TWENTY-SEVEN
EDWIN CROLL, COMMANDER of the Home Fleet and Deputy Lord Marshal of the Gareai, decellerated his shuttle as he neared the old Fleet Observatory and Ships’ Service Yard of Pre-Cloister. Docked beneath in her perpetual berth was the ancient battleship Owen, kept in state on the express orders of Archduke Victor as a memorial to his father and brother, and to all those who had died in the Great War.
The relic and the Observatory—formerly known as Flossy—were normally full of eager tourists who thronged from the distant planets to view what had once been the crowning glory of Pre-Cloister. Both were desolate now, staffed only with skeleton crews because of the Great Moot.
Edwin was well used to Argus’ clandestine ways, though he wondered at the choice of meeting place. Why so far removed, in virtual anonymity? It could only mean the Lord Marshal wanted as few eyes as possible to witness their meeting. Yet even this made no sense. What could be more natural than the Lord Marshal and his deputy speaking together?
When he had first met Argus Kane, the then Commander of Supply had been a hundred years his senior and one of the top officers in the fleet. Time and a series of promotions had leveled this discrepancy, but Argus Kane was still someone who commanded respect from his subordinates—even his deputy. Croll knew it would all become clear soon enough. Argus never left anyone in doubt regarding what he wanted.
Regardless of the reason for this meeting, the Owen always brought a surge of disturbing memories. Though it was now more than 700 cycles in the past, he remembered that first long ago meeting with Argus as though it were yesterturn: one that had led not only to a further promotion but to Rynine Tamaris.
He did not like revisiting his past, especially his memories of the beautiful Reamurian. Though he had now reached the towering goal he had set for himself long ago, he had been wrong in thinking it would satisfy him. Instead, he had lost the love of his life.
He had never thought to know the meaning of the word, but Rynine had taught him. The saddest part was the remembrance of how she had taken her own life rather than waste away, refusing to watch as he remained as young and vibrant as the first time they had met.
The bitterness had never left him, knowing that his rise to power had come too late to change her circumstances. It rankled even more how the Prince of Sid had bested him in the Pens, stealing what might have been another opportunity to regain what he had lost. But what good did it do to dwell on such animosity? Even the Deputy Lord Marshal of the Gardai could not stand against a man who was now one of the leading voices in the empire.
He shrugged off such reminiscing as he occupied himself with the docking maneouvers. As he stepped onto the hangar tarmac, he saw Argus awaiting him. The Lord Marshal’s demeanor showed no hint of irritation, thus he could not have been waiting long. There was no sign of any duty personel, which meant he had already sent them away.
The two men offered each other the customary salute of the Swordkind, and then Croll got straight to the point.
“Why did you bring me here, my lord?”
With his short legs, Argus’ eyes were lower than Croll’s, though that it no way affected the man’s demeanor or authority.
“First, I wanted no one to hear what we have to say. This seemed as good a place as any, out of the way and deserted as it is during this time of festival. Second, I wanted you to remember our beginning. A long time ago, I revealed that I knew about your Gift. I also told you I would rise to become Lord Marshal. Instead of punishing you for gross disobediancee, I gave you an opportunity and a chance to rise with me. Do you remember?”
Croll remembered. He had been greatly surprised a second time when Argus had rewarded him instead of banishing him to a less appetizing command for his boldness in transporting the D’ia Mor Trine of Enn to Brigantia. Those had been chaotic turns, and not only due to the epic changes in the Union due to the aliens’ arrival. Soon after, Argus had taken the dying Zayas Konoval’s position as Lord Marshal. That too had been a surprise, for Adrian Korne, Commander of the Radian Fleet, had been the senior officer and next in line for promotion. Yet he had not been so adept at gaining influence and favors as Argus. Korne had resigned his post and taken his own life soon after, one of the first to resort to the Gundring blade.
“I remember, my lord,” Croll admitted, wondering what was coming next.
“Well…here we are: Lord Marshal and Deputy Lord Marshal of the Gardai. I have given you what you wanted, Edwin. Now I need something from you.”
“You have only to ask, my lord. As always, you have my loyalty.”
Argus nodded but took his time answering as they walked slowly around the hangar’s vast expanse. There were many Flitters and even a Corvette docked for repairs. The fleet still made use of the facility, as ancient as it was, to service their smaller vessels from time to time.
“What I want is simple enough, though it involves a certain cost to you. Each time an apprentice of Fortunatus has fought one of ours from Athame, the Pat’Riark’s has won. It is time for a different ending. The Pat’Riark is too full of himself. All this talk of the D’ia Mor and their association with some imaginary evil entity is utter nonsense. We owe the swordmasters a debt we can never repay. If not for the D’ia Mor, there would be no Sword Brotherhood. Do you agree?”
Edwin was uncertain how he should respond. From his very first meeting with the alien race, he had felt something lurking behind them. That feeling had grown stonger as the long cycles had passed. And the strange dichotomy had prevailed: both abhorence and attraction in equal measure. Of late, some rather disturbing dreams had plagued him.
He wished he could confide in Argus regarding his worries, but he held back. Argus had no tolerance for the foibles of lesser men. And despite the long association, theirs had never been a closeknit friendship. Argus was far too aloof for such familiarity. Yet he had always been a mentor. He had laid out the path for both of them to follow, and Croll could not afford to alienate him at this late date.
“I agree, my lord. But what is it you really wish of me?”
Argus paused and turned to confront him face to face. “I want you to challenge Shaan Sid in the Korda.”
Croll stared back in disbelief. “But you know I fought once many cycles ago and failed in my bid for the title. I am not good enough to defeat one of the Pat’Riark’s most gifted disciples.”
“True…but you may weaken him. And it would give Zel the opportunity to see his skill first hand.”
At his continued silence, Argus reached out and lightly gripped his forearm. It was a friendly, almost intimate gesture, and the first time Croll had ever seen him do such a thing.
“For a long time now you have been as a younger brother to me, Edwin. I am asking you to swallow your pride and make this sacrifice for all of us who have come from Athame. If not for them, then do it for me.”
Croll remembered the indignity he had felt those long cycles ago; the shame and ignominy of defeat before so many pairs of eyes, not only in the Korda itself but around every holo in the Pentarchy. Yet he could see there was no way around this; not if he wished to continue in the favored position he held. He sighed and nodded.
“Very well…you have my word.”
***
On the eve of the third turn, Argus came with Edwin Croll, Deputy Lord Marshal of the Gardai. Croll spoke for himself, bowing low as he must before a pentarch of the empire, yet issuing his challenge as an equal among the Swordkind. He too was an Adept of the First Rank.
“Lord Shaan Sid, Rigan of Faerwyn-Joss and Pentarch of Solarian, I challenge you. Do you accept?”
Shaan did not hesitate but bowed in answer. “I accept your challenge, Deputy Lord Marshal, and await your pleasure.”
“I shall return within the hour,” Croll replied. He moved away at once, with Argus following close upon his heels.
It was not long before the holos picked up the news. A great furor rumbled throughout the Korda. Up to then, none of the First Rank had competed. The crowd longed for a more enticing display of skill and power than they had so far witnessed.
“Why has he waited until now to issue a challenge?” Ryder wondered aloud. He stood with the former pupils of the Pat’Riark, who had gathered upon hearing the news. Though he knew Ashara must feel the agony of ignorance, she could not be with them. Regardless of bloodline or positions of power, only the Swordkind could step upon the floor of the amphitheater during the Great Moot.
“A good question,” the Pat’Riark replied somberly. “He must be aware his skill is no match for yours, even though he too is of the First Rank and has tasted the thrill of the Korda before now.”
“Much may be gained, even in defeat,” Thorgrim muttered. “Especially by those who seek to study another’s moves.”
Fortunatus nodded. “That is part of it, to be sure. Zel may now see your skill and study your style at his leisure. But more important: each time you contest you drain energy you must replenish. This replenishing—though hardly noticed by an Adept of the First Rank—requires effort and time. And there is little time remaining before moot’s end.”
“I shall defeat him,” Shaan assured them.
“That is not in doubt,” Fortunatus replied sternly. “Yet his is not the sword to fear, as you well know. Do not waste your energy in foolish bravado. Dispatch him as swiftly as possible.”
Shaan bowed his head, liking neither the tone nor the manner of his mentor. But he agreed despite both. The advice was prudent and he knew it.
The trumpet sounded and he strode onto the field. His bearing radiated confidence and the crowd roared its approval. Seconds later, their acclamation for Edwin Croll was no less. Though he was not a pentarch of the empire, he was its second highest guardian and a figure of respect.
The noise dropped to a murmur, a kind of steady breath—the living mass of the Korda.
The two Adepts saluted each other. The air crackled with the hum of High Power as each summoned the Flame.
From the first rapid flurry of blows, it was apparent who was dominant. Though his power was only a shade beyond that of Croll, Shaan’s fighting ability was far superior. Yet they were both Adepts of the First Rank. Victory would not be easy.
Croll countered with skill but was unable to launch an offense. Shaan steadily drove him backward. Both Thorgrim and the Pat’Riark had been correct in their assumptions.
The minutes dragged on. The crowd’s appreciation, lacking accurate knowledge of what they were witnessing, rose to a deafening level. Yet even as it became obvious Croll was weakening, the battle continued. He refused to cry quarter, and Shaan had to expend more and more energy. In rising frustration, the pentarch reigned blow after unanswered blow upon the other’s shields.
At last, in danger of being injured, Croll admitted defeat. He knelt and the contest was suddenly over.
Shaan accepted the adulation of the crowd in silence, breathing deeply and easily.
As Croll once more rose to his feet, they bowed to each other and the judges declared Shaan the victor.
The Pat’Riark wasted no time in congratulations. “You must retire at once and seek the Quietus.”
Shaan nodded, smiling his agreement. “Still, it was good to test my skill…better than good. My blood sings. I now see what I have never truly understood. I know why the Code is so important, and why we adhere to it so strictly.”
The Pat’Riark’s reply was barely above a whisper. “Let us hope it stays that way.”