. He bit his lip. He was wrong. The importance of Zamara and the Royal Children’s successful escape mattered. They might not have believed his story. Eventually, they would however.

The hatch broke open.

“Take him to my master. He wants him alive,” Pelin said instantly. The coldness in his voice gave everything away. If it was up to himself, Tarkan would be dead already. Watching Pelin, he saw him smirking as he continued; ”If he tries anything, you’re welcome to do whatever you wish. Make sure it’s painful. Understood?”

The moment he was dragged up from the floor, and the stank from the orcs filled his nostrils, he prayed in the name of Rae that his only hope, the Priestess and the Royal Children, had made it.

[Firefoot]

"By Rhais...Siamak, the elves! The Emissary is destroying them!"

Siamak, surprised by Zamara's sudden outburst, looked up at her. "What?" He had been quickly filling Jarult in on the events of the past day or so, starting with Zamara's sudden arrival at the palace. He was certain of Jarult's trustworthiness, and he figured that Jarult would aid them best if he was knowledgeable of the situation. For his part, Jarult listened mostly in silence, nodding as the pieces fell into place. He would have heard the news, of course, but for example Zamara's escape had been a mystery to him. In light of Zamara's recent statement, however, the old Chamberlain was momentarily forgotten. "What do you mean the Emissary is destroying the Elves? How do you know?" He nearly winced at that last question - bad question, best not to know. He knew Zamara wouldn't be lying at any rate, though maybe she was dazed or something after all that stress... "Never mind. Just what do you mean?" Siamak knew he sounded frazzled, and he was - he had finally been relaxing in the relative comfort and safety of Jarult's home when she had dropped this news on him.

"It's what the Orcs were sent out to do tonight," explained Zamara with certainty. "They were ordered to destroy the Elves.” Siamak could see some memory of a horror in Zamara’s eyes, not as something she had experienced but rather witnessed. Not surprising: from what he had seen of Orcs thus far, which was not a lot but enough, they would only be content with utter annihilation.

Siamak sighed. He had thought their part of the excitement of this night was over, but clearly they had more yet to do. “Well, we’ll have to do something. Without aid, the Elves are as good as done for: they will be unwarned and what’s more, they have already been herded into a small section of the city. But… we could be too late. How long has it been since the Orcs came to the temple? They will have had at least that long; surely the assault has already begun. Save being destroyed with them, what is there for us to do?”

In the quiet of the room, Jarult’s voice was heard clearly, “Prince Siamak, there are others beside yourselves who are loyal to Pashtia as it was, as it ought to be. They will support you; you are not in this alone.”

“Could the city be raised?” asked Zamara speculatively. “Do we have time?”

Siamak was thinking along a different line. “The army,” he murmured. “Not the Orcs, but the real Pashtian army. They have been ousted of their positions in all but name, their role having been taken by the Orcs. They are trained armsmen, and can be alerted quickly. And the General, he is Avari, surely he will help-” Siamak faltered for a moment. He is an Elf, the Elves are being destroyed… “I do not know how much time we have, but it is not much. The Elves will fight back; this will give us some time. Both the army and the civilians” – he nodded towards Zamara, acknowledging her previous comment – “need to be raised. This night has led from one risk unto another, and it now may be that this is our last chance – all or nothing.”