Again the warrior said just one word.
“Zha’valen.”
* * * * * * *
Susan looked down at the defeated eyes of Lyta Alexander. The telepath had already accepted her death. Susan could see it. She was broken. She was finished.
Susan raised the pike. No more need to be afraid. No more waking in the middle of the night. No more hiding.
She looked at Marcus. He looked sick, desperate to do something, but unable to. The two Shadows formed a wall between him and Susan. She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile…
Her head seemed to explode. She did not know if she actually screamed or if it was just in her mind, but she could feel the fear and the pain and the anguish all over again. It was a violation, an intimate sundering of a place she had only ever let her mother enter.
She screamed again, this time audibly. Lyta. But how…? The sleepers… Welles had assured her that… that… the Vorlon. The Vorlon!
She felt the pike drop from her nerveless fingers. She kept screaming, over and over again. She fell to her knees, screaming until the scream was the only thing in her existence.
She could feel the Shadows backing away. They were no more immune to telepathically induced pain than was she. Less so, if anything.
The pain ended – or she thought it did. Her scream certainly didn’t. She felt… numb, lifeless, unable to move or breathe or speak or do anything except scream…
And scream…
* * * * * * *
Nowhere is the Darkness greater than in the fortress of Light…
Deathwalker waited alone in the quarters she had prepared for this eventuality. She could feel the Shadows moving outside this ship. They would win. Of course they would.
She understood the Shadows. She was not their servant, but their ally. If they had been active thirty or forty years ago, her people might still be alive, might still be masters of the galaxy.
The Dilgar were dead, and would never rise again, but they would be remembered… She would build their monument, and how ironic it would be that the very race that had destroyed hers would create that monument on the ruins of the very race that had sheltered her.
Not for nothing was she called Deathwalker. She had made preparations… Her monument of blood was only just beginning.
* * * * * * *
Lyta crawled out from behind Susan. The Shadow agent had slumped down almost on top of her. She was still screaming.
Lyta was not sure exactly what she had done. She remembered the beating, she remembered the questions and Welles’ harshly ironic and scathing verbal assault on her. She remembered the sleepers. She remembered reaching out to touch Marcus’ mind and not being able to. She remembered a threat…
And she remembered one word. A word spoken in her mind by a voice she still did not understand.
“NO!”
And she had lashed out. Subconsciously, not understanding what or why or how, she lashed out with her powers, creating agony with a thought.
All she could see was Marcus. When he held her, for a moment she could forget where she was. For a moment she could take pleasure in the warmth of his presence.
But just for a moment…
The Shadows were moving. She saw them a mere instant before Marcus did, and she pushed him aside. She could hear the voice speaking to her, slowly and cautiously, directing her. She closed her eyes and reached deep inside, working past the sleepers, working past the pain and the numbness and the fear…
She lashed out again. The Shadows stopped and faltered. One of them bowed down, lowering its… she thought it was its head. The other one hesitated, as if recognising the taint of its ancient enemy within her.
Marcus acted. Scooping up Ivanova’s discarded pike, he struck at the nearest creature. He was not skilled with such a weapon, but that hardly mattered. Wielding it almost like a baseball bat, he gripped its end in both hands and swung it…
The first Shadow crumpled, its forelegs twitching. Marcus bashed its neck, once, twice, three times… It stopped twitching.
“Marcus!”
Lyta lost concentration for a moment, and the second Shadow rushed forward. It raised its foreleg and tore across Marcus’ chest. He fell back, and she struck out mentally again. The Shadow seemed unaffected. It certainly continued its charge over the fallen Marcus.
Acting on instinct with a weapon he had never before used, Marcus pushed up one end of the pike. The Shadow ran on to it with a sickening crunch and fell back. Marcus staggered to his feet and swung out with the pike as he had last time…
Lyta did not need telepathy to register the feelings of nausea and tiredness within him. She felt them as well, but she didn’t care. He dropped the weapon and winced at the pain of his injuries. She rushed forward and embraced him tightly, not caring about their pain, just caring that they were together.
She kissed him, for the first time without touching his mind with hers. It felt… better this time. Not as invasive. Ivanova had called her a mental rapist, and that felt true. Lyta had never felt more ashamed of the abuses to which she had put her powers.
She did not sense Ivanova’s attack. She had not even noticed that Ivanova had stopped screaming. Marcus had.
He threw Lyta aside and moved forward to confront Susan. She had picked up the pike, stained with blood and ichor and chitin. There was a madness in her eyes, a look of intense grief and anguish and a blood-rimmed, raging red fury…
She had already started her strike when Marcus pushed Lyta out of the way. It had been aimed at Lyta, but she seemed helpless to redirect it, and Marcus seemed just as helpless to stop it.
Ivanova wielded the weapon consummately. She had held it for nearly a year after all. It was almost a part of her.
Lyta later supposed that she had tried to pull the blow back at the last minute, as if she realised who she was attacking, but too late.
At the time Lyta could not notice this. She only saw the pike tear into Marcus’ chest, ripping apart the skin, crushing bone and muscle as it did so.
His heart broke.
Chapter 5
It was an old story, a very old story, one he had listened to as a child. Listened to, and remembered and dreamed about.
The gallant knight, the fair maiden, the foul monsters, the wicked enchantress. A noble quest, infiltrating the fortress of evil, vanquishing the monsters and winning the hand of the fair lady.
Real life doesn’t always end like that.
Marcus Cole had read epic fantasy as a child, read and memorised, but most of all, he had read the Arthurian legends, he had read about Camelot, the Grail Quest, the Battle of Camlann… He had read of King Arthur and his fair Guinevere, of Lancelot the Brave, Galahad the Pure, Gawain and the Green Knight, Perceval Knight of the Grail, mysterious and wise Merlin, Gareth Knight of the Kitchen, the sorceress Morgana… Marcus Cole had dreamed about knights, about the Round Table, he had dreamed of becoming a knight, of living his life to a code, a purpose, a duty to something greater than he was.
He never found it.
Oh, he found a place, of sorts, but only after his home colony had been destroyed, only after his brother had been killed, only after he had lost everything.
Marcus Cole knew about the Shadows, he knew about what they could do, perhaps more than anyone else, for he alone of the people on Proxima – up until the fateful Battle of the Second Line – had seen them rising in their full, black, terrible fury. He still saw them in his dreams. He still heard their screams.
No one else understood. No one could. Captain Sheridan only saw them as an enemy to be fought, as did Commander Corwin. To Satai Delenn they were prophecy and destiny and fate. Not even Lyta understood properly, although she must have seen them in his mind as she touched him there.
No, one other person understood. Susan Ivanova. Ambassador of the Shadows. Marcus Cole had been set to watch her, to observe and record and report. She had known about his intentions of course, and the two had indulged in a battl
e of wits for months. And then something unexpected happened.
She understood him, better than anyone else. She also knew the sheer loss, the pain of losing everything, the pain of trying to rediscover dreams when the world has stolen them from you. She knew the need for companionship, for understanding, for peace…
In many ways, she was his kindred spirit, far more than Lyta could ever be, but Susan had given herself to the Shadows. Whether from force or from weakness or because she genuinely believed, she had given herself to the Darkness, and that was something Marcus Cole would never do, not even at the end.
It was the end.
In the skies above them, Minbari were fighting and dying. Drawn to Proxima 3 half out of necessity, half out of blood thirst, they had come, and the Shadows had been waiting for them. The Minbari were falling. Sheridan was there, as was an unlikely assortment of allies, brought together by the one other person who understood the Shadows as Marcus did, a person whom Marcus had met only very briefly, a meeting which could never forge the links they should have shared.
On the ground of Proxima 3 an equally deadly battle was taking place.
The gallant knight had rescued the fair maiden, but there was one small, tiny deviation from the classic.
The gallant knight was dead.
His blood slowly pooled on the floor…
* * * * * * *
In Valen’s Name…
The Minbari cruiser – it was the Varmain – turned about, directing all of its forward batteries at the huge, black form hovering above it. The Shadow ship seemed paralysed, unable to move as the focussed force of the cruiser’s weapons tore into it. It was struggling, writhing against hidden and unseen chains.
The chains snapped.
The Varmain tried to keep up its burst, but the Shadow vessel managed to pull away. It was clearly badly damaged. Sensing blood, the Varmain pushed forward.
Two more Shadow ships fell into its path, and their weapons tore the cruiser apart…
“In Valen’s Name…” breathed Hedronn, and Lennann and Rathenn. Sinoval even thought he had heard Kalain utter the name of their messiah.
He could not blame them. The Grey Council had always known that the day would come, as spoken in prophecies, when the Minbari went to war with the Ancient Enemy once again. They had always known, and they had tried to prepare, but nothing could prepare any of them for this… this carnage.
Except for Sinoval. He had seen this day in his dreams ever since he had been a child, and first brought to temple. He had seen this day, and many others, and he knew his destiny had been set.
“We are destroying some of them,” spoke up Satai Matokh. Another warrior, but one far more moderate in scope than Sinoval himself. Far weaker, as well. He had been wounded in Sheridan’s attack over Mars. He had never been quite the same since.
It was true. Sinoval had seen several of the Shadow ships paralysed, pinned in place by an unknown force, enabling the cruisers and the White Stars to tear them apart, but it took long, focussed bursts to do so. The Minbari didn’t have the time, and the Shadows were too fast.
“Not enough,” replied Hedronn. “We are losing. I think our path is set.”
Sinoval ignored him. Hedronn was old, and set in his ways, and a worker. What did he know? Sinoval was analysing the battle. Victory was still possible. Somehow, the Shadows were being attacked by other ships, including a Narn heavy cruiser, a Centauri warship and three human destroyers – the very people the Shadows were meant to be allied with. Sinoval did not like mysteries, but he had to admit that these five ships were holding back the Enemy.
Victory was always possible while there was breath to be drawn.
“Listen to him, Sinoval,” spoke a new voice, one absent from the Council for almost a whole cycle. One absent, and newly returned, with little change for its absence.
The two white-robed acolytes who had ushered Delenn into the Hall bowed and left, leaving her alone in the centre of the circle. Sinoval could see the other Satai looking at her, some with caution, some with disgust, and why should they not? Delenn’s appearance would disgust anybody.
Sinoval ignored her as well. His eyes were on the heavens, revealed in the images all around him.
“Sinoval! Listen to us, in Valen’s Name!”
Delenn had been captured recently, taken from the Earther destroyer on which she had been held – whether as prisoner or guest was up for interpretation. The Minbari boarding crew had ultimately been driven off, but not without two very useful trophies. Delenn was the first. The other…
…was John Sheridan. Starkiller.
He could wait. He was even now rotting in his cell, and there would be no miracle escape this time. Yes, Sinoval thought, he could wait, but Delenn… Let the Council see. Let the Council see what she had become.
He saw another White Star ship destroyed. He mouthed a prayer to Valen in memory of the crew.
“Sinoval!”
He finally turned to look at the one who had until so recently been a member of this assemblage. Then had come the Starkiller. Sinoval did not believe that she had aided his escape. Sinoval did not believe that she had willingly betrayed her people to the Enemy. Sinoval did not believe that she was acting out of anything other than what she felt was best for Minbar.
Sinoval did believe that politics left no room for the truth, and that some had to be sacrificed if all were to be saved.
He said just one word to her. One, simple word. “Zha’valen.”
He could hear the gasp of shock and pain that came from her as he said that word. He would have heard it were he standing in the middle of an asteroid storm. He would never forget that sound.
One word. ‘Zha’valen.’
Outcast. A Shadow upon Valen. No Minbari could look at her, speak to her, even speak her name. It was as if she had never been born, had never existed, and that what stood before them was a mere shadow.
“Zha’valen.” That was Kalain. The word came more strongly from his mouth than it had from Sinoval’s. Kalain believed the stories of Delenn’s treachery. He believed because Sinoval had told him that they were true. Kalain had taken her place on the Council.
“Zha’valen.” That was Hedronn. Sinoval was not sure if Hedronn believed or not, but the exact details did not matter. Delenn’s very appearance – wearing that sickening half human face – that was enough to damn her in Hedronn’s eyes.
The word spread. “Zha’valen.” Even Rathenn and Lennann said it, although the latter had to look down as he did so.
Sinoval raised his head and looked directly into her eyes. He could see the light dying in them. He was not supposed to look at her, but he was Holy One, and he would break enough traditions sooner or later.
“Zha’valen,” he pronounced.
“No!” she cried, a word that was more scream than normal utterance. “No! Listen to me! Valen was a human! They are our kin out there. They are the other half of our soul. They…”
The acolytes returned at his gesture, and roughly led her away. Sinoval heard a noise that sounded very much like a sob.
Delenn now knew what had happened to her, as did the Council. The Nine were more Sinoval’s than ever now.
The Battle was not.
Sinoval was a warrior, and a leader. He had fought many foes, many times, and he had never been afraid. Not for himself. But for those he led… He remembered the name of every person who had died during his leadership. It was hard to remember, but it would be harder still to forget.
The battle was lost. He could see it. There could still be victory, but it would not be gained here. His mouth tasted of ashes.
He walked forward to the centre of the circle and raised his arms out wide. He closed his eyes.
“Pull back!” came the order. “This place is lost to us. Pull back!”
He could not bring himself to say, ‘Retreat’.
Kalain and Matokh began delivering precise instructions to the leaders of the fleet, detailing who would pull
back, and who would hold. Sinoval could not bear to listen.
Victory was still possible. It was always possible while there was breath. But never had it seemed further away
* * * * * * *
Her breath was coming harder and harder. She was leaning on the side of the instrument panel. Her legs were sagging, her head drooped.
“Shadow vessel destroyed, sir,” said Major Krantz. Corwin did not shift his gaze from Alisa. “For the moment, things are clear here.”
“Good,” Corwin said. “Try and contact as many of our surviving Starfuries as you can. Reel them in to form a small screen around us. How are the hull repairs coming?”
“Temporary sealant over the damaged sector in place. Level nine is still entirely closed off however.”
Corwin nodded and then rushed forward. Alisa’s legs gave way completely and he arrived just in time to catch her. Slowly, he lowered her to the ground. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow. She looked as if she’d just run from Earth to Mars.
“Sir, about Captain Sheridan…”
Corwin looked up. “We can barely save ourselves, Major Krantz. If we can, then we will get the Captain back, but the last thing he would want us to do would be to risk this ship and its crew in a foolish rescue attempt.”
She was so young, he thought. What was Bester doing, drafting people this young into his war? Corwin had been older than this when he first stepped on to the Babylon, and he had still been considered largely a child.
What was Bester up to?
The Battle of the Second Line was a battle where nothing seemed to make sense. It had started out so simple. There’s the Minbari. There’s Proxima 3. Stop the one getting to the other. And then had come the Shadows, and Bester with his hidden agendas and his telepaths everywhere. And then had come the Minbari boarding party which had come in and left with both Satai Delenn and Captain Sheridan. And then Corwin had been in charge…
“What about the time when you disobeyed the orders of the Resistance Government in a foolish attempt to strike into Minbari space and rescue Captain Sheridan?” Krantz persisted.
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