 
### Key to the Stars

### Volume One of The Fourth Dimension

by

Kevin Domenic

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PUBLISHED BY:

Kevin Domenic on Smashwords

The Fourth Dimension: Key to the Stars

Copyright © 2010 by Kevin Domenic

Cover Art: Philip Kurniawan

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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*******

### Key to the Stars

### Volume One of The Fourth Dimension

### Prologue

A noble man is a dead man.

That was the philosophy of Kindel Thorus. It was an ideology ingrained into every fiber of his being. Men who followed the antiquated notions of chivalry and honor were relics of history, legends long since faded from a universe that no longer respected nor needed them. The rules had changed. Society had changed. Men had changed.

Life had changed.

Lieutenant Petreit removed a glove and used it to wipe the sweat from his brow. It wasn't often that members of his team were required to participate in manual labor, but this particular assignment wasn't a routine galaxy patrol or pirate raid. It was an excavation, a rare opportunity for him to shine. New discoveries were always exciting; the wealth of knowledge to be obtained from the artifacts of distant worlds and ancient races was unfathomable. It was a personal interest that Petreit shared with Kindel. The admiral's personal collection of archeological finds was said to be quite impressive.

But this mission came with a catch. The kyrosen, an old adversary, had settled on the planet years earlier. Kindel's men had driven them to the brink of extinction, and though they'd suffered heavy losses, the kyrosen were known for their resiliency. There was little doubt that they'd used their time on the surface to recover and rebuild. It was unlikely they were in any position to stand against the Armada in battle, but an excavation team of unarmed researchers and scientists would be easy prey.

The thick heat of the desert began to dissipate as the crimson sun disappeared below the horizon. Shuttles would arrive before long, signaling the end of the day. It had been a number of weeks since the operation began. Only by the grace of the Maker had the dig remained undiscovered. Studies of the landscape in the days leading up to the assignment suggested that the kyrosen had taken refuge in underground caves and dens. Their precise location and the frequency in which they surfaced would ultimately determine whether or not the Vezulian team would be found.

Petreit shook his head as he pulled the glove back onto his hand. It wasn't as though the Armada was without a full complement of combat soldiers. It would've been nice to see a few of them patrolling the area. But inquiries to Commander Andorel had been met with stiff reprimands. Petreit was told in no uncertain terms to do his job and let the admiral decide when and where to deploy his own troops. He wasn't about to argue. If Thorus felt that soldiers could not be spared for an excavation mission, the men had to trust that it was the right decision.

Kindel never failed to sacrifice for the greater good. He came from a race of warriors known as zo'rhan, some of the most powerful sorcerers in the known universe. Maintaining order and civility across the stars was his sole focus and the single most important directive of the Vezulian Armada. Separating his organization from the other self-proclaimed peacekeepers was the will to do whatever was necessary to secure that order. It was sometimes seen as villainous and immoral, but it was that very perspective that kept the Armada ahead of the pack. Security could not be preserved with kind words; the wicked were never quick to retreat. The enemy would spare no tactic in battle, and neither would the Armada.

As a result, Kindel had developed more than a few enemies over the years. Nations reviled him. Worlds condemned him. There were more bounties on his head than there were strands of hair, and he had no shortage of that. Conflict and bloodshed seemed to greet the Armada in every galaxy, on every planet, and in every nation. But in all cases, peace and order were left in its wake. Whatever the risk, whatever the cost, whatever the sacrifice, Kindel Thorus would see evil brought to its knees. And when it was over, as those men begged for forgiveness, Kindel would show them the same amount of mercy that they had shown to others.

With an exhausted sigh, Petreit drove his shovel into the dirt. Despite his fondness for archeology and the initial excitement of being placed on the dig team, his frustrations had mounted with the passing weeks. Details regarding the nature of their search were scarce. They were looking for an unusual rock, he'd been told. Each man had been given a rolling crate equipped with a depth scanner to collect as many unique stones as could be found. In particular, they were to keep watch for any that may have been hand-carved or otherwise unnaturally altered. Odd colors were of interest as well. When the commander had first given those instructions, Petreit envisioned rows of crates lined up alongside one another, each overflowing with colored rocks and stones and pebbles. But after four weeks of digging themselves into an eighty-foot deep crater, they had barely filled one crate.

"Come on, hurry up!" Commander Andorel's voice barked to Petreit's left. He walked past with his hands clasped behind his back, sparing the lieutenant a stern glare before continuing. "Let's finish the day strong before the shuttles get here!"

Petreit frowned and scooped another clump of soil. Thus far, Andorel had not made a habit of patrolling the grounds and calling out orders. The few times Petreit had seen him, he was lounging with a cold drink along with the other senior officers beneath a sturdy canopy along the far western edge of the excavation. Why the sudden display of responsibility?

Moments after he was gone, Petreit became aware of muffled whispers from the other men. Peppered amongst the murmurs, the word "admiral" stood out. Was that it? Had _he_ come to inspect operations? Petreit turned his eyes to the upper edge of the dig site to see an assemblage of men silhouetted by the fading sunlight. The second figure from the left stood at least a head taller than the others, his long cloak swaying in the breeze. Petreit didn't have to see his glowing eyes to know that it was Kindel Thorus, but there they were, two pinpricks of azure shining from the darkness of his towering shadow. Even amongst his own species, Kindel's eyes were unique, an unmistakable identifying characteristic. There could be no doubt. It _was_ him!

For a moment, the universe seemed to stand still. It was a well-known fact that the grand admiral of the Vezulian Armada was not a patient man, nor did he tolerate failure. Those who were unable or unwilling to perform to his standards received harsh and often painful punishment. Beads of sweat returned to Petreit's forehead in an instant. Though he supported the goals and purpose of the Vezulian Armada, the possibility of being on the wrong end of Kindel's anger made him tremble with anxiety. Had the excavation team's relative lack of findings driven the admiral to take action? Had his patience run out?

A commotion to the east drew Petreit's attention. A group of researchers had gathered together close to a hundred paces away from where he stood, and more were flocking to the scene. Commander Andorel pushed his way into the crowd and disappeared. Several others rushed past Petreit, and for a moment, he was tempted to join. But he could almost feel the admiral's eyes on his back. They kept him paralyzed, frozen in place until Andorel emerged from the crowd and cupped his hands to his mouth. "Everyone pack up and move out!"

Cheers rose from the men as they scattered, scooping up tools and rolling away crates. Petreit dropped his shovel into his crate and sealed the lid. Though he tried to keep his head down, something drew his eyes to the precipice.

Kindel Thorus was gone.

### Chapter 1

Golden beams of sunshine streamed through the trees, filling the forest with the warmth of summer. Throughout the woods, wildlife stirred in the morning light. The warm breeze carried the birds' gentle melody along, bringing with it the sweet aroma of blooming flowers. Lush green bushes tipped with red and yellow brought a variety of color to the thriving foliage and gave the smaller creatures shelter from hunters. Above it all, Arus Sheeth lounged against the trunk of a large apple tree under the rising sunlight.

"All right, Vultrel," he murmured, picking a shiny red apple from a branch above him. "Your move."

Below, a lone deer made its way toward a nearby stream, its tiny hooves crunching the fallen acorns and twigs. Arus ran his fingers through his brilliant red hair, unconsciously tightening his grey bandana when they reached the strips of cloth tied behind his head. He took a bite of the apple and sat back to enjoy the morning, confident he was safely concealed by the trees. His loose brown pants matched the bark of the branches, and his red hair blended in with the countless apples around him. The deep blue of the morning sky was a close match with his tunic, and anyone who glanced in his direction would assume they were simply seeing through the trees and into the dawn above. His leather boots were a darker shade of brown, but they blended well with the many knots peppering the thicker branches near the trunk.

Beneath him, the deer came to an abrupt halt and raised its head. It stood still as a statue, moving only its ears to track the sound that had drawn its attention. A moment later, it scampered off into the woods. Arus peered down, but his ears perked at the rustling of leaves in the tree behind him. A quick glance confirmed his suspicion.

"That didn't take long," he grunted, dropping the apple and pulling himself higher into the tree. With the agility of a cat, he scurried through the branches away from the sound. When he neared a point where the thicker limbs of the next tree reached into his path, he used them as a bridge. Without looking back, he continued along, darting from tree to tree. His pursuer followed him, gaining on him, pushing him, forcing him to put every ounce of energy and concentration into his escape.

"You're going to have to do better than this!" a familiar voice called from behind.

Arus wasn't listening. The nearest tree stood a fair distance away, and he had no time to backtrack to the cluster on the opposite side. With a deep breath, he launched himself into the air, his hands outstretched as far as they would reach. Flesh met wood as his fingers grasped the nearest tree limb, and he swung his legs forward to a thick batch of branches below. They fractured under his weight, sending him flailing through a jumbled tangle of wood and leaves. He reached out blindly and found another limb, halting his descent.

"That was graceful!"

Arus looked up. The taunting voice came from directly above. The fastest escape would be on the dirt path beneath the trees, but his opponent's speed would overtake him. It always did.

And that left him with only one choice.

With a defiant grin, Arus released his grip on the branch. He drew a shimmering sword from the sheath at his hip as he fell, and his boots sank into the dirt path. Gravity pulled him to his knees, but his attention was on the black-haired young man falling toward him from the branches above his head. He was half a head taller than Arus, clad in dark pants and a sleeveless white tunic. The youth raised a long steel sword above his head. Arus rolled away as he landed, then leapt forward to cross blades with his best friend.

"You're doing better than yesterday," Vultrel said with a smirk. "I almost didn't make that jump."

Arus pushed his sword against Vultrel's. "Maybe I'll finally put a blemish on your record!"

Steel flashed in the sunlight as the clashing of swords echoed across the forest. The morning duel had become daily routine for the boys before they returned to the village with fresh fruit for breakfast. Only fourteen years old, Arus still had much to learn about wielding a sword, but under the tutelage of Vultrel's father, Eaisan Lurei, he had developed a solid foundation of skills upon which to build. Still, although he and Vultrel had been training together since they were six, Vultrel had always come out of their practice duels as the victor.

"You're anticipating my movements," Vultrel warned, deflecting Arus' outstretched sword. "Focus on what I do, not on what you _think_ I'll do."

"It's hard not to anticipate," Arus responded, meeting Vultrel's low slash with his blade. "I can't keep up with you if I don't use my knowledge of your techniques to—"

Vultrel pulled his blade away and dropped to the ground, thrusting his right leg out in a wide kick. The blow knocked Arus' feet from under him. Vultrel was upright again before Arus' back had even hit the dirt. "A time will come when we will face opponents who use different styles and techniques than we do," he said, pointing his sword at his friend's throat. "We won't be able to anticipate anything then. We must discipline our minds to concentrate only on the moment, nothing before or after."

Vultrel offered him a hand. As he pulled his partner up, Arus grabbed his wrist and twisted it behind his back. Before Vultrel could react, Arus' sword was at his neck. "There will also be a day when we face opponents with no honor. Don't be so eager to show compassion to a fallen enemy."

Vultrel couldn't help but smile. "Quite right." He grabbed onto Arus' arm and pulled, flipping him head over heels. Arus tumbled to the dirt with a dull thud, and Vultrel again pointed his blade. "But don't forget that an enemy is not defeated until he is bound in shackles and imprisoned."

Arus spun his sword up and knocked Vultrel's away, then scrambled to his feet. His attacks continued to bounce off of Vultrel's defenses, filling him with a mixture of frustration and admiration. Vultrel responded with an assault of his own; Arus was barely able to defend himself from the speed and variety of his movements. He soon found himself backed against a tree, Vultrel's blade pushing hard against his own.

"Soldier's sight, eh?"

Arus grimaced at his own lack of focus. Master Lurei had scolded him for it on numerous occasions; it referred to the negligence of a warrior concentrating so closely on his opponent that his lost track of his surroundings. The mind watched only the enemy, effectively blacking out the environment in a dangerous lapse of awareness. The phrase was a comparison to a soldier's blind devotion to his leader's cause, rushing to follow orders without considering the dangers of the mission.

But Arus wasn't about to give up so easily. Summoning all the strength he could muster, he planted his left foot against the trunk of the tree and pushed himself forward, forcing Vultrel away. He gave no time for recovery, lunging with his sword raised. Vultrel dropped to the ground and threw his foot out once more, and Arus quickly found himself face-down in the dirt. Before he could get to his knees, Vultrel leapt onto his back, his blade once again at Arus' neck.

"Checkmate."

Arus sighed in defeat. He was no stranger to the phrase; Vultrel uttered it every time he claimed victory over another in combat. It had been directed toward him more times than he'd like to admit, but he always took his losses lightly, focusing more on lessons and experience than victory and defeat. "I thought an enemy wasn't defeated until he was disarmed and captured," he grinned, still clinging to the hilt of his weapon.

"True," Vultrel agreed, "but if this were a real battle, nothing would've stopped my blade from severing your head from the rest of your body." He slipped his sword into the sheath strapped to his back and extended his hand.

"At least I did better than yesterday," Arus said as Vultrel helped him up. "No mud patches to worry about today."

"You did very well." Vultrel gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Don't be so hard on yourself. Father says we've both exceeded his expectations. Most students are still learning the basic forms at our age, but we had those lessons aced before we were ten!"

Arus sheathed his weapon. While he knew that his skills were above average, he refused to allow himself any pride. Pride led to arrogance, and arrogance was a weakness that enemies would be quick to exploit. No matter how much he trained, there would always be room for improvement. With a gracious smile, he bowed to his training partner. "An excellent training session as always, Vultrel."

Vultrel returned the bow of respect. "Likewise, Arus. A commendable effort on your part."

The warm breeze blew as Arus wiped his forehead. The sweet aroma of the forest filled him with the memories of a thousand summer mornings gone by when there was nothing to consume his time but to play tag with Vultrel in the village square or chase rabbits in the forest. His father's death had forced maturity on him early, and he often missed the days when he could run off and play for hours on end without having to concern himself with housework and chores. But he was the man of the house now, and he certainly wasn't going to leave all the work to his mother.

"Now," Vultrel began, "where did we leave our fruit?"

"This way."

While Vultrel had been put to work on his family farm at ten years old, Arus had spent much of his time in the forest, hunting deer and gathering firewood. His afternoons had taken him through just about every inch of the woods, sometimes even deep enough that he could see the golden sand of the Mayahol Desert through the trees to the east. He never ventured into the desert; the land had been forbidden territory since the end of the Vermillion War.

They headed west to retrieve the fruit they'd gathered earlier in the morning. The smoky aroma from the village chimneys crept upon them as they neared the forest's edge. Before long they came to the main road, an old dirt path just outside the walls of Keroko Village. With sacks of fruit slung over their shoulders, they approached the main gates. Two soldiers clad in leather armor and armed with polearms stood guard at either side of the archway. Not that armed guards were needed these days—there had been little need for them since the end of the war—but they served to keep wild animals out of the village and catch petty thieves trying to escape.

The guard on the left, a short but burly young man named Solaan, greeted the boys with a warm smile. "G'morning, Arus! Morning, Vultrel! Looks like we're in for a fine day today, don't you think?"

Arus returned the smile, bowing his head in respect. "Beautiful," he agreed. "Not a cloud in the sky."

The guard on the right, thinner than Solaan but no less muscular, spoke. "How did this morning's training go, Vultrel?"

"Undefeated as always, Markus," Vultrel responded with a sly grin. "But Arus put up a good fight. I don't know how much longer the record will last."

Arus laughed as he tossed an apple to Solaan. Vultrel handed an orange to Markus. The guards bowed in appreciation as the boys passed under the stone archway and headed into town.

Keroko was one of the larger villages in the western region of the kingdom of Asteria. It was well-known for its agriculture, with traders from all over traveling for weeks just to taste a Keroko-grown orange or purchase an ear of corn. Just about everyone in Keroko was a farmer in one form or another, whether working on their own land or on their neighbor's field. Even the smallest homes on the most crowded streets had small gardens where tomatoes and carrots were grown. The center of town, known as Trader's Square, was the hub of Keroko's economy. Peddlers and farmers lined up their carts there and rented wooden stands to showcase their goods. Buildings constructed of wood and brick surrounded the Square, housing various shops.

Though the village flourished, it hadn't been long ago that Keroko—and Asteria itself—had been brought to the brink of collapse. A decade prior, a band of men calling themselves the Vermillion Mages appeared in the Mayahol Desert. They wielded unspeakable powers, calling the forces of the planet to their aid. They handled fire like it was a toy, called lightning from a cloudless sky, and even manipulated the power of raw energy, unleashing spheres and beams of light that incinerated anything or anyone foolish enough to stand in their way.

Arus unconsciously rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, remembering those days. His father, Master Dayne Sheeth, led the village militia alongside Master Eaisan Lurei. The Mages attacked from the east after dark, leveling buildings and killing countless. Though the battle was fierce, the villagers later learned that it had merely been a diversion to keep them from interfering with the battle taking place at Cathymel, the capital of Asteria and home of the royal Castle Asteria to the north. Once Keroko had been secured, Eaisan and Dayne mounted their horses and rode to the capital. It was days later when they arrived, but the fight yet raged. They finally returned to Keroko after two weeks, wounded but victorious. The Mages leader, a man named Aratus Truce, had been slain, and his few remaining disciples had vanished into the Mayahol. Since then, the desert had been declared forbidden territory, and none dared to set foot in its golden sands.

Vultrel's hand on his shoulder pulled Arus from his thoughts. "You all right? You seem a bit preoccupied this morning."

Arus nodded. "I'm fine. Just . . . remembering things, that's all."

It was all he needed to say. "He's proud of you, Arus," Vultrel assured. "You can count on that."

Arus hadn't ever spoken much to Vultrel about his father's death; it wasn't an easy topic to discuss. "I know," he nodded, "I just never . . . never got to tell him how proud _I_ was of _him_."

Vultrel patted his shoulder. "I'm sure he knows, Arus."

The two reached the Boyer farm, a spot where the road split to the north and west. The north led to Vultrel's farm, while the west passed Arus' home. It was where the boys met every morning before gathering breakfast, and where they separated hours later. Vultrel bowed. "See you at the festival tonight?"

Arus had nearly forgotten. The Festival of Souls would be held that night; a yearly gathering of the villagers in Trader's Square to celebrate the lives of loved ones lost over the years. There would be singing and dancing, music and games. The adults would drink too much ale, and the children would run about catching fireflies. The most anticipated event was always Master Eaisan's rendition of _The Blade of Kaleo_ , a story he told every year. "I'll be there," Arus finally said, returning the bow. "After all, I have to know if The Blade of Kaleo will be found this year!"

Vultrel let loose with laughter. "I'll tell Father you're looking forward to it! Talk to you later!"

He turned and raced up the northern path, and Arus headed home. It was little wonder he'd been thinking more about his father lately. The festival always brought back old feelings and memories. He remembered the day his father died as though it had happened yesterday. Arus was six years old at the time, and Master Dayne had just returned from the last battle of the Vermillion War with Master Eaisan. Though Vultrel's father was battered and bruised, Master Dayne was in far worse condition. He barely had enough time to say goodbye to his wife and child before he died.

"Arus!" a woman's voice called in the distance. His mother, Elayna-Marin Sheeth, stood on the front steps of their small brick house. She waved to him with a look of impatience on her face. "You're late!"

He ran the rest of the way and skidded to a halt just in front of the gate. "I'm sorry. Got a little . . . um . . . tied up back there."

Arus' mother was a short woman, scarcely forty years of age. Her scarlet hair was tied up in a neat bun, and she folded her arms across her white kitchen apron. The impatience on her face was already fading. "I know I put a lot of stress on you," she sympathized, the sun causing her blue-green eyes to sparkle, "more than most boys your age probably have to take from their mothers. But please try to keep track of time for my sake. I get worried when you're out so close to the Mayahol and don't return when expected. It makes my hair turn grey faster than necessary!"

Arus rolled his eyes as she plucked at her bun. "Your hair isn't turning grey, Mother," he chuckled, following her into the house. "Don't worry about me. I apologize for being late, but I can handle myself out there."

The smell of fresh bread and butter filled the tiny home. Elayna immediately took his bundle of fruit to the counter to be cleaned and prepared for breakfast. The house was decorated with a warmth that only a mother could give, with hand-stitched curtains and flowerpots on the window sills. The interior was mostly constructed from wood, save for the brick stove in the kitchen. A wooden rocking chair sat next to it, draped with Elayna's half-finished knitting projects. A round table sat beside the staircase which led to the second floor. Empty plates rested in front of two handcrafted chairs at the table.

"Breakfast will be ready in just a minute," Elayna said.

Arus unlatched the clasp on his scabbard and climbed the stairs. His bedroom was simple, with only his bed on the left and the wardrobe on the right. Between them stood a polished wooden sword stand carved by Dayne Sheeth. Arus treasured it almost as much as the weapon he placed in it. The base was flat, with two forked pieces of wood extending upward on either end. His sword was a single-edged blade, curved so slightly that it was almost imperceptible to the naked eye. Still in its scabbard, the handle of the weapon sat snugly in one fork, and the blade-end of the red sheath fit into the other.

"Don't worry, Father," he murmured, bowing in respect, "I'll make sure everyone remembers you tonight."

*******

High above the village, beyond the treetops and the mountain peaks, beyond the birds and the clouds, and beyond the blue skies of the atmosphere, Kindel Thorus' starship, the _Black Eagle_ , loomed over the planet. The Vezulian Armada's flagship drifted in a silent orbit, flanked by countless smaller starcruisers and fighter craft, its polished black steel reflecting the light of the sun. It had been constructed in the likeness of an eagle with its wings stretched in flight, a starship unlike any other in the universe. Assorted lights speckled the hull of the craft, emanating from the hundreds of windows across the ship's thirty-two decks. The four large engines mounted to the rear of the ship emitted a white-red glow. The forward section—the head of the eagle—housed the main bridge and was lined with four large viewports. The _Black Eagle_ was well-known and greatly feared across the universe; Kindel kept it heavily-armed and didn't hesitate to make use of its firepower if the situation called for it.

Onboard, Lieutenant Petreit walked in silent panic toward the admiral's quarters. Despite the fact that he'd been summoned by Kindel Thorus himself, he got the feeling he was intruding on the admiral's privacy. Kindel had a presence that frightened people even when he was in the best of moods—and that wasn't often. But Petreit had duties to perform, and Kindel _had_ called for him.

The barren corridor of the starship somehow seemed bigger as he headed for Kindel's quarters. Others around him almost appeared to fade into nothingness as his eyes focused on the grey door. Fear bred doubt, and doubt led to questions. Kindel _had_ summoned him, right? It was his name he'd heard over the intercom, right? Petreit thought his heart would leap out of his chest if it could, but Kindel _had_ called for him. Hadn't he?

His dull Vezulian uniform was made of a coarse grey fabric that held warmth all too well. Perspiration lined his neatly trimmed hair, and his beady eyes twitched about nervously above his crooked nose. He was not a ladies' man by any stretch of the imagination, but then he'd always preferred solitude over cavorting with women. Relationships required commitment and dedication, and Petreit had far more important things to attend to.

In youth, he'd wandered aimlessly from job to job with little passion for anything, but he'd found purpose with the Vezulian Armada. They'd traveled the universe for countless years, seeking out and exterminating aggressive and dangerous species. Though most of the races of the galaxy were fairly peaceful and cooperative, there were others that could only be described as savage animals. They invaded worlds and destroyed societies, thirsting nothing but bloodshed. Some did so in order to gain control of a planet's resources, others did it for food, and still others conquered for sport. Kindel, however, traveled the universe recruiting men like Petreit to stand beside him against such dangerous species. And though he feared his leader, Petreit supported everything Kindel Thorus stood for, and he would die for the Armada's cause if necessary.

Lost in thought, Petreit found himself pressing the visitor alert button beside the entrance to Kindel's quarters. The door slid open moments later with a soft electronic hum, and he took a cautious step into Kindel Thorus' personal office. Even as he entered, he tried frantically to come up with some sort of excuse for his visit in case he had been mistaken in thinking he'd been summoned. But to his surprise, Kindel didn't even look up when he arrived.

"S-Sir . . . You called for me?" he stammered, standing straight as an arrow.

Kindel sat at his desk in the center of the room. His pale-skinned fingers handled a small purple stone, twisting and rolling it between his fingers. For a moment, he ignored the lieutenant, squinting as he studied the thing. The rich glow of his eyes illuminated it, producing a brilliant sparkle.

Petreit's eyes wandered as he waited for a response—he knew better than to ask twice—and he glanced around the admiral's quarters. The walls were decorated with scrolls and tapestries that Kindel had collected from various planets over the years, most trophies of the dangerous civilizations that the Vezulian Armada had defeated. Elegant furniture varying in design was scattered about. Most of it was carved from wood, and some had been encrusted with precious stones and jewels. The cabinets against the right wall were a deep brown and covered with various statues and archeological artifacts that Petreit didn't recognize. One object in the center of it all, long and relatively flat, was neatly covered by a fine white cloth. The wall behind the admiral was made entirely of glass, providing a spectacular view of the planet below. The view took his breath away.

"Yes, Lieutenant," Kindel finally spoke. His gaze remained upon the stone. "What is your background with the Armada?"

It wasn't quite the sort of question Petreit has expected. "My b-background?"

"That's right. What are your areas of expertise? Your paperwork states that you studied Planetary Ecosystems and Indigenous Species. Are you knowledgeable about these subjects?"

"Yes, Sir," the lieutenant responded with a nod. "I can tell you about the climates, environments, and wildlife of most of the planets in this sector and many more across the galaxy. I also know much about their native species."

The admiral placed the purple stone onto his desk and stood. His dark cloak wavered with his movements, revealing the elegant clothing he wore underneath. Kindel's attire came from his native planet of Zo'rhan. Most of it was decorated with golden thread and encrusted with jewels. The tunic he wore was embroidered with the image of a fire-breathing dragon. Two sapphires were encrusted into the beast's outstretched hands, and its eyes were made from tiny rubies. His pants were tucked into his heavy black boots and matched the deep blue of his tunic. As usual, locks of white hair dangled over his eyes, but their vibrant blue glow shone through unhindered. "Have you ever heard of an organically grown gem or stone on any of the planets you're familiar with?" he finally asked.

The question took Petreit off-guard. "Organic gems?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You mean grown from living organisms?"

Kindel turned and moved toward the window behind his desk. "Yes. I'm looking for a stone that can be reproduced, much like the way a plant reproduces through its seeds. There are theories that such jewels exist, but none of the leads I've followed have produced results."

Petreit glanced at the purple stone on the desk. Horrified, he heard himself speak. "I suppose we didn't find what you were looking for after all?"

Kindel looked back at him, his lips forming a thin smile. "On the contrary, we found exactly what we were searching for. But it is just one piece of a puzzle. There are others I'll need to gather—the foremost being a gem that reproduces—before I'll be able to make good use of any of them."

The lieutenant pursed his lips in thought, trying to choose his words more carefully. The admiral didn't seem upset by his prying, but he knew better than to push his luck. "I've never heard of such a gem before, but I've got contacts on multiple science stations and research outposts across the galaxy that I can get in touch with. Perhaps one of them will be able to help."

Kindel clenched his hands into tight fists and closed his eyes. For a moment, Petreit thought his heart would never beat again. But to his surprise—and great relief—Kindel simply swore quietly and stepped back toward the desk. "Very well. I want you to notify me immediately of _any_ possible leads that come up. Is that understood?"

"Of course, Sir," Petreit saluted. For a split second, he let his eyes shift to the purple stone again. A knowing grin came to Kindel's face, and Petreit didn't know if he should laugh or run.

"Curious, are we?"

The admiral didn't seem bothered by his interest, but Petreit was careful in choosing his words. "Well, it's not just me. Most of the men are."

Kindel returned to the window, his gaze resting upon the planet below. "As you can probably tell, I am a student of history. I collect artifacts that intrigue me, historic relics, and ancient texts. There are a great many stories and legends across the universe, most of which are myths that grew from a much different truth. It is that truth that I seek, and what I have learned has shed great light on several of the stories floating across the galaxy. This planet, called Terranias, was once a technological wonder. Thousands of years ago, your species built skyscrapers that breached the clouds, crafted vessels that soared through the air, and even manned a mission to their moon."

_That_ was Terranias? Petreit wanted to step closer to the window to get a better view, but he dared not to move unless instructed. He'd always been curious about Terranias, knowing that the human race had originated there. But its current civilization knew nothing of space travel or of other worlds and cultures. "What happened?" he eventually asked. "Why is it such a primitive world now?"

"The same thing that happens to every world when it becomes too powerful for its own good: war. Legends say that an epic war ravaged the planet to such an extent that the entire world was nearly destroyed. Nearly two thirds of the population was wiped out, along with the humans' technological infrastructure. Afterwards, they vowed to never again rely on technology to further their society. And to this day, they've upheld that vow. They may be primitive by our standards, but it's exactly what they want. There is, however, one flaw in the legend."

Petreit looked at his superior. None of this had explained his interest in the mysterious gem, but it was interesting nonetheless. "What flaw?"

Kindel turned to face him. "Where are you from, Lieutenant? What planet do you call home?"

"Genear, Sir. Born on the northern continent of Karsus."

"If human life originated on Terranias, and they never traveled farther than their own moon, then how did your ancestors get to Genear?"

He momentarily remained silent. "I . . . I don't know, Sir."

"Precisely." There was an air of satisfaction in the admiral's voice. "And therein lies the flaw of the legend. I did some research, cross-referencing Terranias legends with those of other planets with human populations. And that's how I learned about this."

He lifted the purple stone, his shimmering eyes radiating through it. "The humans were not at war with each other at all. They were at war with an invading force from another world, led by a man—a _human_ —who wielded unspeakable power, able to command the elements of the land, sea, and air to do his bidding."

"He could use magic?" Petreit's face could not hide his surprise. There were several races across the galaxy who could handle the power of magic, such as the zo'rhan and the thanai, but it was a well-known fact that humans were not privy to such magnificent gifts.

"That's correct," Kindel nodded. "It was _he_ who nearly destroyed Terranias, and his power came from this stone."

Petreit involuntarily stepped backward, nervously eying the sparkling gem in Kindel's grasp. The ability to manipulate the elements of the universe and turn them into weapons was a power he respected and feared more than anything. To think that such powers could be granted from a seemingly ordinary stone sent chills down his spine and made the hair on his neck stand. "H-how?" he finally managed to gasp.

"I have named this jewel lephadorite, from the zo'rhan word _Lephad._ Roughly translated to your language, it means 'power' or 'strength.'" Kindel reached into the top drawer of his desk and retrieved a small amulet. It was made from shimmering gold, cut into the shape of a triangle and polished to a brilliant shine. There were notches hollowed out of each corner of the face, and one larger notch in the center. It dangled from Kindel's fist on a glimmering golden chain. "You may remember," he continued, "our visit to the planet Karlain. There I obtained a set of small gems that sorcerers in that sector had enchanted to enhance the effectiveness of their powers. When combined with the lephadorite and set in this amulet, it will give unspeakable powers to the wearer. In theory, anyway."

Petreit didn't want to keep prodding, but his mouth was moving on its own now. "Have you tried it?"

Kindel shook his head and placed the amulet back into the desk drawer. "Not yet. I still have a bit of research to do. While the lephadorite is powerful, it is also quite unpredictable. It requires further study before testing, or the results could be disastrous. Some rumors suggest that the man who used the lephadorite thousands of years ago was driven mad by the stone. While I don't believe that's what truly happened, I wish to take no chances."

Petreit looked back at Terranias through the window. "How did you learn all of this? I mean, how did you know the precise location in the desert to find it? How do you—"

"I have my ways," Thorus responded. "I have been doing this for a number of years—I'm a bit older than you might think—and have accumulated many contacts across the galaxy. I've had to compare notes from a lot of sources to eliminate fiction from possible facts, but I think that this," he held up the lephadorite, "proves my methods to be reliable. There are times when others are reluctant to provide me with the information I need, of course, but I have my ways of dealing with them."

As if to allude to his meaning, the door behind Petreit slid open and two soldiers entered. They were both dressed in identical cloth uniforms, one in black and the other in white. The clothing was the traditional uniform of human martial artists, though Petreit had always doubted they were human. Their heads were completely wrapped with the same fabric they wore, and only their eyes showed through dark slits in the cloth. Two long curved blades were sheathed at the hips of the one in black, and a two-handed sword was lodged in a scabbard on the back of the white. Bandanas matching the color of their uniforms were tied around their heads, and their feet were covered by split-toe boots. They were Kindel's personal assassins, though he called them assistants. Wherever he went, they were usually at his side. And if they weren't, it was a good indication that they were handling business with someone who had rubbed the admiral the wrong way.

Kindel exchanged nods with the men as they moved to either side of his desk. "Report."

The black one, known only as Scimitar, spoke. "Truce is too wrapped up in his own work." His voice was more of a hiss than anything else. "It doesn't appear as though he knows anything about the stone."

Kalibur, the ninja in white, looked at Petreit. "Is there something you require, Lieutenant?" His voice was huskier than Scimitar's, but otherwise similar. It was obvious that he didn't want to continue in Petreit's presence.

"I summoned him," Kindel told them. He cleared his throat and continued. "Lieutenant Petreit, I have shared this information with you in confidence. Tell no one what I've told you about the lephadorite; there is still much I have to do before I can share it with the rest of the Armada. But contact your sources, Lieutenant. Find me a gemstone that reproduces itself, and we shall be one step closer to eradicating evil from this twisted universe."

Petreit wanted to ask how Kindel intended to share the lephadorite with all of the members of the Armada, but the presence of his bodyguards kept him from raising the question. Still, he could probably assume that Kindel meant to somehow duplicate the stone, presumably using the reproducing gem in the process. There were several places Petreit could contact for information, from Marzalia to the Genear sector, but it would probably be best to start by—

"Is there something else, Lieutenant?" the admiral's eyes bore through him.

Petreit's eyes refocused. "N-No, Sir. I'll get right to work on that."

Kindel's voice was firm. "See to it, soldier. Do not fail."

### Chapter 2

The final rays of sunlight had barely begun to dwindle over Trader's Square when the final merchant's cart was rolled away. Huge torches were erected in the four corners of the Square, each flame large enough to heat a blacksmith's furnace. Strings of lanterns were draped between them, designed and colored by different members of the community to remember their lost loved ones. New carts rolled in, carrying popcorn and candy for the children, bottles for catching fireflies, and fresh ale for the adults. Sections of the Square were cornered off for different activities, one for music and dancing, one dedicated to games for the children, and still another for contests amongst the teens. Workers rolled wheelbarrows full of wood from the forests, and by the time the stars began to appear, a huge bonfire burned in the center of the Square.

Music floated through the air as citizens arrived, some wearing ceremonial tunics and cloaks, others bringing mementoes of their loved ones to share during storytelling around the fire. Dancers laughed as their shadows twirled in the torchlight, and children chased each other through the crowds. The rhythmic pulse of fireflies dotted the air above the celebration, and the full moon shone brightly in the evening sky.

The Festival of Souls had begun.

Arus wore his usual attire save for his grey bandana. In its place, he wore his father's, a white strip of silk with his family crest on the front. The design was embroidered in red, sewn into the image of two open hands cupped together in offering. Dayne had told him that the image was a reminder to always remain humble and selfless.

He separated from his mother as soon as they arrived and headed for the contest area. Not surprisingly, Vultrel was already in the dueling ring squaring off against another of Master Eaisan's students, Anton Vermenas. At seventeen years old, Anton stood more than a head taller than Vultrel with shaggy brown curls that dangled just above his arrogant eyes. Arus knew better; Anton's size was a disadvantage more often than not. Vultrel had defeated him every time the two met in Master Eaisan's class.

Vultrel, wearing his usual black pants and sleeveless tunic, wielded a wooden training sword. Their weapons clacked against each other as they dueled across the ring, and Vultrel scored two quick points for blows to Anton's thigh. The muscular young man fought back, pushing Vultrel toward the edge of the ring where crowds of teens had gathered to watch. But Vultrel remained patient and alert, refusing to allow anxiousness or frustration take over his actions. Anton finally lunged forward in an attempt to overwhelm him, and Vultrel spun to the right with the wooden sword extended, catching his opponent off-guard with a blow to the back for a third and final point. Arus clapped and cheered with the rest of the spectators as Vultrel extended his hand to Anton.

"Good match," he said with a smile. Anton said nothing. Instead, he stormed off into the crowd, leaving his opponent's outstretched hand. Vultrel shook his head and placed the wooden sword on the ground in the center of the ring, then greeted Arus with a wave. "Big oaf," he muttered, nodding in Anton's direction. "All size and no brains."

"Don't be too hard on him," Arus said. "Not everyone picks things up as quickly as you do. I know that from experience."

Vultrel burst into laughter. "Give me a break, Arus. He doesn't practice his techniques. He's too wrapped up in himself. Even Father says so. You may not be able to defeat me yet, but you could take Anton one-handed."

"Nice fight, Vultrel," a female voice came from behind. Without looking, Arus knew who had arrived. It was an effort not to cringe.

"Thanks, Melia," Vultrel's reply was smooth. "It was nothing."

Arus struggled to keep his cheeks from heating as he turned. Melia Sheai stood just behind him, a young girl with glitter on her cheeks and elegant brown curls tied back in a pink ribbon. She pawed at her pink dress, obviously trying to look her best for Vultrel. Not surprisingly, the blond-haired Katlyn Ambris stood beside her, dressed in black pants and a golden silk shirt. She brushed her flowing hair back with her fingers as she eyed Arus.

"Hi," she said with a giggle. "Are you and Vultrel going to duel tonight?"

Arus opened his mouth to reply, but Vultrel as already speaking. "Nah, we don't want to make anyone else feel bad, right Arus?"

Raising an eyebrow, Arus murmured "Confidence, not arrogance."

"Gotta be cool, man," Vultrel whispered. "Got nothing to do with arrogance."

Arus turned his attention back to Melia and Katlyn. The four had known each other for years, but it wasn't until recently that the young ladies had shown a deeper interest in himself and Vultrel. He didn't quite understand why, but they both made him nervous. "Maybe later," he finally answered Katlyn's question.

"Can't wait!" She clapped her hands.

"We were just going to get some popcorn," Melia said, brown eyes shifting between the two. "Want to come with us?"

Vultrel hopped over the rope surrounding the battle ring. "Sounds great!"

Arus nodded reluctantly. It wasn't that he didn't _want_ to go, he just didn't know how to talk to girls the way Vultrel did. "Sounds tasty." Immediately he regretted the sentence. _Tasty? Who says 'tasty?'_

Katlyn and Melia didn't seem to notice. With a beaming smile, Melia nodded. "Great! Maybe we can catch some fireflies, too!"

"I'll race you there!" Vultrel burst into a run, laughing as Melia chased after him.

"No fair!" she called, holding the front of her dress to keep from stumbling. "You got a head start!"

As they disappeared into the crowd, Katlyn turned her eyes back to Arus. "Race you to the popcorn stand?"

Arus could feel himself blushing. Inside, he argued with himself over what to do. _What do I do? What do I say? If Vultrel hadn't run off without me, I could've let him do the talking. Do I go? What if I lose? She'll probably laugh at me, and so would Melia and Vultrel. Decide, you dolt! She's staring at you!_

"Well?" a slight uneasiness had come to Katlyn's face. "Do you want to go?"

"Um . . . Sure, but let's walk," he managed. "It's crowded, and I wouldn't want to bump into anyone."

"Oh, come on!" Katlyn insisted, tugging at his arm. "You afraid I'll beat you?"

"N-no, it's not that," he stammered, "I just don't want to knock anyone over or hurt anyone, that's all."

Her smile vanished, replaced by dejection. "You know, Melia was right about you," she sighed, releasing his hand. "You _do_ need to lighten up."

She vanished into the crowds before Arus could respond, leaving him standing alone beside the battle ring. It wasn't the first time he'd driven a girl off with his nervousness, but he wasn't going to let it get to him tonight. He hadn't come to court girls, he'd come to pay respect to his father.

The sky continued to darken as the night wore on, surrounding the moon and stars in a sea of black. Hours passed, and Arus found himself sitting on a log at the bonfire beside his mother, listening to Mayor Randolf share stories about his deceased wife. Many familiar faces surrounded the fire. Farmer Boyer sat to the left beside his wife and his daughter, Clarissa, and Ben Mantes, the burly village blacksmith, sat beside them. On the other side of the bonfire, Vultrel's mother, Veran Lurei, listened alongside Danton and Ellie Vermenas, Anton's parents. Her thick black hair was braided neatly and draped over her shoulder. She kept smoothing her purple dress and picking at her nails as though she was nervous. Not too far behind her, Vultrel could be seen leaping into the air with an open bottle, trying to snatch fireflies. Katlyn and Melia cheered him on, clapping their hands and laughing. Arus rolled his eyes and gazed back at the fire.

"The crest looks good on you, Son," Master Eaisan's noble voice cut through the ambient noise of the Festival. Arus looked up to see a proud smile on his face. "Reminds me of your father."

Arus was on his feet in an instant. "It was his, Sir," he said, bowing in respect.

To say that Eaisan was a large man would be a dramatic understatement. He stood nearly twice Arus' height, with a sturdy frame and muscular physique. He wore his white wraparound jacket, embroidered with the Lurei family crest on the left. Purple silk pants covered his legs, flaring as they extended toward his sandals. The black sheath that held his curved sword was tied to the back of his belt. The thing was half a length longer than Arus' weapon. Eaisan's black hair was tied back in a short ponytail, and his smile warmed the night nearly as much as the bonfire.

"Hello, Eaisan," Arus' mother spoke, rising from her seat. "I trust this evening finds you well?"

"Good to see you again, Elayna," Eaisan gave her a warm hug. "How's everything?"

"As well as can be expected," she responded. "Times are rough, but Arus—bless his heart—he helps me through it."

Eaisan turned his attention back to Arus. "I'm surprised you're not off entertaining the young ladies with Vultrel." He motioned down the path.

Arus' heart sank. The last thing he needed was for his mother to learn that girls had been interested in them. As he'd feared, her eyes lit up as she gazed at Katlyn and Melia.

"Oh, Arus, they're cute!" she giggled. "What are their names? Do they like you? Why don't you go talk to them?"

"Not now, Mother," he said, rolling his eyes and sitting back down. "I'm not in the mood."

"Ah, that's all right, Son." Eaisan gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Everyone grows in their own time. Don't let anyone rush you. When you're ready, you'll know."

"Well, _your_ son certainly seems ready," Elayna noted, pointing at Vultrel.

Eaisan shook his head as he stared at Melia and Katlyn. "Too soon, if you ask me." He let out a long sigh. "Time goes by so quickly these days, doesn't it?"

Hours passed as the villagers continued talking about their lost ones around the fire. When the children had exhausted all of their energy and settled in with their parents, the storytelling began. Farmer Mandon told the story of _The Tiger's Claw_ , and Mayor Randolf regaled them with _The Tale of the Golden Key._ When Master Eaisan took a seat behind the mayor, Arus knew that _The Blade of Kaleo_ would be next.

"Did I miss anything good?" Vultrel's whisper came from behind.

"Nah," Arus shook his head, rising to his feet. "Just the usual stories. But it looks like your father is up next."

Arus moved behind the log where his mother sat and stood beside Vultrel. They spoke quietly to avoid disturbing the storytelling. "Have fun with Melia and Katlyn?"

Vultrel grinned and motioned to the next log on the right. The girls were both there, waving sheepishly at them. "You missed out, pal. Why didn't you come with us?"

"I'm not good with girls, Vultrel. You know that."

"Never gonna learn if you don't try. You don't—"

He was cut off by a round of applause from the circle of villagers. Mayor Randolf had finished his story, and Master Eaisan was rising to his feet. Before he'd even taken his place before the fire, requests came from the crowd. Clarissa, a little girl of only five years, called, "I wanna hear about Kaleo! Please tell us 'bout Kaleo, Master Lurei!"

Eaisan smiled back at her, bowing slightly in her direction. "You say you want to hear about The Blade of Kaleo? Forged by the angels of the heavens, used by the Maker to carve the stars in the sky and the mountains of the land?"

Clarissa jumped up and down. "Yes! Yes!! Please!!"

"It would be an honor, milady," Eaisan bowed deeply this time, the way a knight would bow to his queen. " _The Blade of Kaleo._ "

Despite the fact that Arus knew the story by heart, he always enjoyed Master Eaisan's rendition of the tale. He told it with such emotion and dramatic prowess, adding grand flourishes of his hands and raising or lowering his voice to match the mood of each scene. He made it seem as though the story was being played out in front of them, and no matter how many times he told it, Arus never tired of it.

"Journey with me," Eaisan began, walking around the fire, "to a world far from this one. A galaxy far from ours, and a time long before tonight. Come to the ends of the universe, to the beginning of time, when nothing existed but the Maker and His Kingdom. For this is where my story begins, long before the first rising of the sun or the first waxing of the moon. Before the first laugh of the first child and before the first twinkle of the first star. Heaven shook right down to its foundation, and darkness crept over the holy Kingdom. Kuldaan, an angel fallen from the grace of the Maker and cast into the emptiness of the Abyss, led the Fallen Ones into the outer circle of Heaven's courtyards. Greed drowned him, and lust for power consumed him. Heaven's throne would be soon be his own."

Eaisan spread his hands above his head, looking to the sky as he spoke. "The forces of the Maker were strong, firing arrows of golden light into the darkness of the Fallen Ones' hearts. Angels fought one another across the paradise, darkness and light meeting each other in the ultimate battle of good versus evil. And for a time, the Maker's armies prevailed. But on the eve of the conflict's first anniversary, Kuldaan's armies burst through the gates of the White Palace, the Evil One himself leading the charge. And so the Maker called forth his most trusted servant, an angel named Azriel. The Holy One entrusted Azriel with the task of slaying Kuldaan and bestowed upon him the holy blade of evil's bane: The Blade of Kaleo."

A few cheers rose from the circle of villagers. Arus couldn't help but smile. It wasn't the heroism or the glory or the honor that enthralled him, it was the hope. The Blade of Kaleo symbolized hope for anyone who ever struggled. It taught people to never give up in the face of adversity; there was always hope for a better future.

Eaisan's story continued long into the night, detailing the many battles between Azriel and Kuldaan. After seeing his followers fall at Azriel's hands, Kuldaan fled from the White Palace. Azriel pursued, and the two fought across the heavens. Each time it seemed as though Azriel was about to destroy The Evil One, Kuldaan would manage to scamper away like the rat that he was. And then, during an epic battle on the cliffs of Mount Arcadia, The Blade of Kaleo was knocked from Azriel's hands and sailed over the edge of the precipice. Azriel barely managed to escape with his life, but the holy sword was lost in the Abyss, leaving Kuldaan free to rebuild his forces and strike again.

"When the Maker learned of the loss of the Blade, he summoned an army of his angels to enter the Abyss and recover the weapon," Eaisan continued, motioning with his arms as though he were commanding a brigade of soldiers. "The hunt began shortly after . . ."

Eaisan's voice trailed off into the background as a shift in the shadows behind the bonfire caught Arus' attention. It was only momentary, and it blended into the surrounding darkness as quickly as it had shown itself. By this time, most of the other villagers had either joined the audience or returned to their homes. If there was someone—or some _thing_ —back there, it was unlikely anyone else had seen.

"Hey," Arus nudged Vultrel with his elbow. He nodded discreetly toward the alley between the blacksmith's shop and the cobbler's store. "Did you see anything back there?"

"No, why? Did you?"

For a moment, Arus wondered if he'd imagined it. "I thought so," he whispered so as to not disturb Master Eaisan's story. "It's probably nothing, but what if . . ."

"Wolves?"

"I doubt it. Not inside the village walls."

Vultrel squinted in the direction Arus had pointed. "Then what?"

"Don't know," Arus shrugged. "Thief, maybe? Perhaps trying to sneak into one of the shops while we're all paying attention to the story?"

"Let's check it out," Vultrel said, glancing at the rest of the villagers. "If it's nothing, then there's no harm done. But if it's a thief . . ."

Arus nodded in agreement. "Right. You go right, I'll go left. Try not to attract anyone else's attention. Let them enjoy the story."

With his arms folded across his chest, Arus casually wandered around the left side of the circle, occasionally glancing toward the alleyway. Vultrel did the same on the opposite side. No one paid them any mind. The villagers' shadows danced against the shops in the light of the fire, casting doubt on Arus' suspicion that something had moved between them. Still, whatever he'd seen had been enough to pull his attention from Eaisan's story, and that made it worth investigating.

Vultrel disappeared around the right side of the blacksmith's shop while Arus headed into the alley. With only the moonlight to guide him, his eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. There were a few sacks of garbage on the ground, but nothing out of the ordinary. Behind the shops, he found Vultrel looking toward the second floor of the blacksmith's store.

"Look," he whispered, pointing up. Arus followed his finger, and blinked in the dim light.

The second floor window was open.

"Maybe Sir Mantes left it that way," he suggested. "You know how warm these summer nights get."

"Perhaps," Vultrel shrugged. "Only one way to—"

The rest of his sentence was drowned by a deafening explosion in the Square. Horrified screams pierced the air, followed by the trampling of countless footsteps in every direction. Arus and Vultrel darted around the building. People scattered in every direction, screaming in terror and shielding their heads with their arms. A new fire raged on the far side of the circle, the evening breeze pushing its flames toward the bonfire in the center. Scorched stone and dirt surrounded it. Arus stared with wide eyes, frozen with a mixture of shock and panic.

"What in blazes—"

A streaming ball of flames shot up from somewhere on the far side of the crowd. It flew in a tight arc, speeding back toward the Square even faster than it had risen. The ground shook with its impact, and the resulting explosion sent bodies and debris flying. Arus hadn't seen such a wicked display of force in years, but he remembered it well.

"The Vermillion Mages," he growled, baring his sword. His thoughts turned to his mother. The explosions had been opposite of where she sat, but Arus didn't see any sign of her. "Mother! Mother, are you all right?"

If she'd replied, the noise of the villagers had swallowed her voice. Arus was about to set out to look for her when a break in the chaos gave him a clear view of Master Eaisan. He stood no more than twenty feet away, sword in hand. Vultrel had already drawn his weapon, and he rushed to his father's side. With one more searching glance around the Square, Arus followed.

"Everyone get to the shelter!" Eaisan was shouting. "Protect the women and children! Go, get moving!"

"Father!" Vultrel called as he reached Eaisan's side. "What happened?"

His father gave him a quick glance. "The Mages, it seems. I'll handle them. Go! See that everyone gets to the shelter right away."

Vultrel's eyes widened with surprise. "No! I want to defend my village alongside—"

"Your mother is injured, Vultrel!" Eaisan cut him off, eyes searching the crowd for any sign of the intruders. "She's on her way to the shelter, but she's been hurt. See that she gets there safely! That's an order, Son!"

Determination replaced Vultrel's shocked expression as he turned and rushed down the road leading to the shelter. Arus stood beside Eaisan in his battle-stance, with the hilt of his weapon raised to his chest and the blade parallel with his shoulders. "Ready to assist, Sir."

Eaisan looked down at him, his lips pursed beneath his narrow eyes. "You too, Arus! Go! Get these people to the shelter!"

"But Master, I—"

Another ball of fire sailed over their heads and exploded through the cobbler's door, sending wooden planks and splinters flying. Eaisan pushed Arus away. "Go! They're coming!!"

"I won't run away!" Arus yelled back, tightening the grip on his weapon. "I'll not sit by and watch them—"

"There is nothing cowardly in what I've asked you to do, Arus!" he shot back. "These people are frightened and helpless. They need you to get them to the shelter safely! They're counting on you, Arus, and so am I! NOW, GO!"

With a cry that pierced the air, Eaisan gave Arus one final push on the back, then rushed into the crowd with his sword raised. It wasn't until the blade pierced the chest of his target that Arus saw them. The Vermillion Mages burst into the Square in force, brandishing short swords and unleashing fiery blasts on their victims. They wore no armor, instead dressed in black pants and vests over dirty shirts of various colors. For a moment, Arus contemplated following Eaisan, but he had a job to do, and he wasn't going to let his master down.

"Everyone, come this way!" he finally called. "We must get to the shelter immediately!"

He led the people west, running as fast as his legs would carry him. He could still hear the explosions in the distance, but he resisted the urge to turn back. Some villagers passed him as they ran while others stopped to catch their breath before continuing. "Come on!" he called, trying to give the people hope. "We can make it! It's not too much further!" Ahead, an elderly woman stumbled to her knees. Arus skidded to a halt beside her and knelt. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she wheezed. "The Maker have mercy on us! What is happening?"

"We're going to be fine," Arus reassured as he helped her up. "Get to the shelter as soon as you can, all right?"

"Bless you, child!" She bowed before continuing on her way.

Arus turned and looked back toward the Square. The crowd was beginning to thin, and he could see new flames rising from the shops in the distance. "Mother . . . Please be alive."

A terrified scream from behind grabbed his attention. One of the Mages had scooped up seven-year-old Max Nadealai and was attempting to flee with the boy in his arms. Arus bared his teeth and raced after them. With a shout, he leapt into the air and thrust his foot forward. The strike caught the kidnapper along the side of his head, knocking him to the ground. Max tumbled free of his grip and scrambled to his feet.

"GO!" Arus shouted, leaping on top of the Mage. With his blade against the soldier's neck, Arus looked up at Max. "Go, Max! Get to the shelter right away!"

The little blond-haired boy stared for a moment at the Vermillion Mage, then nodded and ran away. As one of the villagers grabbed onto his hand and led him after the others, Arus returned his attention to his prisoner. _An enemy isn't defeated until he's disarmed and shackled. But how do you disarm a sorcerer?_ He knew the answer, but as much as he'd trained to use his sword, he had never hurt anyone with it, and hadn't expected to be faced with the decision of ending the life of another for quite some time. "What are you doing here?" he finally demanded.

The little man simply grinned and wrapped his hands around Arus' wrists. A sudden warmth filled his arms, spreading and growing rapidly until his muscles burned like fire. He yanked himself away from the soldier's grasp, but the shifting of his weight gave the Mage the opportunity to struggle free. As they both scrambled to their feet, the Mage drew a short sword from a scabbard on his back. Arus readied his weapon, and the two crossed blades. As they dueled, Arus tried to convince himself of what he knew he had to do. _This isn't training class anymore, and he's not Vultrel. This guy wants to kill me. The only way to stop him is if I kill him first. He's invaded my home, attacked my people, and attempted to kidnap a child. I have to do what must be done._

It quickly became apparent that the soldier was not well-trained in swordplay. Arus blocked every attack with ease and responded with such quick strikes that the Mage struggled to keep up. _Why doesn't he use magic against me? Why does he rely on a blade when he's got such power at his disposal?_

Abruptly, the Mage leapt away, brushing short brown strands of hair away from his narrow eyes. He stared at Arus intently for a brief moment before smiling. "Impressive," he finally said. "You'll do nicely."

Without another word, he turned and sprinted toward the Square. Arus stepped to follow before remembering Eaisan's orders. _The people have to be secure first. Once they're safe, I can go back to help Master Eaisan._

"Arus!"

Vultrel appeared on the road a fair distance away. "Are you all right? Where's Father?" he called.

Arus returned his weapon to its sheath as Vultrel came to a stop before him. "I'm fine. I don't know about Master Eaisan. He ordered us to help the villagers then . . ." He hesitated, unsure if the image of Vultrel's father attacking an army of Vermillion Mages alone was something he wanted to share. "Then he ran off," he finally said.

"I'm going back to help him." Vultrel was already drawing his sword. "I'm not—"

Arus grabbed his arm as he tried to pass. "No, Vultrel. We have our orders. The people need to be brought to safety, and Master Eaisan trusted the job to us. We can't let him down."

Vultrel looked longingly toward Trader's Square, but he eventually nodded in agreement. "Right. First things first. But after everyone is in the shelter, we help Father. Agreed?"

Arus paused, another worry weighing on his mind. "Have you seen my mother? I haven't seen any sign of her."

"She's fine. She's at the shelter."

It was as though the weight of a thousand sacks of vegetables had been lifted from his shoulders. "All right, then. As soon as the people are safe, we return to Master Eaisan's side."

Vultrel nodded and started down the road; the majority of the villagers were already further down the street. With one final look around, Arus lifted his foot to follow.

And another shift in the shadows stopped him in his tracks.

The moonlight had dimmed significantly, as though someone had moved between it and the street. Arus looked to the sky and blinked. A girl no taller than he stood atop one of the houses, her slim form standing in front of the moon. Shadows concealed most of her features, but her thick black hair blew to the side in the evening breeze. A dark cloth covered her face from the bridge of her nose down, and another ran across her forehead and disappeared into her hair. Her attire was hard to see in the shadows, but a long leather whip dangled from her right hand. Arus couldn't see her eyes, but he could feel the chill of her stare.

"Vultrel!" he called, looking back. "Vultrel, come here! Look!"

But when his eyes returned to the sky, she was gone. Arus blinked again, wondering if the darkness was playing tricks on him. Vultrel returned to his side. "What? What is it?"

"Uh . . ." Arus rubbed his forehead. "Nothing. Come on, let's get moving."

The shelter was nothing more than a large storage basement beneath the Keroko Inn. It had once been used to house the wounded during the war, and though they had to squeeze together to in order to fit as many as possible, it was large enough to hold most of the villagers. The boys led the last few people to the solid steel doors behind the building and guided them down the stone steps. Lanterns had already been lit, and the injured were being tended to the far left. Two soldiers of the Keroko Militia guarded the doors. Once everyone was inside, the heavy iron cross bar was lowered and locked into place.

Vultrel pushed through the crowd to where his mother was resting and kneeled beside the makeshift cot.

"How is she?" Arus asked. She looked up at him and smiled.

"I'm all right," she told him, pain evident in her voice. "Just a little shaken up."

Burns covered the lower half of her left leg. Scattered blisters had formed from her knee to her ankle, and the surrounding skin was a deep maroon color. "We'll get you help as soon as we can," Vultrel told her. "Just hang in there."

"Arus!" a frantic shout came from the crowd. Elayna Sheeth burst through the crowd and threw her arms around him. "Thank goodness you're safe! I feared you'd joined Eaisan in the fight!"

"I'm fine, Mother," he assured her. For a moment, he thought about telling her of his encounter with the Vermillion soldier, but he saw no reason to panic her even more. "Why is this happening?" he asked instead. "Why are they attacking us again?"

"Old wounds that never healed, I'm sure," Veran Lurei said. She fiddled with her braid, obviously trying to keep her mind off of the pain. "I do hope Eaisan takes care of himself."

"No worries, Mother." Vultrel rose to his feet with a great smile. "Arus and I are going to go help him. Just rest here and I'm sure the medical team will tend to you in no time."

Elayna grabbed Arus' shoulders. "You're not going _any_ where!" she insisted. "I can't have you—"

A loud knock came from the steel doors. The murmuring crowd quickly silenced out of a collective-yet-unspoken fear of being discovered. One of the guards, clad in steel armor and a bell-shaped helmet, slid the viewport open. "Who goes there?"

"I don't suppose you have room for a few more in there?" a familiar voice called.

"Father!" Vultrel shouted, rushing to the stairs. The soldiers opened the doors and Master Eaisan descended the staircase, followed by several members of the Keroko Militia. The village cheered for Keroko's victory, bringing flashbacks of the Vermillion War to the surface of Arus' mind. He stood beside Vultrel as Eaisan reached the end of the stairs, and they bowed in respect to their teacher.

"A job well done," Eaisan said, returning the bow. His voice was solemn. "Unfortunately, the battle was not without casualties. Is Anton here?"

The towering young man pushed to the front of the crowd. "Where are my parents?" he demanded, his face twisted with anger. "What did those wretched Mages do to them?"

Eaisan put his hand on Anton's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Son. I'm afraid your parents were killed in the initial explosion."

The anger in Anton's face shattered, replaced by shock and disbelief. "No . . . that can't be! I'm sure they got out before the attack."

"They were sitting close to me, Anton," Veran put in, unable to look at him. "I'm sorry, but the blast came down right on top of them."

"I don't believe it!" he shouted, pushing past Eaisan and the soldiers. "I won't! Not until I see for myself!"

He threw the doors open and ran into the night. After a long silence, Veran spoke again. "Were any others lost, Eaisan?"

"So far, those are the only two confirmed deaths. There are several other injuries—old Than Morson lost his leg, and Markus and Solaan are pretty beat up—but no more deaths have been reported. The militia is seeing to the injured in the Square."

"We failed," Vultrel murmured, hanging his head. "We were supposed to protect the villagers, and I—"

"There'll be none of that, Vultrel," Eaisan voice was sharp. "You boys did a fine job. Look around you. Look at all the people that survived thanks to you two. I'm very proud of both of you. You handled yourselves well."

"He saved my boy," a voice came from the crowd. Madeline Nadealai, a frail blond-haired woman, emerged with her son Max in tow. She was young for a mother, having given birth to Max when she was only nineteen. And she was younger for a widow; her husband had died in the Vermillion War. "The Mages tried to kidnap Max, but he stopped them." She pointed at Arus.

Little Max rushed forward and wrapped his arms around Arus' waist. "Thank you, Arus! Thank you!"

Arus patted the boy on the back, but somewhere in the back of his mind, a nagging feeling of unfinished business began to surface. Everyone looked at him as though they expected some inspiring words or a heroic recount of the incident, but Arus couldn't let go of the fact that he let the would-be kidnapper escape. "I'm just glad I could help," was all he managed to say.

Eaisan put a heavy hand on his shoulder. "A village child safe in the arms of his hero," he nodded toward Max. "You've never looked more like your father."

To know that he'd helped someone else made him feel good, but to be compared to Dayne Sheeth in _any_ way was nothing short of an honor. Still, there was that nagging—a piece of Arus that wished he had finished off the Mage. _Had the roles been reversed, he'd have shown no such mercy to me._

Again, the people looked at him expectantly, but Vultrel came to his rescue. "Should we head back out and make sure there are no stragglers left? We shouldn't be too quick to let our guard down."

"We took down every one we saw," Eaisan reassured him. "Between myself, the Keroko Militia, and that girl . . ." his words faded as his expression turned to thought.

Arus' ears perked. "Girl?"

Eaisan shrugged. "I don't know who she was, but she defeated more of the Mages than any of us. Young, too. Probably about your age. She didn't say a word; I didn't even see her join the battle. I just turned around and there she was, snapping her whip across the faces of the Vermillion soldiers. Then, just as quickly as she'd appeared, she vanished. Certainly wasn't from around here, not with those clothes. Regardless, her help made a huge difference."

_The girl. Her stare had felt so cold . . . but she helped. How did she know the Mages would attack?_ Arus' mind raced with questions. The Vermillion Mages had disappeared years ago when Aratus Truce was defeated. There were rumors that they had become nothing more than desert nomads residing in the Mayahol, but the number of soldiers he'd seen flooding the Square suggested otherwise. The thought of a new war sent chills down his spine.

"The militia is going to triple its patrols tonight," Eaisan was saying. "Tomorrow I'll head to the Mayahol myself to see if I can learn anything about this attack."

Veran let out an exasperated sigh. A white-clothed medic had begun to rub ointment on her burns, but her stern eyes were fixed squarely on her husband. "Eaisan, I don't want you going out there. Lord Sarathon condemned the deserts for a reason, you know."

"I'm not going to enter the desert itself, my dear," Eaisan assured her. "I'll walk the border with my eyes on the sands and see whatever I may see. I'm sure King Sarathon will send his own brigade of lances into the Mayahol as soon as word of this attack reaches Castle Asteria."

"May I join you tomorrow, Father?" Vultrel asked, his face bright with excitement.

"Me too," Arus put in.

"No!" Elayna shook her head. "You're not getting involved in this, Arus. I'll not let those sand-eating Mages take the rest of my family from me."

"But Mother, I—"

"She's right, boys," Eaisan agreed. "You were a great help to Keroko tonight, but there's no reason to drag you two into this. My orders to protect the village are a standing order; that mission is never complete. Be always on your guard, and watch out for your fellow man. That is what I ask of you."

Arus bowed respectfully to his teacher. "Yes, Master. As you wish."

Vultrel shook his head. "I want to do more, Father. I am happy to assist the villagers, but I want to take the fight to the enemy rather than wait for them to come to us. I want to stop them from hurting anyone else _before_ they do it!"

Eaisan turned to leave the shelter. He stopped at the door, turning only halfway to his son. "If this turns into another full-blown war, you will have more action than you can handle, Son. Enjoy peace while you can get it, because once it's gone, you'll wish you'd appreciated it more before it slipped away."

It was hours before Eaisan and a few of the high-ranking militiamen returned and declared it safe for everyone to return to their homes. In bed that night, Arus lay awake, staring at the sword in its stand beside his bed. The night had seemed like a dream come true; a dream reborn as a nightmare. The vengeful desires had always been there, dormant amongst his sense of honor and responsibility. And even in battle with the Vermillion Mage, those feelings had remained submerged, controlled by the code of ethics and morality that both his father and Master Eaisan had instilled in him.

But now, lying awake in the dark, those bitter feelings began to stir. _I had the chance to avenge you, Father. I could've made the Vermillion Mages pay for what they did to you. Why didn't I?_

Because it wasn't the right thing to do. Arus knew that. The last thing he wanted to do was kill another man. _But the Mages aren't men. They're animals._ He cursed himself inwardly. _You let that soldier live tonight, and he'll likely come back with more of his comrades next time. Then how many will die? What if war ravages the kingdom again? Will you still be so compassionate? Will you let them run past you and strike down your neighbors? Your friends? Your mother? Vultrel? Master Eaisan?_

With a dejected sigh, Arus rolled over and closed his eyes. "I hope you're proud of me, Father, because I'm not sure if _I_ am."

*******

A humid wind blew across the Mayahol, pounding harsh sands against the rocks and caverns scattered throughout the desert. Clouds of dust swept along, blocking out the stars and transforming the moon to a dull blue sphere amidst a sea of brown. Red stone boulders, some forming caves, emerged from the sands in multiple areas, providing shelter for the rabbits and assorted lizards living in the desert. Some of these caverns led deep beneath the surface to an underground network of tunnels and subterranean dens. These passages, formerly home to giant sand snakes, sheltered the remnants of a dying people, an endangered society with talents greater than anything the natives of Terranias could comprehend. To humans, magic was just a fairy tale. But to the Vermillion Mages, it was a way of life.

There was a time not long ago when the Mages were one of the most dominant forces of the universe. They were a space-faring race called the kyrosen with no planet to call home. They moved from world to world, taking what they needed to survive by whatever means necessary. Violence was inevitable; most species didn't part with their belongings so easily. But it was a way of life for the kyrosen. It was their culture, they knew nothing else. However, one too many encounters with Kindel Thorus' Vezulian Armada had left the kyrosen crippled, struggling to survive. It was thought that Terranias would make a perfect location to rebuild; the humans were a primitive race. The plan was to make Terranias the unofficial homeworld of the Vermillion Mages, a name they adopted to mask their true identity from the Armada. But they underestimated the resilience of the human race.

Specifically, Dayne Sheeth and Eaisan Lurei.

The kyrosen Grand Master, Aratus Truce, was murdered by the two humans, leaving the already dwindling numbers of the Mages fragmented and aimless. Led by Aratus' only son, the survivors sought refuge in the caverns below the desert. And though they still suffered from lack of numbers and limited supplies, a new plan brought hope for survival. The attack on Keroko may not have gone as expected, but the news from the battlefield was more than encouraging.

Olock readjusted his short brown cap and wiped the sweat from his brow. The heat of the torches quickly gathered in the caverns, keeping things a bit warmer than he liked. The Underworld, as they had come to call it, had housed the remains of the kyrosen for many years; it was their only refuge from those who would prefer to see them destroyed.

Scuff marks marred Olock's sun-colored shirt, but his black vest covered most of them. He brushed the excess dirt from his dark pants as he rounded the tunnel's narrow corner. Olock had been one of the few survivors to return from Keroko, but his limited involvement in the attack had yielded some interesting tidbits of information.

"You're back." A voice came from an opening in the wall. "We weren't sure if you made it."

Olock stopped. "No thanks to you."

"Hey, Boss said that we were to pull back if things got too hairy," F'Ledro retorted. He was a wiry man, one that couldn't quite be classified as a warrior. While he possessed the same powers of the Mages, he often relied too heavily on his laser pistol and other weapons. His large nose seemed to overshadow the rest of his face. Shaggy and unkempt black hair drooped above his lazy eyes, and a small laser pistol was strapped over his red shirt. He crossed his arms and shook his head at Olock. "We were just supposed to distract the swordsman and his allies, not launch an all-out assault on the—"

"You don't have the experience with Eaisan Lurei that I have," Olock cut him off. He removed his hat and wiped fresh sweat from his forehead. "Sometimes surprise is the best tactic available."

"Do you have any idea how many of our people died tonight?" F'Ledro shot back. "Many could've been saved if we had just—"

"If we what?" Olock stepped toward him, clenching his fists. "If we hid behind your laser barrel? We are not cowards, F'Ledro. Those who die give their lives to save ours. Each of us is aware of the risks we take in any battle, and _most_ of us are happy to accept them."

"Hey, I'm no coward," F'Ledro retorted, though he stepped away from his comrade. "Might I remind you of a little planet called Lavinia?"

Olock rolled his eyes. It was F'Ledro's one claim to fame; he brought it up whenever someone questioned his strength or dedication. A year or so before they had arrived on Terranias, a small team of Mages was sent to one of the neighboring galaxies to collect supplies. F'Ledro had led that team. They landed on Lavinia, a peaceful planet of Morphers rich with food and other resources. They wasted no time in attacking the nearest kingdom—a city on the eastern border of a country called Aerianna. They took the palace by surprise, swiftly eliminating the guards before reinforcements could even be summoned. F'Ledro killed both the King and Queen with two quick laser blasts, and then he and his men raided the storage cellar before escaping to their starships. Of the many missions F'Ledro had led, it was one of only a handful that were successful, and he milked the victory for all it was worth.

"As I understand it, F'Ledro," a strong, husky voice came from further down the tunnel, "the heir to Aerianna's throne has hunted you ever since." The leader of the Vermillion Mages, Sartan Truce, emerged from the shadows and stepped into the torchlight. "And—correct me if I'm wrong—I understand there was an unidentified young lady assisting the Keroko Militia tonight. That wouldn't have anything to do with your decision to withdraw your troops, would it?"

F'Ledro shifted uncomfortably as Sartan approached the officers with folded arms. After Aratus Truce died, Sartan took the reins of the Vermillion Mages. He wanted to pick up and leave Terranias, but their starships had been destroyed near the end of the war. Their departure was long overdue, and Sartan had a plan that he believed would yield results.

He was a solid man, built for combat and wise with experience. His uniform was only slightly different than Olock's, having no sleeves on his yellow shirt and a white tiger insignia on the right side of his black vest. The light of the torches illuminated his golden hair, and he scratched his blond beard with a single finger. "We're waiting for an answer, F'Ledro."

"Uh, Sir," F'Ledro shook his head, "I didn't see . . . I mean, she didn't show . . ." he stammered to complete a sentence. "Was she there?" he finally got out.

Olock rolled his eyes and looked back at Sartan. "You see what I have to work with out there?" He pointed at F'Ledro.

"Perhaps not for much longer," Sartan's eyes never left the wiry man. "I don't know that I can continue to work with a man who is terrified of a teenage girl."

"This is no ordinary girl," F'Ledro insisted. "She's a Morpher. You know what they are capable of!"

Sartan lunged forward and grabbed a fist full of F'Ledro's shirt. "I know what _we_ are capable of, you miserable wretch of a man!" Truce snarled, yanking F'Ledro to his knees. "The girl doesn't even know how to harness her power yet, and even if she did, Morphers are _nothing_ compared to us! We _will_ return to our rightful position in the universe one day, F'Ledro, and I'll not let a cowardly little weasel like you stand in our way! Olock was the commanding officer in tonight's operation, and the decision of if and when to order a retreat was up to _him_! But you took your squad and ran when things got a little too warm for you. This is your last warning, boy. The next time you disobey an order from either myself or your commanding officer, you'll be cast out of the kyrosen and left to your own defenses. And I seriously doubt you'd get far considering the number of people who would love to see you dead!"

He threw F'Ledro to the floor and turned his back, almost daring a retaliation. F'Ledro knew better. He scrambled to his feet and bowed to Sartan. "Yes, Sir! Understood, Sir!"

Truce didn't look back. "Now, go see Rhuda on Level Three. I'm sure she has some chores that need doing."

"Right away, Sir!" F'Ledro raced off, obviously glad to be freed from his leader's wrath.

"Think he'll learn, Boss?" Olock asked once he was out of sight.

Sartan let out a long breath. "I don't know, Olock. But as much as I'd love to cast him out, I don't think we can afford it right now. We need every man we have, weasel or not. How many did we lose tonight?"

Olock's eyes turned down. "Nearly thirty, Sir."

"And no suitable subject for the experiment?"

"Actually, I almost had the perfect subject captured, but a young man—a _swordsman_ —interfered. I think he may have been the son of Eaisan Lurei. Or at least a student of his."

Sartan finally turned to face him. "Are you certain? Why do you think this?"

"We've faced Lurei countless times, and this boy's techniques were nearly identical in every way. I could've defeated him, but I eased off once I recognized his combat style."

That got him an uncomfortable glare. "Should've killed him when you had the chance. Why let him go?"

Olock's grin grew. "Because I thought it would be more fitting that one of Eaisan's own students be the one to kill him."

Sartan's eyes gleamed in the torchlight as he caught on. "Brilliant." he said, his voice nearly a whisper. "Eaisan Lurei and Dayne Sheeth have driven us toward extinction. Dayne paid with his life, but Eaisan's crimes against our people have thus far gone unaccounted for. Now he'll pay not only with his life, but with the life of his student as well."

Olock nodded in agreement. "My thoughts exactly, Sir."

"Come, we have much to do." Sartan headed down the tunnel and turned into a darkened room. "Activate the generator, please."

After several moments, the dull hum of the generator filled the den, and several electrically powered lights illuminated the Control Room. Much of their equipment had been damaged during the war, but Sartan had managed to salvage enough parts from the remains of their starships to set up the small control room in one of the larger underground dens. Crude steel panels covered with different colored switches and dials lined the walls, and a large display monitor was mounted opposite the generator. A chair rested in the dirt beside a control console.

"Alright," Sartan mumbled to himself as he typed a few commands into the control panel. "Let's see what we can find here." After a few moments, the screen came to life, illuminating with an image of current sensor readings. His fingers clacked across the keys several more times, and a rough schematic of Keroko Village appeared. "Alright," he said again. "We tried to take them by surprise tonight, and as we know, that didn't work. This time we'll try stealth. I'll need you to get a team together and do some recon. Find out everything you can about this kid—or _any_ of Eaisan's students for that matter—and report back to me. I want _everything_ Olock. His name, his age, his weight, height, birthday, relatives, daily habits, and any other information you can get your hands on. We won't move until we've got a perfect plan in place. Then, we'll send—"

"Sir!" F'Ledro suddenly appeared at the door. He was short of breath, wheezing as though he'd been running. "There's someone outside!"

Sartan's eyes widened. "What?" He switched to a different control panel and flipped a few switches. A fresh scan of the area loaded onto the screen, showing a life form dangerously close to the entrance of the Underworld.

"Are you sure it's not a rabbit or something?" Olock suggested. "The humans _rarely_ travel into the Mayahol; certainly never during a sandstorm."

Sartan was already shaking his head. "No, it's too big to be an animal. Someone's out there, and we can't give him a chance to run back and tell Eaisan of our location. Bring him down here. Kill him only if you have to, but . . ." he glanced at Olock, ". . . I'd like to try to get some information out of him."

Olock straightened with a salute. "As you command, Boss!"

### Chapter 3

The desert sands reflected the radiant beams of afternoon light, its glow spilling through the forest along the border of the Mayahol. Trees thinned where dirt gave way to desert, and thick swaths of sand poured further into the woods where the sandstorms had blown. There were scattered bushes here and there where the sand had yet to smother the leaves. Occasionally a lizard would dart between them in a streak of dull green. The edge of the forest felt the wrath of the desert heat, and the assorted weeds and vines that would've thrived deeper into the woods were reduced to nothing more than dried roots at the border.

Eaisan Lurei paced back and forth, his feet going from dirt to sand to dirt again. He had yet to draw his weapon, though it certainly looked as though he wanted to. He wore his green wraparound jacket and flared brown pants to blend in with the rest of the forest. Behind him, no more than thirty feet away, Arus and Vultrel sat in branches of one of the larger trees, confident that they'd found a spot where the remaining leaves were thick enough to mask their presence. If Eaisan knew they had disobeyed his order and followed him, they would certainly receive a tongue-lashing . . . Perhaps more.

Arus grimaced as he remembered the last time he and Vultrel had disregarded his master's orders. A pack of wolves had been reported just outside the walls of Keroko, and he and Vultrel had gone to investigate despite Eaisan's stern order to stay away. In little time, the boys found themselves scampering away from seven wolves, and it was only by the grace of the Maker that they managed to get back into the village safely. But both Arus' mother and Vultrel's father put them hard at work on the Lurei farm for the next month through searing sun and pouring rain. Arus certainly had no interest in repeating that punishment, but his curiosity had gotten the best of him, and Vultrel didn't have to push the idea much before he agreed.

"What's he doing?" Vultrel whispered from his position on two thick branches to his right. "He's acting like he sees something. Can you tell if there's anything out there?"

Arus squinted as he shifted his attention to the desert itself. "I can't see. It's too bright."

"I wonder what those cursed Mages are up to," Vultrel thought aloud. "They wouldn't have attacked Keroko without reason, right?"

"Doubt it." Arus was looking at Eaisan again. The wind blew, brushing the leaves against him. "You don't think they want to start another war, do you?"

"I don't know. Father said that their numbers were greatly reduced during the last one. I'm not sure they could stand against us."

Below, Eaisan disappeared behind the trees to the north. They waited for a moment to see if he paced back before Vultrel pulled himself onto a higher branch and began climbing northward. "Come on, Arus. Let's follow him."

They scuttled from tree to tree, following the desert border northward behind Eaisan. He stopped every so often, staring into the distance or examining tracks in the sand, but then he would continue on in search of whatever it was he had yet to find. Arus moved with the experience of a hunter, rustling no leaves and breaking no branches. Eaisan's hearing was sharp, but Arus had spent many summer days hunting in the woods. The years had taught him how to move virtually undetected. Vultrel was always close behind, his natural agility aiding him in matching Arus' speed and silence.

"How far is he going to go?" he muttered as they crawled across the branches. "We've got to be close to Narleaha by now."

Arus wasn't listening. The formation of the trees was leading them closer to the Mayahol, and with it, Master Eaisan. He stopped short of climbing onto the tree just behind where Eaisan had stopped. In their current position, they sat little more than fifteen feet from him. If they continued forward, they'd be practically on top of him. "We're getting too close," he whispered. "If we climb onto that tree, he'll notice us for sure."

Vultrel's eyes wandered in search of another route. "How about that one?" He pointed to a much higher area where branches intersected with those from another tree of the same height. "We can cross up there and then come around the other side."

It seemed like a long journey to Arus, but it was better than being caught. "Alright," he agreed. He kept his eyes on Eaisan as he stepped up onto the next branch, a limb no thicker around than the handle of his sword. It sagged under his weight, but held. He had begun to reach for the next limb when Eaisan's hand moved to his coat. A thick knife appeared in his grasp, and he let it fly with a firm flick of his wrist. The blade lodged in the branch beneath Arus' feet where the limb met the tree's trunk. There was a loud crack, and splinters of wood sailed from the joint as the branch tore away. Arus grabbed onto Vultrel's tunic as he fell in a frantic attempt to catch himself, but his weight pulled them both down, and they tumbled to the ground with crash.

"If you are hunting an enemy," Eaisan began as he approached, "it's probably best to be sure that your enemy isn't hunting _you._ "

Arus rubbed his neck and grimaced as he sat up. "Well spoken, Master. I apologize, we just wanted—"

"We'll discuss it when we get back," he interrupted, offering the boys a hand. "If your mothers find you missing they're likely to come looking for you, and it's dangerous enough for you two to be here, let alone your mothers. Come."

Eaisan started into the forest, but Vultrel held his eyes on the desert. "What were you watching, Father? Did you see any of them?"

"I'm not sure if they were Vermillion Mages or not, but I saw several figures heading in the direction of Narleaha. Perhaps they're raiding all the local towns. Maybe they need food or supplies."

"Shouldn't we head for Narleaha, then?" Arus called, chasing after Eaisan. Vultrel reluctantly followed.

"I'll speak with Mayor Randolf," he replied, "but I doubt we have the extra men to spare at the moment. We want to keep Keroko well-defended for now, and the militia only has but so many members."

"I think _we_ should just go up there and handle the Mages ourselves," Vultrel grumbled, smacking a clenched fist into his palm.

"Discipline, Son," Eaisan warned. "You must learn patience. Without it, all else you have learned will crumble under the rigors of battle."

"I don't understand, Sir," Arus shook his head. "The people of Narleaha could be dying while we're out here being 'patient.' What good can come from that?"

"We don't know that the Mages are attacking Narleaha," Eaisan explained as he climbed over a fallen tree. "We know they harbor ill feelings toward Keroko—and me in particular—because of the events of the war. What if they are simply headed north to try and launch a surprise attack from that direction? Perhaps they're intending to test our defenses in different areas until they find a weakness. Or perhaps they aren't attacking anyone at all. As I said, they may not have even been Mages. We don't know enough to simply run off to Narleaha. We have to return to Keroko, warn our people, and we can decide what to do from there."

"I see," Arus nodded.

Vultrel shook his head. "I just . . . I don't want them to hurt anyone else."

"I know, Son," Eaisan's voice was almost a whisper. "I know."

They continued through the woods with nothing but the occasional chirping of the birds to break the silence. It was frightening to think that the Mages could wage war upon Asteria again. _Then what would Father have died for? If the Vermillion Mages attack us and finally defeat us, my father's death would've been for nothing._

But the battle would give me a chance to avenge him.

No, I can't think like that. Vengeance isn't a good reason to kill a man. Still, if they attack the village again, it would be the perfect opportunity for me to settle the score . . .

"No, can't think like that," Arus muttered, shaking his head.

"Did you say something, Arus?" Eaisan looked back at him.

The blood drained from his face. "Uh, I was just wondering if we had to tell our mothers about any of this."

To his surprise, Eaisan shrugged. "I won't tell them if you don't," he said. Arus let out a sigh and exchanged a relieved look with Vultrel. "However," Eaisan turned, and his lips formed a sly smile, "that doesn't mean your disobedience will be forgotten. After all, I've been meaning to take some time off from working on the farm, and I'll need a couple of fine youths to care for my tomatoes while I do."

Arus and Vultrel hung their heads. "Busted," Vultrel grumbled.

*******

Olock fingered the electronic communications device attached to his belt. From his position behind the large stone, he'd seen Eaisan Lurei and his two companions briefly before they disappeared into the forest. The sand was hot under his stomach, but he knew he had to lie as low as possible to avoid detection. A short distance away, F'Ledro sat cowering on his knees behind a larger rock. His stone was rather large—enough to hide him in a kneeling position—but the crimson rock that Olock found himself behind was no larger than a small sheep. The slightest movement would be easy to spot from any distance.

"Where is he?" F'Ledro's whisper was dripping with impatience.

"Quiet," Olock ordered. "He'll be here any minute now."

The tiny beige communicator emitted a soft beep. Olock raised it to his mouth and pressed the narrow button on the side. "Yeah, Boss?"

"We're almost there," Sartan's voice buzzed from the tiny device. "You say there are two kids with him?"

"Yes, Sir. Both appear to be similar in age. It's quite possible they're his students."

"That's perfect," Sartan's smile could be heard in his voice. "The more test subjects, the better. Do you still see them?"

"They just moved deeper into the woods. I don't think they saw us. But they're gone now."

"They couldn't have gone far. We'll fan out and surround them if we can. Good work, Olock." Sartan didn't even bother addressing F'Ledro.

Olock smirked. "Actually, it was an accident, Sir. We were headed out to dig up some information on that kid and suddenly they were right in front of us. It was sheer luck."

"Luck or not, this gives us the perfect chance to test the modifications we made to the implant."

The smile vanished from Olock's face. "The . . . implant? Is it . . . um, I mean, is _he_ with you?"

"No, there are still more adjustments to be made," Sartan's voice came back. "But so far it seems to be a success. We'll see how he reacts to being told to fight one of his own people. That'll give me a good idea of how many more glitches I have to work on."

Olock shuddered in spite of the desert heat. He'd been excited about the project from the moment Sartan had told him about it, but once he'd actually seen it in operation . . . He didn't even want to remember it.

"We should meet up with you shortly. Stay sharp. Just because you don't think Eaisan saw you doesn't mean he didn't. He could be hunting you two right now. Be alert."

"Always, Boss. Olock out."

He clipped the square communicator to his belt and gazed into the woods. Eaisan and his boys were going to help with the experiment whether they wanted to or not. If successful, the device could be sold to militaries or pirates or smugglers for a hefty profit, and the kyrosen would finally have the financial stability they needed to leave Terranias. It all depended on the success of Truce's design.

Olock wiped the sweat from his brow and refocused his eyes on the forest. "Everything depends on those boys."

*******

Arus followed Vultrel and Eaisan back toward Keroko, lost in his feelings, battling the once-silent need for vengeance that had only recently begun to stir. It was a desire that he knew went against everything he'd ever believed in and everything that his father, his grandfather, and even his great grandfather had stood for. The Sheeth family had always been known for their chivalry. Things like revenge and bloodlust had no place in their lives, but the more he thought about it, the more Arus found himself trying to justify his anger. His heart screamed at him for it, telling him that it was wrong no matter what excuses he made up, and yet . . .

"And then, Melia told me she thought I was cute," Vultrel was rambling. "Can you believe that?"

"Not for a second," Eaisan laughed.

Vultrel nodded. "Well, she did. And she said she'd like to get breakfast with me in the morning sometime. Hey, Arus, wouldn't that be fun? You could invite Katlyn along and we could all go together!"

Arus couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes. "Oh, sure. That would be—"

Eaisan suddenly stopped short, his back straight and his eyes alert. He looked hard at the surrounding woodland, studying it, watching it, listening to it. His gaze turned to seemingly random places, but his eyes were focused as though they had already locked their target. Arus and Vultrel remained quiet, looking around in search of whatever had drawn their master's attention. Arus noticed that Eaisan's hand had moved to the hilt of his sword. He unconsciously rested his palm on the handle of his own and tried to beat back the thumping of his heart.

"We're being followed," Eaisan's voice was barely audible, but he didn't need to repeat it. Vultrel began to slide his sword from the scabbard on his back, but a sharp look from his father stopped him.

"Go ahead. Draw your weapon."

The scratchy voice came from the trees to the east. Arus gripped the handle of his weapon but waited for Eaisan to make the first move. Vultrel stood to his father's left, and Arus moved to his right.

"You may as well come out now that you've revealed yourself," Eaisan said, his voice calm as ever. "We are peaceful, so long as you are."

A man wearing black and yellow stepped from behind one of the trees before them. His blond hair glistened in the sunlight, and his eyes were narrow over an arrogant grin. A thick beard covered most of his face, its color almost matching the yellow of the shirt he wore beneath his black vest. "Well, well, well," his deep voice spoke, "If it isn't 'Master' Eaisan Lurei." His emphasis suggested he was mocking the title. "What are you doing wandering the forest with these children?"

Eaisan's voice never wavered. He spoke as though he was having a pleasant conversation with a friend. His words said otherwise. "I don't see how that's any of your business. I don't even know you."

"You don't remember?" the man said with a snort. "We've met many times on the battlefield."

"You are Vermillion Mage, then?"

"The grandest of them," the grin widened. "Boss, leader, king, ruler, champion; call it what you like. Allow me to introduce myself," he bowed deeply in artificial respect. "I am Sartan Truce."

"Truce . . ." Arus murmured. "Son of Aratus."

He hadn't expected Sartan to hear, but the Mage looked at him. "You know your history, I see. Did your father teach you that?"

Arus gripped his sword, still sheathed. _If there was ever one to exact revenge upon, it is this man._ "He did," he said, deciding it would be best if he limited his words.

Sartan looked back at Eaisan. "How nice. What else have you taught him, hmm? Taught him how to fight? Have you taught him how to wield that blade he clutches so tightly?"

Eaisan held up his hand. "I am not the boy's father, if that is what you're suggesting."

A brief moment of confusion flashed across Sartan's face, but the smile returned almost instantly. "Tragic to lose one's father at such a young age. How did he die?"

"You _know_ how he died," Arus growled. His blood boiled, and the weapon at his side inched from the scabbard. "You and your dogs killed him during the—"

He was cut off by the waving of Eaisan's hand, but it was too late. A smile, this one genuine, formed on Truce's face. "Many died during the war, but only one wielded that sword. It is the weapon that impaled my father—the old fool—and only the son of Dayne Sheeth would be worthy of carrying it."

"Enough of this!" Eaisan shouted, his calm disposition shattering. "What do you want from us?"

Sartan's smile also vanished. "What do you _think_ I want?"

His words hung in the air as several more men revealed themselves from the woods. There were at least twenty, perhaps more, Vermillion Mages scattered amongst the trees. To Arus' left, another man in black and yellow caught his eye. It was the man he'd fought with at the Festival—the one who'd tried to kidnap Max. The Mage glanced at another on the opposite side, a slim man with an oversized nose and an orange shirt. A small metal device of some kind sat in a leather holster on his right side, but Arus couldn't make it out. Beside Eaisan, Vultrel's anxiousness was evident, but Arus couldn't tell whether he wanted to fight or escape. His master wore an intimidating expression, his eyes like daggers aimed at Truce.

"If it's a duel with me you seek, it is yours," Eaisan said. "But leave the boys out of this."

"But they look so eager to fight," Sartan's antagonistic smile had already returned. He turned his attention to Vultrel, and it was then that Arus noticed the broadsword strapped to Truce's back. "What's your name, little boy?"

Vultrel finally drew his sword and readied it as though he meant to attack. "Vultrel Lurei. Call me a 'little boy' if you must. It will give me something to remember when I carve the tongue from your mouth."

Another brief expression—excitement this time—crossed Sartan's face. He glanced at the other Mage in yellow and muttered something. _Too good to be true, he said._

Eaisan and Sartan continued arguing back and forth while Arus searched for any means of escape. The Mages had completely surrounded the area, leaving not a gap wider than a cow between them. Some wore swords on their backs while others had metal devices like the big-nosed man. Still, regardless of how skilled they were with weapons, Arus knew they had awesome powers at their disposal.

"And what of you, young man?" Sartan was once again looking at him. "Do you wish to wield that blade in combat against me?"

Arus locked eyes with Truce. _Kill him and be done with these feelings. Kill him and Father will be avenged. Kill him and every last one of his allies! KILL HIM!_

"NO!" Arus shouted, clenching his fists. He ground his teeth and turned away from Sartan. "I won't succumb to such nonsense!"

"Such extreme anger for such a child," Sartan spoke as calmly as ever. "I wonder if there's more . . ."

A sharp pain, brief but piercing, shot through Arus' temple. The sounds around him began to fade, pushed to the back of his mind. Visions filled his head. Memories of years past. Adjusting to his role as the man of the house, learning the chores that Dayne had once held—it all came flooding back to him in a surge of emotion. He remembered the sadness, the emptiness, the warmth and joy his father had brought to his home, and the hollow void he'd left behind. He remembered the day his father handed him his sword, lying on his deathbed, moments before he breathed his last. His soul churned with turmoil as the morals and teachings that Dayne and Eaisan had instilled within him were abruptly cast aside, replaced by an unfathomable bloodlust and rage. Arus seethed with anger, tears running down his face, his sword now drawn. The only thing that mattered, the only thing he wanted, and the only thing he believed would purge those cursed feelings had suddenly become the only driving-force in his life. He would drown his sword—Dayne Sheeth's sword—in Vermillion blood, or he would die trying.

Arus raised his weapon in his father's stance and stepped toward the Mage. He could hear Eaisan screaming in the background—something about resisting—but it was little more than a muddled echo behind his blinding rage. He could barely feel his boots beating across the dirt as he ran. It wasn't until his weapon was inches from Sartan's chest that a white wall of flame burst from the ground. The searing heat knocked him back like a cudgel to the chest, throwing his body to the dirt with such force that his sword flew from his grip. The world spun as he tried to focus, vaguely aware of the battle that had erupted around him. He could hear Eaisan and Vultrel calling his name amidst the clashing of swords, but soon they, too, were silenced. Truce's laughter filled his ears as darkness overtook him.

*******

The heels of Kindel's boots left a dull echo in their wake, their rapping the only sound disturbing the otherwise silent hall. Scimitar and Kalibur followed close behind. Soldiers stood at attention as they passed, uneasiness blatant in their expressions. Dozens of them walked throughout the corridors, varying in both rank and species, but each froze when they saw the admiral approaching. Kindel liked it that way. As long as they feared him, it was unlikely they'd attempt to usurp his command of the Vezulian Armada. He would not allow himself or his people to be conquered. Not again.

The door to the Research Deck slid open, greeting Kindel with a momentary burst of cool air. A catwalk ran around the upper perimeter where assorted computer terminals lined the walls, mostly used for quick sensor scans or retrieval of planetary information. The elevated walkway gave a clear view to the white-robed scientists and researchers bustling around the floor below. Kindel's snow-white hair swayed as he descended the stairway to the lower level with his two assistants in tow.

The deck was home to the bulk of the science team along with most of their equipment. Computer terminals and science stations were set in cubicles, each with two or more scientists hard at work. Many stations had long black tables set beside the computers, complete with advanced testing equipment for experiments and analysis. A large holographic imaging system stood in the center of the lab. The unit projected an enormous holographic model of the charted universe. Using the controls at its base, one could locate planets, plot destination courses, or even track how planets and galaxies shifted over time. A wealth of information was at the fingertips of any scientist in need.

Kindel's eyes thinned as he approached the Planetary Ecosystems terminal. Lieutenant Petreit, wrapped in a white coat, sat at the computer with his head in his hands and Lieutenant Merlianis beside him. Like Kindel, she was a zo'rhan, though decades younger. She wore her long purple hair in a twisted bun, and her pale blue skin glittered in the light with her movements. Kindel didn't give them a chance to notice his presence.

"Have you found what I asked of you, Lieutenant Petreit?"

Ever so slightly, Petreit shuddered. He was on his feet in an instant, saluting Kindel and no doubt hoping the reaction had gone unnoticed. Merlianis matched the pose beside him, her dull blue eyes quivering under the Kindel's expectant stare. "We have, Sir," Petreit reported. "However, there is—"

"You are dismissed, Lieutenant," Kindel's words were directed toward Merlianis, speaking as though Petreit hadn't replied. "Proceed to the Bridge. Captain Tiras requires assistance in cartography."

"Right away, Sir!" the female zo'rhan replied, bowing. Relief was evident in her face as she sped toward the stairwell. Kindel returned his gaze to Petreit.

"I thought I made it clear that the information I shared with you was _classified_ , Lieutenant." His eyes thinned. "What did you tell her?"

Petreit's face turned white, and his terrified stare shifted from Kindel to Scimitar and Kalibur. "Sir, I didn't tell her anything about the stone! On my honor as a Vezulian soldier, I said nothing! She was assisting me in locating the gem you requested, that is all. I didn't even mention that it was for you. I simply said—"

"And what have you found?" the admiral cut him off.

"Belvidia, Sir," the lieutenant's response was quick. "It's a planet in the Zeros galaxy. It's populated by a race of winged creatures. They resemble pixies, Sir. They are born with a precious green gem embedded within their forehead. As they grow, so does the gem. Since it is born of flesh, I don't see why we couldn't extract the proper genetic sequences from one of them to produce another. Seeds, like you said."

The harsh expression on Kindel's face faded and was replaced by a satisfied smile. "You've done well, Lieutenant. I want all the information on this planet, its indigenous life, and that stone that you can gather. Have it sent to the terminal in my quarters."

"Of course, Sir," Petreit nodded. "There's just one . . . problem."

Kindel eyed him for a moment. "Go on."

"Um, well, you see, the planet has been quarantined by the Aeden Alliance. Apparently, Belvids have been hunted to near-extinction by poachers in search of that very same gem. They sell for quite a bit of money, so I read."

Kindel closed his eyes and shook his head. The Aeden Alliance was an intergalactic army formed to support and defend any and all planets who accepted their help. They considered themselves to be the peacekeepers of the universe, though they foolishly believed that Kindel and his Armada were a threat to that peace. They didn't understand Kindel's ideals, and they certainly didn't understand the brutish minds of conquerors. Peaceful negotiations were not always an option, though the Alliance insisted the contrary. Countless civilizations throughout history had fallen to the sword because of such naive thinking. Conquerors know nothing of civilized negotiations, nor would such tactics work to calm their rage. The only answer, every single time, was to eliminate them before they eliminated others.

"I doubt the Alliance will take kindly to our presence there," Petreit muttered to himself, studying the text on his terminal. "And they've got a blockade in place."

Kindel glanced at the screen, then drew a round silver communicator from his belt. "Bridge, this is Admiral Thorus."

"Yes, Sir," Captain Tiras' voice responded. "Your orders?"

"Take us to the Zeros system. Inform the rest of the fleet to follow. We have business at Belvidia."

"Acknowledged, Sir," Tiras replied.

Kindel returned the communicator to his belt with a heavy sigh and returned to the stairwell. "Well, Aldoric, it seems as though our paths may cross once more. Perhaps I'll finally be able to rid the universe of your wretched blood."

*******

Sartan hurried through the caverns of the Underworld as quickly as his feet would carry him, slowing only to round corners. The smile on his face showed only a fraction of his excitement. Olock and F'Ledro trailed behind, their lips curved into anxious grins. Sartan rounded another corner and shook his head in disbelief.

"I just can't believe our luck!" he exclaimed again. "Not only did we get the children of Dayne and Eaisan, but we finally brought in Eaisan himself!"

"Truly, it is a glorious day for the Vermillion Mages, Sir!" Olock agreed.

Sartan stopped and faced him. "No," he said, his smile growing further. "For the kyrosen! Soon we will shed that ridiculous alias and a new era for the kyrosen will begin!"

Olock and F'Ledro added their cheers to Sartan's before the three continued through the tunnel. "How long until we can have another implant ready?" Olock asked.

Sartan led them into the control room and powered up the generator. "Not long. The majority of the mechanism has been ready to go for weeks, but I haven't yet begun assembling the outer casing. Should be ready by late tomorrow if you two give me a hand."

"And how is the training of our other student proceeding?"

Sartan laughed as he plopped into the chair beside the control panel. "So far, so good. I've got Alaan running a series of tests to weed out any potential bugs. Nothing major has been reported yet." His fingers rattled the keyboard a few times, and a schematic of the Underworld appeared on the display screen. A few more keystrokes, and a power grid appeared. "All right," Sartan said, hitting one final key before standing. The display showed a bright orange line running from the control room to a larger den further underground. "I've powered up the lab. Let's get down there and get to work."

### Chapter 4

Arus was faintly aware of himself, though he hadn't the slightest notion of what had happened. A rolling pain pulsed through his chest and arms. His back was stiff as a board—perhaps he was lying on one—and the warm moist air seemed to press at his body from all sides. Darkness surrounded him, swallowing him in a sea of black, but that began to fade as consciousness crept over him.

"Arus, you're awake!"

His eyes were open now. The lumpy ceiling of the dirt-carved cavern flickered in the dim light of the lantern that hung from the wall. To his right, several posts of steel ran from the floor to the ceiling, forming a makeshift prison cell. The square frame of a door was shaped into the bars and fitted with a lock. Arus and the lantern were the only things inside the small cage aside from several small rocks.

"Ooh," he groaned, pushing himself upright. His upper torso had been completely wrapped in white cloth along with the upper portion of his left arm. The right was bare, leaving a dark red burn running from shoulder to elbow exposed. The waistline of his pants was charred with black and brown.

"How do you feel?" a familiar voice came from the darkness outside of the cell.

"Master Eaisan?" Arus' grogginess cracked through his voice. He rubbed his eyes. They burned, too.

"I am here, Arus," Eaisan's voice came back from the dark. "I am in a chamber similar to yours just across the way. Vultrel is here in a cell beside mine."

"Are you all right, Arus?" Vultrel's question echoed in the cavern.

"I can't . . ." Arus still couldn't see them. "My eyes aren't . . ." He still hadn't recovered enough to comprehend. "I can't see you."

"It will take some time," Eaisan said, his calm voice soothing in the dark. "Our eyes have adjusted, but then, we've been awake for quite a bit longer than you. I was afraid you wouldn't ever come back to us."

Arus rubbed his eyes again and squinted into the dark. "My throat hurts."

"You were screaming like a madman," Vultrel told him. "It's a wonder you didn't rupture your vocal chords."

"I . . ." Arus shook his head in an attempt to clear the cobwebs, and the cell began to spin. He squeezed his eyes closed and rested his forehead against his palm. "I don't remember anything. I did what?"

"Take slow breaths," Eaisan said. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Keep your eyes closed. It will help you to regain your senses."

Arus straightened his back and did as he was told. It was hard to breath in the dank cavern. The air was hotter than the summer sun. The smell of sweat and dirt filled his nostrils with every breath. Even the desert wasn't as warm as—

The desert.

They had been at the edge of the Mayahol. He and Vultrel had followed Eaisan through the forest. They were on their way back to Keroko to warn the people about—

"The Mages," he murmured aloud, his eyes suddenly wide open. Memories flooded back like a tidal wave. "I attacked Sartan Truce, didn't I?"

"Screaming like a madman," Vultrel said again. It sounded as though he was stifling laughter. "Did you really think you could kill him?"

Arus remembered the turmoil he'd felt as he rushed Truce. He'd never felt so vehemently angry before—not even when his father died. One feeling had built on top of another, onto another, onto another, on and on until he had hurled himself forward in a blind fury. The memory of it filled him with shame. "I'm sorry, Master Eaisan," he murmured, putting his head in his hands again. "I don't know what came over me. I didn't really mean to—"

"It is not your fault, Arus," Eaisan interrupted. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. That was Truce's doing. I am sorry I didn't warn you sooner, but even if I had, you'd never have been prepared enough to face it. He used his power to get inside your mind and goad you into attacking him. It was _his_ doing, not yours."

_The pain. That needlepoint pain in my temple right before I attacked. Could that have been . . . Truce?_ "You mean he can control my mind?"

"Not exactly, thank the Maker." Arus was beginning to see the thin outline of Eaisan's face in the darkness. "He uses his abilities to draw out your darkest feelings so that he may use them to his own advantage. In your case, he drew out your anger and multiplied it many times, perhaps hundreds of times over, until you lost control of yourself."

"What happened after that?"

To the right of Eaisan, Vultrel's form began to appear. It looked like he was rubbing his ribs. "They attacked us," he said with a grimace. "Those fireballs of theirs are no joke."

"We ended up the same as you," Eaisan added, elaborating Vultrel's point. "Though I suspect our burns aren't as severe as yours."

Arus looked at his bandages again. "Who tended our wounds? And why are we locked in these cells? For that matter, where _are_ we?"

"We think this is a cave beneath the Mayahol." Vultrel glanced at his father. "The Mages bandaged our injuries. One of them, a guy named Olock, was here about a few hours ago. He said something about needing us healthy for some festivities later tonight."

"We don't know how much time has passed or how long we've been in here," Eaisan shrugged. Arus could see bandages wrapped around the swordsman's waist. "For all we know, it could be night already."

_Whatever they have planned, it can't be anything good._ Arus planted his feet on the floor and grabbed the prison bars to pull himself to a standing position. The dark cavern spun and blurred as his body adjusted, and he concentrated on breathing as Eaisan had taught him until the room was steady again. "I don't want to wait around to find out what Sartan has planned," he said, tugging on the steel bars. "We need to find a way out of here."

Vultrel stood, too. "Shh!" he hushed, raising a finger to his lips as he peered into the darkness. "Did you hear that?"

Arus followed his gaze. "Hear what?"

Eaisan was standing now, his hands around the steel bars of his prison. "A voice," he said. "It sounded like—"

Movement in the shadows cut him off. Footsteps, light and quick, tapped across the packed dirt. Before Arus could even get a good look at her, a young lady with flowing black hair was at his prison door, shoving a small metal sphere into the keyhole.

"Stand back."

It took a moment for the words to register, but he moved to the far side of the cell. The girl turned away—her face was still indistinct in the meager light of the lanterns—and the lock burst to pieces. The door swung forward on its own.

"Stay there for a moment," she ordered. Her back was already to him as she put similar spheres into the other locks. They burst with tiny puffs of smoke, and Arus soon found himself standing beside Vultrel and Eaisan in the dim light. His jaw dropped when the young lady finally faced them.

"We meet again," Eaisan said with a bow.

Her eyes were the only visible portion of her face—a deep blue cloth covered her features from the bridge of her nose to the underside of her chin, and another was wrapped across her forehead. Both disappeared into thick black hair that nearly reached her waist. Her shirt was a matching blue, sleeves torn off slightly below her shoulders, and she wore blue silk gloves that stretched past her elbows. A leather belt was strung through the loops of her black pants, and a shiny black whip was coiled and latched to its right side. She carried herself like a battle-hardened warrior, but her voice betrayed her youth.

"You . . ." Arus' voice trailed off as her stare bore a hole through him. Her eyes were also blue, narrowed into an icy glare that would've struck fear into Kuldaan himself. "You were in our village when we were attacked."

"What of it?" she grumbled, heading into the darkness without waiting for them to follow. After a few steps, Arus could see an opening in the cavern wall not too far away. The young woman motioned for them to wait as she crept through it. Arus barely had time to glance at Vultrel and Eaisan before she called for them to follow.

The connecting cavern was little more than a tunnel, barely wide enough for two people. Blazing torches lined the walls in both directions, illuminating the corridor far better than the prison lanterns. The path to the right sloped upward and curved to the side, while the path to the left went further down. The girl yanked one of the torches from its makeshift perch and glanced between the two paths. She looked ready to speak, but a quiet beep from the pouch on her belt interrupted. She reached inside and withdrew a rectangular device of shining silver. Pressing her finger against a small protrusion on the side, she raised it to her lips. "Yeah, what is it?"

A majestic voice responded. "How are things going? Did you find it yet?"

"Not yet," she replied. "I just freed some of the locals. I'm going to look for it next."

Arus and Vultrel were wide-eyed. Such devices were completely foreign to humans. The idea that two people could hold a conversation through a small piece of metal seemed preposterous, yet this young lady was doing just that. Beside them, Eaisan's face had hardened. According to legend, a great war had once been waged amongst humans. Their mechanical weapons nearly drove the race to extinction, and in the wake of the struggle, humans abandoned their technology to ensure that such a war would never happen again.

The Vermillion War had rekindled those concerns. The Mages had large mechanical transports armed with frightening weaponry. Many seemed to have been heavily damaged before the war even began—from what, no one really knew—but they still packed a dangerous amount of firepower in their cannons. Arus had never seen for himself, but Eaisan had spoken of weapons that fired beams of pure energy capable of incinerating anyone careless enough to get in their way. It reaffirmed his belief that machines were only good for evil, and it showed in the sternness of his voice. "Young lady. Excuse me."

". . . should be two or three levels down, if I remember the sensor readout correctly," she was saying into the device.

"Just get out of there as soon as you can," the voice responded. It almost reminded Arus of Eaisan—filled with wisdom and strength. "As soon as I finish with Belvidia, I'll return for you. It worries me that Kindel would take this kind of action. But we can talk more about that later."

"Right," the girl agreed. "Be safe out there, Damien."

"You too, Kitreena."

Her eyes gazed unfocused into the depths of the tunnel for a moment before she returned the device to her pouch. But when she looked at her three companions, the angry scowl returned. "What are you still doing here? Get to the surface!" She pointed toward the rising path behind them. "Take any upward sloping path you see and eventually you'll get back into the desert."

Eaisan was eying her brown pouch with an uneasy look. "Have you not been taught about the great war, my dear?"

"Father, please," Vultrel pleading, holding up his hands. "Not now. We must get moving."

But the young lady simply glared at him. "What do you mean?"

Eaisan motioned to her pouch. "Machines are forbidden. Did you not know this?"

She looked puzzled for a moment, then snorted. "Your laws mean nothing to me, Gramps. But don't worry, I don't think a communicator is capable of blowing up the planet." She paused for a moment, sarcastically contemplating the notion. "I doubt it, anyway."

The swordsman frowned at her lack of respect. She turned away and started down the tunnel, moving only a few paces before Arus spoke. "Um, Kitreena?" he began, stepping forward. She said nothing, only pausing to look over her shoulder at him. "That's your name, right?" She responded with a single nod. Arus' heart felt like it was going to burst through his chest. "Th-Thank you, Kitreena. Thank you for helping us."

Now she faced him, and her expression seemed to soften. She drew a long breath, almost as though the next words she spoke would be the hardest sentence she'd ever uttered. "You're welcome. Now, go. Patrols will be here any minute."

But Arus wasn't finished. "You're going to face him, aren't you? Sartan Truce?"

The anger came back with a sharp snap. "That's not your concern. Just get out of here."

She left no time for any further questions. Without looking back, she ran as fast as she could down the tunnel and disappeared around a corner in the distance. Behind him, Eaisan spoke.

"Come, boys." His face still seemed agitated by her use of machinery. Still, his words suggested gratitude. "Her effort will be wasted if they capture us again."

"I don't want to leave her to face him alone, Master," Arus said with a shake of his head.

I don't feel right about it either," Vultrel added, staring down the hall.

Eaisan turned and started up the winding path. "I understand, but we are unarmed, and even if we weren't, you two are not ready for—"

The land trembled beneath their feet as an explosion echoed from above. Panicked voices drifted down from the pathway ahead, cutting off their escape route. Eaisan led the boys back the way they'd come, past the prison corridor and down the tunnel. Hurried footsteps grew louder behind them, but Arus refused to look back. He ran despite the searing pain in his chest; he didn't know nor _want_ to know what Sartan would do to him if they were captured again. He could hear the Mages screams behind them, some ordering them to stop, others announcing the prisoners' escape to whoever might hear. The end of the tunnel was near, and the only choice was a path to the left. Arus raced around the corner and skidded to a halt. Vultrel and Eaisan nearly trampled him as they, too, came to a stop.

"What the . . ." Vultrel didn't let the sentence finish.

The hall was wider here, enough to fit even a small carriage through. Kitreena stood in the center of a circle of Vermillion Mages, the leather whip twitching around her body like an angry tiger's tail. Her movements were like lightning, snapping the whip across one soldier's face while driving the heel of her boot into the throat of another. Two more lunged at her from opposite sides. Her whip cracked against the shins of the first, and before his body had even hit the ground, her fist connected with the face of his comrade. The remaining three Mages conjured fireballs in their palms. As the first released, Kitreena used her whip to pull another soldier into its path. Two more quick snaps of her weapon brought the final Mages to the ground.

And it all happened in a matter of seconds.

"Who _is_ this girl?" Vultrel murmured, his jaw hanging in shock. His voice attracted her attention, and she growled when she saw them.

"I thought I told you to—"

"There they are! Get them!"

There were five pursuing Mages, clad in black pants and shirts of assorted color. Eaisan was tackled by three of them, Vultrel by the other two. As they fell to the ground, Arus was knocked forward, and he stumbled over the already fallen men and crashed to the dirt just beside Kitreena. She moved between him and the Mages, swirling her whip around before cracking it in the air.

"Let them go!" she demanded, cracking the whip again.

The soldiers yanked Eaisan and Vultrel to their feet, positioning themselves behind their prisoners. Arus scrambled up behind Kitreena. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he yelled. "Save them!"

"In case you haven't noticed," she hissed without turning back, "they are using your friends as shields."

"Arus, go!" Eaisan ordered. "Don't worry about us; we can take care of ourselves! Get out of here!"

"Don't move!" one of the Mages shouted from behind Vultrel. "Surrender at once!"

"Go, Arus!" Vultrel prodded. "Father and I will come up with something. Just get yourself out of here!"

"We can't do anything for them right now," Kitreena muttered under her breath as she backed toward Arus. "Let's get out of here. We'll find a place to hide until I come up with a plan."

"Are you crazy?" Arus shouted at her. "I'm not going to leave them! They need—"

Kitreena whirled to face him, her hair whipping behind her almost as sharply as her weapon. "You've already proven to be more trouble than you're worth. I didn't _need_ to rescue any of you, and now you've jeopardized my mission. If you want any more help from me, you're going to have to do as I say! Are we clear?"

Everything was happening so fast. Vultrel and Eaisan, struggling against their captors, continued to plead with Arus to run. Though there were five of them, the Vermillion Mages fought to hold their captives, leaving himself and Kitreena free to escape. She gave him one last glare before racing down the tunnel.

"Arus," Eaisan's voice was calm despite the commotion. "Go. We'll be fine. There is no dishonor in living to fight another day."

Finally, Arus nodded. "I'll come back for you both. I promise."

He raced after Kitreena without looking back.

*******

Olock stood across from Sartan in the crude laboratory, leaning on the makeshift operating chair. It had once been a flight seat in a passenger starship, but Truce had salvaged it from the wreckage after the war. Many sick and wounded had rested in that chair, but the most recently performed operation had little to do with health. To the side, a large cabinet full of tools stood within arm's reach. Medical books lined battered wooden shelves on the far side of the room, and lanterns hung from crude hooks of jagged steel along the wall. Sartan sat opposite Olock on a wooden stool beside a steel-topped counter—also taken from the transport ship—listening to the latest report from one of the patrols.

"They just split up, Boss. Senchil and his men have recaptured Eaisan and his son, but the red-headed kid escaped with the girl. They were headed toward the Barracks."

Truce grinned as he lifted the communicator to his lips. "That won't help them escape, that's for sure. We can certainly use this to our advantage. See that the path to the surface is blocked, and call everyone else to the Audience Chamber. Bring Eaisan and his boy, too. It's almost time to test our new soldier's abilities."

"Yes, Sir," the voice on the other end responded. "And what of the two runaways?"

"Eaisan and his son will draw them into our hands like snakes to a pair of mice. They'll come looking for him, and then they'll be ours."

"Roger, Sir."

Sartan returned his communicator to his belt and glanced at Olock with a knowing smile. The gleam in his eyes came not from the glowing lanterns. "The kyrosen will rise once more, my friend."

Heavy footsteps crossed the laboratory floor behind the two and stopped. Truce didn't even look back. "And what of you, young one? Are you ready for your first challenge?"

Olock looked up briefly before turning away. A sturdy young man, tall for his age but shaped like a fighter, stood in silence as Sartan spoke to him. He was dressed in villager's clothes, with tan pants and folded-down leather boots. A brown cloak was draped over his shoulders, and a cowl covered most of his face. Still, there was no missing the hard stare from the young man's eyes, or the glint of steel beside the left.

"Don't worry," Sartan was saying despite the silence from his newest recruit, "I'm sure you'll do just fine."

"Sir," Olock spoke, swallowing hard. "Is the other . . . device ready yet?"

Truce must've noticed his nervousness. "Do you doubt my design, Olock? You certainly don't seem too trusting of my work."

"It's not that, Sir," Olock said, shaking his head. "I've just found this a bit more troubling than I had anticipated. I don't like the idea of using people as . . . slaves."

Now Sartan looked at him, a hard look of contemplation. "You think me an unfit leader, then? I'm not much for slavery myself, but we have little choice with no willing test subjects to select from. I'd much sooner enslave one of the worms of this planet than one of our own."

"You are a fine leader, Boss. And I agree, I'd much rather use one of the Keroko slimes than one of our own if none are willing. I just hoped someone would volunteer. If it had not been the _first_ experiment, I may have done so myself."

Sartan waved the idea away with his hand. "I've told you before that adults do not make suitable hosts."

"Are there no youths among our families that are willing?"

"Too few to spare. If we want the kyrosen to prosper in the future, we must protect our young. I won't expose them to an unproven technology such as this unless I must."

Olock forced himself to look at the young man again. "Do you think the programming will hold?"

"Time will tell." Sartan took a deep breath. "We'd better get down to the Audience Chamber. I don't want our runaways to get there before us."

*******

The corridor was quiet aside from the crackling torches. They had long since distanced themselves from the voices of pursuing soldiers yet had also managed to get themselves lost in the process. The tunnels varied in shapes and sizes, always leading in new directions and rarely looking different. The only thing that changed was the heat—it was worse the deeper they traveled—and the rancid smell of decayed flesh hung in the still air.

"This way!" Kitreena whispered, rushing down another hallway.

Arus pursed his lips as he followed. Many times she'd dashed down one tunnel or another, seemingly positive that she was leading him the right way. But it never took long for her pace to slow, and her eyes would begin darting around with an obvious uncertainty. "Do you even have a clue where you're going?" he grumbled.

She didn't bother to look back. "You're free to wander where you like, you know."

Arus had contemplated it, but of the two of them, she was the only to carry a weapon. His chances of being caught were significantly lesser with Kitreena and her whip than if he went off on his own. He was no stranger to hand-to-hand combat—Master Eaisan made all of his students train in such fighting techniques before he even let them look at a sword—but he was no expert, either. "I just don't want to be lost down here for the rest of my life, that's all."

"We're not lost," she replied. "We're being herded."

Arus raised an eyebrow. _Herded? Like sheep?_ "I don't understand."

Kitreena stopped and held a finger of warning to her lips. The uncertainty returned to her face, but this time she appeared to be listening to something. "Don't you hear them?"

He closed his eyes and listened. The beating of his heart was the loudest noise he could make out. Kitreena stared at him as though she'd already branded him a fool for missing sounds he still did not hear. "I don't hear anything."

Her scowl peeked from the blue cloth across her forehead. She looked him over for a moment, studying him, then snorted. "I guess I overestimated huma— . . . your ears."

She continued down the tunnel, leaving Arus frowning. "What's so special about yours?"

"Forget it," she shrugged off the question. "I suppose some of us just have keener senses than others. Whatever the case, the Mages are following us, but they aren't trying to catch us. At least, not yet. They're cutting off paths in certain areas, leaving only one or two options open for us."

"You mean they're trying to get us to go somewhere?"

Kitreena responded with a nod.

"Any idea where?"

The hallway branched in several places like an underground network of traders' paths. Kitreena glanced down each, her eyebrows scrunched. "Into a trap, I'd say. Doesn't much matter. Let Truce set his trap. He thinks we're trying to escape, but I want to find him just as much as he wants to find us. And when I do, I should be able to complete my mission and free your friends at the same time."

Arus wiped the beads of sweat from his brow with his forearm. "What exactly _is_ your mission?"

"It's not your business," she said, her eyes warning him not to prod any further. "Just know that Sartan Truce will not have a breath left in his lungs when this day is done, and he'll lie beside the broken bodies of his heartless thugs."

Despite the heat, a chill ran down Arus' spine. There was a sincerity in the tone of her voice that told him she meant every word of it. They continued on in silence, Kitreena leading the way. Several times, Arus nearly decided it would be better to go off on his own rather than fall into whatever trap Truce might be setting for them. But he dismissed the idea, not wanting to leave Kitreena to fend for herself against the Mages. She claimed she could handle it alone, and she was certainly a skilled fighter, but Arus couldn't accept that this young girl would be able to defeat the army of sorcerers that had waged such a devastating war on Asteria. It wouldn't be right to leave her, he told himself, because it might mean sending her to her death.

_Right, because_ I'm _going to be able to help her._ He nearly laughed aloud at the thought. There was no sense in inflating his opinion of his own abilities; he knew he still had much to learn. With or without him beside her, if Kitreena intended on attacking Sartan Truce, she would likely perish. _And I merely condemn myself to death by following her. But if I could persuade her to reconsider . . ._

"I saw you fight Olock the other night," Kitreena's voice broke the silence as they came to an intersection. She headed straight through without glancing at the other paths.

There was no need for Arus to ask who she meant. Until the festival, the only duels he'd ever fought were against friends and Master Eaisan. His battle with the Vermillion Mages at the Festival of Souls had been the first real combat he'd ever experienced. It was the Mages' attack that had stirred his anger and brought out his lust for vengeance. He likened it to a demon lurking within, awakened by his first encounter with the men responsible for the death of Dayne Sheeth, and sooner or later he'd have to confront it. _The path of vengeance leads only to the grave,_ Master Eaisan would say. _So how do I rid myself of this bloody anger?_

Kitreena was looking back at him, her glare as sharp as ever. Arus tore himself from his thoughts. "Oh, yeah . . . That was . . ." Another thought hit him. "Wait, how do you know his name?"

"I've tangled with them plenty of times before," her voice was flat. "Olock, Sartan, that weasel F'Ledro,"—her words turned to a snarl at the last name—"I know them all."

_Maybe she's from Narleaha, or Lyantisa. Certainly not from Keroko. Not in those clothes. She doesn't sound any older than Katlyn. Certainly no taller, either._ He wanted to ask how old she was, but it was not a question that girls particularly enjoyed answering. "How long have you been fighting them?"

"We've had scattered skirmishes over the past seven years," Kitreena told him. "We've been trying to halt their development of—" She caught herself with a shake of her head. When she spoke again, she chose her words carefully. "Their operation endangers more than just the people of this land. They must be stopped."

There were too many questions left unanswered, but Arus could see she wasn't going to share anything more. He instead chose a less sensitive subject. "So you saw me fight—Olock, was it?"

"Yes, I saw it. You're not bad. For a beginner, anyway."

_A beginner?_ He frowned at her. He certainly didn't view himself as a master swordsman, but a beginner? "I may have much to learn, but I'm no beginner. Olock was on the defensive the whole time. He couldn't keep up. If either of us was a beginner, it was—"

"He was toying with you, kid." Her laugh echoed in the hall. "He was testing your abilities. The Mage wanted to know how good you were. If he'd had a chance, he would've tested your friend, too."

" _Me?_ What do they want with me? Or Vultrel, for that matter?"

"Sorry, that's classified information."

Arus grit his teeth in frustration. None of it made sense. She wore clothes like none he'd ever seen before. She spoke with the strength of a queen and fought with the ferocity of a tiger. The leather whip at her side was more like an extension of her body rather than a weapon, and _nothing_ seemed to frighten her. She knew details about the Vermillion Mages that even King Sarathon did not, yet she couldn't have been much older than Arus. "Who _are_ you?" he finally asked.

She stopped and looked at him. Her eyes were soft this time, as though she wished she could explain everything. She began to reach for the blue cloth covering her features, hesitating more than once before sliding down. She eventually let it hang loosely around her neck, exposing her young face. And young it was. Certainly a pretty girl, Arus thought, with a perfectly shaped nose over a sad frown. Her skin was light and smooth, and the sight of her face made Arus' cheeks hot and his knees weak. After a few moments of his staring, she colored and shifted her gaze to the ground. "I know you don't understand, but I can't answer your questions." She rolled clumps of dirt across the ground with her boot. "Things aren't quite as simple as—"

The voices were loud this time; even Arus heard them. They came from the tunnel ahead. Kitreena's head shot up in an instant. "They're ahead of us," she said, sounding surprised. "Probably trying to cut us off."

Arus clenched his fists. He grew tired of fleeing unseen enemies. "But I thought you said they were trying to force us to go in a certain direction."

"They may still be," her lips twisted, "but this leaves the way back to the surface clear."

"We can't leave!" Arus exclaimed, surprised at her suggestion. "Vultrel and Master Eaisan are still being held prisoner!"

"I'm not going anywhere," she said firmly. "I'll take care of your friends and the Mages as well. You get back to the surface where it's safe."

"No!" The word surprised even Arus. _Am I ready for this? Ready to take on the Mages in battle? Even my father couldn't survive them. And here I am, lost in_ their _hideout, unarmed. How can I hope to be of any help?_ It took a moment for him to realize that Kitreena was looking at him with a soft, almost concerned expression. _Maybe she thinks I don't believe she could defeat them. I didn't mean anything insulting by it._ "It's just that it wouldn't make sense for you to fight them alone when I . . ." _But am I really ready for this? I can't even beat Vultrel!_ "I mean, I . . ." _Why is she looking at me like that? I wish she wouldn't do that. Her eyes are mesmerizing. "Pretty" doesn't even begin to describe her. You dolt, she's waiting for you to finish your sentence! Say something!_ "I want to help," he finally squeaked.

Kitreena let out a long breath and turned her attention back to the direction of the voices. "They're coming," she told him. "Less than a minute until they get here, I'd say. You need to get out of here while you can."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"You'll die if you stay, Arus. You should get—"

Arus cut her off. "What makes you think _you_ can beat them? Truce is a powerful warrior, and you can't be much older than me. What makes you think your chances of—"

He'd struck a nerve—one he immediately wished he hadn't. Her eyes widened under her scowl. "I was taking down soldiers stronger than Truce's punks when you were still learning to lace your boots, boy! I brought in Dexter Amaroth of the Deltorian Pirates and assisted the forces that pushed the Vezulian Armada from the Badlione sector! I've seen more combat than you will probably _ever_ encounter on this rock, and you—"

She never finished the sentence. A train of Vermillion Mages stormed through the tunnel at the far end, shouting orders and raising swords at the sight of the runaways. Kitreena yanked her whip from her belt and gave Arus one more glance. "Do you have parents?"

Arus raised an eyebrow. "My mother is still alive . . . why?" The soldiers grew nearer.

"Do you love her?" Kitreena asked him.

"Of course," he said with a nod. "Why are you asking—"

"Go home and make sure that she knows it, because you never know which conversation with her may be your last." She pushed him back toward the corridor through which they'd entered and ran to confront Sartan's men.

Arus hesitated as the sentence echoed in his ears. _What was that supposed to mean?_ The hairs on his arms were standing on end, and he stood frozen in place, Kitreena's words the only thing holding him from running to her side. _Does she know something I don't? Is Mother in danger?_ Not twenty paces away, Kitreena tore into the Vermillion Mages, their bodies dropping one by one like heavy sacks of grain. The deafening cracks of her whip filled the air, matched only by the screams of the Mages on the receiving end of the weapon's fury. The soldiers poured into the hall steadily, some wielding balls of fire in their palms while others brandished swords and knives, but Kitreena met each of them with the same deadly force. Watching her, Arus began to believe she might be able to carry through with her promise as she intended.

As she rotated her body to swing her heel into the gut of one of them, her eyes caught a glimpse of him. "What are you doing?" she shouted angrily. "Get out of here before—"

The distraction was all the Mages needed. A bolt of lightning burst from the palms of one of the soldiers and crashed into Kitreena's shoulder. Arus was sprinting toward her before she'd even hit the ground. He leapt over her with a furious cry and thrust his foot forward, shattering the nose of the Mage with a powerful blow. His fist connected with another of them. And another. And another. He put every ounce of his remaining energy into fighting off the horde of Vermillion Mages. The burns beneath his bandages screamed with every movement, but desperation and anger kept him going. _If I can just get one of their swords away from them . . ._

The familiar crack of Kitreena's whip shattered the air, and two more soldiers fell. Arus took the opportunity to shuffle backward to keep the Mages from surrounding him. He was not surprised to find himself standing beside Kitreena again. The bolt of lightning had burned through her shirt, and her shoulder was a charred and bleeding. Still, she held her composure as though she'd merely been scratched. "If we continue to hold here they will overwhelm us. We must retreat."

The foremost Mages raised their hands, and large fireballs formed in their palms. Kitreena whirled and raced toward the end of the tunnel with Arus close behind. The fire crashed into the cavern floor at their heels with such force that the land groaned. Arus followed Kitreena down a different hall—one they'd ignored before. They continued through the caves, weaving and winding through tunnels in hopes of losing their pursuers, but the shouts of the Vermillion Mages were always close behind. Though Arus never saw them, he had little doubt they were just around whatever corner he and Kitreena had last turned. Finally, they came to a halt in the middle of another long tunnel, just outside a darkened cave.

"They're in front of us now as well," she spat, turning an ear to the far end of the tunnel. "We're surrounded."

"What about there?" Arus pointed to the pitch-black cave. "Can you hear them in there?"

She shifted her eyes between the two ends of the corridor several times before gazing into the cave. "I think," she began, "this is exactly where they _want_ us to go."

As she took a step forward, Arus took a step back. "You want to just waltz right into Truce's trap?"

Men appeared at either side of the hall simultaneously, brandishing weapons and calling forth spheres of flame. Kitreena grinned and shook her head. "A mouse trap accomplishes little when sprung by a tiger."

It was slightly cooler in the pitch-black cave, and the hard dirt became sand beneath their feet. The flickering torchlight outside provided only a few paces of light before fading into nothingness, leaving Arus with only the dim shadow of Kitreena in front of him. Soon that, too, was gone. Darkness enveloped him, blinding him to the rest of the world. He continued stepping forward, following the sounds of Kitreena's boots in the sand. The muggy air was a tad thinner here, leading Arus to believe that this particular cave had to be quite a bit larger than the others. Still, he kept his hands out in front of him to prevent walking into a wall in the dark.

"Can you see anything?" he whispered. "I don't—"

"Arus?" a faint voice came from the black. "Arus, is that you?"

It sounded like Vultrel, but it had been so quiet that it was hard to discern. "Vultrel?"

"Arus!" Master Eaisan's voice came from the dark. "Go back! It's a trap!"

A burst of orange light came from above, a fire so large that it could've swallowed two men with a single lash of its flames. It stood atop a grand column of wood held together with a great deal of dried mud and clay. The cavern ceiling was double that height, reaching out far into the surrounding darkness. Another torch, standing twenty paces or so to the right of the first, ignited in a burst of blue flame. Two more, green and red, ignited behind Arus and Kitreena, filling the cave with uncomfortable warmth. As Arus' eyes adjusted to the light, his heart skipped a beat. And another.

They stood in what appeared to be a large arena, surrounded by throngs of Vermillion Mages. The entire expanse of the cavern floor had been covered over with a thick layer of sand, interrupted only by the four large torches that burned at each corner. The Mages sat on either side of the arena in assorted groups, though they rose to their feet when the torches ignited. Some of them wore smiles, others seemed uneasy, and still others looked anxious.

"I see you finally found your way," an arrogant voice boomed from ahead.

A staircase of dirt and rock, climbing nearly as high as the torches, stood at the furthest end of the cave. At the top, dirt and wood had been molded together to create a crude throne between two large bones. They curved inward and narrowed into sharp points— _Almost like large fangs,_ Arus thought—and a sinuous red stripe ran along the inside of each. Three men stood atop the staircase, each of which Arus remembered from their encounter in the forest. The man Arus had dueled, the one Kitreena had identified as Olock, stood on the right with a broad smile on his face. To the left was the large-nosed fellow with the orange shirt. Sweat ran down his forehead as he stared at Kitreena with nervous eyes. His hand rested on the strange device holstered at his side. And in the center, seated in the makeshift throne, was Sartan Truce. His teeth shone through his grin, blond beard glistening in the torchlight.

"These caves once belonged to the sand snakes," he said. "When we began to convert the tunnels into our own, many of my men died trying to exterminate them."

Arus shuddered, remembering the stories of sand snakes he'd heard as a child. Some grew to enormous sizes, their hoods so wide they could block out the sun. It was said that they snacked on desert cougars in the same way that humans snacked on peanuts.

"In this cavern, I single-handedly fought and killed the queen of the lair," Truce continued. He motioned toward the bones on either side of his seat. "I placed the creature's great fangs here as a reminder to my people of our strength and perseverance. Let them also serve as a warning to you, young ones, of what becomes of those who oppose us."

"F'Ledro," Kitreena hissed. Her fists were clenched and her eyes narrow. She twitched her wrist back and forth, swirling the leather whip from side to side. "It all ends here!"

Truce glanced at the large-nosed Mage with a look of amusement. "It appears she remembers you."

"Arus," Vultrel's voice came from behind. He was chained beside his father against the rear wall. Heavy iron links wrapped around their wrists and across their chests and legs before latching to a pair of sturdy brackets bolted into the floor on either side. They appeared to be unharmed, much to Arus' relief. "Run, Arus," Vultrel was saying, almost pleading. "Get out of here."

"He has nowhere to go, boy," Sartan's voice boomed. "The halls outside have been sealed off. You all belong to me."

The audience of Mages roared in laugher and cheers. Swords pierced the air as others thrust clenched fists over their heads in excitement. Truce's grin widened, his pride shining as brightly as the torches.

A single crack of Kitreena's whip quieted the crowd.

"If you wish to see what's left of your precious kyrosen exterminated at my hands, then so be it!" she shouted. Her boots crunched through the sand as she dashed toward the stairs. " _You_ ," she pointed a finger at the one she called F'Ledro, "took _everything_ from me, and I'm here to return the favor!"

The soldier shifted nervously, positioning himself partially behind Sartan's throne before Truce himself rose to his feet. "So much anger," he muttered, casual as ever. "What has happened to the children of the galaxy?"

Kitreena's eyes bulged, and she came sliding to a stop. Her hands moved to her temples momentarily before returning to her sides, fists clenched tighter than ever. Sartan took a few steps down the stairs. "Let's see if we can find the source of your anger."

"Resist him!" Eaisan shouted, pulling at his chains. "Push the thoughts from your mind!"

Arus' face went pale. _He's toying with her emotions as he did mine! And her anger is greater than mine ever could be!_ His feet carried him toward her before he even realized he was moving.

Kitreena looked back at him, her movements blurring in Arus' vision. She connected with his eyes for only a moment, but what he saw brought him stumbling to his knees.

Her eyes were glowing.

They rolled with a deep purple light, like liquid amethyst. She only looked at him for an instant before returning her attention to Truce, but it was enough to send a chill through his body so cold he expected to see his breath. Above, F'Ledro called to Sartan.

"Are you sure that's . . . wise, Boss? She _is_ a Morpher, after all. They channel their abilities through emotion, don't they?"

"Relax, F'Ledro," Truce waved a dismissive hand. "She's just a child. She's been away from Lavinia for many years now, and no one outside of her homeworld has the wisdom to train her. Despite what she'd have you believe, she's just a little girl with far too big of an ego."

A flash of light streaked around Kitreena's left hand. For a moment, Arus thought he'd imagined it, but the light blinked again, this time on her right. The flashes grew in frequency and intensity, forming streaks of electricity that slithered around her fists. When a puff of steam lifted from Arus' breath, he realized that his chills weren't simply formed from fear. The cavern had filled with a bitter cold like that of the harshest winter nights in Keroko.

"Sir!" F'Ledro's voice was more anxious, and his hand gripped the device at his side. "This is _not_ a good idea! Look at her!"

Truce's grin was gone, replaced with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Still, he refused to release his hold on Kitreena's emotions. "She is a child," he said again, "and she cannot possibly wield such power. What you see is her dormant strength manifesting itself because of my interaction with her mind, but she cannot control it. Trust me, F'Ledro. She'll lose her composure in the same way Arus did, and when she does, I'll be ready."

Kitreena was seething, lips curled into a sneer, heavy breaths hissing through her teeth as those blazing purple eyes shimmered. A cold mist encircled her body, yet thin tendrils of smoke rose from her skin. Arus was torn between running to her aid and fleeing to Master Eaisan and Vultrel, but his limbs wouldn't budge either way. Fear and wonder held him where he was, and Kitreena— _whatever_ she was—certainly wouldn't respond well to his interference.

Olock looked frightened, though he was working hard to cover it. He moved to Truce's side and said something quietly. After a moment, Sartan nodded and followed him back to the throne. As soon as his back was turned, Kitreena let out a shriek that pierced the air and collapsed to the ground in a motionless heap. The heat returned to the cave within seconds. Arus wanted to crawl to her side, but the image of her purple eyes was burned into his own, and if anything, he almost wanted to move away from her.

"And what of you, Arus?" Truce was sitting once more. "Shall I probe your anger once again?"

A thousand thoughts and ideas rolled through him, most of which he dismissed as juvenile. He wanted to respond like a man, not a child. Truce was obviously not intimidated by him, regardless of his bloodline, and Master Eaisan had always taught him that an opponent's arrogance was his greatest weakness. Arus returned to his feet and drew himself up as best he could, refusing to allow his fear to show any longer. "What is it you want from us, Truce? Why have you led us down here?" He fought to keep his voice steady and managed.

"To the point, I see," Sartan nodded once. "I was hoping you'd assist me in testing an experiment of mine. Please bear in mind that this is just a prototype, but the technology opens the door to a vast range of possibilities."

From the crowd to his left came a man, cloaked in brown, face shrouded by hood. He moved with a firm walk, almost like a soldier, toward the center of the arena. The cloak reached only to his waist, leaving his dark pants and boots exposed. The black sheath of a broadsword dangled at his side, attached to a silver-studded belt. Unlike the Vermillion Mages' garb, Arus recognized these clothes. They were the work of Tom Marchin, Keroko's most respected tailor.

"You may or may not know this young man," Sartan said, "but he has graciously dedicated himself to the future of the Vermillion Mages."

The hooded swordsman stopped, facing Arus only ten paces away. What little of his face that caught the light seemed familiar, but what drew Arus' attention was a glint of steel deep within the stranger's hood. It came from just beside his left eye, only appearing when the torches flickered just so. "Who . . ." He paused to take reign of his fear. "Who are you?"

The fighter's black-gloved hand rose, holding the red leather sheath of Arus' weapon. The golden handguard glimmered as he lifted it, and the Sheeth family crest shined in silver against the golden pommel. The swordsman tossed the weapon to him with a casual thrust. Arus looked over his weapon with a degree of uncertainty. _What is Truce doing?_

The shrouded man's eyes shimmered like a wolf's at twilight. He tore the cloak from his shoulders as Truce shouted, " _Mayachi en dichen kyrosen!_ "

The audience responded with an emphatic, " _Mayachi!"_ as Arus' eyes came to rest on the uncovered face before him. Curls of brown hair, matted by sweat, clung to the swordsman's thick brow. His bony cheeks put lumps in the side of his long face, his nose nearly as big as F'Ledro's. His chest was uncovered, glistening with sweat in the heat of the cavern, but it was the thin plates of steel along the side of his head that drew Arus' stare. They were embedded into his flesh, reaching from his left temple to just above the ear. Two small lights, one blinking occasionally while the other remained steady, sat below what was left of his hairline on that side. Most chilling was the fact was that Arus knew this young man very well.

"Anton," he managed to murmur. "What have they done to you?"

Eaisan, audibly yanking at his chains, shouted, "Draw your weapon, Arus! Anton or not, he comes for blood!"

Anton's wide broadsword was already in his hands. Steel flashed as Arus drew his blade, bringing it up barely in time to meet his opponent's weapon. Anton towered over him, pressing his sword down with frightening strength. "Anton, it's me!" Arus growled, pushing back with all his might. "Don't you recognize me? It's Arus!"

The young man's vacant eyes stared back indifferently, his furrowed brow and bared teeth showing more emotion. Arus shoved against Anton's blade once more and leapt back to give himself room to maneuver. Vultrel had always told him he'd be able to defeat Anton easily, but Anton had never displayed such power before. They exchanged a furious series of blows, shuffling back and forth through the sand. Whatever Truce had done, he'd managed to scramble Anton's perception of right and wrong. And Arus knew that the steel device was the center of it all.

He blocked another swipe and brought his weapon around for a wide slice. "Try to remember." He spoke calmly to counteract Anton's anger. Their swords clashed again beside Arus' waist. "Do you remember anything? Do you remember where you're from? Who you are?"

Anton drew himself back and paused for a moment as though contemplating his next move. Arus accepted it as a sign of recognition, though he knew that probably wasn't true. _Maybe if I lower my sword. If I show him I'm not hostile, will he continue to attack?_ He began to straighten his back when Anton struck again, the gleaming steel of his broadsword pointed directly at Arus' heart. Arus stepped back, a bit too quickly, setting himself off-balance with an unsure foot at an awkward angle in the sand. His sword barely knocked Anton's to the side before he fell to the ground. Anton stood over him, blade held ready. Arus hesitated for a moment, caught by fear, before scrambling backward to regain his footing.

*******

Seated in the throne above, Truce scratched his beard. "Olock, I don't understand. I didn't program the implant to show mercy. I wanted to create the most dominant and lethal soldier possible. Anton has been neither so far. It's almost as though he's toying with Arus."

"Perhaps there is a programming conflict somewhere that is hindering his functions," Olock suggested. "Or maybe we didn't evenly distribute the power systems, thus slowing the entire process down."

"It's possible. Without any previous tests to go by, all I had to work with were hypothetical calculations. We'll have to tinker with the formulas once we see the test data." On his other side, F'Ledro cast nervous eyes on Kitreena's motionless figure. Truce spoke without even looking at him. "If you're so worried that she'll awaken and come after you, get Haralus to haul her to the cells. Unless you'd rather do it yourself."

It took a moment for F'Ledro to shake his head. "I'm not . . . worried, Boss. Besides, I can handle her if she comes after me." His voice didn't sound as convinced as he would have them believe.

"Suit yourself," Truce suppressed a laugh and turned his attention to the duel.

*******

The battle raged across the arena, the clashing swords sending an occasional spark flying. Arus moved as fluidly as Master Eaisan had taught him, connecting each parry and thrust together in a smooth stream of motions that seemed more like a dance than a duel at times. Anton held his own with little effort. Arus had never seen him fight so well.

"Move back, Arus," Eaisan shouted, trying to guide his student. "Give yourself more space. Don't let his weapon get too close to you."

Arus did as he was told, shuffling backward to try to put more distance between himself and his opponent. But Anton gave him little breathing room, his long legs matching Arus' distance. Their swords met again and again. Anton's eyes were blank, devoid of life.

"Come on, Anton!" Arus growled as he deflected another attack. "This isn't a game, this is for real! Wake up!"

For a moment, Anton's eyes glimmered. He swung his weapon down with a furious scream, meeting Arus' blade only inches from his opponent's face. ". . .Free . . ."

Arus' eyes widened. "What? What was that? Anton, can you hear me? Do you understand me?"

Anton screamed again, this time attacking from all sides in a series of blows that left Arus panting to keep up. His sword moved in a blur, forcing Arus backward further and further. It didn't take long for his broad blade to finally meet flesh, leaving a bloody gash on Arus' left shoulder. Soon there was another on his wrist. "Free!" Anton shouted. The flickering light on the side of the metallic implant was blinking more rapidly. "FREE ME!"

Arus ducked below a slice toward his throat and rolled across the sand. Anton towered over him with his broadsword raised. He only had enough time to get his knees under him before the weapon came down. "How?" Arus asked, raising his sword to block the attack. Steel met steel with a loud clang. "How can I free you?"

Anton ground his teeth as he pushed against Arus' blade. The response came in a grunt, one that hung in the air for a moment before the word sank in. "Death."

"I won't kill you, Anton!" Arus shook his head. He turned the young man's blade aside with his own and rolled backward onto his shoulders. As Anton stepped forward again, Arus' boots met his chest. The blow sent him stumbling momentarily, giving Arus enough time to scramble to his feet. "I can't do it."

Anton recovered soon enough, and he lunged forward with his blade ready. "Free me!" He seemed to be managing his words easier.

*******

Truce rose from his chair with a mixture of fear and disappointment on his face. "He shouldn't be able to speak other than to respond to my orders. Could he have found a way to somehow override the implant's programming?"

"The only way to compensate for that would be to rewrite the program to take control of even _more_ of the brain's subconscious processes," Olock noted. "But the brain organizes so many functions that we don't even consider. How would we design a program to override them all?"

"It could be done," Sartan said, keeping his eyes on the duel. "It may take some extra time, but it could be done. It would be easier if I just hardwired it rather than programming it, but that would result in a much larger implant. I suppose I could sacrifice aesthetics in favor of progress, though. If necessary."

"And what of Anton?" Olock asked, motioning toward the arena floor. "The implant has a firm hold on his motor functions, but his consciousness seems to be seeping in. What's going to happen to him?"

Sartan shrugged. "He may be consciously aware of his objections to his own actions, but he'll follow orders. The implant is firmly in control of his motor functions. For the most part, the design works well. It just needs some tweaking."

*******

Arus fought desperately to hold off Anton's increasing intensity. Eaisan shouted words of encouragement and guidance while Vultrel watched in silent desperation, a desire to join the fight clear in his eyes. Arus was finding it harder and harder to ignore the pain that flooded his body, both from the burns on his chest and the bloody cuts he'd received from Anton's blade. His left arm was covered in crimson, and a new slice on his chin was dripping. He felt weak, tired, queasy, and defeated. "Anton," he breathed, barely deflecting another attack. "Please stop this. I don't know how much longer I can last."

Anton's eyes flicked again. He brought his blade around with a flourish and swiped outward with all of his might. The force of his blow knocked Arus' sword from his hands and sent it sailing to the sand several paces away. Arus collapsed to his knees, panting with exhaustion, but unwilling to surrender. Anton rotated his broadsword in his palm so that the blade was pointed downward and raised it for the killing strike.

"Anton!" Eaisan shouted at the same time as Vultrel screamed, "Arus, get out of there!"

Anton stood with his weapon poised, panting heavily, sweat rolling down his chest. "I will . . ." he began, trailing off. His knuckles turned pale as he gripped his blade tighter, and his arms began to quiver. "I—WILL—NOT—BE—CONTROLLED!"

The blade came down, and Arus instinctively raised his arms to shield himself from the blow. The weapon never touched him. Anton plunged the sword through his own body, impaling himself to the hilt. He let out a brief whimper of pain before collapsing to the ground. Blood soaked the sand immediately, gathering in the footprints before sinking through the grains. Arus stared at him wide-eyed, shock and disbelief overwhelming him. He could feel tears welling up before he could control himself. _Anton . . . We may not have always gotten along, but you didn't deserve this. I'll make them pay, Anton. I swear it!_

The crowd of Mages fell silent. Some nervously looked toward Sartan Truce; probably hoping for an explanation, Arus thought. _He won't have a chance to explain. He'll die by my hands, now._ He could hear the chains of Truce's prisoners shaking violently behind him amidst Vultrel's shouts of profanity and Eaisan's demands for retribution. Master Eaisan rarely lost his composure, even in battle, but being forced to watch one of his own students commit suicide had pushed both he and Vultrel over the edge. They bombarded the Mages with an endless stream of curses and threats, none of which they were in any position to carry through. _But I am!_

Arus' face darkened as he lifted his sword from the sand. He refused to look at Anton's fallen body any longer— _I'll not remember him like that!_ —and instead focused his hard stare on Sartan Truce. His anger and frustration boiled, this time of their own accord, pushing his steady walk toward the staircase ahead. Olock handed a short sword to Sartan and stepped aside as Truce began to descend toward the arena floor. His expression was harder than Arus' own, if possible, and his eyes were narrow beneath a heavy scowl. The crowd quieted further, so much so that Arus barely remembered they were there. If he defeated Truce, they would surely kill him, but the price would be a small one.

"Arus, stop! He'll kill you!" Vultrel was shouting. He and Eaisan turned their threats into protests once Arus stepped toward the Mage. But Arus ignored their pleas and twisted his sword in a dramatic flourish around his body. Adrenaline surged new life into him as Sartan came to the bottom of the stairs and stepped around Kitreena's fallen figure.

"Arus Sheeth; son of Dayne," he began, his voice shattering the stillness of the cavern. "We have been destined to meet since your father killed mine. And though Aratus Truce was a fool of a leader, his death elevated me to the head of the Vermillion Mages, and it is my duty and responsibility to see that my people rise again. Like Dayne Sheeth and Eaisan Lurei before you, and Kindel Thorus before them, you seek to prevent the rejuvenation of my people; the rebirth of the kyrosen. But let the body of your fallen comrade," he pointed his sword at Anton, "let him be a symbol to you of what we are capable of. His death brings with it a wealth of knowledge that I will use to create the ultimate soldier. Take a good look at him, Arus." The grin was back. "Your destiny awaits."

Arus charged with a scream that would've startled even the fiercest of mountain lions. His sword met Truce's with a deafening clash, sending a shower of sparks to the sand. He unleashed every technique and every form that Master Eaisan had taught him, stringing them together in one seamless motion. Blood mixed with sweat and ran down his body as he moved, unwilling to allow any amount of pain hold him from what he knew must be done. For his father, for Anton, and for every other helpless soul that was lost to the Vermillion Mages. It had to be done. _I have to kill him._

Sartan fended off the young man's attacks with ease, his short sword meeting Arus' blade with every swing. The grin of arrogance never left his face. It taunted Arus like a carrot in front of a mule, and the boy's hunger was strong. They circled the arena in battle, trading blows and dodging fatal strikes. A few times Arus' eyes caught Vultrel's open-mouthed stare—he'd never seen his training partner fight so passionately—but both he and Eaisan were solidly bound by the heavy chains. And though Arus knew he could use their help, a part of him was glad to have Truce all to himself. Sparks flew with nearly every blow, glimmering faintly as they fell to the ground. _This can't be all he's got. He's holding back. Why doesn't he fight harder? And why hasn't he used any magic?_

"You are good raw material, boy," Sartan said has he knocked Arus' long weapon to the side. "But you still have much to learn."

Arus grunted as he brought his sword around for another strike. "I know more than you think!" He dropped to the sand just as Truce moved to deflect the blade and swept his leg out. Sartan's blade swooped down like lightning, tearing through the fabric of Arus' pants and sinking into flesh. Arus rolled away with a yelp, folding the leg against his chest and clutching the gaping wound along the side of his calf. Adrenaline brought him back to his feet in moments, though he was forced to shift all of his weight to his good leg. Blood soaked the lower half of his pants below the injury. _I'll die before I allow Truce to put one of those implants on anyone else. I can't give up. I just have to wait for the right moment to strike. All swordsmen have flaws. I just have to find his._ The room spun for a moment, and the ground wavered beneath his boots. _Stay focused. A little loss of blood never hurt anyone._ But this was more than a little. The gash on his shoulder that Anton had given him left most of his left arm covered in blood, and his chin had been dripping the entire time. Combined with the overwhelming heat of the cave, it brought a flood of nausea and disorientation that nearly made him topple over. At the rate he was going, consciousness wouldn't be with him much longer.

"Come on, boy!" Truce was taunting him. "I would expect the blood of Dayne to perform better than this!"

It was an effort for Arus to block his attack, but he managed to continue, focusing only on each thrust as they came, rather than trying to strategize. _Just watch for an opening. There will be one. There has to be one._ He struggled on, hoping Sartan's arrogance would leave an opportunity to strike. But his vision began to blur, and his knees finally buckled. He landed on all fours, panting heavily as he fought the darkness that crept in from all sides.

Sartan laughed mockingly. "A pitiful display from someone so bold." He turned toward the audience of Mages seated on either side. "But he shall not be pitiful when I am through with him! I promise you this, gentlemen: In less than one week's time, we will ascend from these wretched caves and take up residence in the palace of Asteria! And this young boy, along with Eaisan and his son, will lead our way forward!"

The crowd erupted into cheers and applause, weapons and fists held high. Arus glared up at Truce, who was thrusting a triumphant fist into the air, his attention on the audience of Vermillion Mages.

Now!

Arus lunged with the last ounce of energy within, sword aimed for Sartan's heart. But his legs quivered, and the blade landed higher than he'd intended. Truce growled sharply as the weapon pierced his shoulder, and a fiery blaze formed around his own. With a snarl of anger he brought the flaming sword down on Arus' left shoulder, cleanly severing his arm. Arus' cry filled the cavern as he collapsed to the ground, vainly clutching the bloody stump that remained of his shoulder.

"ARUS!!" Eaisan shouted, tugging frantically at his chains. Vultrel echoed the scream, his bonds leaving welts in his arms and legs as he pulled against them.

Sartan wiped the blood from his shoulder with an emphatic gesture as though it was more of a chore than a comfort. Olock and F'Ledro were already at his side, looking down uneasily at the bloody young man. "Prepare the operating room, Olock," Truce said quietly. "We're going to have to move faster than I'd expected. Do you think we have the proper supplies to accommodate for this?"

"I think so," Olock said with a nod. "We'll probably have to reprogram _and_ hardwire the implant this time, considering what happened with Anton."

"Agreed. F'Ledro, take care of the girl and our other prisoners. We have to get right to work if we want . . ."

Their words faded as consciousness slipped away from Arus. He'd never felt pain like this, though it seemed trivial compared to his failure to eliminate Truce when he had the chance. _Six inches lower . . . Just six inches lower, and I'd have . . . defeated . . ._

The thought went unfinished.

### Chapter 5

Millions of stars shimmered across the backdrop of space behind the planet of Belvidia, their tiny pinpricks of light filling the deep abyss of the galaxy. The nearest of these stars, called Adorae, shone half-again as bright as the others behind the blue-green world. Belvidia was heavily forested, yet its atmosphere glowed with an azure tint that lingered amongst trees and draped across fields. Those who'd visited the land spoke of a world of unimaginable beauty and tranquility. Many tales told of a place of peace and serenity where one could spend eternity after passing through the mortal coil, and comparisons to such a paradise had become commonplace for Belvidia.

At least, that's what Lieutenant Petreit's report had said.

The _Black Eagle_ slowed to a crawl as it approached the planet, its engines shuddering as they powered down. The rest of the Vezulian Armada followed suit, positioning themselves around the command ship like a pack of lions protecting their young. Three of the fleets' massive starcruisers formed a defensive triangle around the _Black Eagle_ , and assault transports peppered the sky between them. Tiny starfighters zipped back and forth, running patrols around the perimeter of the fleet. As expected, the Aeden Alliance blockade was waiting. A mixture of Aeden assault transports and starfighters circled the planet in constant patrols as per the agreement between the Alliance and the Belvids. It was touted as some sort of charitable show of chivalry by the Alliance, but according to the information provided by Lieutenant Petreit, the concentration of Aeden ships had multiplied considerably over the years, giving Thorus the impression that they sought to turn the Zeros system into another Alliance outpost.

Staring at those enemy ships, Kindel ground his teeth. The presence of the more heavily armed transports meant that there were Alliance carriers in the vicinity. Assault transports were not capable of traveling long distances through space on their own; they were designed for interstellar combat, heavily armed and just as heavily reinforced. They were larger than one-man starfighters—most carried a crew of about twenty-five people—and laser turrets lined their hulls.

"Sir, we're approaching firing range," Captain Tiras reported. He was a wide man, sturdy and noble looking, with a thin line of a brown beard following the edge of his chin. His brown cap and uniform identified his rank, as did the steel black pin on his left shoulder. "Shall I scramble the squadrons?"

Thorus kept his eyes on the Alliance ships. "No, Captain. Bring the fleet to a halt. I do not intend to do battle today . . . if it can be helped."

"As you wish, Sir," Tiras responded, turning to the helmsmen seated beside him. "You heard him. All stop."

Across the main floor of the bridge, crewmen sat in front of illuminated control panels and colorful viewscreens. The helmsman, Geo Marnfell, handled the entering of coordinates and controlled the overall movement of the _Black Eagle_. He sat near the center of the floor, alongside Margis Cordlein, the tactical officer. Behind them, Beau Merlianis and Seavan Petreit of interstellar cartography planned courses and accessed necessary planetary data, and Aarn Goldsyn handled transmissions at the communications array. The sensor terminal stood against the wall on the left, manned by Treage Nardale. Thorus stood to the rear beside the transportation lift, flanked on either side by Scimitar and Kalibur, arms folded beneath his black cloak. He pondered the next move, somewhat surprised that the Aeden ships had yet to acknowledge their presence.

"Your command, Sir?" Tiras was looking at him expectantly.

Kindel glanced once more at the Alliance ships. "Odd that they haven't attempted to contact us. No matter, the less Aeden resistance we face, the better. I want to be out of here as quickly as—"

A long beep came from the communications array. Aarn glanced at the screen and nodded with a frown. "It's them. Shall I make a connection?"

Kindel grunted as he moved to the terminal. The signal was coming from one of the starcruisers. "Do it."

Aarn flipped one of the switches on the panel. A male voice began to speak, firm and obviously agitated. "Vezulian ships, by order of Marshal Jayde Windlest, Chairman of the High Council of the Aeden Alliance, you are hereby ordered to halt your approach immediately. Failure to comply will force us to take action against your fleet."

The suggestion infuriated Thorus; he had to bite his tongue to keep from inviting the challenge. "Nonsense, my good man," he said, trying to smile as he spoke, "we aren't interested in conflict. Tell me, with whom do I speak?"

"I am Captain Thomas Angeles of the _Stardiver_ ," the voice responded. "And you are?"

Again, Kindel bit his tongue. There was scarcely a man, woman, or child across the galaxy that didn't know Thorus commanded the Vezulian Armada. He almost wondered if the captain had put out the question simply to ruffle his feathers. Still, Kindel kept his diplomatic guise. "Admiral Kindel Thorus of the Thorus family of Zo'rhan. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain."

"Yes . . . Likewise." Angeles' voice suddenly seemed a bit hesitant. He certainly knew Thorus' name, but perhaps he hadn't expected to speak to him directly. "What is your business here?"

The best lies were always built upon truth. "Archeological research, Captain. I am a collector of fine artifacts. I've gathered fantastic pieces from some of the finest planets across the galaxy. During my stop at Geavaan, I learned of Belvidia. The man spoke of a world of delicate beauty and grace, envied for its lush forests and blue-green skies. After only a few words, I decided I simply had to see this planet for myself."

"I'm sorry, Admiral," Captain Angeles responded quickly, "but the Belvids are an endangered species. The High Throne requested our assistance in blocking the planet to outsiders. Even our own people aren't allowed on the surface. Our blockade is charged with seeing that no one passes. You'll have to turn your archeological interests elsewhere."

"Anything would be of interest to me, Captain." Kindel's voice was smooth. "If I cannot travel to the surface, may we at least take a few scans of the planet for our own curiosity?"

There was a moment of silence before Captain Angeles returned. Kindel's eyes caught a frantic hand gesture from Commander Nardale, indicating he'd picked something up on radar. "You have ten minutes," Angeles was saying. "We will expect you to leave promptly thereafter."

"Your understanding is most appreciated, Captain," Thorus was trying to sound humble, but a twinge of agitation tainted his gratitude. "Thank you." Aarn flipped the communications switch, cutting off the transmission. "Ten minutes certainly won't provide proper time to study the gemstone, but perhaps I can convince one of the Belvids to return here so that I can work without the Alliance hanging over my shoulder," Thorus grumbled.

Behind him, Kalibur's raspy voice spoke. "And what if they won't come, my Lord?"

Kindel turned halfway toward him. "They will. One way or another, they will. I am not leaving empty-handed."

Treage Nardale was still trying to get the admiral's attention. "Sir," he pointed at the terminal readout, "two Aeden carriers are moving aft. Their hangar doors are open, but they haven't launched any fighters yet."

"They are cautious of us," Thorus noted. "And with good reason. We've had our share of skirmishes with the Alliance in the past, have we not?" The question was a rhetorical one, but Nardale answered.

"Yes, Sir. I'm also getting reports of another incoming fleet of ships. Their make and numbers suggest more Alliance craft."

"Then we will have to move quickly, won't we?" Thorus said with a grin. "Scimitar, Kalibur, you're with me. Captain Tiras?"

The gruff man turned from the tactical viewscreen. "Yes, Sir?"

"Maintain a defensive stance while I am on the surface. Should the Alliance decide to attack, destroy them. _All_ of them."

Tiras' eyes bulged, but he voiced no objections. "It shall be done as you have commanded, Admiral."

Thorus turned to his bodyguards. "Scimitar, Kalibur, prepare for teleportation."

The process of teleportation had been attempted by many yet perfected by few. It was a dangerous technique, one that could see a person disfigured, dismembered, or even destroyed if performed improperly. Even the most powerful sorcerers in the galaxy had denounced and refused to teach it. It had taken Kindel a lot of research to piece together enough information to make an attempt. It was all about strength of mind. Concentration was the key. Even the slightest distraction could disrupt one's flow of energy and jeopardize the safety of those transported by the spell. But Kindel was never one to flee from danger. It was his greatest ally at times; an asset and an advantage.

He focused his mind, blinding himself to the _Black Eagle's_ bridge and crew. With his thoughts focused on the surface of Belvidia, his directed energy around himself and his bodyguards. A pure white glow surrounded them, somehow feeling both warm and icy at the same time. The light amplified dozens of times over until the bridge was no longer visible, and the brilliance of the energy was everything. Only inches from their noses, it seemed, yet impossibly out of reach. Kindel felt the ground shift beneath his feet, felt a sudden humidity in the air, heard the chirping of birds and the murmur of voices. He released gradually, allowing their bodies time to adjust to the new climate. When the last remnants of the snowy light vanished, he stood amidst a bustling village on the surface of Belvidia, Scimitar and Kalibur at his either side. It took only seconds for chaos to ensue.

"Intruders!"

"Offworlders!"

"Call the Disciples!"

"Protect the children!"

It was a quaint little village of wooden huts and cloth tents, scattered by towering trees that nearly touched the few clouds in the sky. The short grass was a healthy green, vivid despite constant trampling. A sweet aroma of fruit filled the air. Birds of a variety of colors darted between the trees overhead, occasionally disappearing into the sky's thick glow. The light seemed to swallow the treetops as though they were being dipped head-first into a solid sea of blue. Truly, Lieutenant Petreit's description had barely scraped the surface.

But Kindel's arrival abruptly shattered the peace, sending the angelic Belvids scurrying away while others drew arrows and strung longbows with haste. Petreit's description of their beauty had also fallen far short of the truth; they were the closest to perfection that Kindel had ever seen in a species. They stood no less than a head taller than Thorus and his bodyguards, skin tones varying in soft shades of green. Fabrics of soft colors adorned their bodies. Some had hair down as far as their waist, elegant and royal looking in different tones of blue and green and red. Others kept theirs barely long enough to run fingers through. Grand translucent wings rose from each lady's back, but it was the shimmering gemstone in the forehead of each girl that drew Kindel's eyes.

The pluck of a bowstring twanged from the trees ahead, and Kalibur's sword flashed with a clang. The arrow clattered to the ground in front of Kindel, its steel tip flattened by its impact with the blade.

"Hold your arrows!" a woman's voice shouted from the wooden cabin ahead. It was a long narrow house, nearly the length of four of the other huts placed in a row. Elegantly carved wooden steps led to a door in the center where a teal-green Belvid stood, her dark maroon hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back. Like many of the others, she wore short brown pants and a tightly wrapped sash of blue that crossed over her chest. However, a thick band of white silk was wrapped around her waist and tied in the back, the ends of which ran to the floor and disappeared into the cabin. "They've not shown themselves to be hostile yet." She walked down the stairs with two Belvids trailing her, carrying the streaming tails of her silk belt. _She must be an authority figure,_ Kindel thought. _Their leader, maybe._

The females were obviously the dominant gender of the society. Their garments were lined with silver and gold trim, while the men's clothes were bland and usually dirty. After a moment, Kindel noticed that the only men he saw were working on a small farm to the left of the oversized cabin. Unlike the women, their wings were tied together by heavy bands of leather and folded down. _Are they . . . slaves?_

"Though I don't know how it would be possible, did the blockade around this planet somehow elude you?" the Belvid spoke in a flat voice as she approached. Scimitar and Kalibur shifted their feet, but Kindel motioned them to stillness.

"I apologize for the intrusion," he began, all smiles. "You see, my travels led me upon the story of your world. In particular, I was fascinated by the gemstone your kind have embedded within—" The sounds of arrows being drawn and wooden bows creaking interrupted him. More of the Belvids were readying weapons as he spoke. "Again, I apologize. I'm afraid our knowledge of your people is limited, at best."

"Aeden fools! They have failed to keep their word once again!" a green-haired Belvid spat. "If they can't—"

"Silence, Meylinda!" the first commanded, shooting her a harsh glare. "I will handle this." Her blue lips curved in an artificial smile as she returned her attention to Kindel. "You seek the _baharinda._ You are hunters, then?"

Scimitar leaned forward and whispered in Kindel's ear. "Three minutes, Sir." He nodded in acknowledgment, though he was confident that Captain Tiras could stall for a few extra minutes if needed. Still, there was little time for negotiation.

"Hunters of knowledge," he answered the question, "and nothing more. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Kindel Thorus, of the Thorus family of Zo'rhan. I've traveled the universe collecting various archeological artifacts, studying cultures, and seeking knowledge and intrigue wherever I go."

"I am Lady Almatha Delgornis Baynyi, ruler of the High Throne of Belvidia." The other Belvids, even the men in the fields, kneeled at her introduction. "And while I respect those who hunt knowledge and hunger for learning, I cannot allow you to stay on our world. Our people are a dying breed, Kindel Thorus of Zo'rhan, and we cannot take any chances with offworlders. Before the Aeden Alliance agreed to defend us, many hunters came in search of the _baharinda._ " She gently touched the glowing yellow stone in her forehead. "Some showed no restraint, slaying many of our Ladies and savagely tearing the _baharinda_ from their flesh. But others came as you do, claiming only intellectual interest in our planet. They would gain our trust in the evening, and we would wake in the morning to find more dead among us. Perhaps you are noble in your hunt, Kindel Thorus, but it is a risk our people can no longer take. I must insist that you leave."

Years of research had brought Kindel to this planet, and now he was being asked to leave it all behind. It wasn't in his nature to disturb an innocent society; the Vezulian Armada only exterminated races that threatened others. Still, the future of the Armada depended on the lephadorite. War with the Aeden Alliance was inevitable, and it would give Thorus and the Armada the advantage needed for victory. But the success of the lephadorite depended on Kindel's success here. If he couldn't harness the reproductive properties of the Belvids' gemstone—the _baharinda_ —then the Armada would likely fall to the greater numbers of the Alliance. _Only the strong survive. Remember Zo'rhan. Remember the Ma'tuul. It must be done._ "I'm terribly sorry about all of this."

The land surged, an upheaval that sent dirt and rocks and debris bursting to the sky from the center of the small village in a fountain of destruction. Belvids scattered in every direction—those that weren't caught in the blast—dropping their bows amidst screams of terror. Lady Almatha was thrown to the ground along with the two that held her sash, their bodies unintentionally shielding her from the falling rocks and dirt. Another, the short-haired Belvid that Almatha had referred to as Meylinda, snatched her bow from the ground and drew an arrow meant for Kindel's heart.

Thorus was already gathering energy, blinding light emerging from the humid air to surround his body. He reached out toward Almatha and her assistants, extending the glow around the crumpled ladies. Bowstrings twanged, arrows flew, and women screamed, but it was too late. When the light dissipated, Kindel was safe on the bridge of the _Black Eagle_ with Lady Almatha and the other two Belvids in a heap beside him. Scimitar and Kalibur slipped to either side and hauled the assistants to their feet while Kindel yanked Almatha up. Dirt marred her otherwise pretty face, her chest heaving with panicked breaths.

"What . . . have you done?" she gasped. "You have violated—"

"It is not important what treaties I may have violated or what laws I've broken," Kindel cut her off. "I will stop at nothing to ensure the future of the Vezulian Armada and realize our dream of peace across the galaxy! To protect—"

"Peace?" Almatha recoiled in disgust. "You think your actions represent a desire for _peace_?"

"The laws of existence are harsh ones, my dear!" Thorus' eyes narrowed. "To protect oneself from the would-be champions of the universe, one must become more powerful than those champions. The phrase has been uttered for generations past, and will survive for countless generations to come: Only the strong survive. You may feel that my actions are hostile, violent, and destructive, but I assure you my Lady, it is for the greater good." He turned toward Scimitar. "See them to cells."

The black-clad ninja had already slipped steel shackles around the wrists of his prisoner. He handed her off to Kalibur, who led both of Almatha's assistants into the transportation lift. A similar pair of steel cuffs went around the wrists of the Lady before Scimitar led her to join them. The door slid closed with a quiet whisk.

"Admiral?"

A slight tremor of the floor accompanied by a distant explosion brought Thorus' attention back to the bridge. Outside, starfighters cut through the sea of space, twisting in loops and dips and turns, trying to get a clear shot at one another. Frequent laser streaks of red and orange ripped through the starry backdrop with brilliant split-second flashes of light. Assault transports unloaded their firepower in a thunderous shower of blasts that spread across the battlefield. The communication lines were alive with the chatter of the fleet, and the wreckage of ships already lost floated amidst the ongoing struggle. He'd been gone only ten minutes, yet the fight looked like it had gone on for hours. Not that it surprised Kindel that the Alliance had attacked; he was more shocked that he hadn't noticed the battle until now. "Tiras! Explain this."

"A distress call came from the planet almost immediately after you left," the Captain growled. "The Alliance must've provided the Belvids with the means of contacting them in case of trouble. I tried to stall Angeles to give you more time, but his ships opened fire. I launched all craft and ordered a full assault, as per your instructions. So far, they've lost twenty-seven starfighters and twelve transports, while we've suffered loses of less than half that. The fight goes well, Admiral."

"Shields holding at ninety-two percent," Margis Cordlein, the tactical officer, reported. "Two of the forward laser batteries have stopped responding." Two was not a number to panic over, but it certainly required attention. "Repair crews are already responding. The _Falcon Mist_ reports four more squadrons ready for launch. E.T.A. on the approaching Alliance fleet is three minutes at best."

So reinforcements were on the way. _And Aldoric is likely with them._ Against a larger fleet, losses would be greater. Perhaps greater than the Armada could afford right now. Certainly greater than necessary, anyway. There was no more reason to remain in the system. Kindel's tasks here were complete. "Withdraw."

Tiras looked back at the admiral, surprise evident in his eyes. "Sir?"

"You heard me," Kindel snapped, his eyes thinning. "Take us out of here. We've done what we came to do. The Alliance will still be out there when we're ready for them. But that will have to wait for another day. Take us back to the human homeworld. I may need to conduct more studies there. Lieutenant Petreit, report to the prison cells and see what you can learn from our guests. It is doubtful they'll want to share information with _me_ at the moment."

Petreit rose from his seat at the interstellar cartography station and headed for the lift without a word. At the tactical terminal, Commander Cordlein issued orders to all starfighters to return to their hangars and prepare for departure. When a long beep came from the communications terminal, Kindel expected to hear Captain Angeles gloating over the Armada's perceived "retreat." But when Aarn flipped the switch to make the connection, a calm and solemn voice spoke.

"What have you done, Kindel?"

Thorus' eyes shot to the viewport just in time to see a silver and black starfighter soaring just outside of firing range. It resembled a seagull, its wings spread wide to either side of its narrow body. The spidery looking emblem on the wings indicated its affiliation with the Alliance. "Aldoric," Kindel muttered with a grin. "Late as usual, I see."

"The Belvids are reporting that you abducted the High Lady Almatha and her assistants," the voice returned. "Return them to the planet, Kindel. There is no way the Belvids can help you achieve what you want in your absurd—"

"If you only knew, my dear brother," Thorus cut him off with a laugh. "These ladies will be the key to the rise of the Vezulian Armada! They will help me bring a new era of peace to the galaxy, starting with the destruction of the Aeden Alliance."

"You won't get away with this, Kindel." Aldoric's voice remained steady. "Almatha will not cooperate with you. She'll fight you every step of—"

"Do you think I'm unaware that you're trying to stall me so that your allies can arrive in a feeble attempt to stop us? I'm sorry, I'd love to stick around and play, but I'm afraid the stakes are too high, and I cannot afford to risk a full-scale battle right now."

"Cannot win, you mean," Aldoric grumbled.

"Believe as you wish," Kindel said, moving beside the communications array. "But I promise you, Aldoric, that when next we meet, you'll find a change of attitude to be in order."

Before the voice could respond, he flipped the switch on the terminal, severing the connection. "Commander Cordlein, have all starfighters returned to their hangars?"

"The last squadron just reported in, Sir. All are present and accounted for."

Thorus nodded with a satisfied grin. "Good. Helmsman, plot a course for Terranias and take us out of here."

Geo Marnfell typed in a series of commands, leading the fleet in full circle as the Aeden ships continued to pound away at their' shields. The engines of the _Black Eagle_ powered up with an eruption of blue, sending the starship hurtling into the depths of space at a velocity that exceeded even that of light itself. The rest of the Armada followed suit, leaving Aldoric, the Aeden Alliance, and the planet of Belvidia far behind.

Kindel returned to his quarters and stared through the viewport. The family conflict had been brewing for years upon years, stemming from Kindel's initial decision to form the Vezulian Brotherhood. Aldoric feared what Kindel was capable of, feared his strength, and feared being forced to choose between his brother and his own ego. The day that Kindel left Zo'rhan to seek others to join his cause, Aldoric had challenged him to a blood duel. He'd had Kindel all but beaten, too, but he refused to finish the job. Aldoric could not bring himself to kill Kindel, bringing shame to both himself and the tradition of the blood duel. He'd proven to be the weakest of all the zo'rhan, and Kindel's brush with death further fueled his conviction that the weak must be made strong, or they might be forced to submit their sovereignty to the mighty.

But true power was never easily obtained. Brawn was one thing; any idiot could train their body. _If a warrior's might was all it took to claim victory, Zo'rhan would never have been broken._ No, true power was more than brains or brawn; it had to come from other sources. Unconsciously, he shifted his eyes to the collection of artifacts on the cabinets lining the wall. His gaze came to rest upon the long white cloth draped over a narrow flat piece. _No, not yet. I'm not that desperate yet. Fool, you'd probably be incinerated just for lifting the cursed thing!_

He returned to his desk and dropped into his chair with a sigh. Before long, the top drawer was open, and he was rolling lephadorite in his palm. With the Belvids aboard, the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place just as he'd hoped. The doorway to unlimited power stood before him, and with a little more work, he'd soon be ready to turn the key. "Only the strong survive, Aldoric," Kindel murmured as he gazed into the stone. "You'll soon learn the value of true strength."

*******

". . . going to have to cut deeper."

"We're getting too close to his optic nerve, Sir. If it's set any deeper it could damage the nerve endings."

"Then we'll have to replace his eye. The larger implant is a necessity now. I'll not lose this one, too."

"Body temperature is stable. What will you use as a replacement?"

"I may be able to attach one of our pistol scopes. If I can tie it into the implant electronically, he could magnify images and activate infrared searches. Perhaps I could even convert the laser targeting system to a weapon."

"Could the implant process such functions?"

"Easily. They are simple commands compared to the functions of the brain."

"Is it safe to keep the boy in stasis for that long?"

"I can power up the implant once I connect it to his nervous system. His brain will function as though he is conscious, but he will not awaken until I activate it. That will allow me to safely install an artificial eye without risking brain damage from prolonged stasis. I need the crimping tool."

"Yes, Sir."

"Thank you. Now, we'll feed the wiring from here, leading to the . . ."

*******

The last Vultrel had seen of his best friend, Arus had been lying in a pool of his own blood with his severed arm a short distance away. The image was etched into his mind, accompanied by Arus' piercing cries of pain. There were few things in Vultrel's life that had left a lasting impact on him, but he was sure, even now, that he'd be haunted by that image for years to come. His best friend—a young man he'd grown up with, trained alongside, taught, and learned from—was clinging to his last ounce of strength, his last bit of will, perhaps the last moments of his life, and Vultrel had been powerless to stop it.

They'd heard nothing of Arus' condition since being returned to their prison cells. Olock and F'Ledro had only shoved them inside and wrapped chains around the bars to replace the locks that Kitreena had destroyed. A series of heavy padlocks held the bonds tightly, though none of the prisoners had even tried to fiddle with them. Kitreena lay motionless on the floor of the cell across from him—the one Arus had previously occupied—with her black hair draped over her face and across the dirt. In the cell to Vultrel's left, his father sat with his back against he wall and his head slumped in despair. For all they knew, Arus could've died on that arena floor. But Truce had been adamant about getting medical attention for him, insisting that it was vital to the success of his experiment.

And then there was Anton. Regardless of his attitude or his skill, Anton was a fellow swordsman and a citizen of Keroko. They'd practically grown up together despite their constantly clashing personalities, and Vultrel had watched in horror as the young man thrust his sword through his own body. It was a fate he wouldn't wish upon anyone—the lone exception being Truce, perhaps—yet Anton's refusal to allow himself to be controlled by the Mages had shown more bravery and sacrifice than Vultrel would've expected from him. Rather than follow Truce's orders, rather than fight his own comrades, Anton had chosen death. There had been an honorable and noble young man underneath the arrogance, yet his life had to be sacrificed for his bravery to be revealed.

Truce's experiment had both succeeded and failed, it seemed. While the mind-controlling implant failed to keep Anton under the Mages' command, it _had_ forced him to fight Arus, and only a brief moment of clarity had saved him from being Sartan's lapdog. If Arus managed to survive, Truce intended to fit him with another implant, one that was more powerful if Vultrel had overheard correctly. And if Arus withstood the loss of his arm, the possibility of being forced to fight him just as Arus had fought Anton was all too real. It was something Vultrel wasn't sure he could do.

A long sigh of dismay came from his left. Eaisan had not been taking the events well, either. More than once Vultrel had thought he'd seen tears in his father's eyes. It was no surprise, considering that Eaisan had taken responsibility for training Arus after Dayne had passed away. Anton had been one of his students, too. For him, it was like watching two of his sons getting skewered by a madman. And, like Vultrel, there had been nothing Eaisan could do to stop it. Vultrel had never known his father to harbor bitter feelings or a lust for vengeance, but it was hard to imagine that Eaisan would be able to maintain his composure the next time he and Sartan Truce were face to face.

"Are you all right?" Vultrel asked him.

Eaisan's unfocused gaze was directed at the floor, and he did not look up. "As well as can be expected, I suppose. How are you holding up?"

"Trying to keep myself focused," Vultrel said, rubbing his temples. "I don't _want_ to seek revenge, but it's hard not to want . . ." he didn't want to finish the thought, ashamed that he'd even begun the sentence.

"Revenge?" Eaisan asked with a soft laugh. "I know, Son. I know. Everything I've ever taught you boys revolves around respect, honor, intelligence, and nobility. And murder for the sake of revenge carries none of those qualities." He fell silent for a moment, then sighed again. "Yet I find myself eager for a chance to run my sword through Truce's heart. I know it's difficult to keep your emotions in check sometimes, particularly times like this. When Arus' father died, your mother had to practically tie me down to prevent me from running off to the Mayahol to slaughter any leftover Mages I could find. But I kept telling myself that Dayne wouldn't have wanted me to get myself killed in a blind rage of vengeance. And I don't think Arus or Anton would want us to do that today, either."

Vultrel nodded, albeit reluctantly. "So . . . what do we do now?"

Eaisan wiped the sweat from his forehead. "We wait for an opportunity to present itself and then try to get back to the village."

"But what about Arus? We can't leave him here!"

"We don't even know if he's alive, Vultrel." It visibly pained him to suggest otherwise. "Even if he is, I think it is abundantly clear that there isn't much we can do here on our own. We should go back to Keroko, round up as many members of the militia as we can find, and come back to destroy the Vermillion Mages once and for all."

Vultrel thought about it for moment. He hated the idea of leaving Arus alone, alive or otherwise, but both he and Eaisan were still unarmed and heavily outnumbered. All it would take was an unlucky encounter with a pack of Mages in one of the tunnels for any hope of escape would be lost. _If_ they could manage to get free in the first place.

Across from him, Kitreena stirred. She groaned softly as she moved a hand to her face. "What about her?" Vultrel asked. "We can't leave her here, either."

"She's welcome to accompany us, should we manage to escape, but I doubt she'll take kindly to the suggestion."

*******

The nearby murmur of conversation floated through Kitreena's mind. She could almost feel the dirt floor waver beneath her as she drifted along the edge of consciousness. The voices were muddled at first, speaking of names that sounded faintly familiar yet unrecognizable. A hand brushed her face—her own, she realized—to wipe her dirt-matted hair from her eyes, and she heard herself groan. Her body ached as though every muscle had been tensed for days. Combined with the swirling of senses and the unsteady floor, she felt ready to vomit. The uncomfortable warmth of the cavern was all too familiar, along with the beads of sweat running down her forehead. The voices began to sharpen as consciousness crept over her, and at the mention of the name "Arus," her eyes sprang open.

She'd first seen him in Keroko, fighting Olock to defend the children. It had initially surprised her when she found him in the prison cell of the Underworld, though she couldn't really give a reason. He had been headstrong, and a bit too eager to run into trouble, yet the same could be said of herself. Unconsciously, she reached for her shoulder, and her fingers found a white patch of bandages taped across the injury she'd sustained during the fighting. _That's right; he helped me back in the tunnel. Even unarmed, he raced to my aid._ She wanted to kick herself for not escorting him safely from the Underworld while she had the chance.

"Are you all right?" a quiet voice came from the darkness. She struggled to push herself to her knees, her head spinning more the higher she rose. _But how did I end up here? What happened? Where am I?_ Her surroundings were slowly coming into focus. The single lantern on the wall provided less light than she would've expected from a flame of its size, but it glowed brightly enough to reveal the steel bars running from the ceiling to the floor. She was in a prison cell. _This is the same cell that he was locked in, isn't it?_

"Can you hear me?"

Kitreena rubbed her eyes with her knuckles. "Yes, I can hear you." Her voice sounded strained. It _felt_ strained. _What happened to me? Why am I here? Where's Arus?_ "I'm fine."

"You don't _sound_ fine," the voice said. It sounded distinctly familiar, yet her mind was swirling so much that it took her several moments to even comprehend what was being said. "You gave us quite a scare back there."

"I . . ." His last comment caught her off-guard. "What?"

"She doesn't remember," a firmer voice came, no doubt the young man's father. "Just as Arus didn't remember when Truce used the technique on him."

"My name is Vultrel," the young man spoke again. "And my father, Eaisan, is also here. Do you remember us?"

_What am I, some sort of addle-brained child?_ She groaned and forced herself into a sitting position. The light of the lantern, though dim compared to most, was so overwhelming that she was forced to cover her eyes. The room teetered. "Of course I remember you," she muttered. "You're the fools who didn't escape when you had the chance."

"The same could be said of you," Eaisan's voice rumbled with frustration. "For all your arrogant proclamations that Truce and the Vermillion Mages would stand no chance against your might, in the end you didn't put up much of a fight."

Kitreena opened her mouth to argue, but she knew nothing of which he spoke. The last thing she could remember was rushing into a darkened cavern with Arus, worrying that it was a trap, yet determined not to be snared by it. It would seem she had failed in that aspect of things, if their imprisonment was any indication. "What . . . happened to me? To us, I mean? And where is Arus?"

A few moments of silence passed before Vultrel began to explain, detailing the events from the moment he'd heard Arus' voice in the arena to the tragic battle with Truce. His emotion caused his voice to waver more than a few times when discussing Anton's death and Arus' injury. It frightened Kitreena to learn that Truce's implant technology had already been tested. The data she'd been receiving on the project was that he'd barely begun construction on the unit. But if the boy's story was true, then Truce already had test data to work with, and Arus was going to be his next subject. If he survived. And though she refused to allow it to show, it pained her heart to hear of Arus' fate. It was nearly enough to bring her to tears. _Fool girl, he's just a naive boy who threw himself into a den of hungry jackals. Stop this ridiculous behavior and focus on the task at hand._ Still, the sadness remained, a hollow feeling in the center of her chest that cried out with despair. _I hope he's all right. Please, let him be all right._

Vultrel's story had not mentioned a word of her own involvement, or how she'd come to find herself in this prison cell with such a wretched headache. "And what about me? Where was I during all of this?"

For a long time, her question was met with only silence. She briefly uncovered her eyes, but a quick glance at the lantern light set them burning once more, and she squeezed them closed again. Whatever had happened, her body was certainly taking its time in recovering. Eventually Eaisan spoke, though his answer was vague, at best. "Truce used one of his techniques against you. I'm not sure what it was—there wasn't much to it—but you ended up lying unconscious in the sand."

Kitreena thought she heard a snort from Vultrel's direction, as though the answer given was an understatement of the truth. "Why do I get the feeling there's more to it than that?" she asked.

More silence. Eaisan cleared his throat, and it sounded like Vultrel was pacing. This time it was he who spoke. "Kitreena, do you know what a Morpher is?"

Her breath caught. Surely no one but Truce and F'Ledro could've known, but how much had they told him? Did they overhear a conversation not meant for their ears? "Why . . . do you ask?"

"Something strange happened to you in the arena," Vultrel responded. His voice was tense. Nervous. Perhaps even a little frightened. "When Truce's soldiers dragged us in here, we heard one say something to F'Ledro about Morphers, and he seemed to be talking about you."

Again, Kitreena looked up, this time forcing herself to stare through the mind-numbing brightness of the lantern. " _What_ happened to me? Tell me everything that happened! Every detail!"

Finally Vultrel explained, though a bit reluctantly, Kitreena's encounter with Truce, and the bizarre transformation her body had undergone. By the time he'd finished, she was trembling like a terrified child, gripping the iron bars of the cell until her fingers ached. _Lightning around my hands? Smoke from my skin?_ Purple _eyes?! I could've killed us all! What would've happened if Truce hadn't released his hold on me?_ She realized that both Vultrel and Eaisan were waiting in silence, likely expecting some sort of explanation. Unfortunately for them, there were some things not meant for their ears. According to the documented history of Terranias she'd read in the Alliance's archives, humans had _chosen_ to be excluded from interstellar relations with the rest of the galaxy after a war with an invading force several thousand years ago.

She could see the blurred image of Vultrel's face waiting for an answer on the opposite side of the prison bars. Rather than try to lie her way out of it, she turned the conversation in a different direction. "I wonder why he didn't kill me," she murmured, thinking aloud. "He knows I won't stop until both he and F'Ledro are dead."

"Because he wants to do the same thing to us that he did to Anton," Eaisan spoke up. "Nothing would thrill him more than to be able to pull our strings to make us walk."

"Like puppets," Vultrel muttered absent-mindedly. "You still haven't answered my question, Kitreena."

He wasn't as easily distracted as she'd hoped. She gave a shrug and said, "I don't have any answers to give."

They sat there for what seemed like days with only the dim light of the lantern keeping them company. Kitreena rolled onto her back and draped her arm over her eyes, impatiently trying to _will_ her body to recuperate. She could still hear Vultrel pacing across the way; it reminded her of a caged tiger waiting for his chance to break free. Aside from the occasional dejected sigh, Eaisan remained silent for the most part. With nothing to do but sit and wait, Kitreena's thoughts returned to Arus. _I wish I hadn't allowed him to accompany me. He didn't deserve any of this; he's a good kid. And now Truce is going to make him a slave . . . if he survives at all. I wish Damien were here. He'd know how to fix everything._ She shook the thought away. _Pull yourself together, fool. You're independent now, remember? Fifteen years old or not, you've got to fend for yourself! You've got to get up and find a way out of this. If Truce is already attempting his second experiment, then his research is farther along than we'd feared. And if he finds a buyer for the technology, there could be hundreds of cybernetic slaves across the galaxy in a matter of months! Maybe even_ thousands _of them! And if the Armada ever got their hands on it . . ._

The sudden thought had her stumbling to her feet, clinging to the prison bars to support herself. The room whirled, and her knees shook. _Can't let it keep me from doing what must be done,_ she kept telling herself. Her head pounded, and her stomach seemed to be floating up into her chest.

"Don't rush your recovery," Eaisan's voice came from the darkness beyond the cell. "Lie down. Even if we managed to break out of here, you can go nowhere in your condition. You need rest."

"I appreciate your concern," she growled, "but I can make it just . . . fine—"

Her knees finally buckled, and she found herself lying flat on her back again. After a few moments, the room began to settle, and her stomach returned to its rightful place. _Well, maybe just a little rest,_ she thought, her eyelids sinking. _Just until this bloody headache goes away._

"Are you all right?" Vultrel's voice called. "Kitreena?"

"Fine," she murmured, half-awake. "I'm going to . . . save . . ."

Sleep had never been more welcome.

### Chapter 6

"Uploading auxiliary databank."

"Secondary systems online. Main power is stable."

"Have all test cycles completed?"

"Yes. All systems are functioning properly."

To his surprise, Arus felt completely rejuvenated as consciousness swept over him. It was an odd feeling, though, much different than awakening after a long night's sleep. It was abrupt, like his mind had sprung to life as a spark would set a bale of hay ablaze. There was no weariness or fatigue, just raw energy and a surprising clarity of mind. Still, his thoughts raced uncontrollably as though his brain was functioning too quickly for its own comprehension. Most lasted so briefly that he had forgotten them seconds later. The few he managed to single-out seemed to be incoherent nonsense. _Main power drive stable. Laser coupling enabled. Scanners online. Movement functions synched._ None of it made any sense, and they disappeared as quickly as they appeared. _I must still be dreaming. That's it._

Upload complete.

"Auxiliary databank has been uploaded."

"I'm picking up unrelated brain activity. He's thinking about something. Confused, it seems."

"To be expected. Pay it no mind. We're almost finished. Begin writing primary backup."

"Backup initialized."

He was on a cool surface, possibly metal. The air was warm and thick, and his body was drenched in sweat. The random thoughts continued, mixed with the foggy memories of his battle with Sartan Truce. _Did I really lose my arm, or was that a part of the dream?_ Though it refused to move, he could feel his arm lying beside him. _If I dreamt that part, how much was real?_ He tried to move, tried to shake himself into consciousness, but his body remained perfectly still. _I_ am _awake, aren't I? I've never had a dream where my own thoughts were so vivid before. Why can't I open my eyes? What's happened to me?_

"Primary backup complete."

"Begin auxiliary backup. Initialize onboard life-support and disconnect from the main terminal."

"Auxiliary backup initialized. Life-support systems online and functioning."

A chill swept across Arus' body, sending shivers down his spine, and with them, images of Kitreena skimmed the surface of his mind. Her eyes of amethyst, glowing, staring, piercing his own with their ferocious energy. _That was_ certainly _a part of the dream. No human can wield power like that, unless she was one of the Vermillion Mages. Unlikely, given her utter disdain for anything involving Truce. She certainly was pretty. Will I ever see her again?_ The images faded into nothingness, replaced only by the sea of darkness that plagued him. _I wonder what happened to Vultrel and Master Eaisan. I hope they're all right. Anton, too. Maybe that was part of the dream! Maybe Anton is still alive!_

"Auxiliary backup complete. Life-support is active and stable."

"Good. All right, I think we're ready. Switch power to full and Initialize mainframe."

"Power to full. Initialization commencing."

Abruptly, the world appeared. The rocky cavern ceiling came into focus almost immediately. A strange winding sound buzzed near his left eye, and a thin red film tinted his vision. For a moment, blocky-shaped text appeared, echoing the various thoughts that continued to stream through his subconscious. When the words "Scanners Enabled" appeared, a small circle of deep maroon appeared in the upper right edge of his vision, marked with a dark red point in the center and two white points on the left side. Toward the bottom-left, the words "Main Power: %100" glowed in the same red as the circle. Opposite that, a message reading "Current Magnification: %100" sat near the corner. _What is all this? By the Maker, would someone please tell me what is going on?!_

"Initialization complete. Mainframe is up and running. Audio recognition protocols are active and responding. Visual cortex is functioning as anticipated. He's ready to go."

"Arus? Arus, can you hear me?"

For the first time, Arus recognized Sartan Truce's voice; he couldn't fathom how he'd not realized sooner. _What has he done to me? Why am I—_

"Yes, Master."

To hear himself speak when he hadn't even attempted to open his mouth was frightening, but to hear himself refer to Truce as "Master" was absolutely terrifying. He wanted to scream—he tried to, actually—but his mouth didn't even open. Panic washed over him like the waves of the South Sea. He tried to struggle, tried to yell, tried to do _anything_ to get his body to respond, but he only succeeded in panicking himself further. _Is he . . . controlling me? Oh my . . ._ He trailed off as he remembered Truce's threats, and the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. _I've replaced Anton! He's put one of those machines on me, and it's controlling me!_

"How are you feeling, Arus? Are all systems in working order?"

He watched in horror as his head turned on its own, bringing Truce and Olock into view. "All systems are fully operational." Blood stained Truce's shirt and sleeves, and a wide variety of tools lay scattered across a metal counter beside him. Olock stood beside some sort of machine just behind Sartan, staring intently at glowing text that scrolled across a sheet of glass on the front. "His heart is racing," he murmured, glancing at Arus. "He's not reacting well."

"Neither did the other one," Truce noted. His eyes were visibly heavy from an apparent lack of sleep. There was no telling how long they'd been working on Arus, but they seemed pleased with the results. "Give it time, he'll get used to it."

Never!

"How about that arm, Arus? How does it feel?"

He lifted his left arm— _felt_ it lift—and gazed upon a shining steel forearm. The entire limb had been replaced by a machine, solid metal plates wrapping around greased joints and bundled wires. It looked remarkably like his human arm, if only made of steel. _So I_ did _lose my arm. None of it was a dream, it was all real. I can't believe this. I can't believe this is happening!_ "It meets system requirements, Master," he heard himself say. "No compatibility issues to report."

"Good," Sartan nodded, rising from his chair. He stifled a yawn, looking over Arus with obvious pride and satisfaction. "Well, let's get you started on your training. We can't send you into battle until your systems have been properly tested and tuned to perfection. Come."

Arus' body moved stiffly as he rose, but his legs held firm beneath him. His back remained straight as an arrow as he walked—almost marched—behind Truce and Olock. They left the medical facility behind and headed deeper into the network of caves. Arus ran over every conceivable idea in his mind as he searched for some way to regain control of his body. _Anton did it. Somehow, he broke the hold. If I can just figure out what he did . . ._ But even then, Anton had only gained a brief moment of sanity, and he'd used it to end his life. Arus had no intentions of following suit. _I won't let this go unanswered. I won't. I can't._ Truce and Olock rounded a corner and led him into a large cavern. _Easy for me to say that now. I don't know how much Anton may have fought against the implant before he decided that suicide was the only way. For all I know, I could be begging for the same in a few days._

The den was much like the arena, though Vermillion Mages were scattered throughout. It appeared to be a training room of sorts, complete with weights for strength and fitness training, target dummies for archers, and a dueling ring for swordsman. Near the right wall, a group of younger Mages were huddled in a circle, channeling small spheres of fire into their palms. _Training to use magic, probably._ Grunts of soldiers hard at work echoed across the cavern, and the foul smell of sweat floated in the thick air. Some stopped momentarily as he passed, staring in open awe. His mechanical arm got an uncomfortable amount of attention.

"Are you sure you want him to train with everyone else?" Olock asked, glancing at the others. "I thought you gave Anton one-on-one training."

"I did," Truce nodded, curving through the crowd toward the dueling ring, "but afterward, I thought that exposing the implant to a wider variety of fighting styles and techniques would give a more robust learning experience. I'm hoping it will allow Arus to become an even better fighter."

You'll regret that when I turn my sword on you.

The soldiers, their shirts varying in bright colors, parted to either side as Truce led Arus into the dueling ring. One man, wearing green under a black vest, handed two rusted swords to Sartan and stepped away. "My fellow warriors," Truce began as the rest cleared from the ring. "Three days ago, you saw the beginnings of a technology that will lead us back to our former glory." _So it's been three days. No wonder he looks so exhausted._ "Today, I welcome you all to take part in the testing of the next phase of that technology. Arus Sheeth, son of Dayne, will be happy to duel with any and all challengers. The first to draw blood will be declared the victor, and if any of you manage to defeat him, I'll see that you and your family become the wealthiest of all the kyrosen. Well, aside from myself, of course." The last comment drew several laughs. "So, how about it? Any takers?"

"I challenge!"

"Aye!"

"I accept!"

Sartan grinned. "Now, now, one at a time. Any who wish to try their skill will have a chance."

"Challenge accepted," a large man in the front of the crowd bellowed. He was a bulky, hulking, brute of a man, standing a head taller than Truce, nearly two taller than Arus. His wide frame was well defined, muscle seemingly carved from stone. Dirty blond hair dangled below his chin on either side of his face, and he carried a curved sword larger and thicker than any Arus had ever seen before. _That thing looks like it could cut a bear in two with a single slice!_ The fighter stepped into the ring opposite Arus, removing his vest and shirt as he walked.

Truce nodded his approval. "Very well, Muert, you have the honor of being the first to test Arus' abilities. I expect you to show no mercy, soldier." He handed one of the rusted swords to Arus and shifted to the right side of the ring. Arus' vision shifted for a moment. The magnification reading switched to one hundred and fifty percent, and the image of his opponent was suddenly much closer. Words glowed in his vision, detailing Muert's physical statistics before fading away.

Height: 6' 4"

Weight: 270lbs

Weapon: Great Scimitar

Strengths: Power, Stamina, Endurance

Weaknesses: Speed, Agility, Intelligence

Estimated Warrior Rating: 7.9

Arus had no idea what the rating meant, though the implant seemed to. _If only I knew whatever it knows, I might be able to find a weakness in it._ His vision shifted again, returning the magnification level to normal. A box of light surrounded Muert, followed by a soft rhythmic beeping that only Arus appeared to hear. The image of his opponent began to fill with different shades of green and orange and red and yellow, each apparently indicating conditioning levels in correspondence with a color-striped bar lining the top of his vision. Muert's arms and chest were filled in with yellows and oranges, indicating solid muscle mass, while his legs were a dim yellow and green mixture. _I bet it means he's weaker there._ Arus' sight switched back to normal—if that red tint could be considered normal.

The sword felt strangely light in his hands; either his strength had been greatly increased, or the weapon was poorly made. A little of both, he decided. The mechanical arm certainly felt strong, though his heart twisted every time he caught a glance of it. _I can't believe what they've done to me,_ he thought to himself. _For so many years humans have avoided machines because of the evil they can bring, and now, I've_ become _one. I'll never be able to go home again. No one will accept me now._ The rusted blade rose, gripped solidly by the steel hand. Muert was stretching his arms to loosen his joints while Arus' body took up a fighting stance he didn't recognize. Eventually, Muert hefted his own weapon to his shoulder and focused his attention on his opponent. Fear rippled through Arus, but his face was expressionless. He was a prisoner of his own body reduced to nothing more than a spectator along for the ride. And despite every bit of psychological effort he made to force his body to move as he wanted, nothing he did brought him any closer to breaking the implant's hold. _What am I going to do? Master Eaisan, Vultrel, Kitreena . . . Someone, help me! Please, free me!_

Truce raised an arm, bringing a hush over the crowd. "Warriors to battle! Begin!"

*******

Kitreena did not know how many days had passed since she first awoke on the dirt floor of the prison cell. Day and night seemed irrelevant in the Underworld, deep below the planet's surface, hidden away from the sun and the stars. She slept when she was tired, and plotted her escape when she was not. She had tried a number of ideas—digging beneath the base of the bars had seemed smart at the time, but they reached down much farther than she had expected. Still, she refused to give up hope. _I'm smarter than them,_ she told herself. Even if she couldn't escape when the kyrosen weren't looking, sooner or later they'd come for her and try to bind her in shackles to be taken to whatever fate awaited. And when they did, she'd be ready. The days of rest had treated her well, and aside from a slight shakiness in her knees when she stood, her body had almost fully recovered.

But the kyrosen hadn't come, much to her surprise. Various soldiers had passed through to feed them minuscule portions of dried fruit, and F'Ledro had stopped by to taunt her twice, but none said much more than that. She had spent several hours trying to reason out the possibilities before falling asleep the previous night—or day, or whatever it was—but nothing she'd come up with made sense. If Arus had died, Truce would've probably come for herself or Vultrel to replace him on the operating table. Yet with his injuries being as serious as Vultrel had described, she didn't see how he could've lived if Truce hadn't finished the operation by now. No doubt he would test the new implant and Arus' receptiveness to it by putting him in the arena with one of his friends, just as he'd done to Anton. Instead, Kitreena, Vultrel, and Eaisan were left in disgusting prison cells, apparently forgotten.

The loud clanking of stone against steel came from Vultrel's cell, momentarily distracting Kitreena from her thoughts. While she'd been attempting to dig her way out of the cell, Vultrel had asked her to toss him one of the palm-sized rocks she'd unearthed. He seemed intent on smashing the lock on his cell until he was free, but all he'd succeeded in doing was bruising his hands with repeated pounding. He'd woken Kitreena up several times with it; she almost believed he'd developed a personal vendetta against the lock for being so stubborn. Still, he was a persistent one. But his father rolled his eyes at his back on more than one occasion. Eaisan had suggested luring the soldiers into opening their cells with false promises of negotiation, but thus far, none of the kyrosen had fallen for it. They were smarter than they looked. Most of them, anyway.

Kitreena relaxed against the wall and sighed, strands of thick hair falling over her eyes. They'd been stewing in the prison for days, and she had begun to fall into deep despair. It felt as though something had bored a hole where her heart should've been, and the vacant space was a void of nothing but pure sadness. And for reasons she couldn't even hope to understand, she somehow knew it was connected to Arus. It hit her abruptly while she'd been trying to fall asleep, an image of the boy's face wearing a crimson mask of blood, and she'd been afraid to close her eyes ever since. _I have to get him out of here._ Her compassion for him surprised even herself. Concern turned to worry that plagued her mind, and she had long since promised herself that she would _not_ leave him to Truce's control, even if she had to kill him to free him.

Her ears perked at the sound of a distant beep from the connecting hallway. Though Eaisan and Vultrel didn't know it—they wouldn't understand if they did—she had a heightened sense of hearing that surpassed that of the average human. At least, that's one of the things she learned from her time with Arus. "Hush," she said, motioning for Vultrel to take a break from his pounding. She crawled to the door of the cell and watched the dark end of the corridor intently. It took only seconds for the beep to repeat. _My communicator. Damien wants to know where I am._ The sound was growing progressively louder, accompanied by light footsteps. Whoever was carrying it was coming to the cells. "Hide the rock," she instructed. "Someone's coming."

Vultrel raised an eyebrow. "What makes you say—"

A slim figure emerged from the darkness, a scruffy man in a brown shirt and black pants. "You," he snapped, pointing at Kitreena. "This is yours, is it not?" He lifted her silver communicator.

Kitreena's mouth twisted as she looked at the Mage with contempt. He looked as though he hadn't bathed in weeks, and smelled worse. Shaggy blond hair dangled just above his beady eyes and stuck out in places around his ears. His stare made her uncomfortable, but she never let it show. "Considering that you've left us to rot in these cells, I don't see any reason why I should cooperate with you."

Abruptly, an unseen force threw Vultrel's body against the back wall of his prison cell. He slumped to all fours, grunting through clenched teeth. The Mage's eyes never left Kitreena's. "Defiance will only bring pain to your companions," he warned. "That was the least of what I'll do if you do not cooperate."

Kitreena wanted to turn her eyes to Vultrel, to see if he was all right, but she knew the importance of maintaining a strong appearance to the enemy, both physically and mentally. "You can kill them, for all I care." Without looking, she knew Vultrel and Eaisan were glaring at her.

"If not for my orders to see that you three remain alive, I would," he responded. The communicator beeped again. The longer she stalled, the more the delay would arouse Damien's suspicion. "But don't think I'll forget your insolence once Truce no longer has need for you."

"You waste your breath with idle threats," she snarled back. "The moment that you or any of your goons open these cells, your lives end."

The skinny man laughed in a disturbed cackle. "Is that a threat?"

"A fact," she replied. "Whether or not you believe isn't important to me."

Another beep. "We shall see," he chuckled. "For now, you will answer this. You will be casual and calm, and say nothing that will lead anyone here. If you do not do as I say, your friends here," he motioned toward Eaisan and Vultrel, "will suffer dearly."

"They aren't my friends. And I thought you said Truce wanted us alive." She didn't want to say it, but she couldn't allow him to have such leverage over her.

"Alive, yes. But nothing was mentioned of what _condition_." His emphasis on the last word sent a shiver down her spine. He held up the communicator just out of her reach. "Answer," he ordered, pushing the thin button on the side.

The line was open, and she knew Damien was on the other end. She could say anything, even blurt out where and how she was being held. But as much as she _said_ she didn't care about Vultrel and Eaisan, nothing would've been further from the truth. She shot the Mage a look that might have turned most men to stone, and spoke. "Yeah?"

"Kitreena?" There was obvious panic in Damien's voice. "Where have you been? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Things have been hectic, that's all. How did everything go at Belvidia?" The Mage shot her a look that said this was not the time for small talk.

"Not well, I'm afraid. Kindel made off with Lady Almatha and her assistants. The Alliance is currently formulating a plan to rescue them. We may be needed to help out. How has your assignment gone?"

Kitreena's eyes met the scrawny soldier's with fierce defiance. "It's not over, yet."

"Do you need any help?"

The Mage released the button. "You tell him it won't be necessary, and tell him to leave you alone until you contact him again."

Before she could protest, he pressed the button. Grinding her teeth, she said, "That won't be necessary. I'll handle things here." Pressed for time and limited on options, there was only one idea she could come up with, and she knew she had to do it before the weasel decided she'd had enough time to speak.

"Are you sure?" Damien asked. "I can be there if you—"

"No, _Zhun Hai_ , I can take care of myself."

The soldier snarled as he pulled the communicator away. "What was that?" he demanded, grabbing the prison bars. "What did you say to him?"

She didn't budge, meeting his fierce stare with one of her own. The communicator crackled with Damien's reply. "Understood."

The Mage grabbed her, wrapping quivering fingers around her throat. "What was it?!" he growled again.

Regardless of what he did to her or the other two, Damien was certainly on his way. She rarely asked for help, but when she did, he was always quick to respond. And if she knew Damien, he was already close. Finally, she smiled. "I apologize. Old habit of mine. It means 'thank you' in his native tongue."

But the soldier wasn't buying it. "Don't feed me such rubbish! I'm not some fool—"

The lantern abruptly extinguished, cutting him off in mid-sentence as darkness overtook the prison. Kitreena's smile grew, though he couldn't see it, and she tore his hand from her throat. "Don't be silly. You're a much bigger fool than you give yourself credit for!"

Heavy boots rushed across the dirt floor, and the Mage grunted sharply before collapsing in a heap. The lock shattered with a spark, and seconds later she felt a strong hand wrap around her wrist. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Damien," she told him, pulling away. "I'm not a child anymore. I can look after myself."

She didn't have to see his face to know he was grinning. "And a fine job you've been doing so far, I must say."

She rolled her eyes and began to grope around the floor in search of her communicator. "A little help?" she muttered.

The lantern sprang to life with an unnatural brightness, forcing Kitreena to shield her eyes for a moment. When she returned to her feet with her communicator in hand, her eyes met the shocked stares of Vultrel and Eaisan, side by side in their respective cells, as they looked upon Damien. She was aware they'd never seen a foreign life-form before—or so they believed—but they openly gaped as though he had six heads. To be expected, she supposed. To someone unfamiliar with the other races of the galaxy, Damien's appearance could be quite intimidating.

He stood half-again as tall as her, his head nearly brushing the cavern ceiling. Most of his sturdy body was shrouded by his cloak, its deep blue almost appearing black as it rippled with his movements. Black leather pouches hung from either side of his belt, and his fine blue coat was embroidered with silver thread and elegant jewels arranged in the appearance of a tree bearing fruit. But it was Damien's face that garnered the most attention. His skin was pale blue, and dark eyes glistened over his warm smile. Long snowy hair ran halfway down his back. He had the appearance of a battle-hardened warrior with the gentle demeanor of a lamb. "I believe this is yours," he said, raising her coiled whip. He held two sheathed swords in his other hand, which Vultrel was eying. "Who are they?" Damien asked, motioning toward the other prisoners.

"Locals," Kitreena told him, latching her whip to her belt. ". . . And friends. Let them out."

Damien nodded, and the locks on both cells burst in a shower of sparks. Vultrel opened his cell door with obvious caution, no doubt unsure of what to make of Kitreena's companion. "I thought you said we weren't your friends," he grumbled at her. "Truce could kill us, for all you care, right?"

She headed toward the main hall without even looking at him. "An enemy will use any weakness he can to exploit you. I was doing you a favor. Give them their swords, Damien. They're trustworthy."

Vultrel was obviously grateful. He strapped the sheath to his back and drew the weapon to inspect the blade. Eaisan latched his sword to the back of his belt, his eyes shifting from Damien to Kitreena and back again. It was clear that he didn't trust either of them, but he kept whatever reservations he had to himself.

"You'll have to excuse her," Damien's voice was polite. "She can be a bit . . . passionate about her work."

"What . . . _are_ you?" Vultrel finally asked. "You can't be human."

Damien chuckled. "No, I am not. As you have probably assumed by now, we are not of this world. I regret that I cannot tell you much more than that, but please believe that we are not here to harm you or any of the natives of this planet. Kitreena came to prevent Truce's cybernetic implant from becoming a reality, but it seems that plan has failed. Now we must see that it is destroyed, along with any research and documentation that is connected with it. He cannot be allowed to share that technology with anyone, or the consequences may be severe."

"I see you've been doing some investigating of your own," Kitreena said as they gathered near the exit into the main tunnel. "How much do you know, and how much do I need to go over?"

"I know that he has completed his first experiment and that the subject didn't react as he'd hoped. I've heard rumors of a second experiment, but I haven't been able to learn anything else as of yet."

Kitreena peered through the door and surveyed the connecting hallway. Several bodies were scattered across the floor, lying in motionless heaps. The path to the upper levels was clear for the moment. How far that security stretched, however, was difficult to estimate. "We have to return with backup," she told him. "This is no longer a solo operation. If Truce does have a second experiment up and running, it will take more than just us to bring it down."

"I get the feeling you've seen a lot of action around here," Damien noted, ducking through the doorway.

"Is the _Refuge_ here?" she asked, ignoring his comment.

"She's on her way. I came straight from Belvidia, but Commander Naelas stopped off at Outpost Seventy-Six to refuel. I don't know how close he'll be able to get, though. The Armada has returned."

Kitreena swore silently. "Why? What interest could he possibly have in this planet?"

"Is Terranias in danger?" Eaisan spoke up. Kitreena and Damien both glanced at him, then each other.

"There's no need to worry," Damien finally responded. "I apologize. We should not be troubling you with such matters. Come, we must get you two out of here."

The pathway winding to the next level of the Underworld was relatively quiet, the occasional pops from the torches being the lone exception. Kitreena anxiously ran her hand across the handle of her whip. She had no fear of an ambush; she could handle a few of Truce's goons just fine, and Damien could take on more. Her concern was more about _who_ would be leading them. Truthfully, she couldn't explain how or why she was so convinced that Arus was alive, but if _he_ were to jump out of the shadows at them, driven by that cursed implant . . . The thought was enough to make her shiver. _I don't want to kill him, but if I have to do it, I will. I must._

Eaisan finally broke the silence as the path leveled, leading toward an intersection in the distance. "May I ask where you come from?" he asked, his wary eyes meeting Damien's.

"A place far from here. A planet called Zo'rhan."

"And her?" He motioned toward Kitreena. "Truce said she was something called a 'Morpher.' What did he mean by it?"

Kitreena shot a look of warning toward Damien. "It's not important."

He frowned for a moment, then shrugged. "There are many things we cannot reveal, I'm afraid."

"What about the Vermillion Mages?" Vultrel spoke up. "You two seem to know a lot about them. Are they from another planet, too?"

"That certainly would explain a lot," Eaisan added. "Is there anything you can tell us about them? Regardless of what happens, the Mages will still be here once you've returned to wherever it is that you're from. If you can tell us anything that will help us fight them, we'd be most grateful."

Kitreena remained silent, leaving it to Damien to decide what to reveal. The dangers of exposing an isolated planet to the rest of the universe were great. Differences in opinion regarding foreign life cut rifts among societies, sometimes leading to irrational actions and needless bloodshed. She remembered when the planet of Kardelia was inadvertently exposed to a being from a distant planet. It sparked a controversy that led to a horrific war years later.

A few scientists had drawn up plans for the planet's first starship, but a large portion of the population rallied against the idea of exploring the galaxy. They feared the unknowns of the universe, feared the dangers of space travel, and feared the foreign races of other planets. Many were convinced that those who traveled the cosmos would return with strange diseases that would plague Kardelia. Even amongst the scientists, there were quarrels about how to proceed. Money was an issue, too, as each fought to claim the right to captain the starship in hopes of riches and fame. Kardelia bubbled like a burning cauldron, and when a band of opposers bombed the facility where the starship was being constructed, civil war erupted.

And it had all started when a lost Orach from the planet of Orachael had crashed on the shores of one of their most populated continents. Needless to say, it was clear that sharing information about the universe with cultures that had yet to find their own way into space was a decidedly bad idea. Kitreena hadn't come to Terranias to start a war, and Damien had only come to rescue her. And while her appearance could pass as human, Damien's presence had completely broken the barrier between Terranias and the stars. How much more could they safely share? Or had they already set events in motion that would irrevocably change the course of the planet's history?

"It is dangerous to share outside information," Damien eventually said. "The less you know, the better off you are."

The three of them held back for a moment while Kitreena peered around the corner of the intersection. "Clear," she said in a soft voice. "Which way?"

"Right," Damien instructed as he passed her. "I'll take the lead."

"This is _my_ mission," she protested. "I am a capable leader, Damien."

"Once word of your escape gets back to Truce, he'll send every one of his men after us. I can retrace the path I took when I arrived and cleared out the guards. It will be safer that way. And faster."

"But I—"

A figure emerged from one of the corridors ahead of them, shaking his head. His shaggy black hair and oversized nose identified him almost instantly. As soon as Kitreena took her first step, she knew she was in for a tongue-lashing from Damien. But that concern was replaced by rage, and she yanked the whip from her belt. "F'Ledro!!" she snarled, cracking her whip. The wiry man looked up in a startled panic, his hand darting for his laser pistol. But at the sight of her, he instead fled down the hallway with Kitreena in pursuit.

"Kitreena!" Damien shouted, chasing after her. "Get back here! Stop!!" Vultrel and Eaisan followed, hands on the hilts of their weapons.

"Face me, F'Ledro! Fight like a true kyrosen!" Kitreena taunted, her knuckles turning white around the leather-wrapped handle of her whip.

F'Ledro drew the pistol and fired blindly over his shoulder, blasting the cavern ceiling with a brilliant crimson streak of energy. "Warriors to battle!" he screamed, his whiny voice tense with fear. "Warriors to battle!!" Laser blasts continued flying over his shoulder, most landing nowhere near his pursuers.

"Kitreena, stop!" Damien called again. "Let him go! We have more important duties to attend to!"

"He won't get away this time!" she yelled back. She had a good idea of how his lecture would go, rambling on about how she barely considered the dangerous weight of her actions. But it would be worth it if she could just finish the job here and now.

F'Ledro tore around a distant corner, screaming his rallying cry the whole way. Vultrel bared his sword, grumbling, "So much for not drawing attention to ourselves," under his breath. Damien continued his protests, insisting that Kitreena halt her pursuit, but she pushed ahead, running as fast as her legs would carry her. Her adrenaline surged as she rounded the corner . . .

. . . and skidded to a stop so abrupt that her feet slipped, bringing her down on her backside.

F'Ledro stood less than twenty paces away accompanied by at least that many soldiers. Many had swords drawn, and those leading the pack had conjured glowing balls of fire in their palms. Shouts rang through the cavern, and fists pierced the air above the crowd. The fear was gone from F'Ledro's face, mocking arrogance in its place. The lanky Mage's gap-toothed grin glistened in the torchlight, and the barrel of his pistol was pointed at her head.

Everything happened so fast. The trigger was pulled, and the piercing shriek of the laser blast echoed, but the shot never reached her. Damien stood between herself and F'Ledro, a shield of magical energy pulsing around him. The laser was absorbed by the barrier. Kitreena scrambled to her feet and backed away, curious if Damien intended to fight the soldiers. His dark gaze met hers as he peered over his shoulder at her. The gentle demeanor had vanished from his face, replaced by the determination of the battle-tested warrior she'd fought alongside for so long. "Run, Kit," he said simply.

"I won't leave you—"

"I'll be fine. Go back to the tunnel that F'Ledro came through. It will lead you out."

F'Ledro continued firing blast after blast from his pistol, pummeling Damien's shield. The other kyrosen had joined in, launching a seemingly endless array of magical attacks. The energy field glistened with each blow, but it held. Vultrel and Eaisan stared in open amazement as they tried to convince her to flee. Kitreena met Damien's eyes again. "You don't mean to fight them alone, do you?" she asked, nervously twitching her whip.

"No, I don't. I'm just going to give you enough time to get away from here. I'll follow shortly." His attention shifted to Eaisan and Vultrel. "Please take care of my daughter."

That drew more uncomfortable stares, but she had no time to deal with it now. "Come on," she growled reluctantly. "Follow me."

The opening from which F'Ledro had emerged led to a long curved path with a sharp upward slope. At the top, the corridor opened into a large cavern, presumably another of the sand snakes' nests. Countless bodies of fallen kyrosen lay scattered across the floor. Damien's work, no doubt. Why Truce and his men hadn't come to inspect the devastation for himself was certainly a wonder, but Kitreena wasn't about to complain. The lone opening on the far side of the cavern led to another corridor, this one sloping upward at an even sharper angle.

"It's cooler here," Vultrel noted as they ran.

Eaisan nodded in agreement. "We're nearing the surface. The exit can't be too far now."

The hall ended at an awkward intersection of paths and caves where the sand snakes had obviously burrowed multiple times in numerous directions. A fork in the tunnel was intersected by another, creating a jumble of paths amongst haphazardly placed columns of dirt. Kitreena took a quick look around and smiled. "I know where we are," she told them. She'd come through the area when she'd entered the Underworld, though she'd used a different corridor. "If I remember right . . ." she paused, trying to recall. _They all look the same. But when I came through, the tunnel stretched in two directions to my left. Now they're on the right, which means . . ._ "There," she decided, pointing to one of the openings in the opposite wall. "That should be—"

The sudden rumble of shouts filtered through the hall behind them. "They're coming!" Vultrel exclaimed.

Kitreena dashed toward the doorway. "Come on!" _Damien, please be all right._

The tunnel was straight this time, its incline so steep it may as well have been the side of small mountain. The dirt was rigid and gnarled, marred by a mixture of protruding rocks and empty holes where previous stones had fallen away. Vultrel stumbled several times, and Kitreena had to use her hands to scramble up the hill. But at the top, a radiant glow of light filtered down, a light too pure to have been made by a torch.

Sunlight.

"Is that what I think it is?" Vultrel asked with wide eyes.

Kitreena used it to motivate them. "You won't know unless you climb up there and see for yourself. Move!" Her hands ached, and her knees were bruised, but no amount of pain would stop her now. She scurried up the rocky path with the agility of a cat, glancing behind herself every so often to check on her companions. They were making slower progress than her, but it was progress nonetheless.

"How in blazes did they manage to carry us down here in the first place?" Vultrel muttered.

"The kyrosen have lived here for years," Kitreena responded without looking back. "I'm sure they can cover this path with their eyes closed." Sand mingled with the dirt amongst the rocks, thickening the higher they climbed. It filtered down from the top of the hill like a frozen waterfall, shifting only when Kitreena's fingers sank into it. By the time she pulled herself over the last stone, the dirt had disappeared beneath the thick blanket of sand. It stretched nearly a hundred paces ahead, ending at a round opening of light where the cave ended and the desert began. Behind her, Vultrel and Eaisan had barely passed the halfway point; they seemed determined to traverse the path upright rather than climb across the stones as she had. "Come on!" she urged them.

Without warning, an azure sphere of light burst through the cavern door below and exploded against the base of the hill, shattering stones and sending debris flying. Vultrel fell to his knees and grabbed hold of a large rock to steady himself. Beside him, Eaisan peered down toward the cloud of dust that now obscured the door. The dark form of a towering man dashed into the room, his features hidden by the debris in the air. Eaisan's eyes widened at the sight, and he grabbed onto Vultrel's arm. "Go! Get moving! They're—"

Damien burst through the billowing haze, leaping from stone to stone with a swiftness that belied his muscular form. An army of kyrosen followed close behind, waving swords and launching balls of flame from their palms. Kitreena drew her whip as she watched, inching toward the edge of the hill in anticipation. She expected to hear Damien yelling for her to run, but she was more than reluctant to abandon him to the kyrosen again. On either side of her, Vultrel and Eaisan finally pulled themselves to the top of the hill. Damien leapt from left to right as he scaled the path, dodging the fiery blasts with agility that could only be described as uncanny. When his eyes finally locked with Kitreena's, the expected order to retreat came. "Get out of here, Kitreena! Go!"

She defiantly cracked her whip as she shifted her glare to the kyrosen. "You saved my hide back there," she called, her voice firm and commanding. "I'm prepared to return the favor."

"I appreciate the sentiment," he growled as an azure ball of flame crashed into the wall to his left, narrowly missing his shoulder. "But now is not the time! I'll take care of these guys! Just go!!"

Kitreena grit her teeth in a snarl of anger. Behind her, Vultrel and Eaisan had their swords drawn and ready to support her if needed, but when Damien made a decision, she knew better than to question his judgment despite what her feelings said. She didn't always like it, but feelings had no place on the battlefield. "Come on," she muttered to the two behind her, "we're leaving."

With Eaisan and Vultrel close behind, she raced for the tunnel exit as fast as her legs could carry her. After being trapped underground for so long, the desert air was refreshingly cool against her skin, and the rays of sun pouring into the cave almost blinded her. She dug her heels into the sand just short of the doorway and slid to a halt. Damien was just clearing the top of the hill when she looked back. He shrugged his cloak from his shoulders as he turned his back to her and extended his hand toward the enemy soldiers. Palm outward, he clenched his other hand into a fist and brought it close to his stomach. A blinding teal light enveloped both arms from the elbows down, and his knees bent gradually as he shifted backward. Kitreena's back hit the wall; it was the first she noticed she'd been stepping away. Vultrel and Eaisan were looking at her expectantly, fear and anxiousness evident in their eyes. "Come on!" she motioned for the exit again. "Go!" She stepped behind them as though she meant to follow, but her eyes turned back for one more look.

Damien was screaming now, his hands radiating with an immense amount of energy. Kitreena barely saw one of the Mage's heads pop into view over the peak of the rocky path before Damien threw both arms forward with a deafening roar. The light shot forward in a massive beam of searing light, exploding into the cavern roof above the kyrosen soldiers with unspeakable force. The dirt roof crumbled in an avalanche of dirt and rocks. _Come on, Damien. Come on! Run!_ For a moment, she could still see him as the energy poured from his palms, but then he was obscured by the billowing fog of dust and soil. Finally, Kitreena growled in frustration and escaped into the desert.

The sands of the Mayahol were dotted with large boulders and odd rock formations across the area. The ground was more solid beneath the boot than the rest of the desert, likely due to the kyrosen's constant foot traffic as they came and went. The air _felt_ cool, though in reality it was actually a scorching summer day. After her time spent underground, Kitreena imagined a branding iron would feel like ice to her skin. A gentle breeze blew through her hair as she glanced at the height of the sun. Nearly noonday. But who was to say _what_ day?

Vultrel and Eaisan had run from the boulders and into the open desert like fools, and they frantically waved to her as she rushed from the cave. Her whip still in hand, she headed toward them, if only to yank them out of plain sight and behind one of the larger clusters of stones. "Get over here!" she ordered in a scolding, motherly tone. "Have you both taken leave of your senses!? There are patrols all over this area! You two are easy targets out in the open like this! All it would take is one—"

Apparently, Vultrel had heard enough. "Well, forgive us for being a bit spooked by your friend!" he shouted at her, vigorously pointing his sword toward the cave. He twisted his mouth around the word 'friend' and eyed her as though she was no better than Truce. "You two nearly got us all killed several times back there, and I'm sick and tired of being ordered around by a bossy little girl who—"

Eaisan finally silenced his son with a wave of his hand. "Calm yourself, Vultrel. The young lady and her companion got us out of there, didn't they? Please, show a little bit of gratitude."

Kitreena had already turned back toward the cave. Dirt and smoke poured from the opening now, but her heart leapt as Damien emerged, walking with a confidence that was obviously meant to cover his exhaustion. She knew him too well; such a use of his power had most certainly drained him, but he would try to hide it to keep her from worry. It had rarely worked in the past, and it wasn't working now. "Are you all right?" she asked as he reached them.

He must've seen that he wasn't fooling her, because his words were blunt. "The shielding drained me. But that last technique nearly killed me."

"We've got to get you to Doc Nori," she told him. It came out a bit harder than she'd meant it, but he took her orders when he knew she was right, and this was one of those times.

"Agreed," he nodded, "but not yet. We will first see these two safely from the desert."

*******

The perimeter of the dueling ring was lined with the dejected faces of defeated soldiers, each anxiously awaiting another chance to meet Arus in combat. They were marked by the scars of battle—a narrow slice here, a minor puncture there—but all were eager to return to the ring, each man hoping to be the first to crack the implant's seemingly impenetrable defenses. To Truce's credit, the device performed remarkably well; no man lasted longer than a few minutes before blood was drawn and the next challenger called. Every soldier in the cavern crowded around the ring, each with at least one or two slices on their cheeks or arms.

To say that Arus had been surprised by his newfound abilities would be a drastic understatement, but he frequently reminded himself that it was the implant's skill rather than his own. He watched his sword whirl in techniques he'd never seen Master Eaisan perform, and his defense never faltered. The exercise had been meant to help Truce see flaws in the implant's design and to seek out holes in Arus' combat abilities. But thus far, no such holes had been revealed. The machine was flawless.

And it had turned Arus into the perfect swordsman.

His weapon returned to its sheath as he stepped away from his opponent, a shifty-eyed Mage named Nevin with a rusted sword and an inflated ego. Truce was inspecting the soldier's forearm where Arus' blade had made contact. Nevin insisted the mark was from his previous attempt against the boy, but Arus knew better. So did Truce. "You're out, Nevin," he said, shaking his head. "To the back of the line with you."

The Mage stormed off in a trail of obscenities laced with an occasional threat directed toward Arus. Most of the others had been gracious about their losses, but Nevin was about as mature as a four-year-old child and perhaps half as smart. Muert stepped into the ring for his third round with Arus, signaling that every challenger in the cavern had been defeated twice. Muert had surprised Arus after their first round, bowing in a show of respect after receiving a narrow slice on his chin. Between battles, the soldier had suggested he and Arus train together, forcing Truce to explain that the implant only responded to his own voice. Muert had almost seemed disappointed at that. He'd been a gracious opponent despite his menacing appearance. It was almost surprising that he was one of the Vermillion Mages.

The enormous sword rested across Muert's shoulders as the two locked eyes. Arus' hand moved to the hilt of his weapon, but a shout from the crowd interrupted. The Mages split apart with quiet murmurs, making way for F'Ledro.

"Boss!" he shouted, rushing to Truce's side. "The prisoners have escaped!"

The murmurs grew to a dull roar at that, with many drawing their weapons and rushing for the exit. Truce glanced briefly at Arus. He had to be considering whether the implant was ready for a real combat situation. Muert nodded respectfully to Arus before following the others.

"How did they get free?" Truce demanded of F'Ledro. "Were you taunting the girl again?"

"No! I swear to it!" F'Ledro insisted. "Damien came for them. I counted nearly fifty of our soldiers fallen at his hands. All patrols from level three up!"

Again, Truce looked at Arus, more intently this time. "And where is he now?"

"I saw them heading for the first level. I sent what remaining soldiers I could find, but it couldn't have been more than twenty men."

"Arus, do a scan of the entire Underworld," Sartan ordered. "Find my prisoners."

Despite Arus' inward objections, the circular display in the upper right corner of his vision shifted to the center and grew, the words "Scan in Progress" glowing across the center. When they disappeared, the circle rounded into a full sphere displaying an assortment of white dots within a series of interconnected tubes. Without fully understanding how, Arus knew that he was looking at a map of the Mages' lair and that the glowing dots represented the people within the network of caves. Somehow, the implant had the ability to locate and track other life forms. Incredible.

A section of the map flashed momentarily before enlarging, showing twenty-six—he knew the number without counting; _how,_ he could not say—dots of white slowly scaling a steep incline. "They're in the entrance tunnel," he heard himself say. "There are twenty-two soldiers in pursuit. Estimated time to escape at their current movement speed: four minutes."

Truce's eyes bulged. "We've no time to lose. Come! If they escape, they'll surely return with an army!"

Olock and F'Ledro fell into step behind Sartan as they followed the other Mages into the corridor. Arus unwillingly followed. _I don't want to fight my friends! I've got to stop this somehow. What am I going to do!? Please, Master Eaisan, help me!_

"Sir," Olock began as they rounded a corner, "I thought you intended for Arus to fight their army. Why not let them bring the Keroko Militia? We could finish them all!"

"I don't like to fight in my own territory," Truce said. "Besides, it's not the Keroko Militia I'm worried about. If Damien returns here with the Aeden Alliance, not only will they bomb the Underworld, but I fear they'd overpower Arus. He may be ready to take on the locals of this wretched planet, but I don't know how comfortable I am pitting him against an intergalactic military power like the Alliance. Not yet, anyway."

Intergalactic military? Wretched planet? They're . . . aliens?! No wonder they have such power! They aren't even human! What in blazes have I gotten myself into?!

The group raced through tunnel after endless tunnel, winding around curves and cutting through caves and dens of varying size while Arus worked over the situation in his mind. The implant had to have some kind of weakness to be exploited. Nothing was perfect, least of all something manmade. The mechanism's hold only seemed to reach as far as his motor functions; his consciousness remained intact and uncontrolled. Perhaps there was some way to use that to his advantage. Personal will could be a very powerful thing—Anton proved that—but the implant had thus far ignored Arus' resistance. What could he possibly do to disrupt the bloody thing's hold? Little was known of machines in Keroko beyond the fact that they'd been forbidden. Who besides Truce would be able to reverse the mechanism's instructions?

A chill ran through him as a different thought emerged. _What if my condition_ isn't _reversible?_

The group fell silent as they entered one of the larger dens where bloody and charred remains of countless Mages lay scattered across the floor. A skilled magic user had obviously bested them, though it frightened Arus to think that such a man was helping his friends escape. Truce muttered something unintelligible and moved on. It almost sounded like a prayer.

The implant's sensor grid flashed briefly, noting that three of the four escapees had made it to the surface. The last was holding back a bit near the top of a sharp incline that led back to the desert. Truce drew his blade as they entered an intersection of tangled forks, shouting praises to his people. The men rushed toward battle with a lust for blood; a stark contrast to Arus' own feelings. Still, his body moved with the swiftness of an assassin preparing to strike, sword in hand, boots barely touching the dirt between steps. Flashes of light and deafening explosions boomed on the other side of one of the doorways ahead. _I hope they're all right._

"Make way!" he heard himself shout. A divide formed amidst the crowd, giving room enough for Arus to cut through. He'd barely reached the base of the rocky slope when his sensor grid flashed in conjunction with a repeating beep from the implant. The display enlarged to highlight the final escapee, still near the top of the incline. Scrolling text read, "Hazardous Energy Buildup Detected." He stared momentarily at the army of Mages scaling the hill before shouting, "Fall back! Warriors ret—"

A brilliant explosion of blue and red detonated overhead, blowing a portion of the ceiling apart with a deafening blast. Arus dashed back the way he'd come, flanked by Mages on either side. They fled through the door one by one as debris fell, crushing countless men beneath an avalanche of dirt and rock. On the other side, men continued to flee along connecting paths while others tended the wounded. When the last stone had finally settled, desperate cries for help could be heard from beneath the rubble.

Arus found Sartan and Olock near two of the injured soldiers and rushed to his new Master's side like a faithful lapdog. F'Ledro was not far from them. Relief was evident in Truce's face when he looked up. "Arus, scan the rubble for survivors. I need to know how many are trapped in there."

The implant performed a quick sweep of the tunnel, showing a total of forty-seven life signs within. Many of them were faint. The final prisoner had also escaped, it seemed. The report didn't do much for Truce's spirits; he immediately started barking out orders to the surviving Mages. "I want as many of the medical staff members as we can find brought up here immediately! Trest, Bredaan, gather what tools you can from the labs and get them up here. Those of you who are injured should get to the infirmary and see that your wounds are treated. The rest will help Arus clear away debris. We have to recover as many survivors as we can! Move, people!"

While the others scattered in either direction, Arus returned to the mountain of dirt that had poured through the door. His vision shifted, and the red cross of a targeting scope appeared in the center. Several additional gauges glowed near the bottom, showing laser intensity, angle, and width. _Laser? What's a laser?_ The gauges filled with a maroon color just before a brilliant beam of red light burst from his mechanical eye and exploded into the dirt, incinerating the debris and clearing an arm's width swath through the doorway. _What in the name of the Maker was that?_ A rapid succession of blasts created a path large enough for him to step into the archway. A wall of boulders and soil blocked the opposite side.

"That's it, Arus," Truce's voice came from behind. "Hurry! And be careful not to hurt anyone in there!"

A strangled grunt came from the rubble. A soldier's muffled call for help. More followed, some more distant than others, each echoing the first as they clung to life. _They're suffocating in there . . . Those that haven't been crushed already._

So what? They're Vermillion Mages, remember? They killed your father. They've converted you into an emotionless slave. They've killed countless Asterians! They should all—

NO! Father did not teach me to be some sort of blind vigilante! Master Eaisan would never stand back and allow the helpless to suffer. These men have many crimes to answer for, but they do not, do not, DO NOT deserve to be left for dead!

Though he knew the metallic hand was moving on its own, he was almost happy to see it crash into the boulders. His ears rang with each violent crack as he pounded away at the rocks. The nearest survivor was too close for him to consider using the laser again—he wasn't sure how he knew that—but the inhuman strength of his artificial limb was more than up to the task. Chucks of stone shattered away with each strike, and Arus' other hand clawed at the soil caked between them. Crumbled bits of land accumulated at his feet as he tunneled through the debris, and his arms hurt—the mechanical arm actually _hurt_ —from the constant exertion. Red smears streaked across the dirt as his now bloody fingers continued digging and scraping. Though it startled him, his body barely reacted when a massive fist burst from the rubble, causing a slight avalanche of new soil and rocks. Arus grabbed hold of the soldier's wrist and tugged with seemingly endless might. Truce and Olock were at his side, fists locked around their fellow Mage's, struggling to pull him free. When Muert's bloody face emerged from the soil, relief swept over Arus. He was injured, but the massive soldier was smiling at his comrades. With one final grunt, they yanked him free.

"There are many more inside," Muert said, pushing to his knees. A jagged gash split his scalp, and his pants were matted to his legs in several areas where blood soaked through. His grin was deceiving; there was a vacant look about his eyes.

"We are aware." Truce put a hand on Muert's shoulder to keep him from rising. "Stay down. Medical attention is on the way."

"Is anything broken?" Olock asked as he eyed Muert's bloody cuts and bruises.

The implant initiated a scan of the soldier, overlaying his body with a projected display of his massive skeletal structure. After a few moments, the image of Muert's right leg enlarged, highlighting a partial fracture. "Fracture," Arus heard himself say. "Right tibia."

"You there!" Sartan shouted to one of the nearby Mages. "Get a splint on the double! Move!"

Muert's fist wrapped around Arus' arm. "You have given me another chance to see my wife." His gruff voice was about as soft as the sands of the Mayahol. "My little girl is eight years old. I thought I'd never get to see her again. Kyrosen or not, you are noble, young warrior."

Compassion began to well up despite Arus' emotionless stare. The day Dayne Sheeth returned from the Vermillion War had brought both great joy and terrible despair. Though his father had survived the battle, he died shortly after his return. Arus wished he could tell Muert to cherish his time with his family because life-altering events could happen in the blink of an eye.

Sartan and Olock helped Muert to the side of the tunnel as the medics arrived with a variety of supplies. The implant's laser systems reactivated, and Arus returned to the pile of rubble. Life signs were disappearing from the sensor readout at an alarming rate. Judging by the time it took to free Muert, he'd be able to save less than a quarter before it was too late. Still, he would continue until every body was unearthed. Even though Truce controlled the implant, and thus, controlled Arus, there was little doubt that it was the right thing to do. It was a slight comfort to be able to see his body doing what he wanted in _some_ form, but he knew it wouldn't last. Truce would have him carrying out despicable orders in no time, and Arus had no idea what he would do then. _If I ever get control of myself, I swear I'll never seek vengeance again._

### Chapter 7

The sun was well below the trees by the time the Keroko Militia had gathered the appropriate supplies needed for the journey north. Though he knew it to be the wiser choice, Vultrel disagreed with his father's decision to ride to Cathymel rather than attempt to rescue Arus. The king needed to be warned of the Vermillion Mages' resurgence, but if the militia marched for the desert immediately, Truce and his lackeys could be eliminated before they had a chance to organize an attack. The damage that Damien had inflicted upon the Mages' underground lair would have them digging out for weeks. What better way to force their surrender than to have an army of soldiers waiting on the other side?

Then again, the resilience of Truce and his men had been underestimated before. Kitreena and Damien had warned them about that before leaving. With the type of power Sartan wielded and the still unexplored potential of the implant, it was conceivable that the damage caused during their escape could be repaired faster than expected. What if the Keroko Militia marched into the desert while an army of Vermillion Mages, led by Arus and that bloody implant, marched for Castle Asteria? The possibility sent a shiver down Vultrel's spine.

Trader's Square was packed with villagers, most of them friends or family of militiamen. Repair work had begun on the buildings that had been damaged during the Mages' attack. Scaffolding lined the sides of several shops where charred thatch and wood was being removed and replaced. And though the majority of the battle had taken place within the square, some of the homes leading toward the shelter were also marred by blackened ash. Vultrel hoped the sight wasn't a sign of things to come.

Eaisan had erected a long tent near Ben Mantes' shop where Keroko's various merchants had donated an assortment of weapons, armor, food, and other supplies for the journey. Soldiers packed the tent from end to end, donning leather jerkins covered with steel plates, bell-shaped helmets and iron-backed gauntlets. Some strapped swords to their belts or backs while others hefted curved spears and heavy axes. To the left of the tent, horses from the militia's stables had been tethered with more being brought as villagers donated.

For Vultrel, it was all very surreal. He vaguely remembered similar events before his father and Dayne Sheeth had left for the war. It rattled his nerves a bit to be included in this particular outing, though in truth he hadn't actually told his father of his intentions. Neither he nor his mother would allow their son to join the militia at his age, that much was certain, but for Vultrel, Arus was just as much his best friend as Dayne was to Eaisan. And just as Eaisan would never have abandoned Dayne in a moment of need, Vultrel was _not_ about to leave Arus to the wolves.

He'd already set aside a smaller leather jerkin, plated with wide steel bars across the chest, and a pair of riding boots. There was a spare helmet near the end of one of the tables that he'd been eying, but his father was standing not three paces away giving orders to several soldiers, and he didn't want to draw unwanted questions. If he could somehow get a hold of that helmet, he'd easily be able to blend into the rest of the militia once they rode. If he could find a horse of his own, of course.

When the first stars appeared, Eaisan climbed onto a supply box to address the crowd. Vultrel snatched up the helmet and headed for the alley beside the cobbler's shop where he'd stashed the other pieces he'd chosen. He emerged minutes later, slipping the domed helmet over his head so that only his eyes were visible. The crowd's attention was on his father, allowing Vultrel to blend in with the surrounding militiamen.

"From the Narleahan Outpost in the Lamonde Plains, we shall make for Castle Asteria," Eaisan was saying. "The journey will take approximately four days, barring any unforeseen developments, but I assure you that we will travel for as long as it takes, wherever our king may order us, until we have ensured Keroko's safety and security."

Veran Lurei was no doubt wondering where her son had gone. The note Vultrel had left on her pillow at home would explain everything, but he forced himself to push away thoughts of the tears that would fall when she found it. She would be hurt and frightened, but no one was going to make Vultrel just sit home and wait for news of Arus' death. If he didn't at least do _something_ to help, he'd regret it for the rest of his life. The young man was his brother in every way apart from blood, and Vultrel knew that Arus would do the same for him.

"Never too small to be a soldier, eh?" Mathin Bere chuckled as gave Vultrel a passing pat on the shoulder. The old carpenter couldn't have identified him through that helmet; the comment was a general observation rather than a personal jab at his size. His words rang true, however. Vultrel was considered tall for his age, but he still stood a good deal shorter than the rest of the bulky militiamen. It was going to take some work to blend into the crowd.

Eaisan was barking out more orders. His usual attire had been replaced by a new steel cuirass and shining greaves, gilded along the edges to show his rank. His helmet and gauntlets lay in the grass beside his perch. "We'll ride north for an hour or so, then shift eastward. We will not make camp until I feel we've covered enough ground. At first light, we continue. Now, it has come to my attention that we do not have an adequate number of horses to accommodate for the amount of soldiers I've ordered. Those who do not have mounts will have to share with those who do. Any such soldier will be on lookout duty and shall be armed with a bow. I realize it's been a long time since we've seen any significant activity from the Mages, but I promise you, they are more dangerous now than ever before. As I said, they may already be on their way to the castle. Stay on guard, and remember we also have the usual dangers of the wild of which to be aware."

There were over four dozen horses lined along the side of the tent. The militia's numbers totaled in the seventies, leaving many without mounts. It was going to be difficult for Vultrel to secure a ride of his own, but as a watchman he'd be able to ride unnoticed in the shadow of another. It was the best option available to avoid the sharp eyes of his father.

"Saddle up, men! We ride!"

The militia threw up their arms with a boisterous cheer as Eaisan climbed down from the supply crate. Chaos ensued as the crowd scattered in a hurry, mounting horses and snatching up last-minute supplies. Weaving amongst the other soldiers still bustling about the tent, Vultrel came upon a long wooden stand lined with sturdy Keroko-made bows. Most were in fair condition, carved with precision and freshly polished. Leather quivers filled with steel-tipped arrows were lined up beneath them, each embroidered with elaborate designs in gold and white. Arthur Penning, the fletcher, hobbled over with a noticeable limp—he'd taken an arrow in his left knee during the war, an injury that never fully healed—as Vultrel lifted one of the bows to inspect it.

"That's a fine selection, lad." He carried a handful of arrowheads with him. "It'll do you well in a scrum."

"Do you have any spare strings for it?" The weapon was solid, a good weight with a fine curve.

Arthur nodded and went back to his desk. Vultrel had always been picky about the bows he used when hunting, and given that this one would serve to defend others as well as himself, it was important that he select just the right one. He found it easier to hold a bow steady when it had some weight to it, and the leather wrappings around the center were smooth and clean, providing for a firm grip. The fletcher insisted on stringing the bow for him—as if he was some sort of inexperienced rookie—and Vultrel tested the tension.

"That's a good choice, soldier."

Vultrel grimaced. Of all the bloody luck! Surely only the hand of the Maker himself would save him now. Eaisan's stern glower met him when he turned, and though all but his eyes were hidden by the helmet, his father's expression was like a roll of thunder before a frightful hurricane. He forced himself to relax his muscles and opened his mouth to apologize.

"Take good care of it," Eaisan said. "The lives of your comrades depend on it."

He knew. He _had_ to know. That look in his eyes. There was no mistaking it. Vultrel had seen that look aimed in his direction every time he even _thought_ about breaking his father's rules. Eaisan knew it was his son under that helmet, yet he said nothing. He just stared quietly—angry or disappointed, Vultrel couldn't tell which—silent as Keroko Lake at dawn. He knew. Didn't he?

"Grab a quiver and saddle up, soldier. We're moving out."

Vultrel managed a salute, and Eaisan headed toward the horses. Had it all been paranoia? Eaisan wouldn't knowingly allow him to come along. It must have been Vultrel's imagination. It _must_ have been. Generals needed to be firm with their soldiers. That's all that had happened. Eaisan thought he was just another soldier in need of guidance.

It took no time at all to find a soldier to partner up with; most men were anxious to have another set of eyes guarding their back. Raye Toffel was an energetic man, his bright green eyes sparkling under his bell-shaped helmet and a belly that spoke of a few too many drinks at the pub. His horse was a shaggy mare called Pepper, named for its black speckles. Raye was checking the saddle when Vultrel had timidly approached. He was quick to accept the suggestion of a partnership. "Sure, I'd be glad to have you ride with me. What's your name?"

Vultrel froze. It would take no time at all for someone to alert Eaisan if he gave his real name, but he hadn't yet come up with an alias. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he uttered, "Marc Cohen." Raye didn't seem to notice the hesitation.

"Welcome aboard, Marc!" He patted Vultrel's shoulder before turning back to his steed. "How long have you been a member of the militia? Your name doesn't sound too familiar."

Careful words were required here. "I've worked with the night watch, mostly." That included a number of posts across the village. "Patrolling for thieves, keeping the wolves out. That kind of thing."

"Really?" Raye glanced back at him before climbing into Pepper's saddle. "What segment? I have northwest duties until daybreak. Well, except when things like this come up."

He'd made Vultrel's bluff easy. "I patrol east-central. First shift."

"Eastern edge, huh?" Raye extended his hand to help Vultrel into the saddle behind him. "That's gotta be rough. I wouldn't want to be that close to the desert so late at night."

If only he knew just how much experience Vultrel already had with the desert. "It's not so bad. It's usually pretty quiet."

"Were you on duty during the Festival of Souls?" Raye led Pepper into a line of riders already headed toward the north gate.

"Unfortunately, no," Vultrel sighed for effect. "Wish I had been, though."

"Bah," Raye snorted. "Don't be hard on yourself for it. We'll have our chance to settle the score with those bloody goons."

"Well, we may—"

Eaisan's voice boomed over the militia, though he was nowhere to be seen. "As soon as we're out of the village, I want Eagle Formations to the east and west and Pride of the Lion in the center. Any soldier still without a mount had better team up with a rider now. We're moving out!"

Vultrel was glad he didn't find a horse of his own, given those instructions. Obviously, the rest of the militia knew how to interpret those formation orders, but he wouldn't have had the first clue of what to do. There seemed to be no shortage of details he hadn't considered when planning this ruse. He could only dodge just so many punches before the knockout blow would inevitably strike. _Just stay alive, Arus. We're coming for you._

*******

"Get to the point, Doctor. Can it be done?"

"Not without killing the patient, Admiral."

Kindel's temper flared as he turned away from the viewport, fists and jaw clenched. The wiry Doctor Barrine stood just out of arm's reach, an almost arrogant stare plastered across his gaunt face. A human from the planet Mel'dathia, Tundrus Barrine had served the Armada since Kindel had liberated his people from their own oppressive leadership. Doctors had been hard to come by in those days before Thorus had really established his army as one of the dominant forces in the galaxy. Surgeons were even rarer. But now, Barrine had an entire staff of doctors beneath him, and the wealth of medical knowledge and experience that came with them.

"I don't care if it kills the patient as long as that doesn't affect the outcome," Kindel growled, more harshly than he'd intended. After clearing his throat, he continued in a softer tone. "The life of the girl means little to me, but the life of the stone must be preserved."

"The _baharinda_ will remain intact, Sir." Head held high, Barrine's silvery hair was smoothed back neatly, creating an almost noble air about him. Dark eyes glistened above his sunken cheeks where wrinkles had long since formed. Despite his age, he filled his uniform nicely, and performed his duties just as well.

"This outrage will _not_ go unanswered! Do you hear me? Your hearts will be riddled with arrows when my people come for me!"

Kindel's gaze shifted to the long table behind Barrine where eight other doctors in white coats and masks prepared observation tools and studied assorted documents. Most had been excited to be included in this procedure, though none were at all familiar with the biological mechanics of a Belvid. Shining steel countertops lined the tops of cabinets along the walls on either side of the table. Various tools were laid out, mingled with documents and reports they'd managed to dig up regarding the Belvids and the _baharinda._ On the table, held by restraints around her neck, wrists, and ankles, one of Lady Almatha's assistants struggled to break free. Mia, her name was. A blue-skinned beauty of considerable height, her blond hair was partially threaded through the neck restraint where her squirming had yet to loosen it. But if there was any fear behind those sparkling green eyes, she never let it show. While she'd been silent in the presence of Almatha, now her mouth never seemed to run out of words. Threats, usually.

Scimitar and Kalibur stood with arms crossed on either side of the door, their casual demeanor casting a deceptive impression of their ability to strike at a moment's notice. Days of interrogation, research, and negotiation yielded little cooperation from the Belvidian prisoners, let alone information. Lieutenant Petreit had attempted to convey Kindel's intentions in the kindest light, but Almatha would accept nothing less than an immediate return to her planet. And though Kindel didn't like to interfere with innocent societies, casualties were inevitable. It was important to keep the greater good in sight and blast through whatever blockades stood in the way. Once it became clear that there could be no cooperation, Kindel ordered the nine senior members of the medical staff to conduct an observational study of the _baharinda_ up close to determine if it could be extracted unharmed.

Thorus shook his head at the Belvid and returned his attention to Barrine. "Listen to me, Doctor. I need to find a way to harness the reproductive qualities of the _baharinda_ so that I may reproduce another stone of mine. It is absolutely vital that it remain unharmed and unaltered."

"As with most other organs of the body, we can keep it alive for a period of time after extraction," Barrine said, "but it will not last forever. In addition, I've never heard of what you suggest being done before. Living organisms can only reproduce living organisms. I don't see how living tissue cells could be engineered to reproduce an inanimate object. That's not to say it cannot be done, but it will take a great deal of studying of both the _baharinda_ and the stone you wish to reproduce."

"No!" Kindel's eyes narrowed. "I'll not let it out of my hands."

Barrine's surprise was evident in his face, though it was quickly replaced by unease. "Sir, it will be difficult to determine a method of reproduction without being able to study the stone you want to copy."

"I will provide you with a detailed scan of it, complete with molecular analysis. But the stone shall not leave my hands."

"But Sir, it will—"

"That is what I will give you, Doctor, and you will make do with what you have. I will listen to no more arguments." Kindel's already thin patience was beginning to crack. "Now, conduct your studies so that I may return our prisoner to her cell."

Barrine said nothing, rotating on his heels and returning to the computer terminal beside the observation table. Kindel returned his attention to the viewport and the tiny grey speck near the far left edge of the planet. The _Refuge_ had arrived shortly after the Armada had returned to Terranias, yet the expected threats and demands for Lady Almatha's freedom hadn't come. Kindel couldn't imagine what could have Aldoric's attention so strongly that he would neglect the Belvids, but it made Thorus uncomfortable. If the abduction of the highest ranking member of a quarantined society wasn't enough to keep the Aeden Alliance's attention, then something much bigger had to be happening. And considering Kindel's own reasons for returning to the planet, there was only one conclusion he could reach.

The kyrosen.

Kindel was fairly certain that Sartan Truce was unaware that his whereabouts had been discovered. It had been years since he had tracked the remnants of Truce's gang to Terranias, but investigations had led him to stumble across the story of the lephadorite, and his quest to find the stone had pushed Truce and the kyrosen to the background. If Truce had regained enough power to attract the attention of the Aeden Alliance, he would have to be squashed quickly. But when? There was no time for Kindel to launch an assault now, not with all his attention on the lephadorite. "Scimitar? Kalibur?" The two were at his side in an instant, their feet barely making a sound. "I want you to head to the surface." He nodded toward the _Refuge._ "Find out what has attracted their attention. Do not engage in combat or take any prisoners, just gather information and report back to me."

"Thy will be done, Master," Kalibur's rasped.

The sight of his brother's starship floating so casually close to his own made Kindel's blood boil. _I know you've come for me, Aldoric. Why do you now act as though I don't exist?_ While common sense told Kindel not to be eager for a confrontation, his zo'rhan instincts for battle called to him. Aldoric continued to insult the Thorus name by hiding behind the Aeden thugs like a coward. _The zo'rhan do not run from a challenge, brother. When my work is compete, you will join me on the battlefield, or I shall bring the battlefield to you._

The ships intercom came to life as a frantic voice announced, "Emergency alert! Security breach on deck fourteen! Several prisoners have escaped! I repeat, several prisoners have escaped!"

Kindel made for the door, his heavy boots clopping across the floor. Barrine's voice stopped him.

"Sir? What about this—"

"I leave this Belvid in your custody for the time being, Doctor." Thorus didn't look back. "If she causes an incident, I'll have not only your head, but the rest of your team's as well."

The door slid shut behind him amid Barrine's protests. He hurried down the corridor toward the lift while the intercom repeated the emergency message. Faint laser fire rumbled, accompanied by shouted orders. There were few other captives being held in the prison cells besides the Belvids, though he couldn't imagine how any might have broken free. Regardless, it seemed as though someone had not only broken free, but armed themselves as well. As he pressed the call button on the lift, he activated his communicator. "This is Admiral Thorus calling all frequencies. I want deck fourteen locked down and the escaped prisoners apprehended. _Alive_ , if possible. Is that understood?" A slew of responses came back as each of the crew members assigned to deck fourteen acknowledged the orders. "I'm on my way."

When the lift finally arrived, Thorus was whisked to deck fourteen. A message appeared on the control panel indicating that the floor had been locked down. Kindel's authorization code released the lock and the doors slid open in the middle of a raging firefight. Using a technique taught by his father, Kindel manipulated the energy within his body outward, forming spherical barrier around his body as he stepped into the hallway. Each laser was harmlessly absorbed into the shield while he surveyed the battling factions.

To his left, the grey-uniformed soldiers of the Vezulian Armada had gathered at an arch in the hall, some leaning around the curve to fire their pistols while others used doorways for cover. On the opposite side, Lady Almatha and her other servant were accompanied by a grungy, well-proportioned man with a square face and a thick brown beard. Regal Bune, if Kindel remembered correctly. The man was a Deltorian Pirate, apprehended by Kalibur a few months earlier at a refueling station near the planet Deltor. He'd been caught trying to stowaway in the cargo compartments of the _Black Eagle,_ no doubt hoping to find something valuable to take off Kindel's hands. Now, the scruffy pirate had somehow managed to escape and arm himself, along with the Belvids, and they returned fire on the Vezulian soldiers using the Armada's own laser pistols. _How did they acquire weapons?_

Kindel's appearance startled the prisoners; the Belvids nearly dropped their pistols. Regal's eyes widened, and he aimed at Kindel's head. The blast was absorbed by the energy shield, but the attempt triggered a violent flurry of laser fire from Kindel's troops. "Vezulian soldiers, hold your fire!" The crimson shower of lasers ceased abruptly. Fear and disappointment flashed on the faces of Lady Almatha and her assistant, their feet taking timid steps backward as Kindel approached. Regal shuffled backward as well, the barrel of his weapon still aimed at Kindel's face.

"We can work this out," he said, a quiver in his voice. "We can cut a deal that leaves everyone happy, can't we?"

"This is _my_ ship." Kindel's voice was calm, though his eyes were thin slits of blue. "You are in no position to bargain."

Sweat ran from Regal's brown hair and dripped down his face as he considered his options. He took a quick glance toward the Belvids before choosing Almatha as his new target. "I heard the message you gave over the intercom." He trembled with fear in spite of his size. "You want us alive. If you don't guarantee my safety, I'll kill them both right now." The threat brought looks of shock and disgust from the Belvids.

Kindel bared his teeth. "You'll do no such thing."

Blue light surrounded Kindel's fist, and a beam of energy launched toward Regal's chest. The pirate pulled the trigger just as the attack threw him against the wall. With an angry growl, Thorus released his energy shield and turned toward his Belvid prisoners.

Lady Almatha was on her knees, cradling her servant's lifeless body. A tendril of smoke rose from the Belvid's laser wound. Almatha nuzzled her forehead against her assistant and whispered something unintelligible before turning her eyes to Kindel. "If not for you, she would live. She will return to nature prematurely, and your heartlessness will be rewarded with suffering, Kindel Thorus."

Regal groaned, clutching his chest against the opposite tunnel wall. "I was going to split the profits of the fairy's rock with you," he mumbled.

Kindel's face hardened further. He pressed his fingertips along Regal's forehead and temples on either side. "No, my friend, I believe that I shall keep the rewards for myself." Brilliant bars of energy shot from each finger, riddling Regal's skull with a series of white-hot beams. Death was instantaneous.

The Vezulian troops approached with caution. "Get to the infirmary and secure the other Belvid," Thorus ordered. "See that she is returned to her cell safely. And tell Doctor Barrine and the others to get down here on the double."

The foremost soldier saluted. "Yes, Sir!"

"And dispose of this," he added, kicking Regal's ribs.

"Right away, Sir!"

As they departed, Thorus returned his attention to Almatha. She trembled visibly, clutching her servant so tightly that her nails nearly broke skin. Kindel dropped to a knee beside her, trying to soften his appearance. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "I realize you don't understand my motives. But the loss of her life will help to save countless others. The gain is worth the loss in the end, I assure you."

"Lives can be saved through peace, Kindel Thorus," Almatha said in a near-whisper. Tears rolled down her face as she cradled her assistant. "You destroy that which you claim to protect."

"I agree that peaceful means would be more prudent, my Lady," Thorus said with a nod, "yet the rest of the universe does not. Peace prospers only when both sides agree to work together. No matter how much anyone tries to avoid conflict, it will always be there. And when it comes, they must either fight or be destroyed."

"I'd rather die for peace than live by murder."

"You may yet have that chance," Kindel responded. Her eyes shot up at the statement. "I fear your seclusion on your homeworld has blinded you to the reality of things."

"If peace works on Belvidia, it can work everywhere." She was defiant in spite of her wide-eyed stare.

"Can it?" Thorus returned to his feet and turned away from her. "Have you ever heard of the Ma'tuul, Lady Almatha? They were a highly intelligent race of vicious warriors that gained knowledge and power by conquering other worlds. They had no use for the planets they destroyed, no interest in natural resources or new settlements. They simply wanted to defeat, destroy, and move on. They grew stronger and more dangerous with each planet they left in ruins and absorbed each society's technology and wisdom after every victory. Their goal? To be the most superior force in the universe."

"I've never heard of such beings," Almatha grunted, refusing to look at him. She kept her eyes closed and her forehead against her assistant's.

"You wouldn't have," Thorus laughed. "They were exterminated a long time ago . . . by the Vezulian Armada."

"I suppose you are quite proud of yourself, then."

Kindel grit his teeth and squatted beside her. "They targeted Zo'rhan, my homeworld, when I was just a boy." Memories of those days always heated his blood. "We are warriors, we always have been, but they had might _and_ technology on their side. Some were as large as four times our own size with strength to lift a hundred men in one arm. They were larger, stronger, smarter, and always a step ahead of us. When we planned ambushes, they were waiting for us. When we drew swords, they launched missiles. They ravaged our cities and looted our technology. Before we knew it, they were using our own weapons against us, integrating them into their own artillery. They killed over three hundred-million zo'rhan during their invasion—nearly ninety percent of our population."

"Is that what turned you into the heartless conqueror that you are?"

Thorus balled his fists; it was all he could do to keep from slapping the teeth out of her mouth. "Don't you _ever_ call us conquerors. We liberate others from their prison of fear by destroying those who seek to cause war. We are peacemakers, not warmongers. What would you have had us do? Should we have stood there while the Ma'tuul unleashed an unprovoked attack on our planet? The universe is not as friendly as you imagine it, I'm afraid."

Lady Almatha met his angry gaze levelly. "I am truly sympathetic for what your people experienced, but it does not justify your interference with Belvidia. It does not bring Shien back!" She sobbed as she hugged her servant closer still.

"Prevention of further catastrophes like the breaking of Zo'rhan justifies my interference. The sacrifice of your lives will, in the long run, have little effect on your society as a whole, but the fruit of my work will help protect civilizations for generations to come." Standing, he turned his back. "You just don't get it, do you? We had to abandon our homeworld to the Ma'tuul. My parents were brutally murdered and eaten— _eaten!—_ right in front of me! Savages like that cannot be reasoned with. The only thing we could do was escape, regroup, and return with an army big enough to wipe out every last one of them. War cannot be avoided, and the true warrior is always conscious of the threat, always prepared to do whatever is necessary to survive."

Her voice cracked as her anger boiled over. "Even when it ends the lives of others? You murder and destroy as though it a small price to pay, but all you seek is to make yourself the strongest being there ever was! You hunger for power and will trample over anyone to attain it! Listen to yourself speak! All you want is to kill every other living thing in this universe before it has a chance to kill you!"

"I cannot allow compassion to stand in the way of the greater good!" he shot back. "Power is a necessity in life. There are too many threats out there to have the luxury of apathy that your race covets. Perhaps if your world wasn't cut off from the rest of the universe, you'd appreciate the values and ideals of the Vezulian Armada a bit more."

The smooth sound of the lift door drifted down the hall, and moments later a detachment of soldiers entered alongside a bound and shackled Mia. Doctor Barrine rushed ahead, his eyes fixed on the woman in Almatha's arms. Kindel forced her to release the servant and yanked her to her feet. "Though you may not live to see it, the universe _will_ enjoy peace and prosperity once the Armada eliminates all civilizations deemed dangerous. Every planet will sing praises to me for liberating them from fear's hand of stone."

Almatha muttered words clearly not meant for his ears. "I see little difference between you and the Ma'tuul."

As the soldiers filed through the hall with Mia, several grabbed Almatha and wrapped shackles around her wrists and ankles. She shot him one more glare before allowing herself to be led away. Perhaps if she'd been forced to watch a giant tear _her_ mother's head from her body before feasting upon it, she'd see things differently. How _dare_ she?

"Admiral," Barrine's voice tore him from his anger, "I may be able to save the _baharinda_ if we work quickly, but I'll need that paperwork on the stone you wish to duplicate right away if I'm going to even attempt a cloning." With no time to wait for a flatbed, the other doctors, still in their white coats, lifted the dead Belvid for transportation to the infirmary. They shuffled down the hall toward the lift while Barrine looked at him expectantly.

Thorus directed one last glare toward Almatha's back. "You'll have it shortly, Doctor. I shall meet you in the infirmary."

*******

The night sky was black by the time the militia came to the clearing where Eaisan elected to make camp. Tents were raised in little time, and cooking pots steamed over campfires shortly thereafter. They managed to arrive without incident; there had been no attacks by wild animals and no encounters with the Vermillion Mages. Still, Vultrel's white-knuckle grip on the bow's handle had yet to loosen a hair, and his heart pounded through the jerkin. He'd gone camping with Arus numerous times, but never in an area that required a military patrol. The fear of an ambush—Vermillion Mages or otherwise—had reduced him to a jittering fright, and it made him sick to his stomach. At home he'd been brave. Arus looked up to him, his father was proud, and the girls wanted to kiss him. But if _any_ of them saw him in this condition . . . _Where is the bravery I had when we were trapped under the desert?_

To be fair, his fear was based largely on the expectation that his father would discover him and send him home alone in the night. And under the Mayahol, Eaisan had been by his side protecting him from danger. Here, he was a soldier as far as anyone else knew, and he'd be expected to defend himself when the time came. What would happen if he were cornered by a group of Mages? Mauled by bears? Hunted by wolves? _What have I gotten myself into?_

"Relax, Marc," Raye's hand thumped his shoulder. "You act as though you've never spent a night in the wild before." He laughed as though he'd made some fantastic joke.

Vultrel's voice squeaked when he spoke. "Just anxious to get to the castle, that's all."

"Well, we won't be going any further tonight, so you may as well have a seat and take a breather."

Their tent was located on the east edge of the clearing where the trail to Narleaha disappeared into the night. A small fire warmed their cooking pot just outside the tent where logs had been hauled in for seating. They were a good distance away from where his father settled—luck had been on his side—and the numerous tents between them gave a good amount of cover. A little more luck, and he'd be able to get through another day's travel without being discovered. By then, they'd be too far away from Keroko for Eaisan to send him home alone. Hopefully.

His breath caught when Raye spoke the words he'd feared. "Take your helmet off, lad," he prodded, removing his own with a grunt. His yellow hair curled so tightly that it looked like giant kernels of corn haphazardly lined across his scalp. "Enjoy the relaxation while we can get it."

He couldn't hesitate—that would raise any soldier's suspicions—but his eyes searched the nearby camps for familiar faces. _Please don't let anyone recognize me!_ The helmet slid from his sweat-slicked hair easily; it _had_ been made for an adult, after all. Raye gasped when his eyes fell upon Vultrel's face for the first time, bringing the young man's heart to a stop. _Why is he looking at me like that? Does he know who I am? I never should've done this! What was I thinking?_

All Raye said was, "Boy, they're recruiting younger guys every year! You can't be a day past sixteen!"

People had always said he looked older, and he knew he had to use every bit of luck he had. "Yeah, I wanted to join last year but Captain Eaisan wouldn't allow it. Said I still had youth to enjoy and that I shouldn't be so eager to throw it away."

Raye nodded as he sat on one of the logs beside the fire. "Aye, ain't that the truth." His armor, similar to Vultrel's, glinted in the light of the flames. "Don't take but a single arrow or a well-placed bear's claw to finish you off."

That was the least of their troubles. "I just wanted to be able to help out," he said with a sigh, seating himself opposite the soldier. "I know Arus. I want to help save him, if we can."

A puzzled look crossed Raye's face for a moment. "Arus? Oh! That boy that the Captain says the Mages hauled off, right?" Vultrel only nodded, staring into the fire. "That's a shame, if it's true. Those bloody Vermillions have gotten away with too much in the past. But don't you worry. Once His Majesty hears what those rats have been up to, why, he'll send so many lances to the desert that there won't be a Mage left when it's all over! He'll set things right. He always does."

"Don't underestimate the Vermillion Mages, Raye." Vultrel's face had hardened. "They're no pushovers."

Raye spread his hands. "Oh, I didn't mean it like that. I just like to keep hope alive, you know? It's good for morale. Besides, they may be strong, but Asteria's army is stronger."

"I hope so."

A long silence passed as they served themselves some vegetable stew. Vultrel worried about everything from being caught by his father to what the Mages might have done to Arus. _What if they catch up with us? What if Arus is with him, enslaved by that implant? Will Father allow the militia to fight him? To kill him?_

"Do you think it's true?" Raye finally spoke up when they'd finished eating. Vultrel gave him a questioning look. "About the boy, I mean."

It was Vultrel's turn to be puzzled. "I told you, I'm friends with him. He was taken—"

"No, no, that's not what I meant," the soldier shook his head as he poured some water into his flask from the waterskin. "I'm talking about him being, you know, a sorcerer."

Now Vultrel's eyes widened. "What? What are you talking about?"

"You haven't heard? There are rumors all over camp that the boy can use magic, like the Mages, and that's why they captured him. Wanted to raise him as one of their own, I hear."

The nerve of the man! Suggesting that Arus was a Vermillion Mage? "Arus is the son of Dayne Sheeth, former captain of the Keroko Militia. I assure you, he is no sorcerer."

Raye shrugged, gulping water from the flask. "Well, I just know what I hear. Whether or not it's true isn't really important to me. I just follow orders. I mean, some people even say there was no kidnapping at all, and that Captain Eaisan just wants to get revenge on the Mages for killing his partner during the war."

"My fa—" Vultrel barely managed to catch himself. The man's stories were beginning to heat his blood. "Captain Eaisan would not risk the lives of the militiamen for revenge. It goes against everything he stands for."

"But Marc, don't you find it kind of odd?" Raye continued, clearly oblivious to the effect his suggestions were having. "Why would the Mages kidnap some random kid? Why not two? Ten? Fifty? Why kidnap? Why not just kill them and get it over with? It doesn't make any sense."

There was so much more to the story that Eaisan had obviously left out during the explanation of his absence, but it was not Vultrel's place to reveal it. Likely his father didn't want to raise additional fears among the soldiers. "I'm sure they had their reasons."

Raye shrugged again as he returned his bowls and utensils to his saddlebags. "I don't know, maybe Eaisan is just losing it. He's an old man, after all. Maybe he dreamt the whole thing up and thought it was real. Maybe he glimpsed them dragging an animal carcass out to the desert to be cut for meat and mistook it for a person."

"I told you before," Vultrel rose to his feet, fists unconsciously clenched, "I know Arus, and I know that he has been abducted!"

"Did you see it happen?"

He again caught himself before speaking. It was important that he be careful what to reveal. "N-No," he finally stammered, "but I—"

"Then how do you know that's what happened? Maybe he went to Narleaha to see a relative. Maybe he went out late one night and got attacked by wolves. There are a lot of possibilities besides kidnapping, and each of them seems more likely to be true."

Vultrel had heard enough. "You don't have to believe it. Just be sure to follow Captain Eaisan's orders when they're given." Raye opened his mouth, but Vultrel gave him no room to reply. "I'm taking first watch. Get some sleep while you can, because Eaisan likes to rise before the sun in the morning."

Raye muttered something as he walked away—Vultrel caught the word "touchy" near the end—but he put on his helmet and headed into the forest. As soon as Raye was out of sight he swore loudly and drove his fist into the closest tree. Listening to the man disrespect Arus on any other day would've been merely insulting, but considering what had happened, it was more hurtful than even Vultrel could've anticipated. Arus would never have allowed anyone to speak of _his_ closest friend in that manner, yet Vultrel had just walked away while Raye spat on the sacrifice Arus had made to rescue him from the Mages.

No doubt that was why Eaisan was so determined to strike back at Truce. Arus could've escaped from the Mayahol, but he instead chose to risk everything to save both Vultrel and Eaisan. Now, he was either dead or enslaved—the former being more likely—and no one even knew of the bravery he'd shown . . . or the punishment he'd received. Eaisan had always taught them that revenge was immoral, petty, dangerous, and futile. Yet Vultrel couldn't help but wonder how much of his father's recent actions had been driven by his desire to see Truce pay for what he'd done. If that were the case, Vultrel would never blame him.

He supposed he had no right to be angry with Raye. Eaisan had, after all, held back a large part of the story. All the militiamen knew was that the Mages were once again building up strength in the Mayahol and that more manpower would be needed to overwhelm and defeat them once and for all. Vultrel wondered what it would be like to be a real soldier, always expected to follow orders without question, never really knowing why or for what cause. He wasn't sure he could have such blind loyalty to anyone, the exceptions being Arus and Eaisan. _I'd never make it as a soldier. I don't have the nerve for it._

The thought brought his attention back to the forest he'd lost himself in, and his fears sprang to life once more. He could vaguely make out the silhouettes of several other watchmen in the distance, keeping guard over their sections of the border. Clad in steel-plated leather with bell-shaped helmets like to his own, they walked in circular patterns that intersected with each other to form a chain link of patrols around the entire camp. A quick look showed the empty link that either he or Raye was expected to fill, and Vultrel headed in that direction. His heart nearly thumped into his throat, and he forced away the urge to vomit. _I cannot let fear stop me. I was going to have to fight on my own sooner or later anyway. If I can survive the Mayahol, I can survive this. I can't have my father watching over me for the rest of my life._

A shout from the left drew his eyes to several militiamen northeast of the camp, swords drawn and shields ready. The cry came again, this time crisp in the night air. "Wolves spotted northeast! Wolves to the northeast of camp!"

The other soldiers in the area raced toward the commotion, raising swords and drawing arrows as they ran. Vultrel had barely taken three steps when he saw them; wolves of white and black sprinting toward the clustered men from their left. An arrow flew from his bow before he realized he'd drawn it, sailing through the air and piercing one of the animals' ribs. It snarled and snapped the arrow in its jaws before turning its golden eyes upon him. An icy chill ran through Vultrel's bones as he lifted the bow again, this time aiming for its eyes. The arrow found its mark in the animal's left socket, and the wolf slumped to the ground. Its body was trampled by the rest of the pack as they continued toward the militia.

He was still moving forward, he realized, closing in on the battle. A scream pierced the air—human, to Vultrel's disappointment—and an armored figure fell amidst the struggle. Soon another fell, and another. Vultrel lifted his bow several more times without firing a shot; the wolves had unknowingly positioned the militia between themselves and him. He kept shuffling to the left, hoping to clear a path, but the other soldiers that had responded to the call added to the mayhem, preventing Vultrel from firing any more arrows.

Behind, a flow of soldiers emerged from the camp with Captain Eaisan in the lead, his long sword glistening in the moonlight. Vultrel's feet felt frozen in place as he stared at his Father. _Don't look at me, please!_

But Eaisan hurried right past him, sparing him only a momentary glance before shouting, "To arms, men! To arms!"

As the militia streamed by, Raye thumped Vultrel on the shoulder with a heavy hand. "Your sword, Marc! Draw your sword!" He was off and running before Vultrel could say a word.

It all seemed to be happening in slow-motion. The militia converged upon the pack of wolves with blades bared while the occasional scream signaled another fallen soldier. Others called to him, pushed him, begged him to join the fight to save the camp. _Arus was able to fight without my father's supervision to get him through. He was brave for us, and now I have to be brave for him._ He dropped the bow and ran, sword suddenly drawn, teeth clenched in a mixture of fear and determination. _I will not be controlled by fear. I will_ not _be controlled by fear!_

The blade severed three paws and felled two wolves before he stopped screaming. Adrenaline kept him moving, swinging his blade in a fluid motion of attacks that dropped wolves and scattered others. Up close, the pack appeared to total nearly twenty, though the number dwindled quickly under the attacks of the militia. Vultrel slashed his weapon through the side of another, and hacked the spine of one more. The last fell with a vicious bark, and Vultrel drove his sword through its heart. When it finally stilled, an eerie quiet filled the woods.

The militiamen kept eyes in all directions, watching and waiting for further attacks. Slowly, men began to exhale, hands loosening around hilts and attentions shifting to the injured. Once it was clear that they were safe—for the moment, at least—Eaisan began handing out orders. "All right, men! Listen up! I want the wounded brought back to camp immediately! Wolves can smell blood, and I don't want to attract any stragglers. Everyone clean up your injuries if you have any." He paused for a moment, his eyes falling on two motionless soldiers amongst the wolves. When he spoke, his voice was solemn. "Are they dead?"

A helmetless soldier with shaggy dark hair bent beside them to check. After a few moments and a heavy sigh, he rose and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Captain."

Eaisan bowed his head, and the other soldiers followed suit. Vultrel closed his eyes, too, until his father spoke again. "They died protecting us, and we fight to protect Keroko. Let us not allow their sacrifice to be in vain."

"Yes, Sir!" the militia responded in unison.

"Bring their bodies to camp," Eaisan said, sheathing his sword. "We'll give them a proper burial there."

The injured soldiers were helped back to camp by their comrades while the dead were lifted by several others. The remaining men had already begun to spread across the forest in an attempt to reestablish control of the perimeter. Vultrel returned his weapon to the scabbard on his back, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the motionless bodies being carried back to camp. _That could've been me. It could've been Father._ Under his father's tutelage, Vultrel had felt as though he could walk through fire and carry the world on his shoulders. But on his own, he suddenly felt naked, teetering on the edge of a blade, positive that it was only a matter of time before he fell.

He never heard the patter of paws across the grass behind him. The wolf's weight crashed into his back, knocking him to the ground face-first. The animal had a mouthful of his jerkin between its jaws, violently yanking and pulling at Vultrel's shoulder. There wasn't enough time for panic despite the flood of fear that had stopped his heart. His elbow managed to find the animals snout, knocking its grip loose long enough to roll onto his back. The wolf snapped at his helmet—thank the Maker for that helmet!—and its paws clawed and scratched against the steel-plated armor. Vultrel wanted to cry out for help, but terror swallowed his voice, and the beast once again locked its jaws onto his shoulder. It struggled wildy, tearing holes in the leather between the plates as it thrashed, its claws stomping holes in his legs. He grabbed the animal around the throat with both hands and squeezed as hard as he could, hoping to force a release. _And then what? What can I do?_

The wolf let out an abrupt yelp and released Vultrel's shoulder. Another cry, and it scampered to the right, freeing his legs. Vultrel shoved with every ounce of strength he had, knocking it to the ground as he scrambled to his feet. It was upright again before he could even draw his sword and leapt for Vultrel's face with jaws wide open. Steel flashed as Eaisan's blade came down on the wolf's neck, knocking the animal back to the ground with a fatal blow. With its head nearly severed, it took mere moments to die.

"Are you all right, soldier?"

Reluctantly, Vultrel faced his father. It was an effort to disguise his voice, but it a deep tone, he responded. "Yes, Sir. Thank you."

"A bit different from the Mayahol, isn't it?" Eaisan asked, wiping his blade on the wolf's fur.

_I knew it! He knows it's me!_ Still, without an outright admission, Vultrel had no intention of surrendering his identity. "The Mayahol, Sir?"

Eaisan's brow furrowed. "It's Marc, isn't it? Marc Cohen? Don't you patrol the forest between Keroko and the Mayahol Desert?"

_How did he get that name? Did Raye say something? Maybe he overheard?_ "Y-Yes, yes it is. I mean, I do."

"There's a lot more room to maneuver out there," his father continued, "and the torchlight from the village walls make it easier to watch for animal attacks. Keep your guard up, Marc. Things are a bit more primitive out here. And see that those injuries are taken care of." He pointed to the spots of blood on Vultrel's pants where the wolf's claws had punctured his skin. "We don't want to draw any more unwelcome guests."

Vultrel could barely bring himself to murmur a response as Eaisan headed back to camp. "Yes, Sir." _If he_ does _know who I am, he's playing a cruel joke. But I guess as long as he allows me to remain under his protection, he can play as many jokes as he wants._

### Chapter 8

The Vezulian Armada sat in silence on the far side of Terranias, the occasional starfighter patrols providing the only activity within the fleet. Why they'd returned was hard to determine, though Kindel Thorus' reasons for any of his actions were questionable. The only certainty was that he was not visiting the planet on vacation. If Thorus had set his eyes on Terranias as he had Belvidia, then no good could come from it. The problem came in trying to track his movements as his ability to teleport from place to place made him nearly impossible to find until it was too late.

And that was just a fraction of troubles facing the universe.

Kitreena let out a long breath as she shifted her eyes from the Armada to the glowing blue planet. Arus was down there, somewhere. Whether he was alive or dead was impossible to know. Either way, Truce and the kyrosen had developed a weapon of unlimited potential. Machines had been trusted for manufacturing, calculating, measuring, and a myriad of other tasks for thousands of years. Lives depended on their proper operation day in and day out across the universe, and as technology progressed, machines only became more precise and efficient. Humanity, in contrast, was the epitome of imperfection. The same could be said of any sentient life form across the cosmos, for that matter. Machines lacked the consciousness and intelligent decision-making abilities of humans. Imagine the unlimited potential and creativity that could be gained from merging the two together!

Precisely what Sartan Truce had done.

Shaking her head, she turned away from the viewport and flopped onto her bed. Damien's starship was the closest thing she had to a home, and though she'd never admit it to him, she always felt safe when she was onboard. He'd been given command of the _Refuge_ only a year ago, after their raid on the Deltorian Pirates brought in Dexter Amaroth and freed nearly four hundred prisoners. Damien had allowed her to choose the name of the vessel, and she selected _Refuge_ in honor of those they'd liberated from their enslavement to the pirates. Since then, the ship had become their base of operations, and the only place where Kitreena could feel at home.

Her room was the first of the living quarters, located on the starboard side of the ship near the forward decks. The craft was shaped like two cylinders conjoined side-by-side with a long nosepiece where the bridge was housed. Small fins protruded from either side of the grey-plated hull at the rear. It was one of the more majestic starships used by the Aeden Alliance, acquired as a gift from the Blumosian council for the Alliance's assistance in ending a centuries-old civil war that had wracked their world. Kitreena remembered the day they'd first boarded; she'd chosen this room as her own because it had the largest viewport of all the living quarters and she loved staring at the stars. It brought peace when there was none, which was frequently the case.

She'd done very little to personalize it, aside from changing the glowing window border from a white light to a vivid pink and lining up her collection of flowers from distant planets on the wooden bureau beneath it. Her bed sheets were pink as well, a tone so light that they may as well have been white. The colors, combined with the deep brown wood of the wardrobe on the left and the bookshelf beside it, created a warm atmosphere that reminded her of home—her _real_ home—where she could curl up with some hot tea and a good book for hours on end. Perhaps more personalization had gone into it than she'd realized.

There would be no such relaxation today, though, as a knock on her door sent her scrambling for her covers. She hated being seen in her nightgown. "Just a minute!" she called, shoving her feet under the blanket and pulling it up to her chin. "Come in!"

The door beside the bookcase cracked open, and Damien poked his head through. "Morning, Kit. How are you today?"

"I'm here," she responded in a bland voice. "Isn't that enough?"

"I have something here that may lift your spirits," Damien said, shaking what sounded like a bundle of papers on the other side of the door. "May I come in?"

"Of course," Kitreena nodded. "What is it?"

He entered slowly, sliding the door closed behind him. The thick stack of papers in his hand seemed tattered and worn with abuse; someone had certainly studied each page extensively. Damien dropped it on the bed beside her and grinned. "Lueille managed to link our systems with Truce's long enough to strip half of his database. It took a bit of decoding, but we finally have an in-depth technical schematic of the implant prototype."

Her eyes widened as she sat up—it wasn't as though the nightgown wasn't _decent_ —and grabbed the papers. "I thought recon said they couldn't get into his database unless it was powered up."

"All of his systems are salvaged parts from old starships," Damien said with a grin, "and every starship terminal has remote access capabilities, meaning—"

"Meaning there had to be a remote power-on command as well?" Kitreena looked up at him.

"Exactly. They just had to figure out how to activate it."

"So what does this stuff say?" She flipped through the pages, hoping to find something that wasn't written in scientific technobabble. "Is there a weakness? Can it be removed without killing the patient?"

"We don't know yet," Damien admitted. "Recon is still analyzing everything. They expect to report their conclusions to me by the end of the day."

Kitreena groaned and dropped back to her pillow. "You mean this is going to be another day wasted? How many days has it been now?"

"Just because there's nothing you can do at the moment doesn't mean it's a day wasted," he told her, taking the paperwork. "Relax. Enjoy the break while we have it."

She gave him a sour look. "How can I enjoy it when I'm confined to my room? I can't go to the simulator, I can't go to the training room, I can't go to the lounge, I can't do anything!"

Damien's snow-white eyebrows rose over his grin. "Perhaps you should've have considered that before chasing after F'Ledro and nearly killing us all in the process." He sounded as though he was holding back laughter.

Kitreena's face darkened. "I won't stop until he's kissing my feet, Damien. You know that."

"Yes, I do." He turned and headed for the door. "But that reckless attitude and thirst for vengeance is going to lead you down a dark, dark path. Trust what I teach you, Kit. I've seen it happen to people . . . very close to me."

She couldn't help but roll her eyes. "I'm not going to turn out like him, Damien."

He stopped in the doorway for a moment. She almost thought he might turn and shout reprimands at her, but that had never been Damien's way. It was hard for him to discipline her, she knew, not being her biological father, but he'd never once given any sign of giving up, no matter how difficult she made the job. "What frightens me," he began, not looking back, "is that _he_ didn't realize it until his brother pointed it out. And even then, he didn't believe."

With that, he was gone, and the silence of Kitreena's room seemed to scream at her. Deep down, she knew he was right, but her stubborn streak was not willing to relinquish its hold on her anger just yet. All that aside, the paperwork on Truce's implant was a great leap forward for their mission. Once deciphered, the information would certainly lead them to some kind of weakness in the machine's design. It could be deactivated without losing the victim. It _had_ to be! _I won't let them use Arus as their killing machine!_

But how do you know he's even alive? How do you know their experiment was a success?

She'd found herself having this internal argument countless times over the past several days, and though she _knew_ logically that there was almost no chance Arus had survived, she couldn't quite seem to shake the voice that assumed he lived. _How can you be so sure he's alive?_

Because he is. I can't explain it, he just is.

She let out a long breath as she stood and opened her wardrobe. "Stupid" Imagine! Arguing with oneself over something so stupid! Even if the boy _was_ alive, it only meant that Truce had likely enslaved him, and that he was being used as the ultimate weapon against the people of Terranias. _And if Thorus manages to get his hands on it . . ._ She glanced back at the Armada through the viewport. _No, better for the galaxy to hope that he's dead._

But he isn't.

*******

Kindel's pale fingers drummed against the desk as he looked over Dr. Barrine's report. Biology had never been his thing—archeology was his passion—but the information contained in the report from the research team proved to be more than fascinating. Extensive analysis of the lephadorite had revealed something he hadn't expected. "Explain this to me again, Doctor. I'm not sure I believe what I'm reading here."

"Again, it is all speculative since we haven't been able to examine the stone itself," Barrine reminded him. "But from the scan results you sent us, we've theorized that your 'lephadorite' may be a living organism, not just a rock."

Thorus shifted his eyes to the soldier. "How is that possible? How could such a living organism sustain itself without nutrition of some kind?"

"That is one of the many things we have yet to determine, Sir." Barrine was clearly agitated that he wasn't permitted to study such a scientific marvel. It was evident in his voice, his expression, and his entire demeanor. "If we could just be allowed to sit down and study the sample, I may be able to—"

The boom of Kindel's fist against his desk echoed through the ship. "I will _not_ allow it to leave my possession!" he shouted, rising to his feet. "When the time comes to begin the cloning process, I shall bring it to your lab myself, and I shall do whatever is necessary for the procedure, but I will not allow it to fall into anyone else's hands!"

Barrine didn't flinch, staring at Kindel with unwavering frustration in his eyes. "As I've stated multiple times, Admiral, I cannot even hope to duplicate the stone without studying it. If it _is_ a living organism, then it is certainly possible to clone it, but computer scans do not provide me with detailed cellular analysis or DNA samples. That information is critical if I am to find a way to adapt the reproductive capabilities of the Belvid's stone to yours. For that matter, as a living organism, it may have its own reproductive functions written into its DNA that I may be able to make use of. But without being able to take a sample and study it, I cannot _do_ anything."

Thorus swore loudly and punched his desk again. "What is the condition of the _baharinda_ you extracted from the Belvid?"

"It is deteriorating rapidly," Barrine didn't seem at all phased by the outburst. "I don't know what kind of sample we'll be able to retrieve from it at this point. I'm not sure any cells we draw from it would last. In another day, it'll be nothing more than a lifeless rock."

That meant it had a preservation period of approximately three days, given that two had already passed since the incident on the prison level. "Are the other two Belvids still secure?"

"You would know better than I would," the doctor responded, sounding almost bored.

Kindel whirled and extended his hand toward Barrine. The wiry man's body raised from the floor slightly, finally breaking his indignant and annoyed expression and replacing it with shock and fear. "Your attitude is less than acceptable, Doctor. I suggest you learn your place, lest I show you to it. Repair whatever cracks have formed in your respect for your superiors, because I do not tolerate insolence in my crew. Are we clear on this?"

"Yes, Sir!" Barrine saluted, still hanging in mid-air. "I apologize, Admiral! I meant no disrespect, I simply—"

Thorus lowered the doctor's feet to the floor. "Save your groveling. You are dismissed."

For a moment he thought Barrine might ask to study the lephadorite again. The doctor hesitated for an instant before wisely nodding and making for the door. "Fool," Kindel muttered, though he wasn't sure if he meant himself or Barrine. He knew that what he asked for was going to be nearly impossible to determine without handing over the stone, but everything he'd read about it—prior to today—had stated that _any_ changes to the composition of the stone could have an adverse effect on its properties, and he couldn't risk allowing the research team to work with it. It was an unpredictable little thing, capable of granting such immense power, yet the slightest change could theoretically turn it into a ticking bomb.

And who could say what kind of damage could be caused by a magical _living_ stone?

_Living?_ The word echoed over and over in Kindel's mind. It couldn't be possible, of course. Barrine's report only suggested it as a theory, but the entire report had revolved around that concept. Imagine! A living rock that required no nourishment to sustain itself! _Living. Is there . . . a race of these things out there somewhere?_

He opened the top drawer of his desk and removed the lephadorite. If it was, in fact, a living organism, and if there were more such rocks out there, perhaps there would be no need for genetic engineering. It was the records of Terranias' history that had led him to find this one. _Had the warrior that had nearly destroyed Terranias so many years ago found a planet were these stones were indigenous life-forms?_ The records he'd studied had not mentioned such, only that a human by the name of David, or something similar, had claimed to have been hired to craft a golden amulet for the stone. Precise measurements and calculations that had been listed—supposedly provided by David himself—and it was those specifications that allowed Thorus to create his own amulet—rather, have a jeweler on Ariath create it—to house the lephadorite. The records then went on to describe the powers David had unknowingly unlocked, leading to the near-complete destruction of the planet. _But nothing described where the stone came from in the first place._

Lifting his communicator from his belt, Thorus summoned Lieutenant Petreit to his office. The soldier had led him to the Belvid's stone, giving a great deal of credit to his abilities as a researcher and his knowledge about the life-forms of the universe. What he didn't know he learned from connections he'd formed across many galaxies. If a planet existed where these stones were commonplace, perhaps Petreit could find it.

Kindel was staring through the viewport, rolling the Lephadorite in his palm, when the visitor alert tone sounded from the door. "Enter," he called. The glowing blue aura of the Terranias memorized him. If only the humans had kept better records of their own history, the information he sought could have been right at his fingertips. Instead, he was reduced to scavenging for clues in countless databases of those supposedly descended from the humans that had fled during the invasion, most conflicting each other on many of the details, yet all agreeing that it was the stone that had caused it all. But where had the stone originated?

"You called for me, Sir?" It was the second time Petreit had said it, Kindel realized.

"Yes, Lieutenant. Remember this?" He held up the stone as he faced the soldier. Petreit nodded, suppressing a nervous gulp while he was at it. "Dr. Barrine tells me that this stone may actually be a living organism. That, of course, increases my interest in where it came from. I want you to trace this stone to its origin. If there is a planet out there where these rocks are considered a species, I need to know about it. We may be able to return the Belvids to their home without harming them if you can find it."

"Y-Yes, Sir!" Petreit responded with a nod. "But . . . a question, if I may, Sir?"

Kindel turned back to the viewport with a sigh. The man was brighter than he gave himself credit for. He always performed well, but only once he'd been shoved in the right direction. "Yes, Lieutenant, what is it?"

"Sir . . . where did _you_ learn about it?" He was obviously uncomfortable asking about Kindel's personal research. "So I have a starting point for my research, I mean."

A reasonable question. "Begin with the great invasion war that nearly destroyed Terranias," he answered. "That is where I first read about the stone."

"As you command, Admiral," Petreit bowed slightly. "Is there any other way I may assist?"

"That will be all, Lieutenant," Kindel told him. Through the reflection on the viewport, Kindel could see Petreit heading for the door. "And Seavan?" The use of his first name caught the lieutenant off-guard, as he froze for a moment before facing his superior. "Great work, thus far. Keep it up."

Petreit smiled openly. "Thank you, Sir! I'll do everything in my power not to disappoint!"

_Amazing,_ Kindel thought as Petreit hurried through the door. _If all my soldiers had his humility, the Armada would be a machine that never needed grease._ Dr. Barrine could stand to learn something from the lieutenant. It wasn't that Kindel despised dissent; a fresh point of view was always welcome. But Barrine went beyond dissent to downright insolence, and there was no room for such behavior in the Vezulian Armada. Command decisions were respected, or punishments were doled out. Barrine would learn his place. How harsh the lesson would be was up to him.

His eyes caught a glance of the _Refuge_ , still orbiting the Terranias in silence. Scimitar and Kalibur had taken a transport to the surface days ago and had yet to report. Not that there was any cause for alarm—the two were the best fighters in the galaxy, aside from himself—but it was unsettling not to have any information regarding Aldoric's activities. If the kyrosen had indeed caught the Alliance's attention, Thorus wanted to know. _Truce couldn't have rebuilt his army that quickly. Could he have? But if he hadn't, what then could've attracted Aldoric's attention? Perhaps the kyrosen and the Aeden Alliance are working out a partnership to strike against the Armada._ The last thought stopped his heart for a moment. Knowing the deceptive natures of both groups, it wasn't entirely impossible. And he still hadn't even managed to duplicate the stone once, let alone enough for every soldier under his command.

And as long as I keep it out of the hands of the research team, that won't change.

*******

A subtle breeze fluttered through the grass across the Lamonde Plains as the sun rose above the hills, its orange light casting long shadows behind the horsemen. With the Narleahan Outpost shrinking behind them, the Keroko Militia set off on what was hoped to be the final day of travel; the forest on the horizon surrounded Cathymel, the sprawling city that served as home to Castle Asteria and Lord Sarathon, King of Asteria. The white towers of the palace could be seen over the trees, though they were mere specks to the naked eye. Still, the Red Bear banner swayed atop each, and as long as the banner flew, the castle belonged to Sarathon.

For Vultrel, it was his first visit to the Lamonde Plains. Eaisan had never taken him further than Narleaha, though Vultrel had always wanted to see the castle. The Plains were beautiful, dotted with grazing deer and rabbits and squirrels, and blanketed with a lush sea of green. If there was a patch of dirt or a single weed, Vultrel never saw them. Here and there Narleahan soldiers patrolled the land, often seeming more focused on the beauty surrounding them than their duties to the kingdom. More than once Eaisan had called out to them, no doubt testing their reflexes to keep them sharp. A small lake broke the land ahead, though Eaisan's direction would likely take them nowhere near it. They'd emerged from the woods early yesterday, yet the beauty of the Plains kept Vultrel's eyes wandering. Good thing he was on watch duty.

"Sunrise over the Plains," Raye murmured to no one in particular. "Each one is more beautiful than the last."

They'd managed to settle their differences two nights earlier, following Vultrel's brush with death. Raye hadn't apologized for his thoughts about Eaisan, but he admitted that he had no reason to be suspicious about Arus' abilities or the Captain's actions. The next morning they talked for hours about anything and everything, though Vultrel had to bluff his way through most of it. Still, it was good to have a friendly dialogue between himself his partner once more. "It is gorgeous, isn't it?"

"Ain't nothing like it," Raye nodded.

But while his relationship with Raye had improved, hiding from his father had gotten harder as the journey progressed. While the tents were being erected at their last stop, Eaisan had gone to each fire to speak with each of his soldiers. Nothing serious, just lighthearted chat to keep morale up. Vultrel had barely managed to grab his bow and join the watch before Eaisan got to his tent, narrowly avoiding the probing eyes of his father. He was positive that if his father caught him with that helmet on one more time, suspicion would get the best of him, and he'd be asked to remove it. But the castle was in view, now. A distant speck, but in view, nonetheless. He'd almost made it without being discovered.

"It's been a long time since I last visited Cathymel," Raye said. "Ever been there, Marc?"

"This will be my first time," Vultrel responded. For once, it wasn't a lie.

"I'll show you around while the Captain meets with His Majesty. There's a place in the East City where you can get the best pie in the city. I've tried to get their recipes for my wife, but the cook there won't give them up. Don't suppose I would if I were him, either."

"Sounds great." Fresh cooked food sounded pretty good at that moment. The vegetable stew on the first night had been the last hot meal he'd had. Every meal thereafter had consisted of cheese and dried fruit.

"I'd take you for a mug of ale, but at your age I doubt Eaisan would take kindly to it."

Vultrel suppressed a grimace. The thought of what his father would do to him if he even _considered_ drinking ale sent shivers down his spine. "I'll pass on that, but thanks."

For a while, they rode on in silence, with nothing but the singing birds and the soft breeze to keep them company. The horses had moved slower and required more rest than Eaisan had expected, though Vultrel couldn't imagine it was easy with most carrying two armored soldiers on their backs. Still, the difference had only meant they'd arrive after dusk, which wasn't such a big difference in Eaisan's eyes.

When Raye spoke again, it was with downcast eyes. "It's a shame about Narleaha, though."

Vultrel nodded with a dejected sigh. Word at the Narleahan outpost was that there'd been an attack on the village, though the exact details were sketchy. Several of the soldiers had pleaded with Eaisan to take the militia there, but he had refused. If the attack came from wildlife—which was unlikely in that area; Narleaha's walls were twice as high as Keroko's and heavily guarded—then the Narleahan militia could handle it. But if the attack came from the Mages, then it only meant that they were indeed headed north, and Eaisan was determined to get to Cathymel before they did. "Think the Mages are on our tails?" he asked, scanning the forest along the western edge of the Plains.

"Hard to say," Raye admitted. "We _are_ out in the open, after all, but if they were behind us I think they would've attacked by now. Still, they could be following us through the woods along the border, waiting to ambush us when we reach the trail to Cathymel."

If it were up to Vultrel, they'd have headed into the woods to the west and moved along the border of the Plains until they reached the trail. But when someone had suggested that to Eaisan, he disregarded it, saying that it would add too much time to the journey. If they blended into the forest on one side, the Mages could easily travel along the opposite border until they reached the trail. Eaisan meant to stop Truce, not hide from him. If the Mages wanted a battle in the middle of the Plains then so be it, but the Eaisan would _not_ give them any chance to reach Cathymel if he could help it.

So they instead rode through the center of the plains in a diamond formation, with Eaisan's mare in the center. He was flanked by two archers and two swordsmen, each with weapons held ready to defend their captain. Though a well-placed magical attack could hit any number of them, it was unlikely that an enemy on foot would break through their defense. An army, however, would pose more of a threat. The Keroko militia was not large enough to defend against a large-scale assault. If Truce came at them with every one of his soldiers . . .

"Militiamen halt!" a shout rose from the center of the cluster.

The cavalry came to a silent standstill almost immediately. Ahead, Vultrel could see his father standing up in his stirrups, a silver looking glass to his eye, peering toward the eastern edge of the plains. Something had caught his attention, and from the look of chagrin on his face, the news wasn't good. The captain exchanged words with one of the swordsmen beside him, every so often pointing discreetly toward the woods. Murmurs spread amongst the soldiers, and many hands shifted to sword hilts. Vultrel leaned forward, trying to catch whatever bits of Eaisan's conversation he could hear.

". . . attack now or try to race them?"

"Either way, we'll have to fight. It may be better to keep the fight away from the city."

"Yet, if it _is_ a trap, we'll be walking right into it."

"It _must_ be a trap. They wouldn't send such a small force to claim the throne. There must be more out there somewhere."

That set Vultrel's eyes wandering, along with many of the others. If there was someone out there looking to assault the castle, it could _only_ be the Vermillion Mages. And Truce was a smart tactician; he wouldn't send a small group of his men to do the job of an army, which meant that there were more Mages out there somewhere, likely watching them, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. _And Arus could be with them._

". . . best if we just high-tail it to Cathymel. At least then the Royal Guard will be able to lend its assistance."

"And they'll have warning before the strike. Agreed."

Eaisan stood in his saddle once more, raising his voice so that everyone could hear. "Soldiers, listen up! We have unidentified individuals—possibly Vermillion Mages—making for Cathymel through the woods to the east. I fully intend to arrive before anyone has a chance to attack the palace, so we will push the horses as hard as they can handle for the remainder of the journey. Make certain you keep up with the rest of the group, because I cannot afford to waste time rounding up stragglers. If, by chance, you manage to get separated from us, head for either Cathymel or back to the Narleahan Outpost and wait for us there. Any questions?"

An unidentified soldier to the left raised a hand. "If we should be attacked, do we plan to fight or to continue pushing for the city?"

"Fight if you must, but only if you _must_ ," Eaisan responded. "Any others?" The soldiers collectively shook their heads. "Very well, then. Move out!"

The group lurched forward this time, so much so that Vultrel was forced to grab onto Raye's waist when Pepper jumped forward. The thundering hoofs echoed across the land, shattering the peaceful morning and sending animals scurrying for safety. How long the horses could keep up at this pace was hard to say, but Vultrel doubted they'd make it all the way to the city as Eaisan suggested.

The cry of "Incoming!" had barely registered in his ears when the land surged and erupted in a fiery blast beneath him, sending his body flailing through the air above the rest of the militia. The other soldiers—those not caught in the explosion—scattered beneath him as he flew, their attentions divided between their injured comrades and the safety of their captain. Vultrel came down hard on his back, the impact knocking the helmet from his head and bow from his grip. His lungs felt as though they'd caved in on themselves, forcing him to gasp for even the slightest breath. Despite that, he rolled onto all fours and looked back at the militia.

And gasped again.

A new set of horsemen were running through the group, swinging swords and firing magical balls of fire from their palms. Their clothes marked them as Vermillion Mages, clad in black pants and vests over various colored shirts, though he'd never seen the Mages ride horses before. Regardless of who they were, they were slaughtering Keroko soldiers left and right, and it made Vultrel grind his teeth. Still struggling for air—the breaths were coming slightly easier—he scampered over to his bow and a handful of the arrows that had fallen from his quiver. His first shot pierced the unarmored chest of a particularly hairy Mage, who fell from his saddle and was subsequently trampled by his own horse. Vultrel winced; he'd never killed anyone before, but if there was any time it was necessary, it was now. _I'm sorry, but I have to do it. I have to._ Another arrow left his bow, and another, felling two more Mages.

Enemies continued to swarm the militia, swords clashing and arrows flying across the grassy field. Magical attacks seemed to die down—it had to be difficult to wield such power at close-quarters without injuring yourself or allies—but it didn't seem to diminish the ferocity of the battle. Mages and militiamen were falling everywhere, and Vultrel's arrows didn't seem to be making very much of a difference. There was no sign of Captain Eaisan anywhere.

"Marc, look out!"

It took a moment for him to realize that Raye was shouting to _him_ from the crowd, pointing wildly over his shoulder. Vultrel turned around just as a passing Mage swung a sword down from his saddle. He barely managed to raise his steel-backed gauntlets in time, blocking the blade with a loud clang that sent sparks flying. The Mage reared his horse to make another pass when Vultrel saw his father, blade crossed with another opponent's, standing a good twenty paces away. Eaisan's helmet had been lost in the commotion as well, and a trickle of blood ran from his lower lip. With his own helmet gone, Vultrel's true identity was revealed, which Eaisan acknowledged with less than a nod. "Fight, Vultrel!"

Vultrel dropped to the grass to avoid another slice from the rider. His father's voice shouted once more. "Draw your sword! This is what you've wanted all along, isn't it?"

His blade slid from its scabbard as the Mage's horse galloped toward him for the third time. Weapons met with an ear-piercing clash, drawing startled glances from nearby soldiers. The horse bucked and whined, obviously agitated by its rider's actions, and the bony Vermillion Mage swung his leg over the pommel and descended to the grass. "The second rise of the kyrosen begins today, boy!" he laughed through a gap-toothed grin. "No child is going to stand in the way of our coming glory!"

Vultrel could no longer see his father; Eaisan's fight had taken him beyond several other skirmishes, but he could still hear words of encouragement drifting over the violence. "Stay focused! You are ready for this, Vultrel! You've proven it time and time again in the ring! The only difference is the killing blow; on the battlefield, you _must_ strike!"

The boy nodded and raised his weapon. _If Father thinks I can do this, I can do it. No fear this time._ The enemy soldier's eyes held an uneasiness that never touched his smile, but it was enough to ease Vultrel's own nerves a bit. If he, a battle-hardened sorcerer, was afraid, then it would be Vultrel who held the advantage psychologically. _No fear._ His feet shifted into his battle stance with the thought. _I can do it._ He could almost see the dueling ring around them. The Mage brushed grungy brown hair from his eyes with the back of his palm as he readied a rusty sword. Despite the weapon, his stance was relaxed, as though they were having a pleasant conversation. _No fear._

Vultrel screamed as he dashed forward, swinging his weapon toward the soldier with all of his might. The Mage was caught off-guard by the assault, barely managing to twist his blade to deflect the attack. Vultrel shuffled his feet through the steps and maneuvers that Eaisan had taught him, moving his weapon as quickly as his mind could process each thought. His opponent's expression changed from surprised to annoyed to angry as they fought, seemingly frustrated with the immense skill coming from such a young boy. Their blades met in a constant rattle of steel on steel, sending an occasional spark into the air. A slightly overzealous step put Vultrel off-balance, forcing him to shift back to defensive maneuvers as the Mage attempted to capitalize on the mistake. Vultrel smoothly recovered, knocking away a series of thrusts meant for his heart.

"Don't be too anxious!" Eaisan's voice called, fainter now. "Let him make the first mistake! Just like you do in class!"

The words had barely registered when the Mage swung his rusty blade in a long swipe, leaving himself wide open. Vultrel's weapon held the sword at bay, and he drove a stiff boot into the soldier's mid-section. The Mage gasped for air and stumbled back, but he never took his eyes off of Vultrel. Blades met again and again as the two circled each other, each watching and waiting for the other to slip-up. A misplaced step, an overanxious attack, even a weak stroke could be enough to turn the tide of battle. Sweat dripped down Vultrel's forehead with each parry and thrust, giving the impression that he was wearing down.

"I wouldn't expect a child like you to be able to keep up with a warrior such as myself," the Mage proclaimed in a whiny voice. "If you run away now, I may spare your life."

_I can do this._ "I won't be intimidated by your kind," Vultrel responded through clenched teeth. _No fear._ "Your crimes have gone unanswered for too long." _No mercy._ "It's time to put an end to it all!"

His sword met his opponent's rusted weapon once more, and he leapt forward, sliding his blade down to the hilt of the soldier's weapon until it met flesh. The Mage yelped and dropped his weapon as he pulled his hand away, clamping his other palm down on the fresh gash. Vultrel stepped forward and held the tip of his blade to his neck. _The killing blow,_ he thought, remembering his father's words. _On the battlefield, you_ must _strike._ Abruptly, he realized he no longer heard Eaisan's voice. Unconsciously, he glanced toward the battlefield. _Has he been . . . defeated?_

The Mage wasted no time, rolling away from Vultrel's outstretched sword and leaping to his feet. Flickering balls of fire rose from his now upturned palms as he laughed. "Fool, you had me beaten! After all of that impressive swordplay, you made the biggest blunder a soldier can make!"

Vultrel's eyes narrowed as he focused on the bony Mage. _No mercy._ He lunged forward with a wide slash, slicing both wrists down to the bone, then he brought his sword around with a flourish and drove it into the soldier's chest. The Mage fell to his knees with wide eyes, letting out only a choked gurgle before falling to the grass. "Checkmate." Vultrel sighed heavily; he'd always been anxious to rid the kingdom of as many Mages as he could, but killing another man was not something he enjoyed. Not likely that he ever would.

Around him, the battle was dying down where the bodies were piling higher, yet the violent clashes continued in other areas. Horses without riders roamed the fields, the occasional arrow soared through the air, and the groans of the dying were abundant. The fight was not going well.

Without warning, a horseman skidded to a halt behind him and grabbed his arm. He nearly reached for his sword in a panic until he saw the rider's face. "Get on, Vultrel," Eaisan commanded. His father pulled him into the saddle behind himself, and dug his heels into the horse's flanks. "To Cathymel!" he shouted. "Militiamen to Cathymel on the double! Move it, men! We cannot allow these dogs to surprise His Majesty! We have a duty to perform, and we shall succeed!"

A somewhat stifled cheer rose from the crowd as the few remaining militiamen still mounted kicked the horses into a gallop behind their captain. Vultrel estimated there couldn't be more than ten, though more remained struggling against the Mages on foot. "You're just going to leave them there?" he exclaimed, gesturing frantically. "They need our help!"

"They are doing their duty, Vultrel," Eaisan's voice was grave. "We must do ours. If they survive, they will follow. But for now, they are providing us enough cover to escape."

The boy couldn't take his eyes away from the battle. "But—"

"Vultrel," Eaisan began, glancing back at him. He stared at his son for a moment, his eyes looking almost as though he was weighing and considering. "You did well back there," he finally said, turning his attention back to the land.

The fear of being caught by his father suddenly crashed down on him. _Boy, I'm in for it now. Is he going to send me home? What if I run into more of Truce's men on the way back?_ "Father, I . . . I'm sorry for deceiving you."

Eaisan was silent for a few moments, leaving nothing but the pounding of hooves to echo in his ears. When he spoke, he was barely audible. "Your mother would not approve."

That's it? No lecture? No tongue-lashing? Vultrel couldn't believe it. "I . . . I'm surprised _you_ approve."

His father glared back at him. "I never said I do."

Another span of silence passed. Vultrel never wanted to disobey his father, but he wouldn't have been able to live with himself if he sat at home while Eaisan went off to fight the Mages. _Arus was my brother. This is_ my _fight, too._

"To tell you the truth, you did me a favor," Eaisan said.

That made Vultrel's eyebrows raise. "I did?"

"A part of me wanted to bring you along, but I knew your mother would never allow it. And since you snuck off without permission from either of us, she can't blame me for it." He was grinning in spite of himself. "So I got what I wanted, and you'll get all the flak for it."

Vultrel shook his head in disbelief. "You knew it was me all along, didn't you? You knew very well who was under that helmet!"

"Did you really think I wouldn't recognize my son's eyes? Your voice? That sword you have strapped to your back?"

Vultrel rolled his eyes and slumped in the saddle. "I'm in big trouble, aren't I?"

Eaisan muffled a chuckle with his hand. "The word 'big' doesn't even begin to describe it. Still, as long as you're here, I could use your help. Can I count on you, Mr. Cohen?"

Well, if he had to pay the price, he would. But for now . . . "Yes, Captain Eaisan, Sir!"

*******

The last body fell to the ground with little more than a grunt. Faces, many frozen in a state of disbelief, littered the grass across the Lamonde Plains. Some familiar, most not. But these men had been Keroko citizens, and that was enough to make them family. Ravens circled overhead, waiting for their chance to feast on the corpses of the men who'd fought so fearlessly to defend their captain, their village, and their kingdom from the selfish and heartless ambitions of Sartan Truce. Nearly eighty men had stepped foot on the Plains today. Less than a dozen escaped.

If Arus could've cried, he would have done so, hunched over the dead with his head in his hands as he pled for forgiveness. Instead, his cybernetic eye scanned the battlefield for any signs of life that had yet to be extinguished. He had used every ounce of willpower within his soul and then some extra in attempting free his mind from the implant's hold. But his body never so much as flinched; he slew soldier after soldier in a gruesome bloodbath that had sent many good men to the grave. If there had been any weakness in the implant for Anton to exploit, Truce had certainly remedied the problem with Arus' version.

He watched in horror and disgust as he leaned down and wiped the blood from his blade using one of the soldier's breeches. It almost seemed as though the implant had been programmed to go out of its way to be cruel, especially when he—rather, the bloody implant—had killed a man by crushing his throat with his mechanical hand. More than once he thought he would vomit—watching himself sever another man's head should've been more than enough to empty his stomach—but each time the urge arose, he felt his stomach suddenly calm, and cursed the implant when he realized why. The device had full control over every function of his body, and there was nothing he could do but scream silent screams and weep dry tears. The torture was enough to drive him to madness, yet even then, his body would've controlled itself despite the inner turmoil. _Kitreena, have you abandoned me?_

Beside him, Truce cupped his hands around his mouth. "All right, listen up! Eaisan and his boy escaped to the north along with several other men. Rather than pursuing them and risking discovery by the Cathymel patrols, we're going to proceed with our original plan."

The original plan made Arus' stomach churn again; it was certainly the kind of dirty scheme he'd expect from the Mages. The horses had not been the only thing they'd pilfered from Narleaha. Several chests of commoners' clothes, three wagons, and two coaches had been taken as well, along with two bottles of the finest Narleahan brandy. It was all designed to mimic a Narleahan caravan—at least, that's what the guards outside of Cathymel would think, anyway—and it would provide the perfect cover to get close enough to the castle.

Arus followed the others back to the woods as his sensors did periodic scans of the Plains to ensure that all enemy soldiers had been eliminated. F'Ledro was right where they'd left him, patting the nose of one of the horses hitched to the tan coach. The other coach was parked behind the first, maroon red with two windows on either side. Opposite the coaches, the wagons sat unhitched in the grass, one full of assorted tools, the other holding the chests of clothing. Two other Mages had been left guarding with F'Ledro, and while they remained alert and attentive, his eyes drooped over a stifled yawn. Arus noticed it at the same time that Sartan did. The coach's curtains had been drawn back, and the windows stood open. _Someone_ had been resting on the job.

"I thought I told you to stand watch," Truce growled, dropping his sword and sheath on the ground beside them. "Do you take me for a fool?"

"I did watch, Boss!" F'Ledro whined. "Honest! I kept a sharp lookout!"

The rest of the soldiers fanned out across the caravan and began preparations for departure, hitching horses and donning commoner's clothing. If Arus hadn't come to know most by their faces, he'd honestly believe they were travelers or merchants coming to peddle their wares or seek work. Hopefully the guards of Cathymel wouldn't be deceived quite so easily.

"Do you think me a fool, F'Ledro?" Truce's voice held a dangerous chill.

The wiry man stammered, obviously rethinking his story. "Uh . . . That is, I . . . Uh . . ."

Truce waved a hand at him. "I don't have time for this," he said, shaking his head. "Just go clean up the horse manure."

"But, Boss—!"

"Now!"

Muttering a trail of incomprehensible babble, F'Ledro stomped toward the supply wagon. His fingers barely touched the shovel when Truce spoke again.

"With your hands, F'Ledro."

"What? You've got to be—"

"If you would prefer a more brief yet . . . _harsher_ punishment, speak up." He was visibly trying not to grin.

Another string of babble poured through F'Ledro's lips, but he stomped toward the horses, wringing his hands the whole way. Truce laughed openly this time before turning his attention back to Arus. "Did you see your friend out there?"

"I do not have friends," Arus heard himself say. "My purpose is to serve the kyrosen and obey your commands." _Friend? Was Vultrel there? Or is he talking about Master Eaisan?_

The Mage put a hand to his beard and nodded. "Excellent," he said to no one in particular. "You've shown no signs of resistance to the implant's instructions. I've really outdone myself this time."

"Sir," Olock began, approaching from behind, "if I may . . . We should get moving."

"Of course," Truce agreed. He immediately started barking out commands, ordering everyone into a set of commoner's clothes and shouting for the horses to be hitched. Arus' feet moved—not that he wanted them to—and he started toward the second coach. He was the key to the Mages' victory, and with the iron grip of the implant controlling his every move, it was unlikely that he'd manage to foil those plans.

"Move it, soldiers! I want to reach the castle before nightfall!"

The stuffy coach was warmer than earlier. The rising sun heated the air more each day, though he'd heard stories about the extraordinary summers of the Lamonde Plains. How the grass stayed so green in such temperatures was beyond him, though it was also well-known that the Plains saw some of the nastiest thunderstorms during this time of year. Apparently the land got all the water it needed. Arus wished he could say the same for himself.

By the time they were on their way, sweat was pouring down his forehead. The windows of the coach only enhanced the warmth despite the breeze that occasionally filtered through the half-tilted glass. Seated across from him, Truce seemed no better. But years spent under the Mayahol Desert had to have improved his tolerance for heat. He was dressed in baggy brown pants and a loose white shirt, completely contrary to his usual black pants and vest. Despite the loose clothes and lighter colors, sweat dripped down his face just as much. Still, he kept his lively mood, obviously happy with the massacre his men had handed the Keroko Militia.

"I can't wait to see the look on Eaisan's face when he sees his boy here," he was saying into his communicator. "You know, there are some days you dream about for years, and I think today may be one of those days!"

"Agreed, but let's take one thing at a time," Olock's voice came back. He rode in the second coach alone; F'Ledro was supposed to accompany him, but the smell of his hands after cleaning the manure was too much for Olock to handle. Instead, he brought up the rear of the caravan, seated in the wooden wagon beside the tools. "Let's focus on getting through the Cathymel patrols first," Olock was saying.

"No problems there," Truce's eyes shifted to Arus. "If any of them decide to cause trouble, Arus can take them down before they make a sound."

"What of Eaisan? He's going to warn Sarathon about us, and we'll have the Royal Guard bearing down on us before we know it."

"If we play it cool, they won't know it's us until it's too late. They won't attack a civilian caravan without an abundance of evidence to rouse suspicion."

"Still, if Eaisan warns of our approach, and then this mysterious caravan shows up unannounced, I think they may figure it out."

They went back and forth for a while, discussing the possibilities and making contingency plans for each. Each plan essentially came down to the same response; Arus was to kill whoever stood in their way. It made the boy sick that these people killed so many without a care or regret, but it made him even sicker that he was the one who had to do it. The whole thing had helped him understand why Anton had reacted the way that he had. If Arus could've put his sword through his own heart at that moment, he would have done it fifty times over. Anything to keep Sartan from forcing him to kill more people. _Master Eaisan, what would you do?_

They rode in a long procession with a dozen mounted soldiers trotting ahead of the coaches, followed by the wagons and additional riders. By the time they reached the trail to Cathymel on the north end of the Lamonde Plains, the sun was dipping below the treetops. A few more hours of light, probably. Arus had no idea how far it was to the city gates, but Truce seemed encouraged by their progress. The deep maroon glow of the implant's scanners showed a tight ring of patrols a short ways off. If the Cathymel soldiers didn't let the caravan pass, the killing would soon resume.

"All right, Arus," Truce began, peering through the window. "Let's get that implant covered."

His "cover" was a hooded brown cloak, much like the one that Anton had worn when they met under the desert. _It's probably the same one._ The thought made Arus' skin crawl, though he couldn't force himself to scratch. The hood was deep and long, giving plenty of extra cloth to cover the implant. Truce pulled down on the left side, hiding most of Arus' face under the brown cowl. The cloak draped over his shoulders and wrapped around his arms, hiding the shining steel of his cybernetic arm. Up close, he looked suspicious enough to alarm even the laziest guards. But in the shadows of the coach, through the window and behind the curtains, he could've been just a servant traveling with his wealthy lord.

It didn't take long for a soldier to approach them. The caravan slowed to a stop—presumably forced to do so by the Cathymel patrols—and a hand rapped against the window. "Who goes there?" a gruff voice called from outside.

Arus' eyes remained fixed on the floor, regardless of how much he wanted to look. The cowl hid most of his view of the cabin; only the right window and wall were really visible. Truce had ordered him to stay still in order to keep the implant hidden, and it was about as easy to disobey his orders as it was to turn water into diamonds. He saw Truce shuffle to the left and out of his view. "Bavon Don Moinsen the Third." That was the false name that Sartan had taken. There was no need for Truce to be concerned with being recognized by his face. Most in Asteria had a good idea of what his father had looked like, but with Truce keeping himself hidden underground until only recently, people had little reason question his identity. "I come from Narleaha, seeking the shelter and protection of His Majesty."

Arus couldn't see the soldier from where he sat, but the request was apparently an odd one. "Protection? From what do you seek protection, Lord Bavon?"

"Why, those bloody Vermillion Mages, of course!" Truce sounded as though he was surprised that the soldier had to ask. "Hasn't anyone told you?"

"We have heard something about those animals causing trouble again, yes. A band of soldiers from Keroko Village passed through here hours ago, claiming they were being pursued by the Mages."

"Pursued?" Truce sounded legitimately shocked. "Do you mean to tell me that they are coming here, as well?"

There were a few laughs outside the window. The soldier must have had friends nearby. "Not to worry, Lord Bavon. The Royal Guard of Cathymel will keep the city safe from any intruders, I assure you. It will take more than a few rogue bandits to threaten the kingdom of Asteria."

"There are more than a few, I'm afraid," Truce went on. "They attacked Narleaha in droves, pouring in from the south like a plague of locusts. My estate was burned to the ground, and I barely managed to load up some things into my wagons and get out of there. Mayor Burnest insisted I take a detachment of his best soldiers and head toward the castle to request reinforcements."

"Seems like those rats are up to something," the soldier grumbled. "No matter. They won't break our defense, should they be foolish enough to come."

Another voice came from outside. "What's in the trunks, Lord Bavon?"

"Just clothes and food." For once, he was telling the truth. "I ordered my servants to only grab essential items during the escape."

There was a long silence, and Arus could almost feel the soldiers' eyes on him. Their next question confirmed it. "Is he all right? He seems a bit nervous."

Truce never missed a beat. "A good servant is an obedient one," he responded. "I've trained my servants not to move unless told to do so. They obey only my instructions, but this one here has had to learn the definition of 'loyalty' more than a few times. I have to keep a close eye on him, but he's learning."

What am I, some kind of pet?

Again, Arus overheard the voice of another soldier outside. "Yeah, don't go too close to that servant in the wagon back there. I'd almost swear he's been swimming in horse droppings."

Without looking, Arus knew Truce had that grin on his face. "Whatever works!"

The group shared a hearty laugh, and it became evident to Arus that the ploy had not only worked, but it could even see Truce find an audience with the king without the least bit of resistance. As the guards gave "Lord Bavon" their blessing, the coach bumped down the dirt path toward the stone walls of Cathymel. The only comfort came in knowing that a few of Eaisan's men had managed to make it to the city—and likely Castle Asteria—before the Mages had even reached the border. But if Eaisan was out there, then the possibility that Arus could be forced to fight his own master and mentor was still very real. And if Vultrel had also traveled with the militia . . . _Was he the "friend" that Truce was talking about? Master Eaisan wouldn't let Vultrel come along on such a dangerous journey, would he?_

"That wasn't so hard," Olock's voice came through Truce's communicator.

"We've got them in the palm of our hands, my friend," Sartan said softly. "We couldn't have asked for a better welcome."

"Do you think the gatekeepers will be as friendly?"

"Trust me, Olock. By midnight, Asteria will have a new king."

### Chapter 9

The city of Cathymel was overwhelming in its beauty like something out of a storybook. Vultrel had often heard descriptions of the paved roads and whitewashed walls, but no amount of words could've prepared him for what met him past the border. Shining silver spires topped the skyline where manors of the more wealthy lords and ladies stood surrounding the beautiful Castle Asteria. The streets were paved with an alternating pattern of white and grey cobblestone, and none looked as though they'd ever been used. Seemingly every home had a lush garden somewhere on the property; even the pots held some of the most radiant and full flowers Vultrel had ever seen. Each house was free of imperfections, built from white stone bricks without a single crack or dent and topped by roofs shingled in varying shades of grey. Even the fences around each property where white, each looking as though they'd been freshly built and without a single blemish worth noting. It all created an atmosphere that made Vultrel feel extremely out-of-place, especially when he noticed the dirty prints left behind by their horse's hooves.

To the people, the remains of the Keroko Militia must've looked like a band of refugees from a poverty-stricken country. Bandaged and dirty, wearing dented armor and torn leather stained with blood, the surviving members of Eaisan's army sharply contrasted the beauty and nobility of Cathymel. The people stared as they trotted through the streets, many wearing their disgust openly on their faces. Others eyed the soldiers' weapons; clearly this was a city that was not used to defending itself. Even the lowliest peasant wore fine garments of blue and red and other colors that Vultrel found to be overly flashy.

Further in, the shops and inns began popping up where the commoners' homes were divided from the royal estates of the nobles. Merchants and peddlers hawked their wares even as the final rays of sunlight faded behind the trees. A city so large had room for multiple shops of the same trade, a concept that baffled Vultrel. They passed at least three tailors and four cobblers before they'd even reached the center of the marketplace, and several more of each stood interspersed with the blacksmiths, fletchers, and bakers. The cleanliness of the city reigned here as well. Vultrel saw two butchers along the way, and both wore aprons of spotless white.

But seeing the distance between the border walls and Castle Asteria gave him a bit of comfort. Surely the Mages would not be able to cover such ground before they were stopped. Even if they _had_ fitted Arus with one of those implants, who among men could stand up against the might of five hundred Royal Guardsmen bearing down upon them? _You underestimate the Mages._ Vultrel could almost hear Truce gloating in his ears. The man's confidence was unshakeable—even Anton's death hadn't caused him to waver—and Vultrel was sure that, even if he _was_ defeated, Truce would go down with a sword in his heart and that grin on his face. It made his stomach twist.

They exited the marketplace and veered onto a long street of gated manors, each built on hilltops at the end of cobblestone paths that led far from the gates themselves. Hand-carved wooden benches lined the road, each with a tree planted behind to provide shade. As the militia curved along the path toward the center of the city, a horseman in shining silver armor and helmet that covered all but his eyes reigned his mare in front of them. "Halt!" Eaisan raised his fist in a gesture that the rest of the Keroko men recognized as the signal to stop. The unknown soldier gave no time for introductions. "Captain Eaisan Lurei of the Keroko Militia, I presume?"

"I am," Eaisan responded, bowing in his saddle. "We bring terrible news from the south and seek an audience with His Majesty."

The Cathymel guard removed his helmet, revealing a young man with short reddish-gold hair and far too many freckles. He was young, but his demeanor matched that of any battle-hardened soldier. "I am Martine Del Mezzaro," he began with an enthusiastic, if stiff salute, "Retainer to the Throne of Asteria, Servant and Protector of His Majesty, Lord Edgard Sarathon, Bringer of Peace." It was quite an introduction.

"May I see the king?" Eaisan got right to the point. "It is terribly urgent."

"His Majesty is expecting you, Captain." Martine nodded. "Border patrol sent a messenger as fast as they could once you arrived at the gates. Lord Sarathon has already ordered the mobilization of the Royal Guard, and my men are spreading across the city as we speak to implement a curfew so that lives might be spared in the event of an attack. In addition, the gates of Cathymel will be locked at once. The city will be on lockdown until we can properly assess the threat and neutralize it."

That was fast. Vultrel couldn't imagine how hard that messenger must've pushed his horse to reach the king so quickly. Eaisan seemed equally impressed. "I am glad to hear it," his father said with a smile. "But there is a great deal more that I must share with His Majesty. If you please, there isn't a moment to lose."

"Of course, Captain." Martine nodded again before replacing his helmet. "Follow me."

They took off at a full gallop this time, the horses' hooves echoing like a roll of thunder across the street. Vultrel wrapped his arms around his father's waist—it was all he could do to keep from being thrown from the saddle—and watched over Eaisan's shoulder as the path curved through the nobles' estates and led toward Castle Asteria. Upon rounding a sharp curve and cresting a steep hill, the castle suddenly came into view in all of its glory and majesty. If he hadn't been holding on so tightly, Vultrel's jaw would've dropped wide open.

It was like everything from the stories and more. Even as twilight descended upon the land, the final beams of sunlight glinted off of the silver spires where the Red Bear banner flew. Smaller towers lined the castle wall where archers stood watch, and armored swordsmen paced back and forth between each. The royal crest of Asteria, the Red Bear's head against a starry backdrop, hung on another banner just above the castle gates. The entire structure was more majestic and beautiful than Vultrel ever thought it would be, and it eased his concerns that much more to see the structure so heavily guarded. _Even if they did make it across the city, there's no way the Mages would be able to break through those defenses, right?_

The horses slowed to a trot as they approached the gate, and Martine removed his helmet again. Two guards with long spears stood on either side of the lock, their blue armor shining as though freshly polished. They eyed Martine as he saluted. "I've returned with those His Majesty has expected. These men have requested an audience with Lord Sarathon, and it has been granted to them. Please allow them to pass."

The guards saluted immediately, and another on the opposite side of the gates unlocked and slid them open. Eaisan instructed any of his men still wearing helmets to remove them, and glanced at Vultrel. "Just follow my lead. His Majesty commands our utmost respect, and we shall give it to him. He deserves nothing less for the grace and kindness he's bestowed upon Asteria during his years as our king."

Vultrel nodded with a gulp. He'd never been in the presence of royalty before, and he didn't know the first thing about etiquette when it came to meeting a king or a queen. At least he had his father's example to draw from. Inside the castle walls, the soldiers dismounted and allowed the servants to lead their horses away before passing through the magnificent arch beneath the Red Bear banner.

If the outside of the castle had been beautiful, then the inside was paradise. Golden lanterns and candelabras adorned the walls between fantastic tapestries depicting everything from the peaceful beaches of South Sea to the serenity of the Lamonde Plains. A vivid red carpet lined with golden trim ran down the corridor to the Grand Hall. Two curving staircases rose on either side there, divided by a fountain of crystal clear water in the center. Soldiers guarded each doorway and staircase, armed with pikes or swords or axes. Servants scurried everywhere, carrying trays with silver goblets and armfuls of silk sheets. Martine led them up the staircase on the left and down a corridor behind the fountain toward two ornately-carved doors. A servant stood waiting at the door, a curly-haired young man with downcast eyes.

"Captain Eaisan and the Keroko Militia are here to see His Majesty," Martine told the man.

The little servant bowed deeply before opening the door and entering. Martine didn't follow, instead allowing the door to close. After a few moments, Vultrel tapped his father's shoulder. "Why can't we go in?"

"Our arrival must first be announced, so that we do not intrude on any matters currently taking place in the Throne Room," Eaisan told him in a whisper. "When the King is ready for us, the servant will return and grant us entry."

It didn't take long for the doors to open, and they filed into the Throne Room behind their announcer. The throne stood not fifty paces before them, and the regal smile of Lord Sarathon appeared when they entered. He was an old man, wiry and wrinkled beneath his billowing white beard, his warm eyes sparkling nearly as much as the crown on his head. He used the long scepter in his hand for support as he stood, smoothing his red robe with the other hand. Soldiers stood guard on either side of the throne, joined now by Martine and an elderly woman that Vultrel could only assume was Sarathon's maid. It was a well-known fact that Queen Mariale had died long ago from a sickness that had degenerated her brain, and without her, King Sarathon had needed an assistant to help him in his old age. But old or not, the man had done Asteria well during his time on the throne, and Vultrel wasn't sure any other man could've brought the kingdom together as well as Sarathon had during the Vermillion War.

The Throne Room was certainly fit for royalty. It was hard not to stare at the great stained-glass windows high above the king, one depicting a sunrise over the Lamonde Plains, the other showing the Red Bear looking to the moon. Red banners ran down the walls on either side between archways that presumably led to personal quarters of both Sarathon and his servants. The high-domed ceiling was supported by oak framework, from which elaborate golden lanterns hung. How the servants were able to light and extinguish them was a curiosity for Vultrel.

Eaisan immediately dropped to one knee and lowered his head. The rest of the militia followed suit, matching their captain's movement out of respect for their king. Vultrel quickly did the same, sneaking quick glances at his father to make sure he'd positioned himself correctly.

"Eaisan Lurei," the old man began, hobbling forward, "Master of Blades, Captain of Honor. It is good to see you again, old friend."

"You honor me with the use of my former titles, Your Majesty," Eaisan replied with a smile, "but I have long since passed my prime, and I am but a mere soldier of peace now."

"Your age does not erase your accomplishments in life, Eaisan," Sarathon said, stopping in front of the militia. "Rise, Captain."

Eaisan returned to his feet, and Vultrel began to stand as well, until he noticed that the rest of the militia remained on one knee, and he hastily dropped again.

"It has been far too long, Eaisan," Sarathon was saying, hugging his old friend.

"I only wish my return could have been under better circumstances," Eaisan told him as the king began hobbling back to his throne. "The situation is far more dangerous than I fear you've been told."

Sarathon groaned a bit as he lowered himself into the throne. His old bones seemed ready to give way at any moment. "Then speak, my friend. Tell me what has been happening in the Mayahol Desert that has you so concerned."

"Sartan Truce, son of Aratus, has taken command of the Vermillion Mages, and he is on his way to Cathymel to attempt to overthrow you," Eaisan began. He went on to describe, in brief, their experience in the underground lair of the Mages, along with Anton's untimely demise and Arus' battle with Truce. No mention of Damien or Kitreena was made. The less mentioned about those two, the better. "The army we met on the Lamonde Plains was no doubt headed here."

"Well, you need not concern yourself anymore," Sarathon waved his hand. "The Royal Guard will handle them, and the threat to Keroko, Narleaha, and the rest of Asteria will be over."

"I'm afraid it's not as easy as that," Eaisan said with a shake of his head. "Another implant has been constructed, and Master Dayne Sheeth's son Arus has been fitted with this newer model."

Vultrel's could not stop his eyes from shooting to his father. _What!?_

"Silence, soldier," Eaisan muttered softly. Vultrel hadn't realized that the exclamation had been vocal.

Sarathon pursed his lips in contemplation. "Are you certain of this, Captain?"

"Absolutely. I saw him on the battlefield during our run-in with the Mages on the Plains."

_Why didn't he tell me?_ Vultrel ground his teeth. Learning his best friend was still alive was no good news given his apparent condition.

"I thought you said the boy's arm had been severed," the king was saying. "Do you mean to tell me that Truce tended his wound?"

"More than that," Eaisan bowed his head. "His arm has been replaced by a machine, a metal device designed to mimic a human arm. If anything, it makes him more dangerous. A machine would be impervious to the weaknesses of the human body, and presumably capable of abnormal strength and stamina."

_I'll have Truce's head for this!_ Vultrel grew angrier with every word. _That grinning face will be on a pike in front of our house before I'm through with him!_

"A machine . . ." Sarathon trailed off as his eyes became distant. "You know what this means, don't you Captain?"

"Yes, Sire." Eaisan met the king's regretful expression. "And I do not like it any more than you. We cannot allow machines to be reintroduced into our society."

Sarathon rose from his throne. "Agreed. Regretfully, I must order that both Truce and Arus be executed at once."

"What?!" Vultrel couldn't stop himself from leaping to his feet. "But it's Arus! You can't do that to him!"

"Mind your place, Soldier!" Martine growled, pointing his blade at Vultrel. "You are but a servant of His Majesty, and you will not question his word!"

Vultrel looked at Eaisan expectantly. "But, Father! You can't just kill Arus because of this! He's a victim, not an enemy!"

"Vultrel, I told you to respect Lord Sarathon!" Eaisan snapped, his face hard as stone. "Now, kneel as a soldier or you'll find yourself arrested as a traitor!"

"Now, now, now," Sarathon began, shaking his head. "No need to be so hard on the boy, Eaisan." The old man stood and hobbled toward Vultrel, eying him up and down. "Your son, is he?"

Eaisan visibly grit his teeth. "Yes, Sire. I apologize for his behavior. I obviously haven't taught him—"

"Do not apologize, Captain. It can be hard for youth to understand the decisions of their elders, especially at his age." He looked Vultrel in the eye. "Are you friends with Arus? Do you know Dayne's boy?"

Vultrel was trying to fight back tears. _I can't let them kill him. I'll defend him myself, if I have to._ "He's like a brother to me, Sir . . . I mean, Your Highness."

"Well, you've seen this machine of Truce's in action before, haven't you? Do you believe there is a way Arus can be saved?"

Vultrel looked at his father, whose stern glare told him he was in for a fearsome tongue-lashing. "Anton broke free," he managed to say. "If Anton could do it, then so could Arus. Arus can do anything."

"But your father tells me that Arus has been killing Keroko soldiers," Sarathon reminded him. "It doesn't sound to me as though he can free himself."

Vultrel shook his head. "He just hasn't found a way yet. He will, though. I know he will. He won't let Truce continue to force him to murder. He won't!"

"How do you know, Vultrel?" Eaisan's voice shook him. "You can bet that Truce took steps to prevent what happened to Anton from happening to Arus."

"I know, but . . ." he felt a tear run down his cheek. "But . . . I mean . . . He's my best friend."

Sarathon looked at him for another moment before turning away. "Do you know of the war that nearly destroyed Terranias, young one?"

"Yes," Vultrel took the chance to wipe his eyes. "It is said that man used machines of immense power to wage war on one another, leveling great cities and killing most of the people."

Sarathon was hobbling back toward the throne. "Then you know the dangers that machines can bring. You see, technology can be a wonderful thing, but there are always those out there who will use it for the most unimaginable evil, killing the innocent and dragging regular peace-loving commoners down with them. There are stories of a device called a 'Tommic Bomb,' which had the strength to flatten any city or town caught within miles of its detonation. There were flying machines that carried more weapons, all mechanically operated and capable of killing hundreds just by pulling on a lever. And then there was the Vermillion War. Do you remember any of that, or were you too young back then?"

Vultrel had his eyes closed. "I remember," he said in a squeak. He hadn't exactly intended on putting himself in the position to listen to a lecture from Lord Sarathon.

"Good, then you remember the machines that the Vermillion Mages used to attack your village along with many others. They had weapons that would fire bursts of light so great that they'd incinerate whatever was in their sights. There were flying machines that carried more weapons, and portable mechanical weapons that their soldiers could carry. It was a dark time for Asteria, and many feared it was going to be the Great War all over again."

"I know that machines are dangerous, but if we could somehow free Arus' mind so that he could—"

"And if we can't?" Eaisan cut in. "Vultrel, I will not risk the lives of many to save the life of one. You know that Arus is just as important to me as he is to you, and when the time comes, I'm going to live the rest of my life regretting what I had to do. But my duty to our people must always come first. You wanted to be a soldier, right? The most important aspects of any soldier's life are duty and obligation. We put our lives on the line so that the people can live in safety, and to allow Arus to roam free in his condition would jeopardize the lives of not only Asterians, but people all over the world."

Vultrel couldn't let himself be convinced. Arus was his best friend. _Arus_ is _my best friend! He's alive, and as long as he is, I won't give up on him!_ "But Father, can't we at least try to—"

"Your Majesty!" a panicked voice called as the doors swung open. A soldier rushed into the room and hastily removed his helmet, revealing a black-haired man of considerable age. "A caravan has arrived from Narleaha. They say they bring news of an invasion into their village!"

"I thought the gates were ordered to be sealed," Eaisan asked the man.

"They are," the soldier confirmed. "This caravan was the last to enter before the patrolmen at the border received the orders."

"Ask them to appoint a representative from amongst them, and then show that person in when I have finished with the Keroko Militia," Sarathon told him. "You are dismissed."

"Yes, My Lord!" the soldier barely had the words out before the helmet was back on his head and he raced through the doors.

Vultrel glanced at his father. "I didn't see any caravan along the way."

Eaisan shrugged. "They may have been behind us."

"But the Mages were behind us," Vultrel shook his head. "If there were travelers coming from Narleaha, they would've arrived _after_ the Mages, and we haven't heard anything from Truce yet."

The smile vanished from Eaisan's face as he looked up, obviously puzzling the rest out. "Unless they acquired Narleahan disguises!" His eyes bulged. "The horses! They had to have gotten them from Narleaha! That means—"

A panicked voice cut him off from the other side of the door. "I'm sorry, Sir, but as I told you before, His Majesty is currently entertaining guests from Keroko and—" The soldier's voice was silenced, and moments later the doors flew open.

A small figure in a brown cloak entered, a cloak Vultrel recognized all too well. A hand of shining metal protruded from one sleeve, clutching the red and white handle of Dayne Sheeth's sword. Only the right side of the boy's face was visible under the brown cowl, but what Vultrel could see was nearly enough to make him vomit. It was Arus, and he was wearing the same cloak that Anton had donned moments before his death. Sartan Truce marched in not far behind, dressed in commoner's clothing and wearing that infuriating grin plastered across his face. For a moment, he thought the two were alone— _Truce would never make such a blunder—_ but he suddenly became aware of a myriad of sounds coming from the direction of the Great Hall. Screams and shouts mixed with the rumble of distant explosions and the clashing of swords. The Mages were creating a diversion while Truce and Arus simply waltzed into the Throne Room.

"Draw your weapons, men!" Eaisan ordered without hesitation. "They come for the king!"

The Keroko militia donned their helmets—those that still had them—and drew their swords in unison as they whirled to face the newcomers. Behind them, Martine had already replaced his helmet, and he took a firm hold on Sarathon's arm. "Highness, we must escort you to safety! Follow me!"

The king nodded reluctantly, shouting to Eaisan as he fled behind Martine's protection. "Good luck, Captain! No matter what happens, Asteria owes you its eternal gratitude!" The final words echoed from the archway beside the throne as Martine whisked him away. The old woman followed closely, sparing Eaisan only a look of regret before chasing after them.

"Well, well," Truce began, taking in the soldiers before him. "Look what we have here. We've come to visit our great and powerful leader and wind up stumbling upon our runaways. How convenient!"

"Arus!" Vultrel shouted, stepping forward. Eaisan's hand pulled him back by the shoulder.

"Careful," his father warned. "He's not Arus anymore. He'll kill you without blinking once."

A dangerous gleam flashed in Truce's eyes. "Prepare to join your partner in the grave, Eaisan."

Arus' free hand took hold of the cloak and threw it away, revealing the cybernetic implant and mechanical arm Truce had grafted to his body. Vultrel's heart nearly caved in upon itself at the sight of the thing. It was at least three times as large as Anton's had been, reaching up into Arus' scalp on his left side and covered with small bundles of twisted wires. His left eye had also been removed, replaced with a steel cylinder that glowed with a blood-red light. Well-polished steel plating dotted with screws and bolts surrounded it, crudely molded in a feeble attempt to match the structure of Arus' face. Beneath it, his entire left shoulder had been reconstructed with a series of steel joints and gears that allowed his mechanical arm to move as though it were human. It was like something out of one of Eaisan's campfire stories come to life, though if Eaisan were telling this one, Arus would suddenly burst free of Truce's hold and slay the Mage where he stood.

But this was no story.

The red glow of the mechanical eye grew, emitting a strange hum from the device. Arus turned his head toward the soldiers to his right and squinted with his human eye. A bar of white-red light shot from the implant and went straight through four soldiers before becoming a scorch mark on the far wall. Flesh and bone vaporized under the intense heat, and the men crashed to the floor with eyes frozen in terror. Before Vultrel or Eaisan could even step forward, three more flashes from that eye dropped the remaining Keroko soldiers.

That left Vultrel, Eaisan, and the two guardsmen of the Throne Room. Eaisan glanced at them, armored from head to two in polished steel. No doubt Arus' light weapon would burn right through it. "Men," his father began, "go and tell Lord Sarathon what you've just witnessed, and then take him as far from this castle as you can."

They were reluctant, of course. Still, the men hesitated only a moment before agreeing and rushing after the king.

Vultrel just gaped at Eaisan's ability to shrug off the deaths of his comrades. He knew that, as a captain, Eaisan had to be strong in even the toughest situations, but watching the remains of the Keroko Militia fall at the feet of one of his students had to wrench his heart. _What are we going to do? If Arus turns that eye on us, we're toast!_

"Arus," Truce's voice startled him. "Finish them."

Eaisan's sudden cry startled him even more as his father drew his sword and lunged forward. His blade met Arus' weapon just above the boy's red hair. "Vultrel, attack!" he urged through clenched teeth. "We cannot give him a chance to use that eye-beam weapon again!"

The moment Vultrel had dreaded had arrived. "B-But Father!"

"Now, Vultrel!" Eaisan exchanged a series of blows with Arus. "I cannot defeat him alone!"

Vultrel growled, realizing his sword was in his hand. _I can't believe I'm doing this._ "Forgive me, Arus!" he shouted, his feet barely touching the floor as he ran. Eyes squeezed shut, he brought his weapon down as hard as he could toward his best friend's back. It met steel with a deafening clang, and when Vultrel opened his eyes, Arus' blade was pushed hard against his own. Each movement happened in less than the blink of an eye as the implant guided Arus through dueling both his best friend and his teacher, using forms and techniques Vultrel knew Eaisan hadn't taught him. The three battled hard across the floor of the throne room, sparks flying with nearly every parry and strike. Sartan Truce watched with a beaming smile on his face, clearly certain that Arus would put an end to the last remaining resistance to his claim to the throne of Asteria.

"I don't recognize most of his techniques," Vultrel said in a grunt, blocking Arus' attack.

"Nor I," was Eaisan's reply. "Truce has been training him, it seems."

"Not quite," Sartan chimed in. "You see, the implant allows me to program functions for Arus to perform. I simply programmed him with every technique of every fighting style I know. The core processor of the unit is capable of calculating millions of possibilities based on your movements and chose the most appropriate counterattack in less than a second. You could say that it knows what you're going to do before you even do it."

Though the technical nonsense didn't make sense, the last sentence made the situation crystal clear. It was the last thing Vultrel wanted to hear, and it turned an already bad situation into a nightmare. How in the world were they going to defeat Arus with all of that information for the implant to draw on? May as well cut off their hands and caged them with a lion.

"You are not fighting to your full potential, Son!" Eaisan warned between attacks. "I know he is like your brother—he is as much my own son—but we cannot allow Asteria to fall to the Vermillion Mages!"

"Then let's kill Truce, not Arus!" Vultrel argued, deflecting two quick strikes. "He's the one responsible!"

"Killing Truce won't stop him! He is brainwashed with the desire to see King Sarathon dead, and whether Sartan Truce lives or dies, Arus will not stop until it has happened!"

Vultrel grit his teeth and struck again. The three fought back and forth in a blur of steel; Arus responded to each attack with two of his own. _There has to be a way to save him!_

*******

Arus watched in horror as his last hope for freedom seemingly slipped away, watched as Vultrel and Master Eaisan raised their swords against him, watched as they frantically tried to kill him. His life was flashing before his eyes—it had been doing so since arriving—yet his body only exuded confidence, meeting every strike with ease, and responding with several more. There was no way for him to convey his true feelings to Master Eaisan, no way to stop himself from attacking his best friend, and no way to kill the man responsible for all of it. And if things continued as they were, the boiling abundance of fear and panic within were going to drive his soul over the edge of madness.

Just kill me, Master Eaisan! Please, Vultrel, kill me!

As the duel raged on, a group of Mages joined from the Great Hall. Apparently the fighting there had subsided enough for them to come, though if word of the attack spread to the rest of Cathymel, it would likely bring the bulk of King Sarathon's Royal Guard running to defend His Majesty. Truce had sent men to comb the castle and ensure the silence of the warning bell atop the center tower, leaving only word of mouth to spread news of the Mages infiltration. If luck was on Truce's side—and Arus prayed it was not—then the king would be long dead before any of the guardsmen suspected something was wrong.

The audience of Mages grew at the entrance to the Throne Room as black-vested men gathered on either side of Sartan Truce to witness the culmination of his hard work and research. Cheers rose every time Arus parried a particularly complex attack from his opponents, though inside, each deflection made his heart sink further. When the tip of his weapon sliced a long gash down Vultrel's arm, it nearly plummeted to his feet. _Please, someone, anyone, stop this! Kitreena, where are you? Stop me before I hurt anyone else!_

In an unexpected move, Arus switched his sword to his right hand in mid-swing to block Eaisan's attack, and snatched the blade of Vultrel's sword with his mechanical hand. Vultrel, wide-eyed with surprise, yanked on the weapon several times before Arus twisted it from his grip and sent it clattering across the floor. Vultrel scrambled after it, and Arus drove Eaisan back with a sharp kick to the chest before leaping toward his best friend, sword raised, red sights set on his target. The implant's scanners showed Eaisan already chasing after him again, and his former master's sword swiped in from the right to block Arus' blade. He held his weapon firmly against Eaisan's, eyes locked, teeth bared.

"You will not have him until you've defeated me, Arus," Eaisan said. His face was hard, but his voice somber. "If it is a fight to the death that you want, it is yours. But I will do everything my power to prevent you from harming my son."

No! Master Eaisan, you can't defeat me on your own! You need Vultrel's help! Otherwise, you'll—

"Vultrel." Eaisan spared only a split-second glance at his son. "I want you to go look after the king. Make sure he is safe, and instruct Martine to get him as far away from Cathymel as he can."

"He'll do no such thing," Truce said as he approached the two. "I will not allow the boy to escape so easily; he is to follow in Arus' footsteps, and the sons of Dayne and Eaisan will serve and protect me until long after the kyrosen have returned to their former glory!"

Vultrel finally scrambled to his feet, this time focusing his anger on Truce. "You," he seethed through his teeth, "will pay for everything you've done!"

Olock was beside Sartan now, handing him an old sword with a tarnished yellow hand guard. "I'd love to see you try to make that happen, boy," Truce was saying. "I didn't exactly expect you to go willingly anyway."

Everything happened at once. Eaisan knocked Arus away with his sword and followed with a flowing sequence of thrusts and slices, following every form he'd ever taught Arus and then some. Several paces away, Vultrel raced to meet Truce, swinging his sword over his head in a grand flourish before bringing it down to meet his opponent's blade. The four of them dueled for what seemed like hours, back and forth across the Throne Room in a dance of styles and techniques only mastered by the most battle-hardened warriors. Arus knew Vultrel's abilities—he _could_ defeat Truce if it were but a battle of swords—but Truce commanded powers that neither he nor Eaisan understood or possessed, and that would inevitably give him the edge in the end.

The rest of the Vermillion Mages watched, most with smiles on their faces, applauding every time Truce executed a smooth series of maneuvers, and cheering more when he defended against Vultrel's techniques. Those that watched Arus did so mostly in astonishment, their eyes glazed as though they were hypnotized by what they were seeing. Even Arus was amazed by Eaisan's ability to keep up with the implant's rapid succession of strikes. Every swipe of his sword, every stab of his blade, it was all turned away by Eaisan's stone wall of defense.

"Arus, listen to me," Eaisan said quietly between strokes. "Do not give up hope. Anton found an escape from that bloody thing. You can do it, too. Just dig deep inside yourself, and force yourself to remember who controls your body!"

As much as he tried, every ounce of Arus' own will and determination was easily shoved aside by the implant. It overrode everything and anything he tried to do, holding him prisoner to Truce's disgusting orders. _I wish I could, Master Eaisan! I really wish—_

A sound in the distance caught his attention, though his body continued the assault on Eaisan as though it didn't exist. It was quiet at first, but it grew louder with each repetition, erasing the smiles from the faces of Truce's men, and Sartan himself had to leap away from his duel with Vultrel to give himself a moment to listen.

The warning bell atop Castle Asteria was ringing.

Immediately, Truce started shouting out orders. "I thought I ordered Maoz and Nevin to make sure no one rang that bell! Get up there and silence that thing, or I'll have Arus make new vests out of your hides!"

The troops ran from the room with cheers of "For the kyrosen!" and "Warriors to battle!" They didn't get very far.

A brilliant streak of crimson shot over their heads and crashed into the ceiling of the Throne Room with a squeal, leaving a blackened scorch-mark behind. Several more followed, intertwined with cries of pain and shouts of warning. "Incoming enemies!"

Sartan glanced back for a moment, the grin finally gone from his face. "We're going to have to wrap this up, I'm afraid."

Arus could hear the duel resume to his right, but his vision was solidly focused on Eaisan. He was panting heavily with beads of sweat dripping down his forehead as he met Arus' weapon again and again, left and right, high and low, forward and back. Vaguely, an awareness of the tremors beneath his feet crept in, and when Arus sidestepped several of Eaisan's attacks, the open doors of the Throne Room came into view. And what a startling view it was.

The Mages had been pushed back into the room and were beginning to fan out, some brandishing swords while others conjured balls of fire and ice in their palms. The newcomers, dressed in odd uniforms of brown and black and red, held devices similar to the one F'Ledro kept strapped to his side. Each one appeared to be a less powerful version of the light-weapon Truce had incorporated into his cybernetic eye. Streak after streak of crimson energy flew from the barrels, downing Mages and dotting the walls with smoking black marks. Still, Truce's men held their own—those weapons provided little defense against swords—and they seemed to be taking down as many of the unidentified soldiers as they lost of their own. Bodies littered the floor, and Arus lost sight of Truce and Vultrel amidst the chaos. He and Eaisan continued to battle as though they were the only ones there, dancing and flowing across the floor in their seemingly endless struggle.

And the bell atop the castle continued to toll. Regardless of who these men in brown were— _Did that one have a blue face!?—_ the Royal Guardsmen were certainly on their way by now.

"I see him! Damien, he's up here!"

The shout came from just outside the doorway, though if Arus' hearing hadn't been enhanced by the implant, he never would've heard it. It was a voice he'd prayed would come; if _anyone_ could help free him from the implant's hold, it would be Kitreena.

The familiar crack of her whip followed, but his duel shifted him sideways again, blocking his view of the door. The implant's focus was only on Eaisan; Kitreena was nothing more than another dot on his scanners. He stepped forward, forcing Eaisan back, again and again, until they neared the throne itself. His master's strength was fading, his endurance waning, his knees buckling. Eaisan fought with every ounce of determination he had, not once letting his face show fear. But Arus knew—rather, the _implant_ knew; telling the two apart was becoming harder and harder—that the man who'd once led the charge against the Vermillion Mages had finally met his match, and with not an ounce of fatigue to hinder his movements, there was little to stop Arus from claiming victory over his longtime mentor. Eaisan stumbled and fell to one knee, and Arus' sword rose for the kill.

"Arus, stop!!"

It was Kitreena's voice, followed by the crack of her whip. The impact of the weapon against his steel hand registered on the implant's sensors, but did nothing to loosen his grip on his sword. Eaisan's eyes were glazed over, and as the unreal strength of his cybernetic limb drove the blade through both armor and heart, Arus ears were filled with the sound of Vultrel's scream. _No! NO!! This can't be happening! Master Eaisan! MASTER EAISAN!! NO!!_

Eaisan's sword dropped from his hand as he fell to the floor, back against the throne. "Forgive me . . . Arus . . . I have . . ." His eyelids sank as a gurgling sound choked off his final words. Only stillness followed.

Master Eaisan! Forgive me, please! Vultrel, I'm so sorry!

The implant shifted Arus' attention to Vultrel, who continued his duel with Truce several paces to the left. Tears streamed down the boy's face; he'd obviously seen his father's defeat. And he would be Arus' next target. _In the name of the Maker, why couldn't I have stopped it? Why couldn't someone else have stopped it? Vultrel, Kitreena, anyone! Just . . . kill me! It's the only way to stop this bloody thing!! Finish me off before it's too late!_

*******

Vultrel, Kitreena, anyone! Just . . . kill me! It's the only way to stop this bloody thing!! Finish me off before it's too late!

It was a voice Kitreena was not sure she'd heard and yet knew she had. It was Arus' voice—his _true_ voice—and he was pleading for death. Her hands clenched into fists. If only her whip had landed on anything other than that wretched steel hand, Eaisan might yet live. _Curse you, Sartan Truce. Curse you and your bloody kyrosen!_

Damien stood not too far behind, the mini-terminal dangling from his hand as he stared at the fallen warrior. "Kitreena!" he called, his voice barely reaching over the battle. "We have to do what we came here to do!"

A part of her heard him, but she was no longer interested in whatever it was they had planned. Her anger rose, bubbled, boiled until it was a burning cauldron of hate, overflowing with a fiery wrath meant for at Sartan Truce and his kyrosen. Too many had died for defending truth and honor. Too many had died for being caught in the crossfire of the kyrosen. Too many had died because they wouldn't give in to Sartan Truce.

Too many had died.

A scream came from within, from the depths of her soul and beyond, built on an anger and hatred that could've rivaled that of Kuldaan himself. They'd taken her parents, killed countless, and gotten away with it. They waged war on the humans, lived by destruction, and thrived on terror. Dayne, Eaisan, Anton, the lifeless bodies surrounding her, and the many more that had fallen in the past, all lost for the sake of Sartan Truce's selfish ambition. And Arus, one of the most innocent, kind-hearted, and brave young men she'd ever met, was now mutilated for the rest of his life, destined to be an outcast from his own people, forced to murder his own master, all for the sake of the kyrosen. Arus was begging for death, something Kitreena had done privately more than once in her life, but she wasn't going to let his wish be granted if there was anything she could do about it.

Smoke began to rise from her skin.

*******

There was so much going on in the Throne Room that it was difficult for Vultrel to keep track of it all. He wanted to run to his father's side, but Truce's relentless attacks held him prisoner to his own blade. Sartan's grin was infuriating, and comments he made between strikes heated Vultrel's blood so that the tears running down his cheeks seemed boiling hot. Truce would pay. If it was the only thing he ever accomplished for the rest of his life, Vultrel would make sure that each and every single one of the Vermillion Mages suffered for what happened to his father.

Arus, why couldn't you have resisted the control of that bloody implant like Anton did? I thought you were stronger than him!

His arms and legs ached from overuse. Eaisan had managed to keep each of Arus' strikes from penetrating his defense until the last, but Vultrel hadn't be quite so lucky with Truce. He'd received an assortment of fine cuts and slices in addition to the one Arus had given him, streaking his arms with blood. Every wound stung with each movement, but if he didn't keep up with Sartan's attacks, he would quickly find himself lying beside his father.

"Don't worry, boy," Truce was saying. "When I'm through with you, you won't even know who Eaisan Lurei was."

"I'm going to make sure you never forget who Vultrel Lurei _is_ ," he shot back, swinging his weapon with all of his might. "And you'll never—"

The rest of his sentence was drowned by a blood-curdling scream from the center of the room. Truce, startled, glanced away for a moment, and Vultrel made the most of the split-second distraction. In that heartbeat of an opportunity, his sword was raised, and he brought it down hard on the Mage's bare shoulder, stopping only when it found bone. Truce grimaced and knocked the sword away with his own and then pressed his free hand to Vultrel's chest. An explosion of fire burst his palm, sending Vultrel sprawling across the floor a short distance from Eaisan's lifeless body. Searing heat burned in his chest; he almost thought the jerkin itself was on fire. He rolled onto his knees and tore the armor off—it really _was_ on fire!—and stopped dead when his eyes fell upon her.

Kitreena stood hunched over in the center of the Throne Room, fists clenched at her stomach, mouth open in an eternal scream of anger. Amethyst light glowed like magma in her eyes, and tendrils of smoke rose from every inch of body. A cold wind began to whirl around the room, growing in intensity until Vultrel was forced to shield his eyes just to keep them open. The air was icy despite the summer heat, and mist began to rise from the floor around her. Streaks of electricity snaked around her hands like lightning, occasionally slithering along the rest of her body. It was the same as had happened in the Mages' underground lair.

Behind her, Damien was shouting something Vultrel couldn't make out. Something about control, he thought. The towering blue-skinned man was on his knees, tapping his fingers on some kind of machine he'd set on the floor. His mouth moved, presumably with words meant for Kitreena, but the howling wind silenced his voice. Was this all part of some elaborate plan of theirs? Or had Kitreena lost control again? Either way, the expression on Damien's face spoke of shock, surprise, and most disturbing, fear. What in the world were they up to?

Her scream intensified further, if that was possible, and a brilliant glow of red light surrounded her. She rose, lifted, floated into the air as though it were quite normal for a person to do. Damien's eyes grew wider, and his lips formed words that almost looked like "I can't believe it." Higher and higher she rose, until her head nearly bumped the wooden beams supporting the ceiling. Her fists moved together as she curled into a ball, and all the mist, all the lightning, all the wind, all the smoke, everything was drawn into her center, until it erupted with a massive explosion that knocked every soldier to the ground with a thunderous blow. Vultrel felt his body sailing through the air until his back found the wall, and his head rattled off of the stone before he slumped to the floor.

For a moment, there was only silence. Vultrel half-wondered if he was dead, but he could still feel the cold stone floor beneath him. The world spun as he opened his eyes, and what he saw could've been nothing short of a hallucination.

The fighting had ceased. Every soldier was either out cold or staring up in wonder at a figure that could only be Kitreena floating high above them all. She had transformed into _something_ , but those purple eyes looked down on them with an icy familiarity. Her body, no longer recognizable to those who hadn't witnessed her ascent, was made up of a pure white light surrounded by a glowing red aura. The only familiar features Vultrel could see were her hair—it was just as much made of light as the rest of her, but it was the same flowing mane that she'd had in her human form—and those eyes. Thick bolts of electricity streamed around her torso and limbs in a constant motion, never flickering, never fading. Her glowing hand still gripped her whip, the weapon now made of fire, and she unconsciously flicked it back and forth like the tail of an angry tiger.

When Vultrel looked down, the only two standing were Arus and Damien. Both had their eyes fixed on Kitreena, and Truce, clutching his bloody shoulder, stared in open terror at the young woman from where he sat. The red eye of Arus' implant blinked. _He's going to use that light-weapon again!_

Without warning, Kitreena screamed again, and as she threw her arms out to either side, a wave of fire and wind burst from her body in all directions, shattering the stained-glass windows above the throne and throwing everyone into the walls like weightless specks of dust. When Vultrel's head hit the stone wall again, darkness dominated, and consciousness faded away with Kitreena's endless wail.

#######

### END OF VOLUME ONE

### Preview: Alliance of Serpents

### Volume II of The Fourth Dimension

Kindel wiped his fingerprints away with a soft cloth, leaving the golden amulet to shine with renewed beauty and luster. The three jewels embedded in each corner sparkled against the light of his eyes, though the absence of the lephadorite itself left a wide vacant notch in the center. _If anything happens to that stone, I'll have each and every one of their heads severed with a dull blade._ Releasing it to their possession had been quite a chore; it was not easy to let go of the thing. But what was done was done, and all he could do was wait for results. Scientists were never known for their speed, but Kindel had ordered that the lephadorite project take precedence over any and all other experiments and research that may have been underway.

He dropped the cloth on his desk and examined the amulet again, searching for any cracks or imperfections in the colored jewels. Any change in weight or molecular composure could affect the lephadorite's reaction. Everything had to be just so. It was a test of perfection for Kindel—luckily for him, he'd always been a perfectionist—and he did not want to imagine the consequences he'd face for abusing the power within that little rock. _If Barrine isn't careful with that thing, he may wind up killing us all._ What kind of experiments were they performing? Did they take him seriously when he told them the lephadorite was unstable and unpredictable?

The visitor alert toned from the door. "You may enter," he said, his eyes remaining fixed on the amulet.

The door slid open to admit Scimitar and Kalibur with their prisoner in tow. How they'd managed to nab this one was beyond Kindel, though the bloodstains on the man's vest likely had something to do with it. He was unshackled—Kalibur's report had stated he'd come willingly—but a crude bandage was taped around his shoulder, and he walked with the sort of lethargic exhaustion Thorus would expect from a man who'd just come from battle. Still, despite the glaze over his eyes and the slump of his shoulders, Sartan Truce wore an arrogant grin over his golden beard. Scimitar and Kalibur moved to Kindel's side of the desk, leaving him standing just inside the doorway. Thorus never took his eyes from the amulet.

Several moments passed before Truce spoke. "Aren't you even going to welcome me?"

"I have little time for nonsense, Sartan." Kindel made his voice as casual as he could. While it was true that he wanted to know what the kyrosen had been up to that had drawn Aldoric's attention away from the Armada, it was never a good idea to give a prisoner any idea of the importance of his knowledge. A man as crafty as Sartan Truce would use any leverage he could manage to find to his advantage.

"Oh, you'll find time, I assure you." Truce suddenly stood up straight. The man was full of pride, just like his father.

"The last time I found time for you, I drove the kyrosen to near extinction," Kindel responded, running his finger along the amulet's golden chain. "At least, that's what I remember."

Truce shrugged—he shrugged!—at the suggestion. "You didn't do us any favors, if that's what you're getting at."

"Regardless of who did what or how it was done, we find ourselves face to face today," Kindel tried not to grit his teeth. Showing anger would not prompt the man to reveal anything. "What is it that is so important for you to demand an audience with me tonight?"

Truce casually walked over to the various artifacts displayed on the cabinets along the wall. It was clear in his eyes that he was trying not to show the pain his body was in, but he wasn't fooling anyone, Kindel least of all. "Aratus Truce no longer leads the kyrosen. I do."

"Yes, I'm aware of that," Kindel said, lifting the cloth to polish the back of the amulet.

Sartan paused a moment before continuing. "I assumed as much. At any rate, as you may or may not know, my father and I never saw eye to eye on the direction of the kyrosen. We are, by nature, rogues; we wander the galaxy in search of a place to call home. When our battles with your Armada drove us near the brink of annihilation—I'm not ashamed to admit that's what you did—my father chose the technologically inept planet of Terranias as our new home. He thought that we could rebuild there and start fresh. None of us really felt—"

"Is there a point to this history lesson?" Kindel cut in, still avoiding eye contact.

Sartan picked up a small wooden statue of a man kneeling with a pike in his hands. It was an artifact Kindel had picked up on Merioun several years back. "My father was a fool, and I'll be the first to say it." Truce said, almost laughing as he did. "His barbarian ego got us into the mess we're in, but now that I am in control, I have employed a bit more intelligent and, dare I say, crafty approach."

"Good for you," Thorus made the remark sound condescending. He stood and moved toward the viewport, carrying the amulet with him. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Nice stuff you've got here." Kindel eyed him through the reflection in the glass. Truce's hand moved toward the long artifact that Thorus kept covered with a cloth. "What's under the rag—"

Snarling, Kindel whirled with an extended hand, and burst of wind threw Truce's body into the wall beside the door. The Mage's eyes bulged for a minute—the impact could not have felt good with his body in the shape it was in—before the arrogant smile returned. Kindel took one firm step forward. "Either tell me why you are here, or I'll instruct my assistants to make sure you eat every meal for the rest of your life through your—"

"I need your help," Truce said simply. He left a few moments of silence for the words to sink in, and when Kindel released the hold that kept him plastered to the wall, Sartan walked to the desk and slammed his hands down. "I have something you want, and you have something I want. I propose an exchange, one that will easily profit you more in the end."

Kindel stopped short, struggling to keep his face smooth. Had he let his emotions show, his jaw would have been on the floor. How could Truce have possibly learned about the lephadorite? What in the world could he possibly offer that would be _more_ profitable? The man had certainly grabbed his attention. Still, Kindel fought to keep himself composed. No leverage. "What . . . do you want?"

The answer was not what he'd expected, not even close. "Ships."

"Ships?"

Truce nodded. "That's right, ships. You have an entire army of ships at your disposal. I am trying to get the kyrosen off of Terranias and back into space where we belong."

Kindel nearly exploded into laughter right in Sartan's face. "The kyrosen were a thorn in my side for a good portion of two decades, and now you want me to _help_ you get them back on their feet?"

"I am prepared to make concessions," Sartan said, standing upright. "Even though we'll be using them, they will still be _your_ ships. You will retain ownership, and will even be able to track us if you wish. You'll know where we are and where we are headed at all times. And you can give us the ships with the weakest plating, if you wish, so that we can be easily destroyed if you feel we've betrayed you."

Kindel couldn't believe what he was hearing. There had to be a catch; only a great fool would take his enemy's word at face value. "Are you trying to tell me that the kyrosen wish to join with the Vezulian Armada?"

Now Sartan openly laughed. "No, don't be absurd. We simply want to make a trade."

"And what is it that you want to trade?"

The next words out of Truce's mouth nearly made Kindel roll his eyes. "The perfect warrior."

Thorus wasted no time in shaking his head. "Absolutely not. Out of the question." He returned his gaze to the viewport, eyes shifting toward the tiny spec of a ship floating near the far side of the planet. The _Refuge_.

"Wait a minute. Think about it. The Armada is on an endless quest to strengthen itself, correct? You seek ways to grow in power so that you can defeat any enemy that steps in your way, right? Well this, Thorus, would transform each and every one of your men's children into the ultimate fighting machines."

"I'm not interested in—" He glanced back in disgust. "Did you say _children?"_

"I realize it doesn't sound like there is much potential, but after seeing the thing work with my own eyes, I am truly convinced that this weapon will change the face of battle as we know it, and whoever possesses it will be the most feared and respected entity across the universe."

Kindel pursed his lips in a wry smile before returning his attention to the _Refuge._ "Then why would you want to hand such an item over to me? Why not use it on me and be rid of me?"

"As I said before," Truce began, his boots clopping across the floor as he moved to Thorus' side, "I am not interested in power. I am simply trying to pull my people back from the edge of extinction, and I'll do whatever it takes to give them the chance to rebuild."

"And how do I know you won't turn on me once you _have_ rebuilt?"

"It will be years before that happens." Sartan's voice sounded almost sad. "But if it will make you feel better, I'll sign whatever treaties or agreements you wish to prevent the kyrosen from waging war on the Armada."

It was a tempting deal, Kindel admitted to himself. But he was not foolish enough to trust the kyrosen any more than he trusted the Aeden Alliance. "Have you brought this weapon with you to prove your claims?"

Sartan opened his mouth . . . and closed it again. He raised a finger and directed Kindel's eyes to the _Refuge_. "It was stolen. They have it."

The idea of Aldoric possessing such a weapon sent a chill down Kindel's spine. Still, it could all be some sort of trap laid by Truce and Aldoric to draw Kindel into a winless battle. There were interesting possibilities on both sides of the argument, but Kindel refused to allow himself to trust Sartan Truce. "I assume that means you want my help to recover it. How am I to know I won't find a trap waiting for me over there? I know the planet has held Aldoric's attention for quite some time, and I'm not entirely convinced that you and he haven't been plotting against me."

"If I may, Master?" Scimitar's raspy voice broke in. "We tracked Aldoric to the fortress of one of the kingdoms of this planet. It was there that he battled the kyrosen, and it was there that Truce sustained the injuries he has. I can confirm that the two are not allied."

"Did either of you witness this weapon he speaks of?"

The two ninjas shook their heads. "Once we found Aldoric, we tracked him closely. But when they entered the fortress, we remained hidden outside. You instructed us not to engage in battle, and we followed those orders."

"I also ordered you not to take any prisoners," Kindel muttered. Not that it was a loss to have the leader of the kyrosen in custody. He looked back at Truce, then at the _Refuge._ There was a great deal of risk in trusting anything Truce said. He'd shown no proof for any of his claims, giving Kindel every reason to believe that it was all a bluff. But if, by some chance, this alleged weapon did exist, then leaving it in anyone else's hands could prove to be disastrous. It couldn't hurt to look into the matter; it would give Kindel legitimate reason to put a close eye on Aldoric's activities and an even closer eye on Truce and the kyrosen. After all, if the weapon was truly in Aldoric's hands . . . "I shall consider your proposal, Sartan. For now, you will be confined to a prison cell until I can decide what to do with you." He glanced at Scimitar and Kalibur. "Escort him to a cell, and see that his injuries are properly treated."

They responded in unison. "As you wish, my Lord."

Truce kept his head turned and his eyes on Kindel until the door closed behind the three. Thorus looked back at the _Refuge_ and shook his head. "What are you up to, brother?"

#######

Special thanks to my family for all of their support, and to my beautiful Laura Crump for never giving up on me. Most of all, thank you God for giving me the opportunities to get my ideas onto paper.

*******

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The adventure continues in Alliance of Serpents, Volume II of The Fourth Dimension!

Available now on most online ebook retailers!
