[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Kanak had become a city of frightened whispers.

The cold season had come and gone, but the return of the dry winds from the mountains brought no relief, only the dry and sterile hissing of air between stone. To the naked eye, the land appeared to be in plenty, for the rains had been gentle for most of the season, and the River had swollen gradually, flooding the farmlands and enriching them with their fertile cargo of silt and mud. Grain grew and fattened beneath the sun, the fields came to harvest and the new lambs were weaned. Trees grew and orchards ripened and nature seemed to have been blessed where those who depended upon it for sustenance were cursed.

Jarult’s back bowed beneath the weight of that curse as he limped homeward from a day spent ordering the unloading of goods at the new wharf. He crept along the narrow street in which he lived and felt as he never had when he had been a servant of the King’s what it was to be old and unnecessary. His dismissal from the court had been expected, but unwelcome for that all the same, for as deeply as he now distrusted Khamul – feared him even – he had known no other life than that of service. And even now, with the terms of that service having been so changed, he little knew how to endure the pain of its loss.

A crash and clash of uncouth tongues and ragged metal drove him back to the bitter present, and like the few people still abroad at this hour he hurried from the street to seek the shelter of a narrow doorway. Pressing himself into the shadows, he prayed to the Goddess that he might be invisible to the creatures’ eyes as they passed him by. They appeared from around the bend, squat and bowlegged, their red eyes raging with a hatred like that which fills the heart of no Man, their yellowed fangs glistening in the last light of the setting sun. They called it a “patrol” but what they were patrolling for, and against what they sought to defend the citizens of the city, none could tell. The party came abreast of where Jarult cowered and rushed past him, roaring at those they saw to get indoors, bellowing about the curfew. One of them saw the old man cowering in his robes, and the meanness of the creature’s imagination was seized by the thought of some play. “Hey lads!” it cried, “here’s one who thinks he doesn’t have to obey curfew! Tell us old man, why aren’t you at home and safe in your bed? Don’t you know it’s dangerous to be out at night.”

Jarult stepped down into the street and was soon surrounded by the orcs. He wished for the strength that had been his of old, for the strength that might have let him speak out against these creatures the words he felt in his heart. He longed to accuse them of staining his beautiful city with their foul skins and breath, and of corrupting his beloved King. Instead, he bowed his head before the ferocity of their rage and mumbled an excuse. They mocked him then, but they let him go and he rushed to his home, where he locked himself in for the night.

An hour later he lay in his bed, his meager supper of porridge slowly curdling in his stomach, and his mind drifted back, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when his world had begun to fall apart. For the longest time he had thought it was the sight of the orc army marching toward Kanak with his own King, Khamul the glorious, riding at its head, clad from head to toe in the black plate steel armour that he had ordered forged for him in mimicry of the arms borne by the Emissary from the West. The story of the King’s miraculous victory in the war with Alanzia had reached the city days before – how he had emerged from his tent upon the eve of battle encased in his new armour, and how his own men had fallen away from him in terror of the immense power that he wielded. He had spoken to the army, and whether it was the exaggeration of soldier’s tales or if there were some truth to the magic that they claimed he held, his voice had been heard by the full ten thousand of his troops. He had urged them on to slaughter and war, to blood and ruin, though the enemy which lay encamped upon the opposite side of the River was five times their size, and composed almost entirely of the terrible orcs from the West. The soldiers had taken up his cry, and seized by a power they hardly understood, they had flung themselves upon their enemy. But hardly had the battle been joined when the King flew into the front of the lists, and wielding his sword above his head he called to the orcs to hearken to his voice, and he had exhorted them to lay down their weapons. The King’s own men had faltered in their fear for him, struck dumb by his folly, but the orcs had faltered. It was then, if the stories were to be believed, that the King had taken out the Ring that had been the gift of the Emissary. Speaking to the orcs in a voice of terrible authority he had commanded them to join him against the Alanzians, and to follow him. The creatures had laughed, but those who heard those cries reported that the beasts had been afraid too, of the Ring that Khamul had held aloft and that now glowed with a baleful light.

The orcs wavered and the battle was stilled. All watched as the King put the Ring upon his finger and vanished from the sight of mortal eye. But while he could not be seen, his presence was there before them all, like a terrible shadow vast and deep, and from it there came a voice. “Enemies of Pashtia,” it cried. “Hearken unto me and turn thy swords to my service. Lay yourselves down in fealty to me or face my uttermost wrath!” And then the orcs had been driven into a frenzy. Some slew themselves in fear and awe, but most turned to the service of the King and destroyed their Alanzian allies. The King’s Men, seized with the bloodlust of battle, had joined the orcs in the slaughter. The next day the joint army marched upon the capital of Alanzia and the king of that land had sued for mercy, pledging to become a tributary to Pashtia for all time, if only Khamul would save the people of Alanzia from the fangs of the orcs, his erstwhile allies.

Khamul had agreed to the request, but the king of Alanzia had been forced to bow to him, and to lay aside his crown. No word had been spoken between them of the death of Bekah, and while there were many of the King’s officers who longed to ask of it, none dared it in the hearing of their King.

The return of Khamul at the head of that monstrous army, and that army’s subsequent barracking within the walls of Kanak, had been a terrible day, but Jarult had begun of late to think of other, less dramatic moments, as the well-spring of his woe. The command soon after Khamul’s return that the new temple to Rae be dedicated to the god Morgoth, whom Khamul claimed was responsible for their miraculous victory, was one such moment. The order soon after, that the temple to Rhais be destroyed, and that all reference to the Goddess be wiped from the people’s practice and memory, had been – if it were possible – even more of a blow.

But despite this list of horrors, Jarult was convinced that the worst day was much earlier. It was the day that he and Homay had come to speak of together many times, and to play over in their conversations again and again, for of all those he had known at the palace, she was the only one who still came to visit him in this poor quarter of the city. It was the day that had burned itself into his mind so clearly that even now he could see it, even in the waking light. His King, Khamul, striking the Queen Bekah; seizing her arm and bending her to his will. It has been that moment, he now realized, which had begun the transformation of his world.

Where that transformation was leading he could not imagine. But he feared that when it was through, he would not be able to recognized the land he loved more than his own life.