Haladras (28 page)

“Yes, see him in.”

The sentry turned on his heel, strode out of the tent, and
returned shortly with Morvath’s messenger in tow.

The messenger’s stature and appearance were unimpressive. A
long cape, the color of scarlet, hung from what little neck he had for
supporting his disproportionately fat head. His face, screwed up with
indignation, matched the cape’s color with uncanny exactness. No doubt the
soldiers had taunted this funny semblance of a man as he passed through the
camp. The messenger strode forward with as much pride and dignity as one with
such stubby legs could manage. He still looked absurd.

“I come with a message from the king’s chief minister, Lord
Morvath,” declared the diminutive messenger in a surprisingly deep voice.
Skylar thought he was trying hard to make his voice deeper than it really was.

“And what is his message?” replied Athylian.

“It is for Viceroy Aberforce,” stated the messenger. “Where
is he? Take me to him.”

His tone bore a commanding edge, but Athylian brushed it
aside like a fly.

“Viceroy Aberforce is likely out trying to save his own
skin. I am in command here. You shall deliver the message to me.”

“And who are you?” demanded the messenger.

Athylian rose slowly and leaned forward, planting his hands
on the table in from front of him.

“I am your king. I am Athylian, true sovereign of the realm,
Lord Protector of Ahlderon and the empire.”

Athylian’s eyes flashed their green flame as he pronounced
these words. The messenger drew back, his mouth gaping in astonishment.

“Athy...Athyl...Athylian! But Athylian is dead...” stammered
the messenger hoarsely.

Athylian nodded, a faint smile touched the corners of his
mouth. He sat back down.

“I ask again, what is the message?”

The stubby man licked his lips nervously and mopped his brow
with a handkerchief.

“Message? Yes...yes, of course.”

He produced a tightly rolled parchment from his jacket
pocket, cleared his throat and commenced to read.

The twelfth day of Lunis, year
fourteen of His Majesty King Tarus the Great’s reign.

Viceroy Aberforce

Kaladra, Haladras

Acting under authority vested
in me by His Majesty, I demand immediate and satisfactory explanation for the
riffraff army thou hast raised. Sources inform me that they are hostile toward
the empire. Thou art well aware that the raising of an army is beyond the scope
of thy jurisdiction and explicitly in violation of thy colony’s royal charter.
Furthermore, if indeed thou hast sown the seeds of rebellion among these amateur
soldiers, thou art guilty of treason to the crown. For thy sake, I hope such is
not the case. Thou hast twenty-four hours to offer an accounting of thine
actions before I send down His Majesty’s soldiers to forcibly dismantle thy
pitiful forces.

Lord Morvath, Chief Minister,
and Head Advisor to the king.

The messenger returned the letter to his pocket and stood,
awaiting a response, which Lasseter did not hesitate to give. With Endrick
serving as scribe, Lasseter dictated the following letter:

Chief Minister Morvath,

I regret to inform thee that Viceroy Aberforce has not received thine epistle. I
command this army which thou hast so openly reviled. I raised it, it being my
right to do so. For I am Athylian, King of Ahlderon, whom thou and that false king
of thine conspired to kill. By my royal right, I command thee to surrender thy
troops to me. If thou failest to do so, I shall be forced to meet thee on the
field of battle. And I shall not rest till thou and Tarus art destroyed.
Surrender now and let us spare the loss of blood. I am Athylian and I have
returned to reclaim my throne.

Once the messenger had departed, Captain Arturo turned to
Athylian.

“That should put the fear in His Majesty’s chief minister.”

“Yes,” replied Athylian, “fear and motivation to act
swiftly. This is an unexpected turn of events for him. He knows he must destroy
me before I can gain greater support.”

“Then you mean to go against him?” asked one of the
commanders, name Drynn. “Would not it be prudent to wait a bit longer for Allega’s
aid? Perhaps we could somehow stall Morvath.”

“Allega is not coming,” said Krom coldly, “We all know that.
Our dispatches never got through.”

“We could send another—”

“Impossible,” replied Athylian. “Morvath will not let any
ships off this planet so long as we’re arrayed for battle and I’m still alive.”

“Then his majesty intends to fight...with such a small
army?” asked Drynn.

“I don’t see that we have any other choice, commander. Would
you have
us
surrender? You, Commander Drynn, may surrender yourself. I
have no need for cowards.”

Drynn’s lips tightened and his face reddened at Athylian’s
harsh accusation. He argued no further, only bowed curtly and sat back down.

Within an hour, Morvath’s messenger stood again within their
command post. The letter from the king’s chief minister wasted no words. It
outright denied Athylian’s claim to power, stating:

I serve Tarus, the one true
king of Ahlderon. Athylian is dead. King Tarus will not tolerate treasonous
liars. Except I see evidence of thine army disbanding by morning, I will send
my troops to do the job for thee.

Athylian dismissed the squat messenger empty-handed. It was
clear neither side intended to submit to the other.

“Captain Arturo,” spoke Athylian, his voice grave and his
countenance subdued, “prepare your troops for battle. We fight on the morrow.”

Arturo nodded.

A heavy silence fell over the war council.

Skylar leaned over and whispered the question to Endrick
that had been weighing on his mind. “We can defeat Morvath’s soldiers, can’t
we?”

Endrick gave him a sideways glance. “Can a paqua outrun a
speederbike?”

TWENTY-SEVEN

S
LEEP TAUNTED SKYLAR
all night.
He tossed and turned miserably, his thoughts raging with the battle yet to be
fought.

When morning finally arrived, he welcomed it—an escape from
his overwrought imagination.
Could today’s outcome possibly be worse than
what I imagined last night?
he wondered. Perhaps there would be no battle,
after all. Perhaps Morvath would see for himself that Athylian was alive and
flee in terror. No. It would never happen. Blood would be spilt. Skylar knew
it. But whose? He closed his eyes and prayed with an aching heart that
Haladrian lives would be spared; that those he cared about would be spared; his
own life sacrificed, if need be.

Unlike the other troops, he spent the night at his home in
the Gorge, not at the encampment. He knew it very well might be his last time
at home, his last chance to see his mother. Lasseter had approved it, provided
Endrick stay with him.

“I wish you wouldn’t fight today, Sky,” she said as he
prepared to say farewell. “You’re still so young. Let those with more
experience go to war.”

“And watch them risk their lives and be slaughtered by our
enemy, while I sit idle and safe at home? No, Mother, that I cannot do. This is
my battle. None of this would have happened if not for me.”

She bowed her head briefly, almost like a reproached child.
But when she looked back up, her eyes, though still forlorn, bore a touch of
pride. Skylar felt a tinge of guilt, too. His mother knew their prospects of
victory were grim. Utter annihilation was their likely fate. Complete and
utter. How could a mother not tremble to send her son into such a battle?

“You are right,” she said, her voice quavering slightly. “It
was wrong of me to ask. You are no longer just my little Sky. You are the
prince.”

A few tears escaped her eyes and drifted down her cheeks. It
pained him to see his mother cry. Gently, he put his arms around her and hugged
her as she slowly regained composure. At last, he broke his embrace. The time
had come. She forced a smile.

“This is why Lasseter wouldn’t let me say goodbye the first
time. Do be careful out there, today.”

“I will, Mother.”

With that, Skylar and Endrick departed.

The desert seemed unnervingly tranquil as they sped along in
the small two-seater. The early morning light cast a golden hue on all it
touched, already warm. In a few short hours, the desert sand would bake under
its gaze, while roiling under the heat of battle.

Endrick maintained a nearly one-sided conversation,
preserving his usual candid viewpoint. Skylar felt no desire to talk. His
thoughts were as heavy as his heart; both felt like lead. Something terrible
awaited him. He could feel it.

“I suspect I’ll lose an arm today,” said Endrick with
indifference.

“That’s not funny,” replied Skylar.

“...Or maybe two,” Endrick went on. “Good thing I’ve only
got the two. Of course, they might also get my legs.”

“Or you head,” snapped Skylar. “Are you trying to cheer me
up? Because it’s not working.”

“Cheer?” Endrick let out a brief laugh. “No, there’s little
to be cheery about in war.”

“Several legions, Endrick. We have scarcely one. How are we
supposed to defeat so many soldiers?”

“One soldier at a time, Skylar...one soldier at a time.”

That was all he said. It was one of the few serious remarks
Skylar had ever heard Endrick make.

They arrived at the encampment as the troops were just
beginning to assemble. The thud of marching boots, all out of time, and the
shout of infantry sergeants’ commands filled the quiet morning air. Far off, in
the west, the dark shapes of the empire’s ships blighted the blue sky, like
small thunderclouds. Their ships would not be permitted to dock at Cloud
Harbor. They would have to deploy their troops from drop hatches as the ships
hovered above the desert sand.

Endrick and Skylar quickly made their way through the camp
to the command post. An unmistakable tension choked the air. Not a jovial face
or lighthearted conversation was to be found. The war council was already
assembled, the captains and commanders taking last minute orders from Athylian
and reviewing tactical strategy. Skylar listened quietly, registering little of
what he heard. His thoughts were on the imminent battle, but not on attack
plans and military formations.

“Our only chance of victory is in close combat,” said
Athylian. “Press your men forward. If we let the enemy stay at a distance,
their blasters will overcome us. Eliminate the gap, and we have the advantage.
Their blasters can only re-fire so quickly. Eliminate the gap.”

The meeting ended a quarter of an hour later. The time for
planning had passed. The hour of proving had come. Athylian charged them to
execute their duties with all haste and diligence, then dismissed them.

Mechanically, Skylar stood up and followed Endrick out of
the tent.

“Skylar,” called Athylian’s voice from behind him just as he
reached the tent’s opening. Skylar turned to face his father, who was now
standing, his green eyes fixed on him with a gaze that was not King Athylian’s,
but Lasseter’s—the man he’d always known. For an instant, Skylar felt that he
was a boy again.

“Yes?” said Skylar, almost sounding like a child.

“Come closer, Son.”

Skylar paused at being called son. He suddenly realized that
Lasseter had never call him anything but Skylar; never nephew. Now he knew why.

“I’ve not talked to you alone since you learned about me,”
Lasseter continued. “I wished to give you time to absorb this news. I can
imagine it’s been difficult for you. Your strange uncle first claims to be of
no relation to you, and then suddenly claims to be your father—and king, no
less.”

Skylar’s conscience smarted at this touch of truth. He still
felt ashamed of how he had felt. Bowing his head, he replied soberly, “I’m sorry
I ever thought of you as different.”

“You need not apologize, Son. It would be hard for anyone
your age to have such an uncle.”

“It’s no excuse,” replied Skylar. “You did nothing to
deserve my embarrassment. No one could ask for a better uncle...or father.”

Lasseter’s mouth drew out in a slow smile.

“You have always been there when I needed you,” continued
Skylar. “I am glad you are my father.”

“Thank you. That means a great deal to me.”

For a moment neither spoke. Discomfort at exposing his
feelings to his father so openly moved Skylar to change the conversation.

“I’ve been wondering,” he began tentatively. “Why did you
stay in hiding all these years? Why didn’t you make yourself known after Tarus
and Morvath tried to kill you? Surely you could have denounced both and
regained the throne without a fight.”

His father nodded his head faintly, as if he anticipated
Skylar’s question. He sighed. Sadness filled his eyes.

“Cowardice, Skylar—there’s no other name for it.”

“But you’re no coward. I’ve seen you—”

“When I lost...lost your mother, Skylar, it broke me. I felt
as though my heart had been rent into a thousand shreds. Betrayed by my own
childhood friend—one who I once called brother—my dear little girl and my
beloved wife and queen murdered by fiends. All for what? A crown; for power and
gain.

“‘Let them have it,’ I said. All I wanted was to have my
family back, to keep you safe. So, I ran from it, Skylar. I hid both of us. I
convinced myself that I could hide forever, forget I was ever king. Foolishness.
Cowardice. I was wrong. Deep down I always knew it.”

Lifting his chin up and straightening his back, Athylian’s
countenance changed from a lamenting transgressor to king, ready to forget the
past.

“Never again shall I try to hide from what I am.

“You had every excuse to do what you did,” said Skylar. “I
believe you did right.”

“At the time, so did I. The path of truth is not always so
easily followed.

“Listen to me, Skylar,” he went on, his voice taking a tone
of urgency. “There is one more secret which I have kept from you. I would wait
for a more suitable time to tell you, but there’s a chance that it shall never
come.”

He paused.

“Skylar, your—”

“Your majesty,” cried a voice from behind. Skylar whirled
around to find one of the lieutenants standing at attention in the tent’s
opening. “Begging your pardon, your majesty, but the enemy advances.”

“How close, Lieutenant?”

“Half a league, your majesty.”

Athylian moved with haste from around his desk, instantly
assuming the air of commander-in-chief. As he strode forward, Skylar noticed
something unusual about his gait. He seemed to favor his left leg, like a limp.
Suddenly he remembered his father’s wounded leg, from their encounter with
Madrick’s band on the streets of Arsolon.

“That will be all, Lieutenant,” said Athylian. “Inform
Arturo that I come presently.”

Bowing, the lieutenant did an about-face and exited the
command post.

“Your leg,” said Skylar when the lieutenant was gone.
“You’re still injured. You can’t fight like that.”

Athylian placed a hand on Skylar’s shoulder, squeezing
firmly.

“You needn’t worry about me. The only injuries men feel in
battle are their death wounds. Go now. You still have your armor to put on.”

It was an order. Skylar reluctantly obeyed.

“And remember,” added Athylian, “helmet on, shield up, sword
strong.”

Skylar nodded solemnly, then turned and walked away,
forgetting about the secret his father had tried to tell him and lamenting that
he lacked the courage to hug him.

Within a half hour, all Haladrian forces were assembled for
battle, standing in silent ranks, eyes fixed on the black enemy advancing in
the distance. Skylar felt as if Death himself towered before him with a haggard
hand outstretched. A soldier on his right, scrawny and gaunt, let escape a
sound like a whimper.

“So many!” said the soldier, his voice trembling.

Skylar made no reply. Pity for the boy, perhaps even younger
than himself, filled him.

Will this boy be alive at the end of the day?

He thought of all the lives that might be lost. Least of all
his own. Was it worth it?

The minutes passed like hours.

What agony!
thought Skylar.

He longed for it all to be over, whatever the outcome.

A noticeable hush fell over the troops. Skylar turned his
gaze away from the advancing foe. Before them, standing tall and proud on the
barricade wall of sandstone, was his father, silver armor glinting in the
sunlight, helmet tucked under his right arm, red cape hanging from his neck.
The sight of him brought courage and comfort to all who looked at him.

“Let not the advancing foe trouble your hearts,” he boomed.
“Let not fear dispel your courage, nor cloud your eyes to our cause. Before us
lies not death, but freedom; freedom from those who would shackle your lives
with the chains of oppression and tyranny.

“Today you fight not for me. You fight not for my son. You
fight not for your commanders and captains. Nay. You fight for your wives and
children, your brothers and sisters, your fathers and mothers—for Ahlderon!
Today you will fight with strength beyond the strength of men, with courage
beyond the courage of men. May the Spirit King send his legions to be your
guards and strength—an army of angels at your side—and speed you on to
victory!”

Unsheathing his sword, Athylian held it to the sky, crying,
“For Ahlderon!”

A legion of swords instantly joined his, shimmering like the
sunlight trapped on an ocean wave. Skylar, too, held his sword aloft, the words
Grim had uttered to him,
I will be your sword, my prince
, resounding in
his mind.

With one accord they cried, “For Ahlderon!”

In that moment Skylar felt that not an enemy in the entire
universe could vanquish them.

After that, it seemed scarcely a moment passed before the
battle was raging.

Morvath’s troops commenced firing their blasters as soon as
they came into range. A whole fleet of open-topped transports, fitted with
monstrous tires, and capacious enough for an entire unit of soldiers each, came
rumbling up like a sandstorm. Two hundred meters from the Haladrian forces, the
armored transports skidded to a halt, and the imperial soldiers spewed out from
them, firing their weapons of death. Within minutes, stilted blaster cannons
sprung up on either side of their ranks, and joined the assault.

Skylar stood poised, ready for action, his heart beating
with ferocious intensity. All eyes watched their commander, their king.
Athylian waited. The entire enemy force must be on the ground first, realized
Skylar. His father would not strike them until he deemed it honorable to do so.

Seconds past. The enemy drew nearer; the barrage of blaster
fire grew in intensity.

Then suddenly, with a roar like a lion, Athylian sounded the
advance, and vaulted over the barricade wall, the Haladrian vanguard following
in his wake.

Skylar clambered over the walls as quickly as he could,
encumbered as he was with armor, shield and sword. Once over the wall, he ran
with the swift current of soldiers surrounding him, his eyes attempting to make
sense of the mayhem before them.

Of the precise moment he was in the battle and not merely racing
into it, he was unsure. But he was in the thick of it now. With frantic,
undisciplined strokes, he assailed anything faintly resembling the enemy, never
certain if his strokes were ever true. All he had learned in training flew out
his mind. Amid the din of steel blades crashing, blasters shrieking and men
screaming in pain, he felt dizzy. His senses were overloaded. Still, he slashed
away with his blade.

Cries suddenly rose up on either side of them. Skylar looked
up. On their right and left flanks, fresh Haladrian troops came rushing,
cutting into the sides of the enemy host, forcing many imperial soldiers to
abandon their forward strike and defend themselves from one side or both.