Date: June 18, 2000
Place: The Road from Lycenae to Haven
Cast: Jamal (general @emits), Kiera, Majidah, Niamh, Zahra
Scene: A pilgrimage was made to Lycenae, the city where Khalid Atar pulled a volcano out of the earth during the war, and it has now become a holy site to Atar's faithful. However, the pilgrims' caravan is attacked on the way back to Haven -- by Varati rebels.

A long and winding dirt road stretches out in two directions: one leads towards Haven and the other is the long northern road that paces alongside the Polaris River. There is a steady stream of traffic nearer to the city and the river also serves as a highway, busy with boats and rafts. On the opposite side of the river lie the thick forests of Sylvan lands; on the nearer side: the Empyrean province of Illium, mostly farmlands.

A quick update for the faithful: upon arrival at the mountain shrine, Hursal led the pilgrims in a sunset service. One might think that to mark the descent of Atar into the underworld would be frightening or morbid. But the truth is that the Varati always have faith and hope that He will return come the next morn. Night time is the time of testing for all thinking creatures as much as it is the provenance of the evil which dares not whisper when He is overhead. The faithful must avoid temptation and protect one another from the darkness -- on faith alone.

After the service, the pilgrims were led back to the plaza. There, a supper has been laid out. It is a simple but hearty supper: hummus, grilled vegetables, fresh fruit from the altar (nothing is wasted). The pilgrims share this time together as a community before being led to the buildings which will serve as their overnight shelter.

Morning comes especially early. There's barely a hint of light when servants and slave wake the pilgrims from their slumber.

Jamal's figure forms a tall, black column against the ever-so-faintly lighted sky; his outline is cut out of the stars. It is chilly and there is a strong breeze blowing which makes the torches and braziers fickle and inconstant. His haik flutters around his ankles.

The naraki serving the Messala camp are already about their duties, starting a morning fire and brewing the morning's rations of kaf. The guards are the first to awaken and be about their business, silently scanning the area and moving among the camp. The two women are next, slightly groggy but anxious as well, for it is not every day that one can camp at the base of the mountain formed by their God-King.

Nitara steps out of the tent in her customary attire, but finds it lacking as a sharp chilled breeze rushes past her. Just as Zahra begins to poke her head out and emerge, Nitara gently pushes her back and enters herself. Both women finally leave their tent, now wearing their heavier cloaks over their saris. The drivers has been up for some time, seeing to the morning feeding of his team and making sure they are ready for a return trip to Haven.

Niamh seems to be awake as well, sitting so that he can see the view from the mountain. As the chill breeze blows past him, it is transformed into something more pleasant by the bubble of heat with which he has surrounded himself. He looks tired, almost as if he has been up all night, but he did sleep... some. His attention seems torn between the view, his own meditations, and the sleeping Majidah.

The smell of kaf wafts through the camp as the trails of scent from each camp mingle together. Even the breeze cannot take this away. Hursal comes down the stairway leading up along the mountain's flank and walks across the plaza, clearly on a mission. There, out in the darkness and still unseen, are the Agni-Haidar. They are his quest. The night has not lost its teeth; it swallows him up.

Jamal is in much the same pose as he was yesterday: he stands and looks up the mountain as the wind tugs impatiently at haik and braid.

A slave walks across the camp with an ingenious tray made of wood filigree formed in such a way that its loops and whorls hold kaf cups steady. He brings kaf to the drivers and those pilgrims who did not bring the beverage for themselves, offering it in a soft and polite voice. He quietly pads over to Niamh. "Kaf, Imphadi?"

Zahra eagerly accepts a warm cup of the dark liquid from one of her naraki, though the cup is only half-full. They must ration enough to get back to Haven, and everyone in the Messala circle must accept a reduced amount.

The guards return and accept their kaf as well, but do not sit around the small fire as the women do. They wish to stand instead, always attentive, even in the shadow of Khalid's power, as if someone who be so foolish to create trouble in this sacred spot. The pair of tents are taken down and returned to the wagon by the naraki who must go without the warm beverage.

Niamh turns as the slave approaches him and nods, "Thank you." The mug is taken from the tray before he turns back to the gathered pilgrims. Finally, he moves from the spot towards Hursal, "Imphadi... is there anything I can do to help in the preparations?" It seems he's one of those types that needs to be kept busy all the time... even though he should probably be spending much of his time here in meditation. Perhaps Delphi has spoiled him, keeping him occupied with work every hour of the day.

"...do not know if there is truth to it," Hursal is saying to one of the Lions of Fire. The Agni-Haidar is only four spots of white where his eyes are not swallowed by his irises. The rest of him is black, resisting every attempt to reflect light. And he says in the voice of a graveyard, "Very well, Imphadi."

He withdraws and vanishes, and Hursal turns to Niamh. "Ah, good morning," he says easily, stepping towards the Estrel. "As a matter of fact, Imphadi, I could use your help. On the mountain top we will need to ensure that everyone rinses his or her hands and mouth. I have waters and bowls and cloths for the purpose. But it will be more expedient to have two priests overseeing this than just one, if you would be so kind."

The slave who'd brought Niamh his kaf has already moved on to Jamal. The Atarvani accepts his ration wordlessly, gripping the delicate cup in a fist unused to delicacy. But it does not break. He sips from the cup as he listens to the sounds of the camp coming to full wakefulness behind him.

It is a keen morning. Even with the wind, Jamal's sense of smell is particularly acute. He is standing downwind from the building that houses the lady from Dzali. The Dzali woman is sick, he thinks, coming to realization. It is why she hides. It is why she prays. But she does not cough. It does not bode well. The silent sicknesses are the worst. He can smell it in the wind as a subtle corruption which has infused the silks of her belongings, the way he can smell whether a man has eaten lemon or coriander curry by the scent of his sweat.

Luckily for her, Zahra does not have the acute sense of smell that the Atarvani is blessed with, and for this reason she is blissfully unaware of anything troubling the Dzali woman. Not that she dwells too long on her as it is. Her eyes are on the firelight in front of her, hypnotized by the dancing flames that lick greedily at the logs. It is Nitara who has to snap her out of it, and even that takes a few minutes of calling her name and waving a hand in front of her face.

Zahra jumps, stunned, and turns wide-eyed to Nitara who only answers by handing her a piece of flatbread and some slices of dried fruit.

Niamh nods, looking out at those gathered, "Consider it done, Imphadi." Indeed, he was beginning to feel a little bit useless. Again, maybe blame Delphi. He turns once more to the pilgrims, his hands clasping behind his back. Most likely, if it weren't for the pendant he wears, they wouldn't even know he even was Atarvani... he doesn't wear the robes anymore. The ones he had when he was Atman were most likely given away to another, and now, well, he comes close with the red embroidery and haik. But there is still a sense of distance he feels, not living at Atesh-Gah and not participating in the daily chores. It is recognized as something to be dealt with at some point.

"Excellent. My thanks, Imphadi," says Hursal. "And now we should herd them up Amir-al's mountain if we're to make sunrise on time." He's got an easy cadence in his voice. He's done this before and yet he still enjoys it.

Striding out into the plaza, Hursal gestures at his assistants. They go from camp to camp and give the word, lead the pilgrims towards the stairs where they will line up.

Naraki bring out luminarii for the celebrants: they are long iron poles with wire around the base for a firm grip and a curling tip to hold an oil lantern. The lantern itself is both a lantern and the shade against the wind and it is crafted of quartz; at the top, the stone has been Shaped so finely that it is as glass. The oil is kept separate from the flame by a dam that is pierced only by the linen wick. And so it is that the column acquires the appearance of a herd of particularly powerful fireflies, or perhaps a band of unconfident stars has come to roost on the earth.

Jamal takes one of the lanterns and moves to his regular place: the rear.

Hursal, of course, is at the front, and he waits for Niamh to join him there.

As the lanterns sway to and fro, they illuminate features with their warm, soft light. Here, a young man is hopeful. There, a middle-aged woman's eyes show fear. Look, one of the younger pilgrims is excited; the lantern dances on the end of its pole in a testament to his eagerness.

Empty cups are set aside and the two women of Messala get to their feet, followed by their guards, as they join in with the other pilgrims. Zahra takes a lantern in hand and then over her shoulder reminds Nitara about lifting the hem of her sari, just in case her friend forgot. The young dancer glances up at the contained flame dancing at the wind's discretion and with her movements and in return she is given a flickering kiss of light along the width of exposed skin on her face. She might pause here and again become entranced by the small firelight, if not for a not so gentle push from behind by Nitara, who is eager to be underway.

The Estrel takes a lantern and, once he is sure Majidah is all right, he moves to join Hursal at the front of the procession. While he doesn't mind walking with the rest of the pilgrims, he can't help that feeling of pride he feels at walking at the head of them. Of course, he doesn't let it show... much. Is that glimmer in his eyes pride or lanternlight glinting off of his spectacles?

The pilgrims set off. It's another long climb up the mountain, with steps as countless as they were last night, only now some might have the stiffness of complaining muscles to add to the journey. But it's not too difficult because Hursal is deliberately keeping the pace slow, his eye on the eastern horizon. The sky is beginning to change from pitch black to a rich deep blue of which the most powerful of Vaisya dyers must be envious.

They reach the little plateau-plaza with its altar. The altar has been covered with golden candles and the statue of the rising, winged sun sparkles and glimmers as it reflects the light of so many flickering flames. The Atarvani guide those who have offerings towards the altar where they may place them down and soon there is a pile of fresh fruit, vegetables, and the occasional thing of value: a pair of rings. A book. A bundle of prayers bound with gold wire.

The pilgrims are then ushered towards Hursal and Niamh. There are wide stone bowls of cold water there. The Atarvani show the way: they dip their fingers in the water and press them to their lips.

Hursal says over each one, softly, "You are pure, your soul is pure, and you will not succumb to evil," as he lays his palm on the crown of each one's head. Assistants to the priests offer clean white linen cloths to dab against one's mouth. The water is slightly salty but it does not have the strong smell of seawater.

Zahra drops her head as she steps before the priest as the blessing passes his lips and his hand rests momentarily upon her head. Nitara is right behind her and receives the same blessing and touch. Zahra shivers slightly, more in stunned awe at her location than at the wind that whirls around the mountain and causes the dangling lanterns to dance on their poles. They both step aside and let the blessings finish as they silently contemplate this moment and offer prayers of gratitude to the Amir-al.

"May the Amir-Al bless you and keep you..." is the benediction offered by the other Nabi as he rests his hand briefly on the head of those who come to cleanse their hands and lips with the tear-flavored water in the bowl beside him.

Pillows are set out so that the pilgrims do not need to kneel on the cold, hard stone. Hursal moves to the front -- which is to say, he faces east, where the pilgrims are directed to face. His back is to them. When the rustling of cloth and the creaking of joints has ceased, he begins to speak.

"Night comes. Night endures. The faithful are tested.

"There is fear mixed up with hope. Amir-al's children tremble and wait.

"He has gone. Will He return?" The sky is even bolder now, a vivid cobalt. "The forces of His enemies gather in the night. They band together in the darkness. They stand at the entrance to the morning, spears and shields ready.

"In the darkness, they have gathered together, plotting to do evil. In the darkness, they have raised an Army, willing to do evil. In the darkness, they are ranked endless upon endless, massing to do evil. Their voices, once only whispers, raise up into a soulless roar.

"The faithful tremble and cry out for their Lord and Master. Let not one of them suffer the loss of hope!"

Now there is blood on the horizon, a smear of red that heralds the coming of the sunrise. Hursal points to it. "Look, He does battle as he has battled here. Where evil is legion, He fights to rise again, O His beloved. Evil is rent asunder, it is burned and boiled by His light and heat and their blood hisses through the sky like steam. There! That is the nightly battle and the proof of your hope--"

Gold. Light. The disk of the sun is coming up. It seems to leap up, shaking off the night, and it is dazzling.

"No one who has hope need fear that He will not rise. No one who has faith need despair that life is the end. Praise to Amir-al, who has Chosen His faithful. Praise to Amir-al, who faces evil innumerable every night for His children. Welcome to the world of Your children, Amir-al. See the gifts of Your faithful in this place that proves Your might and mercy. See the souls and hearts laid bare to receive Your radiance. We are grateful to You, Amir-al, to whom we must be as ants, that You would still notice us and choose us and live among us.

Blessed are we, for we know You and are never alone." Hursal kneels on the rocks and touches his head to the ground, humble before the sunrise that brings life and color to the lands stretched out below.

Jamal's expression is inscrutable, and yet there is a terrible intensity in his eyes should anyone look. He listens, he watches. He is a chalice, a crucible, a container waiting to be filled with Khalid's will, and the speaking of these words are nothing short than a reminder of his purpose. It is in these times, and these times alone, that Jamal feels complete. He touches his forehead to the plaza stones at the conclusion of Hursal's words, feeling the dawn crawl over his head and shoulders. The terrible searing pain of his tattoo's making comes back to life. But it is a clean pain. It is what made him what he is.

Obedient followers follow the motion of the priest and they too drop forward and press their foreheads to the rocky ground as the glorious image of the sun rises majestically over the horizon. A few gasps can be heard from the crowd; some are overcome with the power of this place and the testament put forth of the Amir-al's immense power. Zahra's heart swells with immense joy that she can be here at this moment and in this location to witness a sunrise like no other.

There is a whispering across the plaza as individual pilgrims add soft prayers to the dawning sun. For success. For forgiveness. For healing.

The Dzali woman crumples up, weeping silently. It seems that she would be making a scene of it, but she's not. More prayers are whispered. Then Hursal says, "He is risen and has gifted us with another day. Be thankful and joyous. Be humble and thoughtful. We have another day to do His will. He has given you this gift of life: on your journey back to Haven, ponder how you might repay that gift for His glory."

With that, the ceremony is over. The slaves have blown out the lamps and are bundling them together to carry them down. The Atarvani assistants sort out the offerings and gather them up: precious things will be put somewhere safe and the fruit and vegetables will be rationed out to the pilgrims so that they have something fresh to eat on the way back home.

Once down the mountain, the rest of the morning is spent packing up for the journey back. Another communal meal -- lunch -- is shared and then the column is formed back up again. There's a new spring in the step of those pilgrims who've walked. Hursal makes sure that everyone is accounted for and the group moves out the way it came, passing by the city of Freehold and winding through the broad fields of that remarkable green wheat.

This time, Jamal moves to a spot somewhat closer to the head of the column. He and his wyvern pace the Dzali palanquin. Since there are fewer horses nearby, this causes less fuss. The Agni-Haidar have adopted a curious marching manner: the footmen keep close to the train but the riders keep a much broader perimeter than they had before. It will be interesting to see how they keep this up in the forest.

Back into the wagon and the bumpy journey home, though it is still better than walking all the way home as the guards, servants, and some of the pilgrims must do. Zahra sits half-turned in her seat to watch the image of the Lycenae volcano fade into the distance, while listening to Nitara babble endlessly on what an honor they have been given and extolling the virtues of the God-King to her friend, as if trying to convert her. Zahra needs no urging from her companion, but does let out a bit of laughter from time to time as fresh memories are shared between them.

With a sigh, Niamh retrieves his horse. He'll have to remember not to get this one ever again, as there is a mutual dislike between the two. But once more, he takes to alternating between riding with the other Atarvani and falling back to ride with the wagons.

The wheat is especially green and clean-smelling and the light is so vivid and perfect: the land that spreads out in the skirts of the God-King's mountain is a beautiful and lush blessing. The warmth of the early afternoon sunlight has taken the chill out of the winds. Now the breezes are simply delightful.

And the road is dry. Neither animal nor wagon is impeded. Some of the pilgrims, like Zahra and Nitara, are talkative and excited by their shared experience.

Others are quiet and contemplative. Most feel... touched. Those who do speak tell of a Presence. Some weep, that something so incomprehensibly powerful could deign to notice them.

The rhythm of the column settles into the familiar one of travel. The particularly keen of eye will notice that the mongrel escorts are back. Then, as the day begins to fade, the pilgrims reach the border of Illium.

The mongrels will go no further, but few of the guards, soldiers or priests seem to care. The clarity of the air is such that an Empyrean fort can be seen off in the distance.

Hursal calls the column to a halt to make camp for the evening and the Agni-Haidar riders vanish into the tall pine forest that rises up like a solid black wall just beyond the greensward.

There is no sign of the sheep that were here before. But the forest is alive with the sound of birds.

During the ride, the Messala women settle into silence, having nothing new to discuss, and they simply enjoy the sights of the woods as the sun lowers itself in the sky. There is a neigh from one of the horses further up the line, and it's answered by a Messala steed to intermingle with the sounds of creaking wheels and voices that accompany this caravan of Amir-al's faithful.

Niamh dismounts once camp is made and stretches, wondering if he could trade horses or something? If he isn't needed immediately he decided to make his way to the Messala encampment... if he is permitted by their guards. He recognized them before, but only now approaches.

The usual pattern is being followed here: the wagons and palanquins are set up in a semicircle windward so that the fire is in the lee. Slaves set up tents for those who did not bring their own shelter and the canvas soaks up the firelight, seeming to glow. The light is fading fast now.

Hursal leads soft prayers for those who wish to mark the setting of the sun, and most of the pilgrims break out their shares of fresh food. They've set up camp next to a stream so there is plenty of fresh water. It's cool and small minnows dart in silvery flashes.

Night time comes more quickly to the forest. The canopy is still a blaze of bright green and orange from the sunset but the ground is almost pitch. Crickets have started up their song. And look: a firefly, then another, then another -- they are trying to compete with the camp fire.

Jamal circles the camp restlessly. He has had his fill of water but is too wound up by the day's events to sit down.

Nitara takes the opportunity of the running water to find a discreet place to bathe, or if that isn't possible, at least wash the dirt of the road from her arms and face.

Zahra remains behind to welcome the arriving visitor, the Estrel from Delphi and Nabi of the Atarvani. "Namaste, Imphadi," she greets quietly. Her voice is muffled further as her head drops in respect. "Would you like something to eat Imphadi? What is ours is yours, of course."

There are certainly good places to bathe, but in order to take advantage of them, Nitara will have to go a bit further up the stream where it bends away from view.

Niamh will eat a little something to be polite, "Thank you, Imphada. I merely wished to offer my greetings. I have often met with your Clansman, but have only spoken to you in passing."

Zahra sips quietly from her cup, though it only contains some water. Her eyes briefly scan the darkening surroundings for Nitara's return, but with the presence of such a high-ranking Atarvani at her fire circle, the straying eyes last only a moment. "Clansman? Oh, you mean my sirdar?" Questioning eyes look back to Niamh as she inquires if it is indeed the warlord he means, or another member residing in Haven. She picks up a piece of fresh fruit and offers it to him before eating a piece of it herself.

Niamh takes the fruit with a nod, "Indeed, the warlord. Imphadi Sumai." Perhaps if he speaks to Zahra he will learn a little bit more about his pupil... who tends to say very little in the lessons.

Nitara finds herself a place to bathe. It is a good place located just inside the tall pine forest, quiet and dark, where the water has carved itself a little pool. She is just beginning to unwind her sari when she notices that the birds and crickets have stopped singing. The only sound is that of the water.

A twig snaps between two trees and suddenly, out of formless darkness, shapes begin to resolve themselves. They are men. Varati men in armor.

And they are not Agni-Haidar.

Back in the camp, the Agni-Haidar go tense, hands to their swords. Jamal, too, grasps at the hilt of his yhatagan. A shriek echoes through the forest, followed closely by a shout, and at an even greater distance, another yell, twice as feral and totally soulless.

The light has gone all blue, fading quickly to the near-darkness that lulls one to look into the fire and be blinded. There is a chorus of hums and hisses like snakes striking. A slave screams and clutches his leg; blood spurts out between his fingers up along the wooden haft of an arrow that has plunged into his flesh.

Kiera wings in, a much hastier arrival than departure. She does, however, beat the moon's rising and the sun's total setting. With a flurry of pinions, she settles at the outskirts of camp and paces in, toward the Agni-Haidar fire.

Niamh drops the fruit and runs over towards the shouts and firing. Damn... too much forest. As he isn't an Akhund and trained to fight as well, he isn't of much use... yet. Once he can see the attackers, he will be a little more useful, as it is rather hard to wield a weapon when it gets too hot to hold.

Nitara! The woman may never have screamed like that before, but Zahra is well aware of her companion's voice. The pure terror in the bathing woman's short-lived scream has Zahra on her feet in an instant. She forgets the Atarvani next to her, or the cup in her hand, which is dropped and rolls into the fire. The sparse protection from the cold offered by the cloak is gone, it too falls to the ground at her feet. She opens her mouth to scream, to call for her friend, but no more than a grunt gets past her lips before another hissing sound penetrates the camp.

Just as quickly as she jumps up, Zahra is thrown to the ground with a bolt buried in her throat, striking a killing blow. She doesn't move from where she's slumped like a rag doll, slowly being soaked by her own blood.

Steel sings out as Jamal pulls his sword from its scabbard. No matter how dark the night is, the edge of the sword still gleams, sinewy and sharp.

The Agni-Haidar break into two groups of two: one stays to defend the campsite and the other races into the forest darkness. Just before they go out of sight they, too, split off and enter the gloom in two different places.

The Atarvani crowd close to the pilgrims, trying to contain a mass which has quickly melted into chaos. People are leaping up when they should be laying down; they are running away from the camp when they should be finding cover and staying put.

Commands ring through the air and are barely audible over the fierce shouts and the screams of terror. The Atarvani begin to bodily drag pilgrims into the cover afforded by the wagons.

A second flight of arrows hisses in, though numbering less than the first. None of the slaves are struck this time, and it's a mystery how that could be so, with so many frightened people running back and forth and presenting such wonderful targets. The sound of battle erupts in the woods and some of the ferocity in the attacker's voices has turned to raw fear.

Niamh pulls as many as he can towards cover... behind wagons, underneath them, in a copse of trees... far from the fighting and hopefully from the arrow-shot. Of course, he does want to get a good look at the enemy... wouldn't it be nice to see them burn? Just like a little pyre...

As if the screams do not penetrate Kiera's consciousness, as if they do not register as the danger they are, she does not stop until she is by the fire. Then the screams continue, and then she peers back, night-blinded worse than usual by the flame. Kiera sees nothing. Her wings cowl in, tightly, and she closes her eyes, turning her back to the fire. The breezes begin to flurry about, within a significant radius of Kiera. Usually, her connection with those wisps will lend her hints as to where things are, but this time, such awareness is useless; Kiera is unfamiliar with the terrain. At best, she can hinder arrow-attacks; the Agni-Haidar are superb at fighting in extreme conditions. Kiera-induced winds suddenly whip into a frenzy, erratic and unpredictable.

Additionally, the air becomes heavy with moisture, electricity, suggesting an impending downpour, though the sky was clear moments before.

The Atarvani try to react with magic as well, to reach fire towards the forest and perhaps illuminate the enemy. But something odd is happening here. The magic does not respond as it should. It flickers. It is inconstant. Winds and flame start and then sputter down like a wind-up toy used once too often. Control is difficult.

A few of the pedestrian pilgrims have unwisely decided, in their panic and confusion, to run towards the forest. *Now* the attackers can be seen as they step out of the darkness, already nocking fresh arrows.

Jamal races towards them, his haik a banner behind him. As he runs through the stream, ice forms. His outline is indistinct, changing. Ice shatters in a cloud as his bare feet clear the stream, legs elongated, but then not elongated as the magic's fickle effects cancel one another out. Now it's steam that's rising from his feet. The steam freezes into snow and his braid is a thick rope of gold coming out of a proud mane.

A lion's roar shatters the shouts and screams into nothing, shifting itself into a ferocious man's yell in mid-roar. Jamal, for a moment something more than human, becomes human again.

The tactic served its purpose, however. The attackers focus their attention on him and send their arrows his way before dropping their bows and pulling out their swords. With a meaty sound, three arrows thump into Jamal's chest and shoulder. His lips are immediately freckled with blood. But he does not fall.

Two of the attackers -- very clearly Varati men in good but unmarked Clannish armor -- run towards him. The rest race towards the camp and its defenders. Kiera is a particularly tempting target as she is so easy to see.

One of the Atarvani sees Zahra and races to her, kneeling at her side. His magic is traitorous: the healing touch ebbs and fades to the beat of some uncaring and sadistic god's heart.

The chaotic yelling and shouting, stilled for a moment by the lion's roar, starts back up again as the Varati charge into the camp.

Yes! Run towards the camp, cowards! How dare they attack the pilgrims! Niamh lets that anger fuel him as he reaches for his magic. It flares... and flares brightly, causing even him to grapple and grasp for control of the magic. It's not what he wanted, and he needs to get it away from him before it consumes him as well, so the mass of flame is pushed at the attackers. The Nabi Estrel staggers back after the effort of that, the moisture on his hands steaming. His magic has never acted like that before.

Even if the magic wasn't foundering, the Healer's attempts would still be futile. Too much blood soaks the ground and her sari, leaving the lush indigo silk a sickly black which clings to her now-cold form. The Atarvani who made the attempt gently lifts her, caring little that his attire becomes bloodied, and carries her near one of the wagons so that her body is not further assaulted by flying arrows or the trampling feet of a terrified mob.

By now, Kiera's eyes have slitted open, for all the good this will do. Flickering lights, like so many luminaries, only tell her that there is a rush of bodies from afar, to anear, and their feet-pounding emphasizes their hurry. Kiera's wings flare out, the erratic winds slanting to take her up.

A Varati warrior leaps at Kiera, sword lashing out at her wings. Another is quick on his heels. Two, however, are caught up in Niamh's flameburst and scream as their armor is quickly heated to intolerable levels. The smell of burning flesh, so like the roasting of pork, mingles with the scents of blood, fear, and fresh fruit.

The halfbreed's flight falters, as her usual marvelous luck picks this time to fail: The magic that lifted her fails, and Kiera resorts to a wingbeat to continue her ascension. This, of course, brings that wing all too close to the man with the slashing sword. A thud sounds, that warrior earning himself the faltering downstroke of a wing, and then the frail and light Kiera atop that as she crashes to the ground.

The two on Jamal are lulled in by the sight of the three arrow hafts clustered in the right side of his chest and the trails of blood that decorate his chin and throat in a gross parody of henna. They dash forward, but suddenly he is moving like they never expected, with a speed and grace that is unnatural. His heritage is proven as he slashes out with the sword held in his left hand -- his right arm is not functioning. The cunning, wicked edge of his yhatagan slices up, cutting the inside of the man's wrist wide open. Sparks jump into existence where the sword rides up over the armor and then the yelling incoherent battlecry of the enemy warrior is sliced into a hideous gurgling.

Now Jamal is behind him, and behind his friend. Magic courses through him. The air becomes cold. Where Jamal was now stands a lion-headed figure, fur matted with the blood that still pumps out of his wounds. He swings around and his body's added mass lends strength to the one-handed attack. Blood splashes against his snarling muzzle as a head goes bouncing down into the stream; the enemy's body takes three more faltering steps and then falls. As quickly as it came, the magic fades. The blood steams on his again-human face and chest. Jamal's own steps falter but he still does not fall.

The Varati who are attacking Kiera yell in triumph and try to hack at her. More Varati exit the forest and come running into the camp. But they run in terror. Behind them are the swift, soulless, black shapes of the Agni-Haidar. Two of them have suffered grievous wounds; one of them has taken a slash across the face that has cost him his eye, and yet he still comes. A Clansman dashes out of the woods onto the greensward about ten yards from the camp. Then a nightmare leaps out of the forest and bears him to the ground. He's still screaming as the wyvern's teeth close around his shoulder and shear completely through.

Now, Niamh isn't nearly as well-trained as the Agni-Haidar, but he knows how to hold the dagger he carries. And... if his magic works... he just needs a little for this... the calling of it is careful. Slow. The metal of the blade begins to radiate heat... then to nearly glow with it. Much better. Hopefully, the ones on Kiera won't notice his approach... or his attack with the glowing-hot blade.

Notice? Definitely not. They have a helpless target to kill. And they know who she is and it frightens them, which makes the killing of her all the more urgent.

The halfbreed is hacked at, is crushed by the blow. Her form, seeming to be all wings now, simply crumples. The woman is downed, but she is not dead; no sooner has she hit the floor than both of her attackers are seized in the fierce grips of mini-tornadoes, and flung up, for as long as that spastic magic will carry them. When Kiera feels the wind-control turn natural, she ceases any attempt to further lift her foes. Any drop, imbalanced, is detrimental. Kiera remains where she is, however, listening.

This a good thing, then, as the Estrel goes to attack them, pulling up short as they go flying off of the halfbreed. If they're still alive when they land, they won't be for much longer.

Wham. WHAM! Sparks erupt as one of Kiera's foes falls directly in the campfire. The light is suddenly dimmed and the screaming goes up another notch in terror. The one that didn't fall in the fire struggles to regain his footing. It would be easy for Niamh to reach him before he succeeds.

The red-hot blade glows in an arc as Niamh runs towards the recently fallen and unburned attacker. The knife is at the man's throat before he can stand... and, hot as it is, it's more than burning even though it isn't touching the man quite yet. "You would be wise, kafir, to come with me," Niamh rumbles, reaching to grab one of the attacker's arms to jam it behind his back.

The explosion of flames and sparks from the man's fall inspires Kiera back into action. This time it's pure instinct as she scrambles away from the fire, into its companion darkness. One wing drags, crookedly, and the other half-flares to balance Kiera's ungraceful scuttling. Winds swirl around her, erratically, as if now protective and now waning.

Niamh has grabbed the broken arm. The man shrieks and gibbers and bucks against the knife, causing himself a serious burn. The fight is entirely gone from him.

And so it is with the rest of the battle: as suddenly as it began, it is over. The Agni-Haidar have made quick work of the remnants of the attackers, and it is shockingly quiet, even though pilgrims are still weeping and whimpering.

Kiera's other attacker has managed to roll off of the flames but he is not moving. His armor is blackened and he smells nicely roasted.

Water splashes across Kiera's savaged wing; it is cold against her feet. "Imphada," says a voice, faintly and off to her right. It sounds... bubbly.

Kiera shies away from the voice, curling down somewhat and reaching with hands, to handle the broken, bleeding appendage. Breath hisses from her as the wing flops, displaying now the bright edge of a broken bone poking through the red-stained brown plumage. "Away, do not come near me until I know who you are," Kiera warns, and the lancing pain of her injury lends far more body to the half-breed's voice than her usual near-whisper alto. Kiera's gaze tilts, unseeing, toward the voice.

Niamh got the broken arm. Good! He pulls the attacker to his feet and drags him over... at least the broken arm won't kill him... but there must be one who knows the reason for the attack and he may be the answer. The heat of the knife fades so that it is just very hot... not searing. Of course, smoke and dust and blood don't help his bespectacled vision, so it takes him a few moments to find Hursal and some of the others.

The Messala guards had separated; one took off to find Nitara who was lost along the bank of the river while the other jumped forward to assist the fight. Both return to the wagon, one bearing a wet bundle in his arms while the other bears a deep gash along his left cheek, leaving a bloody trail down his chin and dripping on his collar. They look to each other when they come upon the Atarvani bending over the figure of the warlord's consort. Both silently wonder if it would be better to kill themselves now, rather than return and face his wrath.

There are two other attackers still alive. The lucky ones, however, are the dead ones lying crumpled all around the camp, for these unfortunate survivors are now in the hands of the Agni-Haidar. One of the grim, black-clad warriors gestures to Niamh, indicating that he should bring the prisoner to join the little group. The two fellows are already tightly bound and are looking none the worse for wear (yes), though sullen. They bind the one that Niamh has captured, paying no mind whatsoever to his broken arm. He passes out.

"I am... Jamal," Jamal says indistinctly. He is standing by the side of the stream and is holding himself up using his sword. The tip of the blade is in the ground and the blade itself is alarmingly bowed. His breath rasps in and out, in and out, blood bubbling at his lips. There is blood at his feet as well, a trickle from the man who's head he cut off. The majority of *that* one's blood is splashed out on the greensward; it looks like a child was playing with a particularly gruesome hose.

Hursal comes over to Niamh and clasps his shoulder. "Are you all right, Imphadi?" He turns his head. "Get everyone on the wagons," he orders his subordinates. "We must move out of this area immediately."

Kiera is not dying, but she suspects that Jamal may be, from bubbly-voice alone. The familiar frustration wells, as she peers uselessly into the night.

"Healer?!" Kiera calls, unconsciously snapping the wind out as if it might carry this question to all ears. "Healer!" The second time sounds more authoritative, and is directed toward where Kiera hears the most voices.

Once the Agni-Haidar have his prisoner, Niamh lets out a sigh. "Yes, Imphadi... I am all right." His attention does go to Jamal, however, who does not look all right. Dark eyes take in the blood at his lips... and all over him, and he calls for a healer as well, moving to the Akhund's side. "Imphadi... let me help you back to the wagons..." He gets prepared to take on a great deal of the man's weight if he must.

Majidah crawls out from somewhere, having found it more prudent to hide herself as thoroughly as possible than risk injury or, naturally, death. The sight of the carnage which surrounds her does nothing to alter her expression; at least, her tilted eyes remain relatively calm over her veil. She does step very carefully as she edges her way towards the others, however, and makes a point of looking at everything but the battle's remains. The sound of Niamh's voice gives her pause, and she turns in that direction, hurrying towards him with light, anxious steps, looking somewhat incongruous in her bright silks.

The Atarvani are performing triage on the run. They call out to shocked servants, startling them out of their fear-induced comas, and direct them: those who can walk are led to wagons. Those who cannot are carried. Two of the priests run from body of enemy to body of enemy, looting them for any sign of their identity.

A healer runs up to assist Niamh, Jamal, and Kiera. He says, breathlessly, "We must move from this place. The magic is wrong here."

Hursal himself helps the slaves get the wounded to the wagons. He helps them clear out the wagons as well to make room for their new occupants.

The able-bodied pilgrims are put to the task as well, freeing up Atarvani to perform emergency first aid. They rip the linen cloths used during the sunrise services into long strips and use them to bind up wounds.

"Yes," says Jamal, his gaze unfocused. He takes a step and falters, almost tripping over his own sword, and reaches out to steady himself on Niamh. His weight is considerable -- he weighs more than one might think just to look at him. "Im--" the word trails off.

The healer says, "We will not pull the arrows out, Imphadis and Imphada, until we are somewhere where magic works." Even so his expression is worried. He glances back at the other wounded people. There are many.

Fear and urgency combine to make the work go faster. The gear stored on the wagons is lashed to the backs of unhappy horses and wyverns; what cannot be so secured will have to be carried.

The guards carefully put the bodies of the Messala women in the wagon, taking more care with those two than they probably have with anything in their lives. The driver, who had hid under the wagon, crawls out, cursing their luck and checking to make sure that his horses are all right. It appears cold, but he is unable to bring himself to look at the two women who had been so lively an animated hours before.

Kiera refers the healer to Jamal. Her wound is merely debilitating, and healers are in short supply. The halfbreed stands still for a few moments, considering, before able fingers untie that stole from around her waist, and Kiera uses the thing as a make-shift sling. Her wing is badly damaged, sagging and disablingly painful, but then... she is alive and has two legs. So Kiera carefully winds the stole around her wing, eases the thing shut and binds the broken bone to the unbroken. Blood still flows freely from where the sword sliced through so many feathers, through skin; Kiera's wing broke when she hit ground, due to the savage offbalancing of her escape flight, by her attacker.

The Dzali palanquin is a veritable pincushion; it's as if it were some kind of arrow magnet. But amazingly, its inhabitant is unmarked. The palanquin, however, is ruined.

"I can help with the wounded," Majidah offers as she also reaches Niamh and the others. "My training in healing was scant, but I know enough to keep someone alive if need be." That can wait, however, until they have left this place. Like a breath of perfumed air amidst the stink of battle, the courtesan moves closer to the young Varati Estrel, taking a moment to look him over for any signs of injury before glancing at the others.

Niamh staggers slightly under Jamal's sudden weight, but he was braced for it. "A few more steps, Imphadi, and then you will be healed." He hopes. He turns to reassure Majidah that he is unharmed. He's a little drained from his magic going awry, but that's all. But his task right now is to get Jamal where he can be healed.

With Niamh's help, Jamal makes it to the wagon. The Atarvani makes sure he is laid flat and that his sword is secured. Jamal realizes, tucked up against the front of the wagon as he is, that consciousness is no longer necessary. So he passes out.

As soon as the wagons are loaded, Hursal orders them into action. If anyone must scramble to catch up, then they must -- though Agni-Haidar remain at the back of the line to guard them. The Agni-Haidar are still grimly, disconcertedly wounded. But they do not stop.

Eventually, the ragged, savaged caravan moves deep enough into the forest and out of the pocket of magical strangeness. The healer-mages, already on the wagons, immediately begin to do their best to take the danger out of the wounds. Majidah is welcomed, if Niamh chooses to allow her to help, and if she does not mind the profusion of blood that will dull the bright colors of her clothes.

Jamal is actually not the worst wounded. The slave initially wounded in the attack was hit in the femoral artery. He is stabilized by his attending mage as Jamal's leans forward and begins to undo some of the damage.

"Stop here," says Hursal. "We'll camp here and recoup in the morning." The wagons are pulled into a tight circle and the Agni-Haidar immediately take up defensive positions. An exhausted Atarvani healer makes the rounds on them, doing his best to heal the wounds.

They are not powerful healers, however. The wounds are only partially healed -- they are only started on the road to recovery.

FIN  

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