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| Volume 5: Among the Stars, like Giants | Part II: Tales of Valen |
THE year 328 since the Ascension of Shingen, first and only Emperor of the Minbari, five years before the arrival of Valen.
Ashinagachi, Minbar.
Marrain narrowed his dark eyes as he looked up at the gleaming white towers of Ashinagachi. The fading sun at twilight seemed to turn the white marble of the walls a fiery red. The red of the flames that had claimed Emperor Shingen in this very place. The red of the blood of Marrain's ancestors that had soaked the ground.
His subordinates knew better than to disturb him here, now, like this. They all knew the history. They all knew about his ancestors.
Over three hundred years ago Marrain's ancestor had fallen before Shingen on these very walls. Ashinagachi had once belonged to the Wind Swords, before Shingen and his Fire Wings had taken the city. That was the final battle of his eight-year campaign. Ashinagachi had held out against his invincible cavalry longer than anywhere, but in the end it had not been enough. Rather than surrender his city to the invaders, Marrain's ancestor had thrown himself from the walls, his body dashing to pieces on the ground below.
Marrain's grandfather had died here also. Two hundred and fifty years after Shingen's death, the Wind Swords had tried again. And they had failed.
Marrain's father had never seen the walls. Mortally wounded in a skirmish on the way here, he had chosen to turn back rather than invite a battle he knew he could not win.
But now Marrain himself was here. And he would not fail. He had duty. He had honour. He had his just and true service to his lord. And he had three hundred years of his ancestors willing him forward.
And he had his own skills, his own talents.
Already, even at such a young age, he was acclaimed as one of the greatest tacticians of this generation, possibly one of the greatest since Shingen. He had fought and won seventeen duels in single combat. He had led the Wind Sword fleets to battle against the invading aliens called the Shadows at Ikarra, and he had been one of the Three Hundred survivors of the massacre at Markar'Arabar, where those same Shadows had torn apart the pride of the Minbari space fleet, less than two hundred years old. Fifteen thousand had died there, and only three hundred had survived.
Yes, Marrain was acknowledged one of the finest tacticians of his generation. There was only one other believed to be his equal.
And Parlonn of the Fire Wings was inside Ashinagachi, planning its defence.
Sometimes, when he closed his eyes during meditation or sleep, Marrain saw Markar'Arabar again. He saw the Shadows moving, he saw the light soak into their mottled, black skin and disappear forever. He felt the heat and the smell, and he heard the screams of the dying and the triumphant, hideous cries as the Shadow ships passed overhead.
That had been the last encounter with the Shadows. The Warleaders had gathered to discuss further involvement. There was a great deal of anger and a sense of betrayal. The Markab and the Ikarrans had requested the aid of the Minbari against a powerful enemy raiding their shipping lanes and their colonies. The clans had sent their fleets to their aid, but why should they continue to do so? The Shadows had not attacked Minbari worlds. They had not raided Minbari shipping lanes.
And so the war had ended, after two battles and a handful of skirmishes. And a greater war had begun here, a war between the clans. A war for honour and duty and memory.
Hantenn, Warleader of the Wind Swords, had committed morr'dechai after Markar'Arabar. He had been in command of the joint fleet, and he had taken responsibility for the failure. He had given his life in atonement. Now his younger brother Hantiban was leader of the Wind Swords, and he had no interest in the Shadows, or the Markab, or the Ikarrans. He had one dream and one dream only.
Shingen's dream.
To be Emperor.
And that meant Ashinagachi. It had to. Shingen's shrine was here. He had triumphed here and been crowned here and he had died here, brought back to these shining walls after his injuries at Sekigahara, where the other clans had finally united in rebellion against him.
To be Emperor, Hantiban would need Ashinagachi. He would also need something else. One last thing.
"Foolishness," said a voice. Marrain did not turn to look. He knew who it was. Even without her distinctive, offworld accent, there was only one person in his entire army who would dare disrupt him here.
"Berevain," he said simply. "And what is foolishness, exactly?"
"You know as well as I do. If you were not blinded by memory, you would see it too."
He turned to look at her. Darkly beautiful, her every gesture and stance spoke of her passion and accomplishment. She was a flawless warrior - dedicated, honourable, skilled. The thin scars that ran from her eyes down her cheeks only added to her beauty. The tight warrior's tunic she wore only showed her figure. Marrain trusted her as he did few others. If she had not had that disturbing habit of speaking her mind, she would have been be the perfect warrior.
"Our lord has commanded us to take this city," he said harshly. "We are in his service, and thus, we obey."
"He wants us to take more than that, or have you forgotten?"
"No. I have not forgotten."
"Does he think we have nothing better to do than procure women for him?"
"There is more to it than that. He is our lord, and we will serve him. We will grant him victory and lift him to the throne, and when he is Emperor, when we are all united, when we go to war with the Shadows once again, then we will be at his side."
"He will not go to war with the Shadows," Berevain spat.
"He has assured me that he will."
"And you believed him?"
"He is our lord," Marrain replied calmly. "Of course I believe him, but it would not matter if I did not. I am sworn to serve him, and I am no oath-breaker."
"And would you be as willing to serve him if his quest did not lead you here? You once made me promise always to speak the truth. If you ever wish to hear only lies from me, you have but to command it, but until then, I will tell the truth."
"I know, and yes, I am glad that I am here. I am glad that in two days I will lay siege to this place. Three hundred years of my ancestors are screaming at me. I will be the vehicle of their vengeance and their absolution.
"But I do not do this for them. I do this for my lord. We are at war, with the Shadows and with each other. We are fractured and scattered, and we must be as one. We need an Emperor, a leader, and it is up to us to make that person our lord.
"You know as well as I do. For him to be Emperor, we must deliver Ashinagachi to him."
"Ashinagachi.... and her."
"Yes. And her."
"How much of this has to do with her rejection of him, do you wonder? You were at the court as well. Are we going to fight and die just because our lord was insulted by some priestling woman?"
"That priestling woman is the only daughter of the lord of the Fire Wings. In her blood courses Shingen's own. The man she will marry will have lordship and dominion over all Minbari. This has nothing to do with our lord's lost honour."
"If you say so," Berevain replied. "I wonder what sort of woman she is, this.... daughter of Shingen, this....
".... Derannimer."
* * * * * * *
The people are the castle, the people are the stones, the people are the moat. Love for your comrades, hatred for your enemies.
War is about men, not about castles. War lies in the attack, not the defence. Lay down your corpses to be your walls, lay down your corpses to bridge the moat. Attack your enemies on the corpses of your comrades and victory shall be yours.
Parlonn looked at the words on the plaque again. Spoken by Shingen as he died, immortalised in the shrine where his ashes were interred, placed forever in the castle that would become synonymous with his name. The irony was sickening. Shingen had hated castles all his life. He had only ever spent one night in a castle, and that was the night he had died.
Parlonn tried to imagine the scene. Shingen had ruled as Emperor for eighteen years, but he had enemies, too many enemies. Five of the clans rebelled against him, and he met them at Sekigahara. He had triumphed, as he always had, but he had succumbed to his injuries and been brought back here, where he had fallen.
And in the three hundred years since, his clan had tried to hold on to his legacy, realising that he would hate them for it, but knowing they had no choice. Without Ashinagachi, the Fire Wings were nothing. Without these gleaming white walls, they lived on the legacy of a dead Emperor, each Warleader striving and failing to be as he had been.
And now there were enemies at their door. Yet more enemies, acting out of honour and duty and in memory of past ancestors. The Wind Swords this time. They had always been the greatest foes of the Fire Wings. The friendship between Hantenn and Shuzen had forestalled that for a while, but the old hatreds were always still there. Shingen had not taken the Wind Swords' impregnable fortress at Shirohida. He had not needed to. He had drawn the armies out from the mountains and massacred them in the open plain.
Ever since the beginning, the Wind Swords had been renowned for their ruthlessness. They were cold men, as hard as the mountains from which they came. But Shingen had defeated them, and they had never forgotten. Once they had held Ashinagachi, and they had lost that also.
Small wonder they never forgot.
"Ah, Emperor, we have betrayed you," he said softly, speaking to the plaque and the shrine and the ghosts.
"No, lord Parlonn," said a soft voice. He knew who it was. Only one person would dare interrupt him at his meditations here. He also knew why she had come to him.
"Lady Derannimer." He bowed once more to the shrine, rose, and turned. She was standing there in the doorway. He looked at her closely, seeking any sign of weakness or of fear. There was none. She was a true warrior's daughter.
And yet she was not a warrior. She was young - although she was only a few years younger than Parlonn himself, he always thought of her as so much younger - and slender, as beautiful as a winter flower. Her eyes were a deep, soft blue that shone with compassion. She moved always with an easy grace, with an understanding of her place in the universe and the place of every other living thing she encountered.
She could have been a warrior. It was her right to be a warrior. She had undergone several months of training, but she had inexplicably rejected that path, choosing to be a priestess like her mother. Her father, the Warleader Shuzen, had never been able to deny her anything, and he had acceded. In doing so he had set in motion the events that would doom his clan.
A priestess could not lead the Fire Wings, not in the way a warrior woman could. Her husband would lead the Fire Wings, unless Warleader Shuzen chose another, and even then there would be acrimony. No, there was trouble enough here, even without the strange prophecy at her birth.
Parlonn had been too young then to remember it, but he had heard the story. A visitor had come to Ashinagachi the day Derannimer was entering this world. It was tall, and garbed in a strange green and brown armour. Whispers spread that it could be one of the fabled Vorlons, the half-mythical spirits with great powers who acted only in times of extreme peril. Rumour had it that Shingen had had a Vorlon companion.
The Vorlon had asked to approach the bedchamber of the newborn Derannimer and her dying mother. The request was granted. No one would have dared refuse. Shuzen alone moved forward to stop it, but the Vorlon looked at him, and he paused, stepping aside. The Vorlon entered the room, and words were spoken, words that sounded in everyone's mind.
<The man this child marries shall have lordship and dominion over all Minbari.>
Then there was light, a brilliant, shining light that seemed to blind everyone present but the child herself. When the light faded, the Vorlon was gone.
All knew of that prophecy. Some believed, some did not. Derannimer would be prize enough for any prospective husband even without these words. With them, she was the most desired maiden on Minbar. While she had not yet met a man she could love - and her father would not marry her to any man she did not - several opportunists had sought to take her by force.
"Your father wishes to see me," Parlonn said simply. He had been expecting this.
"Yes."
He bowed once more to the shrine, and left. The two of them walked together, Parlonn matching his long stride to her shorter one. She wore the simple garb of a priestess, and the only sound as they walked was the slight swish-swish of her skirts against her legs and the stone floor.
Finally they reached the door to Warleader Shuzen's personal chambers. The two guards stepped aside to allow them entry. Derannimer stopped there. "I will go no further," she said. "He has.... told me everything."
"I am sorry, my lady."
"There is no need for apologies. This is.... for the best. It is necessary."
"It is. That does not make it pleasant."
"Why do you assume that merely because I am not a warrior, that means I cannot endure grief? If you will excuse me, lord Parlonn, I must go and pray."
"Of course, my lady."
She departed as gracefully as she had arrived, and he entered the room.
Warleader Shuzen was inside, sitting in a chair that had been specially made for him. Parlonn looked at him and bowed, grateful always to the fates to which every warrior prayed. Death he could face without fear. Dishonour and failure concerned him, but he was confident they could be avoided with enough skill and training. But this....
Shuzen had once been a strong man, considered handsome by many. He had been as graceful on the dance floor of the Imperial Court as he had been on the battlefield. But Markar'Arabar had changed him. He had been one of the Three Hundred survivors, but like many of them he had left a great part of himself behind on that battlefield.
Shuzen was crippled. Great burns decorated the entire left side of his body. His left arm hung useless by his side, withered and weak. His headbone was blackened and brittle. His left eye was nothing but a mass of scar tissue. He walked with a sloping, dragging gait, his one good leg barely able to keep his body supported. The skin on the side of his face hung in black folds, leathery and hideous.
Shuzen and the Fire Wings had led a desperate assault on the Shadow fleet at Markar'Arabar, buying the others time to flee. It was thought they had been lost, but a search of the wreckage after the battle revealed that Shuzen still lived, although he was closer to death than to life. He had endured, but at what terrible cost? For the past three years he had been like this, a mockery of his former self.
"You wished to see me, my lord," Parlonn said, bowing. He knew what was coming.
"Yes," Shuzen said. His voice was low and hoarse. Parlonn had to strain to hear it. "It is time, Parlonn. It is long past time."
"Yes, my lord."
"I.... I tried to draw the scars myself, but I could not.... My hands were not steady enough." Parlonn said nothing, waiting for his lord to continue. "Parlonn.... I want you to be my second in morr'dechai - my kaishakunin."
"Yes, lord. I will." Morr'dechai was only for those who had failed or betrayed something or someone greater than themselves - their lord, their clan, their people. One who had done so drew red wounds down his face, from beneath each eye to the mouth, with the blade of his dechai. Sometimes failures could be atoned for and the blood would be washed away, only the scars remaining. Sometimes they could not be, and the warrior would die.
The sad truth was that Shuzen had betrayed his clan. He should have died at Markar'Arabar.
So should Parlonn himself. He had been injured at Ikarra and been unable to take part in the subsequent battles. He had heard reports of the battle at Markar'Arabar as he lay in his recovery bed, and he had been able to do nothing but weep for hours.
"You.... you are Warleader now, Parlonn. I have.... drawn up the documents. It is all done. Whether it is recognised or not, I do not know, but it is done. I want you to marry my daughter. Then, all will be.... confirmed."
"I cannot do that, my lord. I will be Warleader, yes, but I will not marry Derannimer."
"Why? It will.... assure your ascension. You are a good man. You are worthy of her."
"But I do not love her, lord. Not as a husband should. And she does not love me as a wife. You promised never to force her to marry one she does not love."
"I did, but that was.... so long ago. When I was still whole."
"And that promise holds, lord. I give you my word that I will protect your clan and your daughter to the best of my ability, but I cannot and will not marry her."
"I see. Then that.... will have to be enough. Have I been.... weak, Parlonn? Could I have done more to stop this?"
"No, lord. You have been a fine Warleader. There was nothing that any could have done to prevent this."
"Thank you, Parlonn. Help me up, please. I wish to do this.... outside. Let us be.... quick."
"Yes, lord."
"Too long.... I lived.... three years too long."
"Yes, lord."
"No. You are lord now. You are, Parlonn."
"Yes, lord."
* * * * * * *
Contrary to what has become commonly accepted in recent times, we were in fact at war with the Shadows for several years before Valen appeared to us, and even before the Day of Light, which is now generally regarded as the beginning of the war. Our reasons for entering the war might not have been as altruistic and honourable as is claimed, but nevertheless the first encounter with the Shadows occurred more than three years before the Day of Light.
We had gone to the stars some two hundred years earlier, beginning the gradual creation of colony worlds and military outposts. We had been a fractured people ever since the death of Shingen, first and only Emperor of our people, as the warrior clans squabbled over the prize of his empire. The fortunes and the ferocity of this war waxed and waned, but there is little doubt that space travel and exploration was seen as little more than an extension of the fighting. It was a chance for each clan to acquire new resources, new allies, new bases.
The progress of the war was uneven however, and it had definitely waned during the last decade before the beginning of the Shadow War. In part this was due to the lifelong friendship of two of the most powerful Warleaders - Hantenn of the Wind Swords and Shuzen of the Fire Wings. Many of the warrior clans saw this friendship as the beginning of a permanent peace, and looked around for someone else to fight. This desire was encouraged by the religious caste, who had grown used to wielding great political power while the warriors fought.
By this time we had encountered three alien races of some power. The Markab and the Ikarrans were both friendly, and welcomed trade and the sharing of technology and knowledge. The Tak'cha, who roamed through space on vast worldships, were cautiously neutral. However, we had been hearing rumours of much older alien races, beings who dwelt out on the Rim of space, who moved through hyperspace as easily as ghosts, and who were older than any of us could imagine.
There were also the Vorlons of course, but it would be many centuries before we recognised them for what they were - immensely powerful aliens in their own right. We more often believed them to be angelic spirits, ancestors even, beings sent by our primitive Gods to watch over us all. We were a more superstitious people then, and the religious caste were no more immune to this than the others.
At any event, when the Markab and the Ikarrans formally requested aid to deal with a powerful and unknown alien race who were raiding their borders and threatening their shipping lanes, the warrior caste were only too happy to involve themselves. The religious caste were also content with having a much freer hand in the Imperial Court.
There were numerous small skirmishes in the early days of the war, culminating in a battle at Ikarra itself, where the allied fleet drove away a vast attacking force. It was later discovered that these aliens were not the mysterious 'Shadows' responsible for the attacks, but a vassal race known as the Drakh.
For a brief time there was a great sense of victory, but it was not to last. The Shadows' counterattack was twofold and brutal. First there came the battle at Markar'Arabar, where the pride of our space fleet was cut to ribbons. Out of over fifteen thousand warriors, barely three hundred survived, and many of those who did were crippled, injured or afflicted by nightmares and terrors.
Many of the clan Warleaders died at Markar'Arabar, although both Hantenn and Shuzen survived. Shuzen however was almost killed and permanently crippled, and Hantenn, the overall commander of the fleet, committed ritual suicide soon after his return to Minbar to atone for his failure at the battle. He was replaced by his younger brother, Hantiban.
There was now a new problem, that of a leader for our war fleets. The vast majority of the clans were now led by young, inexperienced and ambitious Warleaders, all of whom thought themselves worthy of power, and even of becoming Emperor. Many questioned the wisdom of sending warriors to fight and die to defend alien worlds. The clans soon forgot the Shadows and began plotting for power on Minbar.
Chief amongst these was Hantiban, now Warleader of the Wind Swords. He saw himself as the natural successor to Shingen's empire, and he began taking steps to make that vision a reality. He knew full well that he needed two things to give him the credibility and the authority. First, he needed control of the place of Shingen's greatest victory, and of his death: the Fire Wing fortress of Ashinagachi. Second, he needed the only child of Warleader Shuzen, the Lady Derannimer. By marrying her, Hantiban could lay claim to the entire Fire Wings clan, and Ashinagachi. As if that were not enough, a Vorlon prophecy had been proclaimed at her birth that the man she married would have lordship and dominion over all Minbari. Thus were his plans set in motion.
Of course the Shadows had not been idle during all of this, and the second part of their counterstrike was already in full operation. We might have forgotten them, but they had not forgotten us.
From The First Shadow War, and the Times Before Valen,
by Sech Turval of Tuzanor, published in the Earth year 2234.
* * * * * * *
Cathedral, somewhere on the edges of perception.
The Earth year 2263.
"I don't get it."
Sinoval looked up, half surprised by Susan's interruption. His own words were still hanging in the air, seeming to echo, but then a great many things echoed here. He supposed it was part of the ambience. Or perhaps it was just the significance of what he was saying.
Susan was practising with her dechai. She was very good at it, he had to admit, but then she was being trained by the greatest warriors in history. Even in Marrain's absence there were several warriors within the Well who were willing to instruct her. The Well seemed to have taken her to heart.
She had need of a weapon, not just for self defence, but for the inner discipline that training brought. Sinoval would not permit a ranged weapon. There was no discipline there, and no beauty either. Where was the elegance, the refinement, the skill? No, no ranged weapons. For some reason she would not take a denn'bok, and so she had chosen the dechai.
And she had done well. She had mastered the internal discipline necessary, and possessed the grace of motion the weapon required. She was a fine warrior.
They did more than just train, however. Often they talked. Sinoval wanted to know why the Well and the First One had sent her to him. Their conversations left him little the wiser, but he relished them all the same. He spoke of his training under Durhan and Varmain, of Tryfan and Neroon and their prophecy, of Jha'dur and Sonovar, and even occasionally of Deeron.
She in turn spoke of her family and friends. Her mother, taken from her when she was a child. Her father and her brother, killed in battle. She spoke of a man named Marcus, and another man named David. She spoke of what it was like growing up, in a place on Earth called Russia, which seemed a very strange place to Sinoval.
And he spoke of the histories, of his people, and others. He talked of races dead for millennia, remembered only through the Well. He spoke of the Shadows, of the Vorlons, of the other First Ones.
But only now was he speaking of Valen, of Marrain and Parlonn, of Derannimer and Berevain.
"What do you not 'get'?" he asked.
"Why you're telling me all this now. We had enough time for stories before, but isn't there enough to be doing? First Ones to talk to, agents to recruit. And that.... business with General Sheridan."
Sinoval sighed, and sat back. "I have spoken to all the First Ones who have answered my invitation. The others will only come when events force them to. I have agents out recruiting more agents. And as for that Sheridan business...." He paused. "I have learned all I can. There is someone I need to help with that. I will be ready to act soon.
"But as for why I am telling you all this? Tales are necessary. They have to be told, to live on and on. And in this case, to learn from them. You have a saying, do you not? 'Those who cannot learn from the past are doomed to repeat it.'"
"Something like that."
"Then we will listen, and learn, and not repeat the same mistakes. Understand me, this war is not going to stop only to return in a thousand years. It will end, forever."
But there was more than that, something he could not admit even to her. These were the tales he had listened to as a child, and as a novice. They had made his blood roar, as his heart filled with tales of past glories, of great heroes and great deeds.
Those stories were a part of what made him Minbari. What if he stopped glorying in them? When would that day come? He no longer ate, he no longer drank, he no longer slept, he no longer even needed to breathe. There had to be something to keep him grounded in this world.
The stories.
And now, more than mere stories. As Primarch Majestus et Conclavus, he had access to the most ancient repository of knowledge the galaxy had ever known. Marrain's soul had been kept there, and others, those who knew the truth.
The tales had altered, the truth become malleable, shaped by the interests and desires of those in power. They played down the parts of the traitors and strengthened Valen's rôle. They retold events for their own purposes. The Well knew the truth, and it knew everything.
He would not be able to tell her all of it. There would not be time, for one thing. And there were some things she was not yet ready to know, the Enaid Accord and Golgotha and others.
But the story.... the bulk of it, the real tale of Valen and Derannimer and Marrain and Parlonn and countless others. That was there, and that he would tell her.
"Forever," he whispered softly. And he would know it.
"Okay, okay," she laughed. "I'm listening."
He smiled, looking at her, wondering again why she had been sent to him. Then he shrugged, and continued.
* * * * * * *
Ashinagachi, a thousand years ago.
The great silver gates were open and the workers were busy outside. It took no genius to tell what they were constructing, or why. The lord of Ashinagachi had died, and his funeral pyre was being prepared. Marrain was not surprised. He only wondered if Warleader Shuzen had finally succumbed to his injuries or chosen morr'dechai.
He was grateful to Shuzen, and always would be, as were all the three hundred survivors of Markar'Arabar. This war had not changed that. Without Shuzen's act of near-suicidal heroism, the three hundred would have been nearer three.
And so it was that Marrain found himself walking in the shadow of the white walls of Ashinagachi to approach the new Warleader of the Fire Wings on the occasion of his predecessor's death, to share sorrow and commiserations.
With him came his honour guard, as was traditional. Not all of them, of course. That would imply treachery, and no warrior would dare break truce on such an occasion. No, they were three, as tradition demanded.
Behind Marrain walked Berevain. She did not like this, and, as ever, she made no attempt to hide her feelings. However she was now silent. There was a great deal she did not understand, but that did not include her leader. She knew how important this was to Marrain, and if she did not think it necessary for herself, well.... she would do it for him.
Another thought she did not voice, although Marrain knew it was there. If the Fire Wings did attempt treachery, then she had best be at her leader's side to fight it.
Also with them, also walking in silence, was Unari. A giant of a man, the tallest Minbari Marrain had ever known, Unari was a deadly warrior. He was of the old breed of Wind Swords, to whom victory was everything, honour little, and for whom the way to victory was to be more ruthless than your opponent. He would have followed Shingen's advice to the letter, storming a castle over the corpses of all his comrades, and cared little if his own corpse was among them.
He was a disquieting man. Some said he revelled too much in the art of battle, living only to kill. He was unmarried and, so rumour had it, celibate. He ate little, drank less, and spent every waking hour training.
Disturbing though he might be, he was loyal, and Marrain could not fault his search for excellence in all things. That was one of the virtues of a warrior, after all. It was merely a pity that Unari seemed to be lacking all the others.
Three figures were standing outside the gates. Marrain was not surprised. They would have seen his approach and known its meaning. They could have fired on him from the turrets, but they had not. The Fire Wings understood honour as well as anyone.
They became clearer as he neared them, and two of them were whom he had expected.
At the front was Parlonn, the deceased Shuzen's Warsecond. Marrain had followed Parlonn's career with great interest, recognising in him a kindred spirit and, perhaps, a terrible enemy. Or - equally likely - a great ally. They had met briefly and occasionally, but never in battle.
Parlonn was of a height with Marrain, and of similar build. He too had been trained as a warrior almost from birth and the evidence showed in his bearing, his stance, his gaze. He wore the garb of a warrior, with one new addition. The badge of the Warleader of the Fire Wings glinted on his shoulder. So Marrain had been right. Shuzen was dead.
There were two behind him. Neither was a warrior. One in fact was little more than a boy. He wore a simple acolyte's robe. A retainer, then. A pageboy or perhaps a servant. No one important - yet. He might grow to become more, but for now he was a nonentity.
The other was a woman, and thus it was that Marrain caught his first glimpse of the Lady Derannimer, future wife of the ruler of Minbar, and more.
She was tall and slender, and exquisitely beautiful. She radiated an innocence coupled with strength. She could have been a warrior, he knew, and there were some features of the warrior within her, despite the priestly robe she wore. She moved as a warrior, or perhaps a dancer. She was graceful and beautiful, and yet she seemed to use neither. She stood as the lady of Ashinagachi, welcoming visitors. Only the white crystal in the necklace she wore hinted at her mourning - if she was filled with grief for her father's death, she hid it well.
And just behind them there was a tiny flicker, nothing more than heat haze. It was there for a minute, and then it was gone.
Parlonn was the first to speak. "Welcome to Ashinagachi," he said, formally. "I am Parlonn, Warleader of the Fire Wings, and Lord of Ashinagachi."
Marrain stopped, and bowed. "Greetings to you, Warleader. I am Marrain, Warsecond of the Wind Swords and emissary of Warleader Hantiban, Lord of Shirohida. I offer my mourning on this day. All of us have suffered a great loss with the death of Warleader Shuzen."
"We thank you," Derannimer said, with perfect dignity. Marrain was surprised. He was not sure what he had expected her voice to sound like, and with hindsight he supposed he should have expected that mix of vulnerability and neutrality, but for an instant he was stunned.
"You have my personal sympathies, my lady," he said, trying to cover his shock. "You also have my word that you will be treated kindly on your journey to Shirohida, and that the journey will of course be delayed while your father's funeral is conducted."
"I thank you for your concern," she said, "but I am not going to Shirohida."
"My lord wishes to discuss certain matters with you prior to your wedding," Marrain explained. He had not been sure if she would accede. He had expected a priestling and found a near-warrior. Many at Shirohida had been convinced she would go with them in order to prevent the battle and the bloodshed that would follow. Several had commiserated with Marrain for 'missing out' on a fight. "The wedding will of course be held in the Temple of Varenni at Yedor, but there are some matters that will need to be concluded first."
"There will be no wedding," she said. "Again, I thank you for your concern, and I understand your lord's wishes, but I made my intentions to him very plain at the Imperial Court. I will not marry him."
"The lady Derannimer has sanctuary here at Ashinagachi," Parlonn said. "If she does not wish to leave, then she will not."
"That is contrary to my orders, Warleader," Marrain said. "I am instructed to bring her to Shirohida with all haste, in the best of health, naturally. I am also instructed to let nothing stand in the way of this."
"My father spoke of you often," Derannimer said suddenly, and Marrain started. Her tone had lost its formality and now seemed.... more conversational, almost pleading, almost wistful. "He spoke of you as a man of honour, and courage, and conviction."
"I knew your father a little," Marrain conceded. "I am grateful to him for his actions at Markar'Arabar, and I always will be. I owe him my life, but I do not see what...."
The heat haze flickered again, but he did not see it. Berevain twitched slightly, her hand sliding towards her dechai. Marrain did not see that either.
"You know what my fate is to be at Shirohida," Derannimer continued, as if he had not spoken. "You know your lord intends to marry me against my will, not for any love he bears me, but to obtain a claim over my lands and the prophecy given at my birth. You know full well that he will rape me as many times as it takes to beget a son to secure his claim over Ashinagachi and more, and then I will be discarded and imprisoned or even murdered. You know this.
"How then can the man of honour my father described, the man I see before me now, how then can you be a part of something like that?"
"He is my lord," Marrain said harshly. "When I swore my oath of fealty to him, I did not recall a clause that would permit me to break it. Is there such a clause in the oath sworn to the lord of the Fire Wings?"
"No," Parlonn admitted. "There is not."
"Then I will obey him. He has commanded me to deliver his bride to him at Shirohida and that will I do, regardless of who or what stands in the way. If I have to burn down the walls of Ashinagachi and put everyone inside to death, then that is what I shall do."
"You are as bad as he is!" snapped the acolyte. "I will not let you touch her."
"And how will you stop me, boy?" Marrain asked angrily. "I see no weapon. Or will your faith drive me aside?"
"You are a coward," the boy continued.
"Silence!" Derannimer snapped, with such authority that even Marrain took a step backwards. "Nemain, this man is here as an emissary of his clan on the day of my father's death. Do not dishonour that."
The acolyte bowed. "I am sorry, Sech Derannimer," he said.
"And I apologise also," Marrain said. "My anger overruled my honour for a moment. I apologise for my harsh words."
"They are forgiven," Derannimer said, sternly. "But that does not change...."
This time Marrain saw it, and a number of things happened simultaneously. There was a cry of "Treachery!" from several mouths at once. A vast creature appeared from nowhere directly in front of him, and struck out at him with one savage blow. He went crashing to the ground, darkness claiming his mind.
For an instant as he lay there, his eyes closed, he was back at Markar'Arabar, hearing the screams of his companions and breathing in the burning, sulphurous smell. He could feel the Shadow ships passing by overhead, their cries singing in his mind.
And once again things were moving through the walls of his ship as if there was nothing there. Winged, humanoid creatures with obscenely intelligent eyes, blood staining their claws and their teeth. They feasted upon the dead and the dying and the still living, and any that stood before them they killed.
And beside them, tall and strong and monstrous, stood these things. Beasts. Animals. Twice as tall as the tallest Minbari, with long, muscular arms and razor-sharp claws. Warriors rushed at them, weapons flashing, but they died in streams of blood, their bodies torn apart.
The mists of time seemed to clear and Marrain realised he was not at Markar'Arabar. He was at Ashinagachi, but one of those things was here. Here! He looked around frantically for the flying things, but there was no sign of them. There was just this thing, this single beast.
But one was enough. His warriors had not killed a single one of these creatures at Markar'Arabar, not a single one.
What was one of them doing here?
It was bending over his prone body and he found himself looking up into its large eyes. They were red and powerful and animalistic. There was no hint of intelligence there, not like the flying beasts. This was an animal, nothing more. It lived to feed.
And to kill.
One of its eyes suddenly exploded, and it roared. Black blood flowed from the shattered orb, and Marrain managed to roll aside. Berevain was in front of him, her blood-stained dechai in her hands. She cried out as the creature's blood splashed over her hands and face, and staggered back.
As Marrain staggered to his feet, he saw Unari standing over Derannimer. He was gripping one of her slender arms tightly in one hand, while the other held the blade of his dechai to her throat. She was not resisting, but neither was she paralysed. Marrain knew the hold, and a normal person would have been unable to move within it. Derannimer merely looked up at Unari, with what might have been pity or might have been anger in her eyes.
He glimpsed the acolyte lying unconscious on the ground. Unari had hit him, but he was alive. Parlonn was beside him, his dechai held ready, looking at Unari, ready to strike the instant there was an opening.
The creature roared, and Marrain turned back to it. Berevain had been knocked aside, casually, and the beast was moving towards him. He reached for his dechai and drew without thought, striking its arm. The blade was brushed aside by its iron-hard skin, and the beast struck at him. Its hand pounded into his skull, and he fell.
There was the sound of screaming and the smell of sulphur and fire, and the Shadow ships moved in his mind and he was at Markar'Arabar again and then darkness took him.
* * * * * * *
Fire. The great purifier. Eventually it consumed all things, even itself, leaving nothing behind.
Parlonn looked again at the words on Shingen's shrine, and saw flames in his mind's eye. The flames of his lord's funeral pyre, now never to be lit. The altercation outside his gates had put paid to that.
Everything had collapsed after that strange beast had appeared from nowhere. It had attacked Marrain and the woman with him. Parlonn had been about to attack it when he saw the tall warrior with Marrain launch himself at Derannimer. Nemain had tried to stop him, but was knocked aside. The tall man had seized Derannimer as Marrain and the female warrior attacked the creature.
It had knocked them both down and then.... vanished, fading into the same nowhere from which it had appeared. Parlonn moved towards the tall warrior and struck without thought, a precision strike which freed Derannimer from his hold. Another quick exchange of blows, and the tall warrior fell. Parlonn turned to Derannimer, only for her to shake her head.
"Nemain," she whispered. "Get him to safety."
"You are more important than he is," he tried to protest.
"No," she whispered again.
He had agreed, having no other choice. She managed to move through the gates of the fortress with greater dignity than he did, as he was carrying her acolyte. None of the Wind Swords moved until the gates were firmly shut. The tall warrior was conscious, Marrain and the woman were not. Representatives from their camp rushed up. Parlonn ordered the sentries to leave them to their work. This was not the beginning of the siege. That would have to wait.
"What now?" Derannimer asked.
"We follow Shingen's advice," he said calmly. He had been thinking about this for some time. He looked at the plaque and read the words again. The people are the castle, the people are the stones, the people are the moat.
He was not sure if she understood. "I will go to him," she said. "Better that, surely, than a war."
"What has changed your mind?"
"Marrain was a man of honour. I'd hoped to appeal to that, but now.... He is injured, perhaps dead."
"Men like him are hard to kill. Besides, if that beast had wanted him dead, he would be, with no room for doubt at all. He lives."
"Then he is injured, and incapable of fighting. The other will lead them. The tall man. He has no honour. He will destroy this castle and everyone in it to get to me. Better I go with him than let that happen."
"No," Parlonn replied. "There is another way."
"Oh?"
"'War is in the attack, not the defence,'" he quoted. "We will return to Shingen's way. What is Ashinagachi but stones and wood? We will not be able to give your father the funeral he deserves. As you said, the tall warrior is not an honourable man. Therefore we will give him a greater pyre.
"Ashinagachi."
She paused, then nodded. "I see. How much time do we have?"
"Not long. I will signal the evacuation. We know this land. We can melt into it, scatter, fight a holding action, wait until winter. They will not find us then. We will have time to rebuild, to re-fortify. We ourselves will be the castle."
She nodded again. "I will ready myself."
"Take nothing that it is not necessary. We must be as swift as we can. There are some things of your father's I will need. I will take them from his office. Gather what you need."
She made to say something, then stopped, bowed and left.
Parlonn turned to the shrine, and bowed one last time. "We have failed you, Shingen," he said. "But with fortune and with our own strength and courage, we will once again be what you wished us to be."
He then turned and left, not looking back. The people are the stones. The people are the castle. The people are the moat.
He knew what he needed. The documentation confirming him as Warleader. Shingen's armour, a symbol more powerful than anything. The banners of the clan. The secret maps of the surrounding area, with details of all the hidden trails, secret bases, supply routes and concealed villages.
The Fire Wings could survive, hide, and ultimately take to the battlefields again.
He opened the door to the office, feeling the loss of the man who had owned it. Shuzen had left his stamp everywhere. He had hardly left the room these last three years. He should have died at Markar'Arabar. That was a terrible thing to wish of his lord, but it was true. Had he done so, he would have been remembered forever as a hero, and the Fire Wings would have had three years to consolidate and fortify. As it was, he had died a crippled, anguished old man, and that image had negated all his former heroism. The Fire Wings had decayed with him. It would take one such as Shingen himself to restore them to glory.
Parlonn was not sure he was such a person, or if he ever would be. Or could be. But he would try. He could do no less.
"Greetings, Warleader. My congratulations on your promotion and my sadness for the death of Warleader Shuzen. He was a most fine man."
Parlonn stiffened, and looked up. "Yes," he said, evenly. "He was." The being standing in the corner of the room was not Minbari. Indeed, Parlonn did not know what sort of alien he was. He was half again as tall as Parlonn, but very slender. His skin was grey and stretched tightly across his bones. There seemed to be no muscle there at all. His eyes were a bright red, with no other colour to them. He was wearing a plain green robe, and spoke Fik with a flawless accent. His long, nail-less fingers were steepled in front of his face.
"My name is Shryne. My people are called the Ragg'hia. I am here as.... an emissary from certain powers. Tell me, Warleader, what do you want?"
"No," he replied. Ignoring the alien, he made for the drawers containing the maps.
"It is a simple question."
"I know. I will not answer it."
"What do you want? I can return your clan to greatness. I can drive away these invaders. I can make you Emperor. Anything you ask for."
"I am not Shingen. I do not wish to be Emperor, and I do not need your help for any of the rest."
"I think you do."
"Then you think wrong. I am not a fool, Shryne. You work for the Shadows, don't you? They have not forgotten us, then."
"Of course they have not. My Dark Masters admire you greatly. Your stand at Markar'Arabar convinced them of the great courage you possess. I was sent here to find those worthy of their assistance. You would all do far better at their side than as their enemies."
"I have no interest in an alliance with them. Not least after they sent that creature."
"That was I."
"You didn't want the Wind Swords and me coming to terms, did you? No, far better if we are at war. There is more likelihood of my accepting your offer then, yes?"
"I advise you to reconsider. We tried to fight them at first. Most races do. In time we saw the wisdom of another path. As you will. One day you will see that."
"No. I won't. Leave. Now."
"Your predecessor spoke as you do. Think on his fate for a moment."
Parlonn looked up, his dark eyes blazing. "Do not threaten me. If you were worth killing, I would kill you."
"You would try."
"I would do more than that. Leave."
Shryne assumed an expression that might have been a smile. He bowed. "We will meet again. You will reconsider in time. Then we will talk again."
Shryne seemed to disappear, melting into the shadows. Parlonn paid him no heed. He had enough enemies as it was. For now, he had enough to do.
Ashinagachi was nothing but stone and wood. That was all.
There was a great deal to do.
* * * * * * *
The flames rose high into the sky, blackening the cloudless heavens with their smoke. Few Warleaders had such a funeral pyre. Few went to the next world on a fire of their castle.
The Fire Wings would have escaped, fleeing like the cowards they were. Well, no matter. They would be found. If they would not face him in open combat, then they would be chased down.
Unari swore to find them all. He would not rest until he had completed his lord's orders.
The Fire Wings thought they had evaded him.
They thought wrong.