The Fate of the Valiant

2000 short story by Jonathan Hicks

Thirty-one years after Episode IV – A New Hope

Part One

Andrus only had enough time to spare a fleeting glance over his shoulder and back down the canyon. His eyes were stinging from the dust churned up by the speeders ahead of him and they were horrendously blurred. Even so, he could just make out the man pursuing him.

He heaved on the controls and forced a speedy halt. The chasing speeder biker panicked as the man he had been chasing stopped and loomed out of the dust to block his path down the narrow canyon. He tried to pull back on his controls, also, but only managed to cause the transport to slue sideways. The large rocks on the desert floor were enough to tip the speeder over, throwing the rider from the seat where he slammed into the side of a large boulder with a scream.

Andrus had no time to make sure his adversary was finished as he slapped the accelerator pad and set off after the bikers he had originally been chasing. They were nought but misty figures through the heat haze and the dust, now, but he knew he could still make good speed and gain on them. 

Andrus, leader of the legions of Fedarn and next in line to the throne of Prime Lord Paol Kreaiden, roared at his enemy.

As Andrus leaned into the corner of the canyon turn they exited the narrow rocky corridor and back out into the battle.

The conflict was not going as Andrus had originally planned. The legions under his command had formed up ready to meet the last of the occupying Janite forces of Chinngard, their rectangular energy shields and long rifles and combat staffs at the ready. They appeared glorious in their ranks, set out in several squares, totalling five and a half thousand well-armed, well-trained armour-clad warriors. With helmets shining and breastplates gleaming Andrus had sounded the horn himself for the soldiers to advance.

Now those same soldiers were blood red in colour and dirtied from hours of fighting. Their smiles of confidence had changed to downcast faces of despair as the supposedly badly co-ordinated armies of the north fell on them.

But badly co-ordinated they certainly were not. Well equipped with weapons and support blasters and numbering in their thousands they trapped the legions as they had entered the rocky parts of the northern mountains on the very edge of the desert. They had appeared at the end of the barren land in a small number, enticing the forces of the Ki-Ki Sector forward. As Andrus’ troops had approached in all their shining glory they had sent in a barrage of blaster fire from their hidden heavy weapons, had flung grenades from higher places and then swarmed from a multitude of hiding places around the legions. As the two armies met a great horn had sounded from the Janite troops and the battle was begun.

Andrus, his plain silver breastplate smeared in blood that was not his own, forced his speeder into the surging mass that were the Janites. Crying out the name of his father, and shooting down warrior after warrior, he sliced a path back to his own lines. His men saw his approach, feared that he had been lost when he had single-handedly chased after the rebel leaders on their speeders, and took heart from this apparent Gods-sent miracle. Their leader was alive! And he had returned to smite their enemies and turn the sand crimson with their lives!

A shout went up from the forward legionarys and they surged forward again with renewed purpose. They cut their way back into the rebels and started to return the fight to the enemy. A flock of explosive spears flew over the heads of the forward fighters and into the Janites. The clash of metal and the screams of the injured and the dying echoed from the walls of the canyons, amplifying the noise to deafening proportions.

But even with the return of their leader and the determination it bought the legions were outnumbered. With all their bravado and their passion in the killing they were still falling faster than the enemy. With every minute the tide of the battle swept against them, their seed of defeat had taken root in those first precious moments as the heavy weapon emplacements had rained death upon them.

As Andrus approached the forward ranks of his men the speeder he was on was hit and reared and bucked. As it turned Andrus was forced to climb over it to remain on top of the huge vehicle.

The enemy had already seen his predicament and started to stab at the young leader. He batted back with his blaster, purely on the defensive and now desperate for his life. 

Now that Andrus was close to the Janites he could see their blue armour and their stolen weapons. The very look of them disgusted and offended him and he spat in their faces as he hacked down another man trying to clamber up on the speeder.

The legionarys had been backed into a wall of rock, nowhere to retreat to and nowhere to hide. Those that dropped to their knees and begged for mercy we cleaved where they knelt. Another swarm of projectiles flew over from the rear ranks and pierced many Janites but still they came on.

Andrus kicked another in the head as he tried to maintain his position on top of the large speeder now that it was on its side. He knew that defiance was useless but he also knew that surrender was not an option. He sliced another man’s throat with his bayonet as he clambered up the side of the transport.

One man in front, balancing on the wheel, another behind clambering up the back. For one brief second Andrus considered running himself through with his blade. Better to die by his own hand than allow the rebels the satisfaction of giving him a slow death by their methods of torture.

The approach of the blaster bolt was heralded by a whistle, a high-pitched whine that started from far off in the distance but increased in volume quickly. It pierced the man at the back through the chest. He gurgled and fell. The second shot whistled into the other man’s throat and almost totally severed his head. Red liquid sprayed over Andrus but he ignored the disgust of it. He was stunned.

More whistles. More whines. Blaster bolts arched over the rear of the attacking rebels and skewered or sliced them. They started to look wildly about, trying to find the source of the attack.

Andrus searched also. His eyes fell onto the desert far to the rear of the hoard and he saw a sight that caused him to raise his arms and wave his sword, his voice louder than any of those on the battlefield.

   “Arkin! Arkin!”

The small army that approached from the rear was, by all appearances, a mis-match of legionarys and hired thugs, warriors from seemingly dozens of different alignments. They approached in a uniform order, the forward ones carrying their energy shields in a wall that covered the lead troops. Others behind walked with their shields held above the leaders, an angle creating even more cover over their heads. Another swarm of blaster fire whistled over their ranks by unseen shooters behind and pierced the Janites with deadly accuracy.

Just behind this wall of men was a rider on a Tauntaun, his armour made of dark leather and his cloak that of an animal of thick fur. A huge grey lizard-type figure, Arkin stood high above the rest of the men even and would have if he hadn't been on a Tauntaun. He looked upon the scene with calculating eyes.

He raised his long sword and looked over his men as they approached the Janites. The Janos warriors turned from their intended victims and tried to quickly ascertain what this new attack meant.

The rider, Arkin, made that clear as he swung his hand down and shouted, “Loose!”

The rectangular shields raised and warriors, those same warriors which appeared to be more of a band of raiders than soldiers, streamed from under the protective cover of the wall. They raised vibroswords, blasters, axes, maces, anything and everything one could imagine in man-to-man warfare. They came running at the Janites, their footfalls loud even against the clashing of metal as the trapped legionarys still fought on.

They never roared. They never screamed a charge or called out to their Gods. The new fighters simply fell upon the hoard in silence. Only when they first joined combat did the warriors cry out in unison;

   “We salute you!”

The flying lizards were waiting to feed, as were other beasts of the mountains. They hid patiently in the rocks, watching and waiting for the survivors to stop picking through the remnants of the slaughter. The bodies that littered the landscape were strangely coloured, covered as they were in blood and sand. Weapons and limbs stuck up from the mass at irregular angles and if one looked hard enough they could see the odd twitch or weak heave of a survivor.

Andrus pushed his way through his cheering men, his blaster still in his hand. His smile of glee was shining through the blood and dirt on his face and he cared little for the taste of iron in his mouth. He burst through the last of the ranks of roaring legionarys and faced the commander of the army that had come uninvited to his aid.

   “Arkin,” he said as he stared into the apparently tired eyes of the alien standing before him. 

   “My lord,” he said in a deep voice. He cast down his eyes and then looked up. He couldn’t hold the visage and his face became lighter, less stern. “Andrus.”

The son of the Prime Lord holstered his blaster and grabbed his friend by the shoulders, lifting him up from his knee and shaking him hard. “Arkin! By heaven, but it’s good to see you! Did my father send you?”

   “It’s good I arrived when I did, eh, my lord?” he said, no apparent deviousness on his features as he avoided the question. Andrus knew, however, that his question had been sidestepped. His friend was obviously going to mention his real reason for being here but he didn’t want to talk of it in front of the assembled men.

   “Those blasters!” he exclaimed, wanting to move away from talk of why Arkin was here and carry the moment of joy further. His men, cut down to less than a third of a legion and bloodied and bruised needed now more than ever a moral boost, even though the battle was won and behind them.

   “They’re from my home in the Setnin Sector,” Arkin explained. “They scream in flight. Scares the hell out of the enemy and allows much more confusion than a simple volley.”

Andrus smiled and slapped Arkin on the shoulder. “Amazing. If only we had acquired such things before this battle! You must introduce me to the man who sold them to you.” He took a flask from his belt as he spoke and took a long draught when he completed his sentence. He was avoiding asking a question he desperately wanted to ask, for the same reasons as Arkin. He began walking from the scene and Arkin fell into step. He turned back to his men, who were leaning against their shields and weapons in fatigue and eyeing the newly arrived army suspiciously.

   “Remove our dead and prepare a grave and monument!” he shouted to them. “Let the Janites rot where they lay as a warning to those that defy the power of the Prime Lord!”

The order not only spurred the men into movement it inspired them. They moved with a purpose although they were tired and thirsty, pulling their dead from the pile and stabbing those they thought still alive. Arkin waved over to his own troops and pointed to another man in thick leather armour and a high full-headed helm. The faceplate was up to reveal the features of an older man with thick lines over his face from age and travel.

   “Jenolus! Separate the men, one half to help the legionarys and the other to make camp!” The man slammed his fist to his chest in response and started to point to men and the scene wordlessly. The mis-matched army responded eagerly.

As the two men walked from the site of the battle Andrus offered the flask to his friend who took it and drained the last of it. It was honeywine and Arkin savoured the taste.

   “Why are you here, Arkin?” Andrus asked now that they were far enough from his men to talk freely.

The commander sighed heavily and handed the empty flask back to the young warrior.

   “Did my father send you?” Andrus urged, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it from Arkin to confirm his suspicions.

   “No. I came here of my own choosing,” Arkin said truthfully. He didn’t want to make things as simple or as plain as that but with the scene of death behind them in all its horror it appeared that now was the time to be honest. Andrus would still be feeling the rush of conflict and skirting the issue wouldn’t do.

Andrus said nothing. He merely looked away to the south, back towards the site of their planetary force's camp.

   “Andrus, why did the Prime Lord send only one legion to help us quell this Janite army?” Arkin asked. “Five and a half thousand men against ten. Surely he read the reports sent to him by the scouts.”

   “He had no men to send,” Andrus whispered.

   “I heard about the near fall of your landing camp,” Arkin said, “I know that the war went badly. But to send his son here with just one legion? I do not wish to speak ill of the Prime Lord, but...”

   “Do not be ashamed, or afraid, to speak as you will,” Andrus gripped his friend by the shoulder. “I have always respected your views, even though my father does not. He should listen to you more.”

   “Oh, and you think that your father will listen to a failed bodyguard?" Arkin asked sarcastically, his disdain for his awkward position and the feelings he knew others had for his profession evident in his words. Andrus looked at him sympathetically but then drew the conversation back to himself.

   “I think it’s obvious why the Prime Lord sent me here with few men,” Andrus said. His voice was level and even although what he was saying was tearing him up inside. “He sent me here to die.”

Arkin started to protest but Andrus cut him off. “Andrus, the weakling and bleeding heart son of Paol Kreaiden, second in line to the throne of Fedarn. Do you really think he will hand such a title over to me? My brother Atheus is more suited to the role, as bloodthirsty and insane as the Prime Lord. Oh, don’t try to disagree with me, Arkin, I know what they say in the camp and the domains of the Ki-Ki Sector.”

   “I pledged loyalty to the sector,” Arkin stated. “It was one of the conditions of my employment by Baron Familee.”

   “I know,” Andrus said, “but you still came here to help me. Surely that was in defiance of the order? Only my father or the military advisors can utilise your forces, order your skills into use. Yet you risked it all to come here to help me.” Andrus turned straight on to Arkin and stared at him. His eyes were narrowed and suspicious.

   “Why?” he asked. “Why did you do this?”

There was short silence in which Arkin broke his gaze from the young lord and looked back at his men and the hills. He turned back, eyes downcast and filled with sadness. He kicked a small rock from under his thick boot sole.

   “Your father has been searching for the man who led the Janite attack on Chinngard. Now that the Emperor-Priest has gone back to Janos there is only one person he can take revenge on for the death of his daughter, your sister. That's the man who planned the attack. He's tearing up the planet to find this War Marshall Areed. Innocents are suffering and the planned invasion of Setnin is unjustified. I cannot be part of that. I'm trying to get away from your insane father.” He looked directly at Andrus, his eyes now changing from sadness to anger.

The silence from the young lord indicated his shock, and he dropped his inquisitive visage to replace it with one of anger. “What?"

   “Yes. The Prime Lord wants me dead. As an example to those who defy his order. I made a mistake pledging allegiance to the Ki-Ki Sector. This mistake..."

Andrus spoke Arkin’s unsaid words. “You hate my father. And you know I hate him, too,” he whispered. “That’s why you came here, isn’t it, Arkin?”

   “Yes,” Arkin said, his features now hard and bitter. “Andrus, you're the only true friend I have here, on this world. I cannot change what I have done, but I need your help.”

Part Two

The Prime Lord's palace on Fedarn, a huge dome surrounded by four wings that pointed to every part of the compass. This was constructed of rare blue marble that made it shine like an opaque crystal in the sunlight. Within this palace it was dark, even though the sun shone through wispy clouds and warmed the faces of all, even those who sought shade.

The halls were dark for one reason. The Prime Lord liked it that way.

Down one such hall there was the echoing sound of heavy footsteps. They bounced from wall to pillar to wall as Atheus, son of Prime Lord Paol Kreaiden, marched towards his father's audience chamber. He was wearing his best armour; a gold and brown affair that shone with wax polish, a gold helm under his arm that was crested with a red plume, and a blue robe that flowed behind him so that he almost appeared to be in flight. His face, dark-eyed and stern, glared ahead as his determined walk propelled him on and his curly, short-cropped hair seemed painted to his skull.

He stormed into the chamber, where several other men of importance in heavy blue robes were standing around a wide stone table that was littered with datapads and small models.

They never noticed Atheus’ entrance, so intent as they were on watching the suck in his breath for another angry bellow.

Prime Lord Kreaiden was large and wide, maybe once a man of good fighting stature but now obviously over-indulgent. His heavy jowls were red with exertion and his eyes, like his brother’s but framed by lines, were at this moment wide as he turned his anger on the man to his left.

   “Twenty days! That is what I was promised!” he bellowed, spittle blowing over the man who stepped back.

   “But, your Excellency, the invasion still goes well, but the men are overworked as it is and we will need more equipment to continue the taking of Chinngard...”

   “I don’t care!” Kreaiden roared, his fist adding to the damage he had already done to the models, scattering parts over the table. “Find the money! I promised the people victory and they will have victory.”

   “Excellency...” one man started to say in desperation but the Prime Lord waved his hand at them, looking down at the table. “Begone! See it is done or you will all be executed!”

Atheus stepped to one side as the men filed quickly from the room. He allowed them to see a small smile on his lips as his gaze lingered on each of them in turn. As the last one departed he looked up at his son.

The Prime Lord had already noticed Atheus’s arrival and was waving him over. Atheus walked with a stiff gait, his stern visage restored and his footfalls heavy.

   “Father, I...” Atheus had barely allowed the words to spill from his mouth when he was cut off with a slap of a hand to the table. Kreaiden pointed at him.

   “No, Atheus, I will not hear it. I have already listened to the bluster of idiots who will not follow their Prime Lord’s bidding.” He motioned to the door where the blue-robed men had departed. He turned with a dismissive air and started for a couch on the far side of the room. “You will take two legions to find this rabble of Chinngard mercenaries who believe that their leader can get away from my wrath. You will hunt them down and slaughter them. Any you capture will be slaves for the arena and others will be staked.” He turned to face his son and looked him up and down with disdain. “Did you have to come here to be told this? I thought my messenger would have been enough. Take the legions and go.”

    “But, father, I need to know why you have commissioned me as the leader of the men to hunt down Arkin and his army?”

Kreaiden turned and approached Atheus, the look of impatience making Atheus prepare for the worst.

   “Idiot blood! You dress like a plumed lizard and practice combat in the barracks but has anyone seen you go to battle? I send my youngest son to quell the Janites but still my oldest walks these halls and dreams of being a soldier! If you are afraid of being hurt in this little escapade then take a section of bodyguards with you. I’m sure that five hundred from the palace garrison will be more than enough to protect your wet nose”.

Able to give as good as he got and enjoying the leeway of being the Prime Lord’s relative Atheus spat back a retort. “Oh, so you want me to go and die like my worthless brother?”

There was an audible crack as Kreaiden’s hand connected with Atheus’s face, snapping the young man’s head sideways. The warriors’ helm clattered to the floor, the noise echoing around the chamber as if an old pot had been discarded. Atheus slowly turned to face his enraged father again, the features of his face burning red not from the strike but from the incredible anger he was trying to keep under control.

Kreaiden almost jabbed his finger into his Atheus’s eye as he made his point. “You will never, ever, talk so loud of that again. If you wish to be Prime Lord in my stead then you will learn what it is to make a sacrifice.”

Atheus was not going to let it go. He was terrified, deep down, that if his father was willing to be rid of the youngest because he didn’t stand up to his measures then what hope had he if he failed? He smiled cruelly, wanting to show his father that he had not been affected by the blow.

The Prime Lord raised his hand again, the blow aimed for the face once more but his hand stopped short as Atheus gripped his wrist hard. He held his hand away and tightened his hold.

Kreaiden pushed, his face getting redder with the exertion. He glared at his son, this young whelp who dared to resist punishment, and pushed harder.

But Atheus was younger. And stronger. He held the arm back and even started to move it away. They struggled like this until the Prime Lord yanked his arm free in the direction of Atheus’ push. With gritted teeth he spoke to him.

   “You will not disobey me.”

   “And you will never hit me again,” Atheus growled. His hand had gripped his vibrosword hilt tightly as he talked.

Kreaiden looked down and saw the slightly exposed silver blade and then he looked back up at Atheus. His glare turned to a smile and from that into open laughter.

   “Ha! So the pup does have some mettle! Don’t let me stop you! Go on! Draw your blade and...”

Kreaiden gagged as the sword point stuck into his belly. He staggered back, seeing the blade dripping with his blood and his blue robes turning a darker shade. He grabbed the wound and dropped to his knees.

Atheus’s consideration had obviously turned into action and he watched as his Prime Lord reached out with a shaking hand, his blood pouring from the gash in his stomach and creating an ever-widening pool of red around him. He stepped back as the hand struggled for his legs so that he was tantalisingly out of reach. Kreaiden gave another gasp and fell forward with a sound of wet laundry being dropped on a smooth floor.

Ragged breathing now started to come from the crumpled heap of blue and red robes on the polished marble flagstones as Kreaiden struggled for breath. Atheus just watched and shook his head.

Always he had to take the initiative. He had to come up with the plan to be rid of Andrus but had he ever been acknowledged for his thinking? Never. Kreaiden had always drummed it into his two younger brothers that their ability to think was at least as important as their skill in battle or as a leader, that there would always be bad situations they would be forced to make good of. They had to use brains and strength together. Know what you want and strive to attain it.

And hadn’t he just done that? Had he not just decided what step to take next and execute his plan? If his father had thought ahead far enough then surely he must have seen this coming, knew or at least considered the possibility that his blood would not wait for him to die naturally.

   “Make good of this bad situation, father,” Atheus murmured.

If he had spent more time explaining this to Andrus instead of allowing his mind to be polluted by the rantings of their dying mother then the need to kill him would not have been neccessary and the two brothers could have ruled together!

Prime Lord Paol Kreaiden? Hah! Lasted less than twelve years on the throne. How great was he now? What had all his teachings and directions bought him to?

   “So busy preaching. So stupid not to follow your own advice,” Atheus whispered as his father let out one long wheezing breath and died.

Atheus now had a bad situation of his own. He was standing over the body of the Prime Lord with a stained blade in his hand. Thinking quickly he drew in a deep breath and bellowed, “Slave!” He pulled a small dagger from his belt as a young wiry manservant, the Prime Lord’s personal attendant, came hurrying into the chamber. He approached from a darkened alcove, his beige and white robes rustling softly.

As he came closer to the scene he held his hands to his dark mass of black hair and gasped. He looked down on the dead Prime Lord and then up at the Prime Lord’s son.

Atheus simply held out the dagger to the boy, hilt first. “Here,” he said, “Take the weapon. Protect me.”

Not fully understanding and reeling with the shock the boy took the dagger with a violently shaking hand. He gripped the white handle and stared at it with confusion. Without another word Atheus lifted his sword high above his head and then slammed it down onto the shoulder of the servant. It cut through cloth and flesh and carried on through bone and gristle, cutting deep into the chest and cracking through ribs and sternum. The servant screamed, the cry forcing air and blood from his mouth, and then crumpled to the floor next to the Prime Lord. The dagger dropped from his dead hand and into Kreaiden’s blood.

   “Murderer!” Atheus cried out, his voice filled with enough despair to stir even his own heart.

Part Three

The speeder bike tipped slightly as Atheus pulled himself up into the saddle, jamming each foot onto the pedals rings. He felt uncomfortable with his feet in such contraptions, preferring the feel of a shaped saddle he could firmly press his thighs against to keep him in position.

Times change, his father had always told him, and it is best a Prime Lord does his best to accommodate that.

He smiled as he thought of that, one of Kreaiden’s teachings, and realised that he wasn’t going to miss daily repeats of what he should and shouldn’t do as a Prime Lord’s relative.

A captain sidled up next to him on a grey steed and stared straight ahead, surveying the road and weighing possible encounters. His black armour was tight-fitting and sparsely decorated.

Behind the two were thousands of men, all lined up in their brown armour with weapons at the ready. They were spread out in twelve squares of roughly a thousand men each, with five hundred warriors at the lead who were dressed in similar armour as the man next to Atheus. The forward legionarys of each square held aloft staffs with circles of merit and symbols of the Ki-Ki Sector staggered up their length. They waited patiently for the signal to move.

   “My lord,” the captain said, his voice low so that the conversation could be between themselves. “Are you sure...?”

Atheus waved him quiet. “I have no time to mourn my father's assassination, Cathum,” he said loudly with a convincing tone of sadness. “His last wish was that I hunt down the enemies of the throne who carried out this awful crime and I wish to honour that wish to prove to all the Ki-Ki sector that I am fit to take his place.”

Cathum nodded then turned around in his saddle to be sure that the two legions and were ready to move now that they had completed their parade through the camp. The sun reflected from their weapons and behind them the walls of the Fedarn forces camp on Chinngard were lined with the citizens of the planet, arms waving and cheers drifting on the breeze.  

Hundreds of beings lined the streets this day to wish the legions well. They crowded in their simple robes of varying colours as they surrounded the second largest construction on the planet, watching the army pass in all their splendour. 

Cathum turned to face front and waved his hand with a sweeping overhead gesture.

The men set off on their long journey north. Dust rose as dozens of vehicles churned up the long straight road. Support repulsortanks rumbled behind with and hundreds of followers who would aid the troops in their journey and the apparent coming battle.

As the bikes of the two men started at a leisurely pace Atheus turned to Cathum and coughed to get his attention. Cathum, who had been looking back to watch his men’s start to be sure that every vehicle had started off at once and not waited for the leaders to begin so that they could follow, turned to face him.

Atheus talked loud enough to be heard over the sound of drums and engines by Cathum and no one else. “Did the chamber guards find the datapad?” he asked.

Cathum nodded. “Yes, lord. They immediately told the advisors that they had discovered that Arkin had arranged for your father's death and they immediately told the people.”

   “Well done, Cathum. You will be a general before you know it.” He smiled at his co-conspirator who nodded again. “The people will turn against Arkin now.”

   “Yes, they will soon turn their love for him into hatred. Arkin, the hero of Cardo, the man whose army repelled the fleet and the holder of the Long Mountain Pass. Such acclaims in his battle against the Janites on Chinngard will soon be forgotten.”

   “What we need to do is travel for a while to be sure that Arkin and his army have passed far enough north so as not to be a problem anymore,” Atheus mused. “I won’t fight him if I can help it. If there’s no battle for anyone to sing of then he will be forgotten quickly.”

   “We can still return to Fedarn with a prize, too,” Cathum announced. Atheus looked at him, puzzled.

   “How so?”

   “The families and sycophants of Arkin’s army follow the main group. From what I understand from my scout reports they travel half as fast while Arkin hurried north.”

   Atheus hmm’ed. “I see. My idiot brother is north. The two of them are fast friends.”

   “We can intercept their repulsorwagons in a week and capture them all. We can bring them back to Fedarn as prizes.”

   With a wide grin and a slap to his friend's back Atheus looked out over the long flowing fields of Chinngard. The sun made a heat haze on the horizon as the golden harvest swirled in the murmuring wind.

   “A grand day, Cathum. A grand day.”

Part Four

Andrus stared at the horizon and thought about how grand the day was. He drew in a deep breath of the warm air and smiled at Arkin from the seat he had on the repulsorwagon.

All around them was the army of Arkin and what remained of Andrus’s legion. The battle weary soldiers were travelling slowly, with their wounded draped around shoulders or being pulled along on litters.

Arkin was disturbed at the way Andrus’s troops kept at a distinct distance from his own army. Although his own troops walked along at a normal gait and talked amiably between themselves and the legionarys also appeared calm and talkative in their own ranks, the two armies were definitively apart as they travelled. The arrangement had not changed for last two days they had spent on the road, headed as they were to meet with their friends and families.

All the same, he returned Andrus’s smile as they continued.

Andrus swayed from side-to-side with irregular movements as the cart rolled over stones and imperfections on the largely unused road. He took a draught from a water flask and offered it to Arkin who turned it down with a low wave of his hand.

   “You were telling me about your brother and father,” Arkin prompted.

   “Yes,” Andrus replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “They’d been arguing for days before I left. Atheus was annoyed at Father for sending me and not him, although, to be honest, I never got the impression his argument was a real one. He never presented any viable reason as to why he wanted to go in my place.” He produced a small stale loaf from a bag and took a bite. “He just ranted and raved but it was just bluster. Father never took much notice. They’d argue all day and spend meals in secret, discussing things that obviously didn’t concern me.” He took another bite of the loaf and chewed it slowly, all the while looking down at nothing with a sad expression on his face. “I had to get used to that since mother died. I’d spent so much time with her whilst she lived her last days. I think they both thought I was being influenced by her. They never liked her.”

   “There are some who say that she was so nice because she had gone mad with the fever,” Arkin postulated.

   “No,” Andrus shook his head and spat out a seed, “She was never like that because of fever. The fever didn’t strike until after that. I can honestly say that she knew that the Ki-Ki Sector was stagnating, using old communication technology and things like that. She'd sit for hours on the palace balcony and stare sadly at the sky...” He trailed off the sentence, staring into the distance as he tried to place the image in his mind.

   “Anyway, what about yourself? How is your child?”

Arkin shifted in his saddle with a wide smile across his face as he thought of his family that travelled behind them with the wagons. He leaned forward onto the front of his saddle.

   “I am with child again, my eighth son is growing strong and handsome. Five years, now. Five years of health and young boisterousness. He’s very precocious. When we meet with the repulsorwagons they travel with we will head north with our families and away from this place.”

Andrus smiled. “Five years now? Gods, it shows how long it has been since we were last together, Arkin.”

   “We’ve talked a lot these last two days,” Arkin said, his face getting suspicious. “Why now do you ask me of them?”

   “I know you are worried. I did not wish you to think I was prying.”

   “We have known each other long enough to read each other well, Andrus, and I know you do not think like the other nobles. The last I heard you had been accused by the advisors, and this may be incorrect...”

    “That I wanted so much to be like my father that I was willing to damn the sector to hell and live in solitude?” Andrus laughed loudly, his mirth turning the heads of a few warriors walking close to the cart. “It’s not incorrect, Arkin! That’s what they said of me!”

Arkin just smiled his calm, thin smile. “You will make a good Prime Lord. It’s what this sector needs, another leader like your mother.”

The boisterous laughter petered out as Arkin’s words sank into Andrus’s heart.

   “You loved her, didn’t you?” he whispered loud enough for the warrior to hear over the clamour of the travelling armies.

   “Yes,” Arkin answered quickly. “I loved her. As I loved my own bearer.” Arkin was referring to his own parent as his race was hermaphrodites.

Andrus nodded in understanding. “There are those who say that she was punished by the Gods for having such thoughts about a benevolent sector,” he said.

There was a long silence as the two contemplated their words. They both stared away across the open land as they remembered the Prime Lord's wife in their own way.

   “I miss her,” Andrus said in a tight voice.

   “Smoke! Smoke!”

Heads snapped up as three riders came galloping towards the main body of men on Tauntauns, approaching them from further down the road. They churned up dust in great clouds as they sped past the lead carts and towards Arkin. As they came closer Arkin waved over to the older man in the thick leather armour, who spurred his beast towards him. His full helm hung down the side of the riddabeast and his features were exposed. Sharp, darting eyes and large ears. His head twitched constantly and Andrus could see he had loosened his collar enough to uncover a horrendous scar across his throat. He rode up close to Arkin.

   “Jenolus,” Arkin pointed at him, his eyes still on the approaching Tauntaun men. “Have the section heads come to me.”

Jenolus nodded and spun his ride around, riding the ranks and pointing at a young boy with a horn. He clenched his fist and flashed his fingers once at the boy who understood the signal and gave three sharp blasts from his instrument. He repeated the notes four times, and even as he lowered the horn several men started running to Arkin’s position.

The Tauntauns pulled up, scattering dust over the assembling men, and the rider of the lead Tauntaun gripped his chest as he tried to recover his breath from hard riding. Arkin watched impatiently but allowed the rider to calm his breast.

   “Sir,” the rider gasped, his eyes filled with fear and red-rimmed from the flying dust. “Smoke, sir. A long way off, but we think it may be the repulsorwagons.”

   “Cooking fires?” one of the section heads asked, tying the chin straps of his helm and looking at Arkin for conformation.

Arkin looked over at Jenolus who shook his head. “No,” he said, turning back to face his men. “They were told no fires that would attract attention.”

   “Ki-Ki legions?” another man asked, aware that the press of bodies was starting to shift him forward as concerned soldiers started to crowd in for more news. There was a long pause before Arkin answered in his own way.

   “The rally!” he cried, drawing his vibrosword and pointing it at the boy with the horn.

As the notes swept across the army the men immediately started moving into knots of warriors, shieldmen at the fore and warriors behind. Arkin still gripped his sword tightly and watched his men, his heart pounding and his will trying to force them to go faster. He looked down the road to see if he could spy any smoke.

   “Damn,” he whispered, looking back over his men and watching as they tried their best to assemble quickly. “Damn.”

   “Arkin,” Andrus shouted over the sudden increase in volume. He stood in the repulsorwagon seat. “My men.”

   “What of them?” Arkin asked impatiently.

   “They are legionarys,” he said simply. “Under the Prime Lord’s standard.”

Jenolus had obviously heard Andrus’s words and he rode up next to Arkin, pulling on his fur cloak to get his attention. When his commander’s eyes rested on him he pointed at what was left of the legion, pointed at Andrus and then pointed east. Arkin nodded and clapped his mute friend on the shoulder.

   “My lord, you should take your men and head east, away from this....”

   “I can’t just...”

   “You can and you will. Andrus, I cannot allow you to become involved with this. You must flee, now, before this happens. If they are legions out there then you cannot fight them. Treason, they’ll say. A Prime Lord’s son is not above the law, they’ll say, and do you think your brother will disagree?”

   Andrus was adamant. “My men are loyal to me, Arkin. Your men saved their lives. They will fight if I so order it.”

   “Andrus...”

But the man wasn’t listening. He had leaped from the vehicle and pushed his way through the assembling men, waving at the legionarys as he did so. What was left of his army tried to gather themselves in respectful ranks but were too road-weary to do so.

   “Legionarys!” Andrus shouted. “These men go to fight fellow soldiers who are threatening their families. Think what they did for you in the north and ask yourself this; when will you get a better chance to pay them back for their sacrifice? As of this day you are discharged from the service of the throne and are my warriors! Will you join me and the hero of Cardo in one last fight, one last battle?”

There was no immediate response. A few at the back dropped their weapons and backed away, obviously fearing the punishment of treason, staking, to repaying a debt. There was much murmuring and Arkin looked on in despair.

You’re as reckless as your father, he wanted to cry out to his friend.

Suddenly, an old warrior at the fore stepped forward, ripping a strip of cloth from his tunic and tying it around his helm so that he wore a bandanna of dirty strands. He dropped his Ki-Ki standard to the ground and drew his blaster, holding the rusty old weapon into the air.

   “From this day I’m a free man!” he roared, getting a favourable response from the men surrounding him and they, too, tore strips of cloth from their clothes and tied them around their helmets. They cheered in unison, but over half of them had backed away in fear.

Andrus turned and stared at Arkin, his grin almost mischievous as he drew his own weapon.

   “We fight!” he shouted, bringing another cheer from his men.

The armies were ready. Those who stayed behind, those who were too afraid to fight or were wounded, watched as the combined mercenary and legionary army set off at a brisk pace to the south.

The mood was almost jubilant mixed with worry. Worry about their family’s safety, but if they were going to face Ki-Ki soldiers they were ready with their ranks swelled by Andrus’s men.

But Arkin couldn’t share the expectant feeling throughout the crowds about him. What Andrus had done was stupid, defiant now that he was sure he had been sent by his father to die. If he was caught or killed then the Ki-Ki Sector would lose their last chance at a Prime Lord who could lead them into better times. And if an army had been sent after Arkin and his men, then he was sure that it wouldn’t comprise of a group of soldiers thrown together for a simple march north.

He was expecting much, much worse.

Part Five

Arkin had seen many things in his life that had caused great fear to swell up in his belly. He once had a vibroaxe of a training partner swing at his head as he lay defenceless, the blow missing him by a hair’s breadth. He had had a blaster held to his throat by a drunken owner of a fighting school, who had tried to goad him into a fight. He had watched his friend and now second-in-command fight for his life after a Janos blade had neatly sliced his throat open. Had witnessed his sibling fall under the heavy blows of combatants in the stadium as the ridiculously outnumbered siblings had been cast into the arena.

All these moments and more seemed to have been rolled into one and forced back into him as he stared down the hill at the burning repulsorwagons of their friends and families. He never thought he could ever feel as enraged as he did as he had sliced into his sibling’s killers, as enraged as he had when the new Prime Lord had declared war on the Setnin Sector, his home. But that moment had come. That time had come.

It was here, now, as he stared at the running forms of defenceless people as they screamed and fought back as best they could against the swarming legionarys, as he watched women slain and children killed. He saw his child’s face on every one that lay dead.

Andrus couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The legions were the Ki-Ki Sector's greatest symbol, trained to defend the sector and it’s citizens. And here, in this small valley between the hills, they had become everything they had sworn to eradicate under his father’s rule. Murderers. Killers of women and slayers of children, reddened weapons rising and falling on the old, the sick, the helpless. Monsters.

Beasts.

There was no thought of tactic or strategy. Arkin lowered his sword and pointed it at the carnage, his bellow seemingly created from the screaming heart of every one of the men who stood with him.

   “Sound the charge!”

The combined army, who were now differentiated from their fellows on the valley floor by their cloth-emblazoned helms, raised weapons and flooded down the hillside, Arkin, Andrus and Jenolus at their head on Tauntauns. They were a wave of flashing blasters and raging faces, their salute discarded as they fell on the legions of the Prime Lord with screams and cries of anguish and revenge. They could not salute such an unworthy foe.

The horn-blare of the boy was lost in the roaring mass of warriors. Ringing metal drowned the screams of the dying and blood sprayed liberally over the ground. Legionarys were simply hacked down where they stood, armed or no, and they died in their dozens in that first lethal attack.

Arkin sat astride his beast that thrashed and kicked at the men around it, trying to force a way through their rapidly thickening lines. Crushed skulls and bodies joined the wounded who had been gashed by Arkin’s sword. He thrashed about him as a man would swat at a swarm of bees, not even making sure that the men he struck were out of the fight before hacking down the next man.

Just behind him was Andrus and Jenolus, the latter warrior wishing he could add his own cries of rage to the howling men he served. Their swords were reddened and covered with lumps of gore, as were Tauntauns and armour, but they ignored the distaste of it and continued to cut a swathe through the amazed legionarys.

Atheus turned his riddabeast at the sudden roaring from the far end of the repulsorwagons. He peered through the smoke but could make out no details. All he saw was the odd flash from multiple weapons.

   “What in the name of...?” he grumbled. He watched as Cathum, who had suddenly appeared from the smoke from the direction of the now recognisable sounds of blaster fire and screaming men, came galloping up to him.

   “Lord!” he shouted, his arm raised in a quick salute. “Arkin, my lord! He has fallen on us from the north!”

Atheus sighed with annoyance. “I hoped to avoid this,” he said, shaking his head. He then shrugged and sighed again.

   “Oh, well. Send in the second legion and bring the section guard to me.”

Arkin’s beast reared as a blade was forced through the warrior’s sword arc and into its chest. Arkin had to grab the reigns to keep the beast from bolting and to reduce his own risk of falling from the saddle. The legionarys around him saw their chance and half a dozen hands reached out to grab his cloak, his Tauntaun's bridle and his arms. He pulled his limbs free, kicking out whilst still trying to keep his steed under control.

The Tauntaun lifted its front legs again as another weapon was stuck into it, then another, then another. Arkin pulled hard on the reigns and started to lift his left leg as the Tauntaun began a slow fall in that direction. He didn’t want to be trapped under his Tauntaun and give his enemy the chance of telling the tale of how they slew the leader of the gladiator army.

He lashed out with his sword as he tumbled and sliced a soldier across the face, taking away his cheek and his eye. As the warrior screamed through his ragged mouth and fell back another took his place, but Arkin was ready for the attack and he stayed crouched, shifting his weight onto one foot with one leg stretched out to his side. He grabbed the shaft of the spear and yanked the soldier forward so that he fell onto his waiting sword. As he pulled his blade free he jabbed behind him with the spear and skewered another legionary coming up behind him.

Jenolus saw his commander’s steed fall and he forced his Tauntaun through soldiers trying to bring him down. He watched, time seemingly slowed to extend his moment of terror, as Arkin fell into the mass of roaring men and out of sight. He pulled his feet from the stirrups, knowing that the Tauntaun wouldn’t get through the press of men, and pulled himself so that he had both feet on the saddle. As the beast came close to where Arkin fell he leapt over the heads of the soldiers and down into the heaving swarm of men, blades, blasters and blood.

His sword came down into the back of a soldier who was about to strike his commander as he returned to the ground. He held his sword with both hands as he thrust his blade into the fallen warrior to be sure he wouldn’t get up again.

Arkin, shocked and amazed at the sudden appearance of his second in command, smiled and threw himself at him. They stood back to back, their weapons flashing and slicing, hacking and defending. The legionarys attacked but the two men could see the terror on their faces. They knew they were never returning to Fedarn.

The cloth-helmed legionarys looked up at Andrus as their leader slashed down at another soldier. They were stunned and shocked as they watched the sheer brutality of Arkin's army. Their initial charge, they had assumed, had been to confuse the enemy but now the battle had continued in the same vein. There was no tactic, no order and no strategy.

One of Andrus’s officers ran up to the side of the Tauntaun and shouted up at his commander, “Lord, what shall we do?”

He heard Andrus cry something about ‘kill them all’ but it was lost in the noise. The officer looked back to his confused and frightened men who had been keen to fight when the passion of Andrus’s speech was still in their minds but, now that they were actually faced with the prospect of slaughtering their fellow legionarys, were obviously having a change of heart. He watched, despairing, as some of them took the cloth bandanna from their helms. He saw the lead soldiers step forward with their blasters at the ready and looking on Andrus with murderous intentions.

Before the officer could cry out a warning he was shot by several of his men.

Andrus suddenly felt alone in the fighting and he turned to see where his men were. He looked on as his officer fell to the sand, legionarys standing about him. His eyes widened and before he realised what he was doing he had turned his Tauntaun and charged straight back at them. The old warrior, the man who had first stepped forward and shouted his allegiance to the gladiator army and his lord, looked up from the body of the dead commanding soldier in time to be decapitated. The others, shocked at the sudden appearance of a braying Tauntaun and an angered young man whose blade seemed to strike with more ferocity than they had ever seen, backed away and held out their weapons defensively, trying to stay away from the Prime Lord’s son. They feared that bringing harm to him might bring down the wrath of the throne on their heads although he was, by all things considered, a traitor.

The legionarys were falling back under the onslaught even though they outnumbered the enemy by three to one. They lifted their shields and created walls that the screaming warriors threw themselves against again and again. At certain points of the wall the army of Arkin got through to meet another wall of shields but still they fought. Some warriors held weapons between them and others leapt on the bar they created, being catapulted by their fellows over the forward line of the legion to wreak havoc on those behind.

In the midst of the battle some warriors held onto the limp forms of their families and friends, their tears their only contribution to the bloody scene. They wept and cried out, some dropping the dead and running forward to be thrown over the line.

Arkin watched his men fight, watched them sacrifice themselves to break the legion and send them into rout. He was caught up in the passion, his vision narrowed on the soldiers ahead as he planned what he would do to the army’s commanders when he caught them. Even so, with the slaughter about him he still let his eyes wander over the non-combatant dead on the ground to search for the face of his son. With every passing moment he feared that he would see a bloodied form in the carnage and knew that with every body he did see simply meant he was getting closer to the inevitable. The moment he did find his rendered body.

With that thought he looked back at the legion line and drew in a deep, long breath so that he could roar at them, scream at them. He caught the attention of several warriors about him and gave quick clear instructions.

The fighters nodded their understanding and leapt towards the burning repulsorwagons. They pulled brands from the fires and then threw them over the shield wall and into the legion ranks. Large brands, small brands, even one whole round door, still intact but burning fiercely, was lifted on its rim by several recovered weapons and rolled into the legionarys. As the door struck the line broke and the soldiers, some burning from the tossed fire-swathed missiles that had landed in the tightly packed men, ran for the hill behind them.

The army of Arkin cheered as the legion disengaged and ran in a mass of panicking soldiers, no thought of a tactical retreat as they hurried from the carnage, energy shields held behind them in case other forms of missile were thrown in their direction.

Arkin suddenly had his arm grabbed and he was spun about by Jenolus who pointed with urgency at the army of Andrus behind them. Arkin saw Andrus, his sword swinging and blood spraying in all directions, as he fought his own men. The legionarys fought between themselves, also, as the ones still loyal to their commander tried to honour their bargain and struck down their traitorous companions.

Without orders Jenolus waved over several warriors and started in Andrus’s direction. The men, still pulsing with energy even after the savage fight, leapt over the bodies of the slain as they ran towards the fighting mass.

   “What?” Atheus said, the surprise on his face being half-masked by a smile. “Andrus?”

   “Yes, my lord,” Cathum said, pointing back over the hill where the battle raged. Fleeing legionarys were now cresting the hill and heading down, past the legion that had now started marching up it. “Some of his men fight with him, sided with the gladiator army.”

Atheus ran his tongue over his teeth as he considered the possibility, dismayed, but only for an instant, that his brother had survived the Janite-hunting mission commissioned to him.

   “This should be interesting,” he said.

The sound was unmistakable. It was the sound of even marching, of clanging weapons and stomping feet. It echoed from over the hill the routed legion had fled over. It drifted, distant at first but growing louder as the originators of the sound approached, and even before the standards appeared from behind the hill Arkin knew what it was.

   “Freck me,” he whispered.

The second legion crested the hill with the failing sun behind them and stamped their way towards the army of Arkin. As they approached they swung their energy shields forward to create a barrier of force. Exactly three steps later they lowered their blasters from behind the safety of the barrier. They came on, the stomping and the clattering ringing in the ears of Arkin and his men.

He turned, hands cupped to his mouth to increase the volume of his shout.

   “Andrus! Flee!”

The lord looked up as he and his few loyal men finished the last of the traitor legionarys. He saw the forward line of the second legion, saw the warriors form up to fight and saw them ready themselves for a desperate but futile attempt at resistance against the power of the Prime Lord.

He didn’t consider running in those first few moments. He didn’t want to retreat, scurry back to the north and away from the danger. Leaving Arkin here to die as he surely would against these fresh and unbloodied soldiers.

He stared into the eyes of his friend, Baron Familee's loyal servant, his sector's most loved warrior, and felt the cold sting of tears in his eyes. He ignored the men around him who called for their lord to retreat. The two men held each others gaze, Andrus with tears rolling down his cheeks as he knew, to his utter dismay, that he would never look into his friend’s face again or share words. Arkin had a grim determination in his eyes and a small smile escaped his lips. He held his sword aloft and roared;

   “I will tell your mother you love her!”

Andrus spun his Tauntaun as he wept, dug his heels into its flanks and ran with his men back to the north.

With the gaze broken Arkin spun on his heel and looked at his men who watched him intently, ready to follow every order and every direction. He could see in their faces they were ready to fight with no thought of surrender. He looked around to see Jenolus come up beside him, his face set and his stance ready. He watched and waited.

The legion came on, the five and a half thousand marching men slowly advancing on Arkin’s army who now numbered a little over a thousand. They appeared silhouetted by the sun behind them, a shadow that reflected the hearts and minds of the leaders of Remus.

   “What do we do?” someone asked, the voice emanating from an unseen speaker.

Arkin gave one last sweeping gaze over the dead at his feet, wondering about his son but forcing the thought from his mind to concentrate on the coming slaughter. If he were dead he would soon be joining him.

   “We die well,” he answered and gave the order to charge.

Part Six

Most of the repulsorwagons were nought but smouldering ashes now and they exuded thin white trails of smoke that drifted across the battle site and added to the stench of death that already permeated the air. Two of the wagons had actually been stoked by the legionarys so that their fires would burn longer to illuminate the darkness. Night was falling, the sky still showing patches of sunlight on the horizon that was partially obscured by thick dark cloud.

Arkin's army had been defeated. It was not a close battle, not one won out of strategy and superior tactics, but one won by overwhelming numbers on the side of the victors. Although the legion lost two men for every one warrior they still had the numbers to relentlessly push on with the fight. As the battle raged they had even been supported by the first legion who had reformed and the rejoined the fight. The battle was over in less time than it took Atheus to eat a small road meal and drink his flask of wine.

Legionarys were collecting the weapons of the dead and heaping the bodies into two piles, one of their own fallen and one of their enemies. Other legionarys made camp, away from the stifling smell of the battle site, and the sound of their hammering of tent pegs, fabricated dwellings and sawing of the sparse trees around them for a small stockade joined the sound of shouts and Tauntaun braying.

Cathum looked over the scene and shook his head as he watched a legionary toss the body of a small child, about the age of his own daughter, onto the pile. He had ordered that the bodies be burned the following morning. The Prime Lord didn’t want to have to sleep with the smell and sound of cooking flesh in his nostrils.

How has it come to this, he thought, looking off to the horizon as he heard a rumble of thunder. He watched his men checking through each body’s belongings and placing any personal or expensive items into large sacks. Other men arrived with large pots of flammable liquid to be poured over the dead so that it would soak in and be ready to be lit in the morning.

   “Is it done?” came a voice out of the darkness behind him. He turned and watched Atheus walk from the night with two guards just behind him. He was red-eyed and pale in the firelight and not, Cathum knew, from the scene that surrounded them but from the wine he had consumed while the battle raged.

   “Yes, sir,” Cathum bowed slightly at the waist. “We are rounding up survivors. I have men searching the surrounding area to make sure no one fled. Some have been staked and others retained as slaves.”

   “I hear you have found a certain child?”

Cathum swallowed. Yes, they had found the son of Arkin, pointed out to them by a dying woman who had been promised treatment if she identified him, alive or dead, and then quickly slain for her service. He also knew that the Prime Lord wanted to make a sacrifice to the War God for the simple victory by numbers and he hoped that the lizard child wasn’t going to be the one.

   “He’s with my captain.”

   “Good. Have him brought to the staking hill.”

Atheus sauntered past Cathum, his eyes fixed straight ahead to avoid looking down on the dead. Cathum watched him walk away.

He didn’t hate his Prime Lord. If the truth was to be told, he was actually pleased that this man had the courage to stand up and proclaim the power of the throne. It was what he wanted, a strong and forthright leader on the throne, one that he could serve and be sure of.

But there had been several requirements made of Fedarn officers whilst they were being trained. These days every guard went to gladiator school, for there was no place better than to learn the arts of battle, but were then transferred to the Prime Lord’s palace garrison. During every lesson they had it made plain to them – they were to serve the Prime Lord first and then, like every legionary was taught also, protect the innocent.

He was certainly protecting the Prime Lord, but he wasn’t sure where along the road he had lost the power to protect the innocent.

Arkin had felt no pain when they had driven the nails through his hands and into the wooden board. He had been teetering on the edge of consciousness since the conclusion of the battle and every now and then he would drift from a sleepless dream to a waking nightmare for all around him were other survivors of the battle, staked as he was, atop a low hill.

He remembered his men dying in their droves, throwing themselves on the weapons of the legion so that their fellows could take advantage of the soldier’s divided attention and try to push into the line. He had killed soldier after soldier until it was difficult to move with the amount of dead at his feet.

Jenolus had gone down, he had seen that, a line of red on his back as the sword he had been struck by was pulled free. Jenolus was old but he was a hardy fighter and he watched, proud and saddened at the same time, as he had taken away the offending soldier’s hand and then his throat. Then he had collapsed into the pile.

He didn’t realise that he was the last until he had been surrounded by rectangular energy shields. He was in the arena again, no escape from the circle unless he won the fight which he knew he wouldn’t. As he had rushed them they had rushed him and after hacking down one man he had been repeatedly struck from many directions.

He could feel the blood on his shoulders and the warm sensation of pain starting to enter his hands, now. He was still in his armour and his helmet had been placed on the top of the wooden board. His sand- and blood-crusted eyes flickered fully open as he became, more or less, fully aware of his surroundings.

   “Arkin,” Atheus said, looking up at the man from his position on the ground. “The hero of Cardo, the repeller of the fleet and the holder of the Long Mountain Pass.”

Arkin slowly looked down at the man who had sent his brother to die in the north, at the man who had failed to stop an army who had simply wanted to leave the sector, and had settled for butchering their families.

   “Atheus,” he croaked.

   “Prime Lord Atheus,” was the reply that made Arkin suddenly become a lot more attentive.

   “Pr... Prime Lord?”

   “Yes. Haven’t you heard?” Atheus sounded as though he was simply talking to a friend. “My father is dead and my young brother has turned against the throne. With no successor named I am the sole heir. I am Prime Lord.”

A small group of men were approaching the Prime Lord who turned to face them. He then turned back to look at Arkin far above him with a smile.

   “The hero has defied the last Prime Lord’s wish and fled, breaking the agreement of your loyalty and helping a traitor to the Empire. I have lost many men because of you, Arkin.”

   “What are you going to do? Parade me in front of the citizens as the beast you killed because he couldn’t be tamed?”

   “No, nothing like that, I want your little rebellion to be washed away. When you die here I’m going to have your bodies burnt and every trace of your existence removed from annals and records. Your name will be forgotten. I don’t want you to die a martyr.” Atheus shrugged. “Not that anyone would follow your example.”

   “You... you can’t deny me my place in history.”

Atheus pointed at him. “History!” he shouted. “You would have died here had my father not intervened on your behalf! Would you have been remembered then? It is I who have bought about your avoided fate!”

   “No, it is you who will force that fate upon me,” Arkin whispered. “The victor records an account as they would prefer the future to know it.”

    “Bah! I won’t bandy words with a defeated enemy. And that’s what you are, an enemy. I didn’t hunt you to satisfy a crazed hunger for death or some other evil plan. You are the enemy of the throne and I have treated you as such.” Atheus waved up the knot of soldiers that had approached and knelt down as a small child was brought forward.

The child was no more than five years old, with an oval, wide-eyed face covered with blood. The eyes were green, a deep green that reflected the light like cat’s eyes, and as he was pushed towards the Prime Lord he placed his fingers in his mouth and stopped himself dead.

Arkin looked at the child and a gasp, a whimper of despair, escaped his lips. “No...”

   “Come here,” the Prime Lord beckoned to the boy with a look of innocence on his face. “Come here, don’t be afraid.”

With slow steps the boy walked forward and stood in front of Atheus. The Prime Lord was low enough so that his dark eyes were level with the boy’s.

   “Do you know who I am?” Atheus asked.

   The boy shook his head.

   “I’m the Prime Lord,” Atheus smiled, a captivating smile that made the boy smile back. “I’ve just saved the throne from a nasty man.”

Atheus tucked his head between his shoulders, screwed up his face and shivered, making a throaty growling sound. “A nasty man.”

The boy giggled.

Arkin sobbed. “Heocos...”

   “Do you know who that nasty man is?” Atheus asked.

The boy shook his head again and so Atheus pointed up at the man on the wooden board. The child followed his finger and stared up at the man on the cross. He pointed.

   “Da!” he exclaimed excitedly.

Arkin burst out another sob.

   “Atheus, you bastard, don’t, please...”

The boy started as the man on the cross cried out in anguish. Arkin was trying to pull his hands from the beam, the heads of the nails that had been forced through his palms tearing the skin and releasing more blood but refusing to move. Atheus could see the child’s eyes starting to glaze over with fear.

   “I'll send you to gladiator school.”

   “Heocos!” Arkin shouted. The boy’s head turned to look at his bearer so far above his head. “Heocos, no! Atheus, you can’t possibly... he’s a child!”

   “Yes, the child of a traitor who thought he could change the throne with his rebellious ways. Your child will be trained as a gladiator, Arkin, to be made a palace guard. Rather suiting all things considered, don’t you think? Ki-Ki's greatest enemy whose child becomes the Prime Lord’s warrior.”

   “No!” Arkin roared, spittle running from his mouth. “I’d rather him dead! Kill him, Atheus! For mercy’s sake, kill him, please!”

But Atheus was barely listening as his attention was fully on the boy. “Heocos, that won’t do for a name. You need a decent Ki-Ki name that will denote your skill as a fighter, not one of those barbaric southern ones.”

Atheus looked around for inspiration. His eyes lingered on the weapon that hung from Cathum’s belt and he smiled.

   “You’re as tall as a short blade, aren’t you? As tall as a dagger. Dagger. That’s what I’ll name you. The small blade.”

Atheus scooped the boy up and held him close as he stood, staring at Arkin. The hard features of the man who had sought revenge on the rebel who had tried to escape the attentions of the throne had softened somewhat. There was no hint of cruelty or hatred, just a sad expression that did not seem mocking as he stared at the figure on the cross.

   “Do you know why I always get what I wish, Arkin?” the new Prime Lord whispered hoarsely. “Because I know how to make good of a bad situation. I don’t allow passion or emotion to rule my decisions. My methods have made me Prime Lord and now the future does not exist until I decide how it proceeds. If you had fled north and abandoned the repulsorwagons you would have lived. I would have, had I been you. You do not sacrifice opportunity, Arkin,” Atheus sounded as though he was a scholar at a Fedarn school, “this is the result of thinking with the heart. Wave goodbye, now, Dagger. We have to go to your new home.”

As the Prime Lord started to walk away with the child in his arms Arkin suddenly found new strength.

   “You may have his body but you’ll not get his heart, Atheus! Whilst my blood lives there will always be beings like me! You won’t stop him being my child! Keeping him alive will be your greatest mistake!”

The words were almost a curse, as Arkin intended, but the Prime Lord continued to walk away with indifference, the small face of the boy receding into the darkness. Arkin’s cries became more desperate.

   “Heocos! Your heart lies with me! Remember where you’re heart lies, Heocos! I love you! I love you!”

The child stared at the raving figure on the board over the Prime Lord’s shoulder and waved goodbye as he had been instructed by the man who now carried him.

Cathum watched Atheus walk away and then looked back up at Arkin who was sobbing now between ragged gasps of pain. He turned to the officer who accompanied him and watched him stare at the Prime Lord as he walked away. Cathum could see a faint flicker of hatred in his eyes that vanished as soon as he became aware the captain was looking at him.

   “Is there a problem, soldier?”

   “No, sir,” the man answered, looking straight ahead and squaring his shoulders.

   “What’s your name?” Cathum enquired, giving the man a tilted stare.

   “Brotus, sir,”

   “When the Prime Lord is out of sight, Brotus,” he pointed to Arkin, “put him out of his misery.”

The Fate of the Valiant

2000 short story by Jonathan Hicks

Thirty-one years after Episode IV – A New Hope

Histories – The story that tells of the death of the Prime Lord Paol Kreaiden and of the sectors greatest hero, Arkin.  Accelerating events towards the inevitable climax, Jonathan Hicks brings more of the complexities of the Ki-Ki Sector to the fore.

Cast of Characters

Andrus

Arkin

Atheus