Shadow of the West

[Kransha]

Quill on paper – quill on paper – quill in ink – quill on paper

Repetition was not boredom to Morgôs, it was torture. He had never been able to endure it. Every campaign of his unique, every stratagem one and only, every tactic different from the one devised before or after it. Doing the same thing again and again was a curse. He wrote nothing but numbers and words equally inconsequential in between, scratching his feathered quill spitefully against parchment, carving out what he’d been ordered to. After a brief vocal discharge (in his mind, at least) all was silent but for that terrible scratching. The palace seemed empty, a great ghostly vault, haunted by noiseless beings that left only the echoing noise of their footsteps and nothing else. Morgôs found himself yearning for company.

Being immortal eventually instilled an indelible sense of time in one, and a total immunity to impatience, but sitting at a desk for months, day after day, hour after hour, word after horrible word, left the Elven former General feeling sicker than he was. He waited, contemplating, hoping for many things. He hoped someone would come by to make the hours go quicker, he hoped the King would favor him again, he hoped for hope itself. Skeptical as he was of Faroz-Khamûl, he wished more for his favor than his anger, and greatly desired that favor to fall upon him again. The days of his glory were gone, his passion and prowess waned. What had become of Morgôs Elrigon, he thought with mournful irritation and confusion.

“General?”

Morgôs, realizing that his head was drooping, long, grayed hair unfurling onto the desk-slab, snapped upward, feeling the bones in his back crack stiffly. His head arched and inclined, his body maneuvering sideways on his seat to see a young page in the heraldic garb of the court standing nearby, a number of thickly-laden scrolls bunched up under his arm. “Yes?” he murmured, fumbling to pull the parchment he was scribbling on in his now illegible chicken scratch towards him, “What is it?” A depressing thought flashed through his mind. He was actually afraid of what the page might say about his work habit to the King – afraid of the gossiping words of a meager courtier, no more than twenty years old.

“Have you filled out the recruit ledgers, sir?” Recruit ledgers, yes. Morgôs had been passing merry, merry hours filling out ledgers that recruited this month’s recruits from the populace. Technically, there were no “recruits” since most of the Pashtian army consisted of orcs, but Morgôs still had to rewrite the crude, foreign names of the orcs month-by-month, as well as transcribing their pompous titles. Torture. “Yes, lad, I have.”

“The King appreciates your services.” The boy smiled dimly and advanced. Morgôs willingly, but with a foul look on his face, organized his parchment into piles and shoved them across the slick stone table towards the page. He took them, stuffing them under his arm with the other papers. As he gathered them up neatly, Morgôs leaned forward on his chair, looking towards the page with enigmatic intent in his eyes. The look of an Elf was always mysterious to mortal kind, and most especially to the young who did not understand it, or had little real experience of it that they could draw upon in context. “Your predecessor said the same to me the other day. I wonder now if it is true.” The boy halted; his work slowing as he shot a quizzical glance of the Avari. “My...predecessor?” he wondered allowed, looking uncouth with lack of experience as he did. Morgôs gave a similarly grim nod. “Yes, the page who came to me the day before. He said, word for word, what you have said today. And his predecessor said the same before him, and so on. You all say it, but I do not think the king appreciates my services at all.” His face was serious and grave, but the remark he tossed off sounded almost glib. Still, the page shook his head as if he knew. “Milord, I am sure he does. I do not know, I admit, but still-”

“I don’t need your condolences, child. Go to your master.” Morgôs shooed the boy away disdainfully, but the page hesitated, and barely budged. He looked at Morgôs confusedly. “Milord,” he muttered, half under his breath as if he thought Morgôs did not need to hear it, but was saying it to him anyway, “You are my master.” The General’s shoulder arched a little as a half-grey eyebrow on his forehead rose. “What do you mean? The King is your master.”

“No, sir. The pages who collect your ledgers are assigned to you. We all serve the king, but my prime duty is to you, as long as you reside in the palace for your daily hours. Technically, it is a loophole in the structure of my service, but most courtiers indulge it. All the nobles in court have pages and servants, though we consider ourselves assistants more than menial laborers.” The speech sounded rehearsed, even though Morgôs could not imagine the boy had ever used it before. Perhaps, though, he had practiced it if the occasion ever presented itself to him. “So,” he ventured, raising his hand with a questioning, affirming gesture, “I command your duties?” The page nodded without hesitation. “Very well.” Morgôs considered this, leaning back against the cold, sturdy back of the seat, letting his billowing cloak sag like a misty cloud over the black stone. “Then I command you to remain here. You can take the ledgers to his majesty later in the day. For now, I have another task for you.” Though he remained dark in mood, an eerie, satisfied glint beamed from the bottomless orb of his eye. He lay his hand and arm upon the table, sweeping several sheets of blank vellum from the slab, and leaned forward, placing his gloved hand beneath his chin and positioning the armored elbow of that arm on the table.

“Sing me a song.”

The boy looked at him, awestruck. “What?” He almost choked. Morgôs clucked his tongue, “You heard me lad. All Pashtians can sing, and Pashtia has many songs. Sing me one.” The boy gawked at him for a moment more, then nodded dumbly, knowing not what else to do. He coughed again, several times, clearing his throat in a melodramatic fashion as Morgôs’ fingers tapped impatiently on the stone, and, eventually, began.

“The songs are sung in Kanak of the day that Khamûl won,
The Lord of all the windswept lands beneath the golden sun,
With sword and shield, spear, blade, and bow,
The strength and power of his will grow
On the day that Khamûl won, oh-”

The passionate, grandiose verse was cut off by a protesting grunt and words from the General. The page stuttered to a fumbling halt. “Not that one, by Rae’s blue sky, that is not the song for me.” The page looked at him with apology written all over his face. “I am sorry, milord. It is a well-liked song in Kanak these days.” But Morgôs snarled deeply, under his audible breath and voice so that the page did not detect it. “Do you know, boy, any older songs? Any songs of battles in the time before King Khamûl, if such a thing is possible these days. Something less anthematic, perhaps, and a bit more rousing.” The boy nodded a dumb nod again, saying, meekly, “Yes, General, I do, but I fear it is not as rousing as you might like…” he paused, hesitant in a fearful way, “It is about you, milord.”

“Good,” Morgos said resolutely, “sing.” With considerably more hesitation, the page began, singing softly at first, trying to sound far from “anthematic.” His verse was steady and slow continually, with as hint of mournful emotion deep within its clouded, vague metaphors and winding words…

“Ah Karandûn, in the twilight of the sands,
The beacon of the stars your way alights,
Into the valley, to the shadow of the bladed night,
The reaping dark is at last conquered.”

“Ah-lara Karandun, in the sunset of the sands,
Grim-looked night its toll may take,
But all men’s souls shall not be shaken till the day has come,
Golden day shall come again…”

The boy’s voice faded, though his mouth remained open as his eyes widened and looked towards the general.

Morgôs sat, upright in his chair, eyes half-closed; mouth quivering strangely, a peculiar glow welled up beneath his thick eyelids. He hands, lay on the table before him, twitching like those of a seizing man. The page was about to venture a question, to ask if the General was alright, but before he could, a wind blew through the windowless room, and a gentle, wafting sound filled the air, seeming to permeate the area like a cloud of wonder. Words formed from nothingness and the blowing of the sparkling wind took shape, forming single, articulate sounds. “Aure entuluva…”

The beautiful, magical silence was shattered a moment later by manmade thunder, as Morgôs’ clenched fist slammed down on the table so hard that the stone splintered and cracked, chips of it whistling in several directions. The slab sagged beneath the mighty fist, empowered by some unknown source. The page, shot backward, startled out of his wits, and fell to the floor. The beautiful moment, so perfect, was now filled with Elven fire. The General, not even paying heed to his hand, severely bruised from the action, stalked away from the table and past the fallen page, murmuring cold, emotionless words as he left the room.

“Take your accurséd ledgers and begone. I must speak with the King.”

[Firefoot]

“But... but Mother...” The words died on his lips. How could this be? His mother was but six months dead. Not only was this new action of Khamul - his father - entirely improper, but it was also an insult to his mother’s memory. Why? He met Gjeelea’s eyes, and for the first time that he could remember he found not scorn or disdain, but understanding. She understood, because she had already had these thoughts.

“He is mad.” Siamak spoke quietly but with conviction. Gjeelea nodded mutely.

“Come sit down,” said Siamak, momentarily diverting them from the subject and reminding Siamak of Zamara’s presence. Here, Priestess he thought, remembering her earlier query. Here is one of those many injuries that Pashtia has sustained.

Having settled on to the couches, though none of them quite comfortably due to the thick tension of the situation, Siamak asked, “Was Arshalous willing, do you think? Or did she have no other option?”

Gjeelea paused for a moment, thinking. “She said she did not trust the Emissary. I did not think she would accept if she had the chance. But she had no strength of will while talking with Kham- our father. She made no resistance at all.”

“So whose side is she on? Can she be trusted?” asked Zamara, seeing where Siamak was headed.

“I would like to say so... but I think we will have to wait and see,” answered Gjeelea.

“‘Wait and see,’”repeated Siamak. “That’s what we’ve been doing this whole time, haven’t we? Waiting and hoping that maybe it would get better, but it’s gotten worse. Pashtia grows darker as Khamul’s - and the Emissary’s - power heightens.” As he spoke, the irony that the one called “Shining One” should be the one to bring about the darkness of the country occurred to him. “If we wait any more, Pashtia will be beyond saving. We need to do something - now.” He paused. Dare he say it? “We need to drive out the Emissary and his influence - and to do that, we may need to drive out Khamul himself.” He wondered if this could really be his father that he was talking about so calmly. But this man was not his father save in name only. If the real Faroz was still there, he had been buried in the madness of Khamul. Siamak had made the distinction and committed himself to it. He would not look back.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"I would like to say so...but I think we shall have to wait and see." Gjeelea's words were careful, and struck a bitter chord: the actions of even those such as Arshalous could no longer be certain. Zamara rose from her seat, a sudden, violnt motion, and headed for the window, her arms crossed and hands tucked into the black cloak, and her expression angry.

"Foolish woman!" she spat furiously, surprising both the royal siblings although she was ranting to herself as much as them. "How...how could she do this? Arshalous is a wise woman, she is certainly not stupid - and she was loyal to Bekah! Why, she was one of the women who annointed the Queen after her death..." she stared out of the window, her expression pensive, nibbling her lip, before she looked away sharply, clenching her jaw angrily.

Gjeelea rose behind her. "I do not think she really had a choice, Zamara..." she said quietly. Zamara did not respond, and after a moment, Siamak continued.

“‘Wait and see." His voice was almost mocking of his sister, although both the women knew that it was not Gjeelea who he was angry at. "That’s what we’ve been doing this whole time, haven’t we? Waiting and hoping that maybe it would get better, but it’s gotten worse. Pashtia grows darker as Khamul’s - and the Emissary’s - power heightens. If we wait any more, Pashtia will be beyond saving. We need to do something - now." As he hesitated, Zamara looked across at the young man, speaking with such calm self possesion and assurance. He was five, maybe six years younger than she, only in his late teens, but he spoke like a king himself. She willed him to go on, knowing what he was about to say, what he needed to say, but not sure if he could. Go on...

"We need to drive out the Emissary and his influence - and to do that, we may need to drive out Khamul himself."

Gjeelea gasped quietly, but Zamara felt herself smile, an action that felt almost unfamiliar to her after her forced period of mourning. She nodded slowly, approvingly as she eyed the young prince. You have spoken our worst fears, the very root of our problem as all can see it - but you have been the first to say out loud the solution..."

Zamara walked slowly away from the window until she stood in front of the prince where he sat, looking down at the young man. Then, very deliberately, she knelt in front of him, lowering her head. "Prince Siamak, I offer you a pledge of my allegiance as long as you follow this cause."

"And I, Siamak, Prince of Pashtia, do so accept the allegiance of the High Priestess Zamara and this alliance with her." Siamak's respond was quick and fluid, almost as if he had been practising...or as if he had done this before recently. Lifting her head, Zamara raised an eyebrow more informally. "May I ask you a question, Siamak?"

Siamak almost visibly braced himself.

"Who else recently swore allegiance to you?" The question appeared to catch Siamak off guard, as he blinked suddenly in surprise, but otherwise his face remained emotionless - a talent that the Prince had that Zamara was quickly becoming familiar with. She smiled gently. "I merely inquire for the interests of knowing exactly who else will be coming with us."

"I do not think-" he began stiffly.

"Please, my lord?" Zamara interrupted firmly. That probably counts as treason as well, she thought ironically. But it worked. Siamak stared at her hard for a long second, then nodded. "General Morgos," he replied quietly. "Several months ago, after the banquet." His lip twisted wryly. "The banquet to 'honour the emissary'," he added bitterly. Zamara nodded, sitting back. "I thought as mu-"

An urgent knocking on the door caused all three in the room the jump, startled. Zamara got to her feet quickly, tensed to run as she looked around for somewhere to hide. But the door opened before she could do anything, and it was Nadda's head that poked around the doorway. "Your majesties, there are footsteps coming down the adjacent corridor - I looked and it is a man I do not recognise although he wears servants' livery."

"Description?" Gjeelea ordered stiffly.

"Tall, dark, somewhat...oily looking..." Nadda began uncertainly.

"Morashk...?" the princess murmured to herself. Looking to her brother, she added, "A servant of my husband's household, and a most unpleasant one at that, if it is indeed he." She caught Zamara's eyes. "You need to hide."

Zamara looked hopelessly at both of them - but through the crack of the doorway they themselves could now hear the footsteps as well, approaching distinctly down the corridor. Soon he would no doubt be speaking to Nadda... Siamak signalled urgently towards a screened doorway leading out of the room and Zamara headed as quietly as could towards it, slipping through and positioning herself just within the dark room, hidden but able to hear. Standing frozen and pressed against a wall for the second time that night, Zamara felt the rush of fear of discovery once more thrill through her veins. Frozen in the darkness, she heard a man's voice speaking indistinctly with Nadda outside, closed her eyes, and waited...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Ashnaz was waiting for him at the assigned place. Khamûl removed the Ring and stepped into the small enclosure formed by the tall hedges of his private garden, his feet making hardly a sound even upon the dry gravel of the pathway. He had learned how to move quietly and quickly, flitting from place to place like a wraith in the night, for even though the power of Annatar’s gift shielded him from men’s eyes, he could still be heard and felt. So accustomed was he now to walking upon the balls of his feet that it had become habit, and even when visible he would often be upon people before they knew he was there.

“How did it go?” the Emissary asked him, his lips curling into a handsome smile.

“As we foresaw,” he replied, his heart settling once more in his chest. Of late, he had become anxious when apart from his friend for more than a few hours. So much had he come to depend upon the wisdom of his counsel and the comfort of his presence that he felt its absence like the gaping of an open wound. He resisted the urge to take Ashnaz by the hand.

“So the Lady Arshalous is to be your wife.”

“Aye, that she is.”

“And did she seem pleased at the prospect?” Ashnaz smiled again, and Khamûl’s heart lightened as though it were the dawn.

“Not very,” he replied. “Although she was more pliable than we had anticipated. Perhaps she truly can be saved…?”

Ashnaz shook his head sadly and reached out to take the King by his shoulder. His hand was warm and strong, even through the heavy leather of his glove. “I do hope so, my friend, for her sake as much as for our own. But where did you find her? With whom was she speaking when you made your intentions known?”

“So you saw,” the King said. “I should have known that you were watching me from afar.”

“You never leave my sight, my friend. Never. My thought and my will, and that of my lord, is ever upon you. You know that.”

“And great comfort I take from it, too.” He paused to return his friend’s gentle look of concern. “It is too late for her then, isn’t it?”

“You saw with your own eyes: she was deep in the treacherous plottings of your daughter. You found her at the house of your great rival, the worm who would keep you from the throne that is yours by the right of your own strength. I would counsel hope, but I fear that prudence leads me to warn you against the Lady Arshalous.”

The King felt tears come to his eyes, and his head bowed. For a moment, just a moment, his will sagged and his shoulders slumped. In that instant, if there had been any there to see the King who had known and loved Faroz in foregone days, they would have seen the change that had been wrought upon him by the power of the Ring and the honeyed lies of Its lord: for in that moment he appeared as an old, tired, and worn out man; as though he were bent beneath a terrible burden he staggered toward the Emissary, and perhaps by some trick of the light, it seemed as though he faded somewhat as he come into the embrace of his friend, as though he were putting on the Ring, though it was still in his pocket. “Oh what am I to do?” he gasped between his sobs. “Is there nobody I can trust? Is there no-one I can turn to?”

The Emissary held him like a child. “You are not friendless, Khamûl. You know that.”

“No,” he said, “I know. But you, who have ever enjoyed the love and trust of the lord Annatar, you cannot imagine what it is to be so steeped in the mud of treachery that the very smell of it makes you blind with revulsion. At times I think it would be better for me simply to flee with you back to your land, and to leave Pashtia to its own fate.”

“A lesser man might seek that route, but you are the King in this land, and you bear the burden of its care. You cannot abandon it to those who would defile it with their sin.”

“You are right, of course, as always, my friend. But my heart quakes at what I must do. Is there really no other way?” The only response he got was a slight tightening of the Emissary’s arms about his shoulders. “Very well,” the King murmured into the dark of the night. “I am prepared to do what I must. The sin that threatens my kingdom must be destroyed. I must be merciless and purge the state of those who plot against it. All who oppose me will die.”

“Even your children? And your affianced wife?”

“Yes. Even them. They have their part to play yet, but when they have fulfilled their roles, they will join their allies in the nameless place where they shall howl out their agony until the Final End.”

[Firefoot]

This time, Siamak felt only dull surprise at another unexpected visitor. Like moths to a candle...

"If it is that Morashk, what reason might he have for coming here?" Siamak asked his sister. "Could he have followed you?"

"He may have. It is some time since I have left, though, and I do not know how he would know to come here."

Siamak frowned. "Hm. Perhaps it is not him, then. There are many in the city who might fit that description." He heard the door open and close, and Nadda's voice talking with another. "Shall we find out?" Gjeelea assented, and Siamak led the way into the outer room.

Nadda and the other turned to them upon hearing their entrance. Siamak looked the newcomer over. He was as Nadda had described: tall, rather dark, and oily looking. No ordinary servant, Siamak thought as he noted the way the man's manner did somehow not fit with the servant's clothes he wore. He looked familiar, but then Siamak supposed he may have seen the man before: Gjeelea's wedding, perhaps, should it be Morashk. He turned a questioning look to Nadda.

"He would tell me neither his name nor his business, majesties," Nadda explained.

Siamak turned the look to the man. "Well? Who are you, and what is your business here?"

[Nurumaiel]

Morashk was not accustomed to be spoken to in such a tone. He had considered his position elevated because of the favourable way his master looked upon him, and when his master had married the daughter of the King, he had considered his position further elevated. He straightened his back and looked steadily into the Prince's eyes.

"My name is Morashk," he replied, "and I come bearing a letter for the Princess Gjeelea, wife of my master." He intentionally described her thus, and noted with some satisfaction the expression of distaste that crossed her face. "The letter is from the Lady Arshalous."

He looked from one to the other, and then took a keen glance about the room.

"I have further been instructed by my master," he went on, "to escort the Princess back to his home at her earliest convenience. He... fears for her safety." The mocking tone in Morashk's voice was not disguised. Princess Gjeelea already suspected, at the least, that his opinion was not high of the Lord Korak, whatever his feelings of loyalty might be. "If she is busy at the moment, I will wait for her."

[Bêthberry]

While the lords and ladies of the realm talked and plotted and dithered and while Khamul fell ever more under his terrible obsession with the Ring and Ashnaz and the Lord Annatar, the people of Pashtia and its capital city came to experience at first hand the true effects of the dark evil which was dominating their land.

The tribute that was filling the King's coffers did not trickle down to the people. For instance, damage caused by the monsoon season's heavy rains was not repaired. Damns, dikes, the stone culverts could no longer carry the previously abundant quantity of water and irrigation. Crops, which had at first sprung up well, were dying in the fields and the city's water supply was dwindling. Roads and fields which were damaged by the brutal war were not restored, with the consequence that trade, interrupted by the war, was slow to pick up. Supplies in the city were being depleted and not replaced. And the orcs which marauded around the city cared little what damage they caused; in fact, they seemed to delight in spreading destruction and fear. Khamul's attention was being drawn to events that did not aid his country's economy but served only the vile interests of the dark lord.

As always, it was the poorest citizens who faced the truth of Khamul's rule first. Jarult, for instance, the old Chamberlain who had been dismissed so abruptly, saw evidence around him daily of want and deprivation. He had at first been able to seek some solace in the furtive friendship with old Homay, but suddenly she stopped coming, shortly after a series of riots were brutually put down by the orcs. Jarult had snuck around to the room which she had found when she had been dismissed from the Palace, but no one answered his knock, not even a harried landlord or landlady. He had asked around for her, but frightened looks on people's faces reminded him that she was remembered as an Alanzian, an enemy.

He was at his wits end with worry when Dilayah, the healer stole into his small building one day, and called to him. They met, even during daylight, furtively in a small passage behind large bins of garbage and refuse.

"How are you Jarult? You look not well."

"None of us look well these days, healer. A disease is spreading amongst us which appears to be robbing us of our well being."

He cautiously directed her to a small corner, where the sun for now was shining and providing them with some warmth. His face looked sallow, but so did that of the healer.

They sat quietly together for some time and then began to speak of those who were missing. There were many, but Jarault's mind turned mainly on Homay.

"I have not seen her since the riots."

Dilayah nodded her head. "They caught us off guard. We were talking by the well, and the crowd came storming in. I was pushed aside and was able to crawl out of the way. Homay was recognised."

"She was named as an Alanzian?"

"I heard several shout that, calling her an enemy and a traiter. One voice even claimed she had killed the Queen."

"No! No! Not after everything we knew and tried to speak of!"

"Our words fell on deaf ears."

"Was she taken?"

"I could not see. The crowd was surging all around me, and then the orcs struck."

"I heard. I mean that literally, healer. I could hear the cries and screams and even the crushing of bones and spilling of breath."

"Even after it was over, they would not let us take our dead."

"Was she among the dead?"

"I never found her body."

"But many were taken and never seen again."

"There are strange fires burning in some of the smithies. The air is sickening. Not many speak of it."

"I do not believe that the Lord Korak ever contacted her."

"He didn't? So, there is no hope in rousing at least some degree of interest?" The old Chamberlain slumped against the dry, dusty wall, his face as dull as the faded mud bricks.

"I believe the High Priestess struggles to maintain the old faith, but her lines of communication are cut, and there are whispers everywhere that the wind carries words beyond their intended."

From her pocket, the healer drew out a small package, wrapped carefully in palm leaves. It held two wafers, the kind of small sweet which she knew Jarult enjoyed. She would have given both to him, but he refused, insisting that they share the small ritual of hospitality. A small trickle of tear ran down his face, leaving a dark streak of dust on his face. Homay had become a dearer companion in his exile than he had admited, and she had been his last hope.