Shadow of the West

[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.”

[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.”