by Cameron, TR
Once the door swished closed behind them, locking them into the room’s safety, Kraada asked the obvious question, “Could they be the ones? The timing is notable if nothing else.”
Drovaa nodded, but deferred, “This is your area, Hierarch. I’m just a dumb soldier.”
Kraada snorted, and leaned forward in his seat, tapping his sharp nails on the table. “In the final analysis, it matters less whether they are truly the ones than whether the people will believe they are the ones. Even with that in mind, they fill many of the requirements spelled out in the Dhadas Ve Xroe. They are a species we haven’t encountered yet, they’ve attacked us without provocation, and moreover, they’ve violated a holy site. They are within the designated cycle, though a little late, which will force us to ramp up against them quickly.”
Drovaa agreed. “That won’t be a problem. We’ve been ready for six years now, awaiting deliverance on the promise of the gods. We can launch the first wave in weeks, not months. The ships out exploring, or on other details, can serve as reinforcements or a second wave. At your word, we’ll put out the call to bring them all back.”
In that moment, Kraada felt the weight of his faith and of history upon him. Although, he’d been waiting for this exact development for all of his adult life, its arrival was a shock that resonated down into the marrow of his bones. He paused for a moment in quiet reflection and realized this decision was too momentous to make on the spur of the moment. “As much as it pains me to say it, my friend, we need to await further information and seek the counsel of the gods before launching ourselves at this enemy.”
Drovaa nodded in acceptance of this plan, exactly like a member of the faithful should when the head of the church indicates a religious preference. “I will bring my forces to full readiness, just in case, Hierarch.”
Kraada matched his formality. “Very good. I must meditate on this development.”
Drovaa stood and left the room, returning with several men in uniform. “These men will serve as your honor guard, and escort you to wherever you wish to go, Hierarch. They are remanded to your service until such a time as you release them, so please use them as you desire.”
“Thank you, Marshal.” Kraada strode through the door, his ceremonial robes trailing behind him. His honor guard hurried to take positions around him and cleared his path all the way back to the cathedral.
Kraada noticed none of it, as he was lost in thought.
* * *
Half a day later, he rose from his knees in the center of the vacant sanctuary. His meditative trance had shown him many possible futures spiraling out from this decision. It was not precognition, just a vivid imagination, but he wouldn’t be shocked if there was a touch of the divine guiding his thoughts. He faced each of the icons in turn, gazing up at them and offering thanks for their guidance. Three received special attention, his patron Goddess Leleana, Kidarr the High Father, and the empty pedestal representing Vasoi. To this last, he offered his doubts and his fears about the cost this campaign would exact from his people. He prayed to all the gods that he was doing their will.
Then he straightened, unfurled his wings and flung his arms wide. He shouted, “Praise be to the gods of the Xroeshyn! Our destiny is finally at hand!” His guards and servants heard his muffled cry through the closed door of the sanctuary. Before they had time to ponder his words, the inner doors slammed outward as Kraada burst through them and began issuing orders.
He found time for a brief nap as his eight attendants mobilized. When they had assembled, he joined them for a formal meal—one of the many rituals set down in the Dhadas. Issues of import were never discussed while dining. Sharing a meal was a bonding experience, a way for the participants to focus their minds before embarking on pivotal discussions. It served this purpose well, creating a sense of transition before moving on to business. They shifted to a cozy den, all eight of them seated and watching Kraada expectantly.
“We are called, brothers and sisters. The time has come. The portents and signs we have been gifted with over the last six years have pointed to the discovery of a new species. A new species which launched an unprovoked attack upon the reliquary devoted to the All-Mother. There can be no doubt that this is the promised foe, especially given their transgression against the goddess of the beyond. When we defeat them, the gates of paradise will finally be open to our ancestors, who have dwelt in the in-between for too long, awaiting their final deliverance or their next turn on the wheel.”
This declaration elicited gasps, prayers, and mild skepticism. One did not rise to the lofty heights that these men and women had achieved without being aware of the church’s history. There had been three other moments identified as fulfillment of this promise of the gods. However, when the promised signs of success failed to materialize after the obliteration of those enemy races, the church was grudgingly forced to admit each time that its interpretation had been in error.
Kraada addressed the understandable skepticism. “This is not like the other times, brothers and sisters. The attack was on one of our holy sites. This is the final sign. However, past examples urge us to use caution in how we share this news with our congregations. Be hopeful, but make no promises. Exhort them to remain faithful and to thank the gods for the delivery of what may be the final enemy. Tell them that our forces will leave soon, within weeks, to determine whether these are the ones.”
One of the eight, a priestess, stood to face him. “Let’s cut the ceremony, Hierarch. How sure are you?”
Several fellow priests looked around uncomfortably at this frank opposition to their leader. The rest seemed as if they were in support of her question, as if she was speaking words they themselves would speak if they were bold enough to do so.
Kraada paused, looking her up and down, taking her measure. Her skin reflected hues of orange and red, a combination that was quite pleasing, he noted. Her robes were less ostentatious than her peers, making her natural beauty all the more noticeable.
“Radith, thank you for your courage. This question will be on the minds of our people, and unless I miss my guess, is also on the minds of several of our brothers and sisters. There is no way to be completely positive until we engage them in formal battle.” He paced, keeping his eyes on her, his gestures timed to emphasize the pivotal words in his speech. “However, I have meditated for over a day on this question, as prescribed in the rituals. I saw many possibilities. If they are not the ones, at the very least they will serve to bind our children together in common cause and reinforce their faith in the gods. If they are the ones, then our faith and our efforts will be rewarded as never before in our history.”
His path led him to stand right in front of her, his head slightly declined so he could meet her gaze. “The rewards are well worth the risks, sister, don’t you agree?”
She nodded, seeming to be convinced by his logic and his emotion, and sat again, cradling her drink and looking at him through half-lidded eyes.
“Thank you for giving voice to the doubts in your soul, sister. We will only succeed in our calling through honesty and partnership. Brothers and sisters, let us give a prayer of thanks to our gods and go forth to serve our people.”
As Kraada escorted them from the cathedral, he touched Radith’s arm in a silent invitation to remain. After the others left, the two religious leaders retired to the luxury of his bedroom to offer a vigorous demonstration of worship to Trensun, the god of love.
* * *
Kraada was back at the Defense Center early the next morning, at the request of Drovaa Jat. The Jade Breeze had returned during the night, and its captain and religious officer were reporting in person to the marshal. Drovaa waited for him just inside the center’s entrance. As soon as he caught sight of him, Drovaa took him aside for a word before they entered the secure room where the officers awaited them.
“Have you decided?” The hopefulness in his voice was apparent.
“I have. Regardless of what tidings the crew of the Jade Breeze
brings us, we must pursue these aliens and exact revenge for their trespass. In doing so, we will discover if they are the ones.”
He nodded at the look of ferocity that took over Drovaa’s face and put his hand on the marshal’s shoulder. “Yes, my friend, it is time to stop waiting and act.”
“My people will speed up preparations immediately after this meeting. We’ve been on alert since that ship appeared, and much of the preliminary planning is already complete.” He took Kraada by the arm and steered him toward the secure room. “Now let’s find out what happened.”
Captain Traan Aras and Religious Officer Reenat Srav awaited them, hot cups of tisane in front of each of them. They glared at one another across the table. Drovaa spoke first, as was appropriate in this location. Had they been in the cathedral, Kraada would have taken the lead. “Gentlemen, welcome back. You are to be congratulated on your handling of the situation in our reliquary. Captain Traan, please summarize what occurred during the battle.”
As he obeyed, Kraada watched Reenat. The feathers on the man’s wings were ruffled, showing his extreme displeasure, which only grew as the captain explained. When the man finished speaking, Kraada interjected before the marshal could ask any more questions.
“I take it you have a different view, Deacon Reenat? Please tell us your perspective.”
He shot up from his chair and pointed at Traan. “I told him we must follow these trespassers, these offenders, these destroyers. But he was content to launch the torpedoes and return to the safety of the base. They needed to be punished,” he yelled and pounded his hand on the table in time with his last word. His wings were fully extended, and his eyes were aflame with a zealot’s frenzy. His next words were measured and directed at the captain. “He was derelict in his holy duty.”
“Strong accusations, brother.” Kraada’s voice had the tone of ritual, an invocation. Kraada looked at Drovaa, who knew his part.
“Captain Traan, how do you respond to the accusation you have failed in your holy duty?”
The captain stood to attention and faced them, ignoring the religious officer. “I demand he retract his statement, or face me within the lines of eight.” The two leaders nodded, and Kraada addressed his subordinate.
“Do you wish to retract your statement, Reenat?”
“I will not do so.”
“Then it is decided,” Drovaa intoned. “Tomorrow at dawn you shall meet within the lines. Go, and prepare yourselves.”
* * *
At sunrise the next morning, the two men reported to the combat ground outside the cathedral. The large octagon had a tall pole at each point, and plasma beams connected each at one-meter intervals when activated, sealing the combatants within. The cage would open only when one had joined his ancestors in the in-between.
Kraada and Drovaa stood as officiants to the ritual. As allowed, each combatant had brought a second, who would replace him should his courage fail. The second could serve as a champion, with the primary sharing the champion’s fate, but this approach reeked of cowardice and was rarely invoked. On this morning, the seconds were present, clad in ritual armor, but all knew they would only bear witness.
The combatants arrived, Reenat Srav from the cathedral where he had passed the time in prayer, and Captain Traan Aras from his quarters, where he had spent the night which might be his last paying homage to the god of love, Trensun. Each wore armor befitting their caste, the captain’s in shades of green and silver in honor of his current posting on the Jade Breeze. The religious officer’s armor carried an icon of his patron, Ibrena, the goddess of peace and justice, and was primarily sapphire with golden trim—the traditional colors of that divinity.
The two men approached their leaders, and descended to one knee before them, their heads bowed. “Brothers,” Kraada said, “will you set this argument aside? Blood need not be shed on this day.”
The two men answered in unison, “I will not.”
Drovaa spoke next. “Are you then determined to face one another in combat?”
Again, they answered together, “I am.”
“Will you consent to having the matter decided with first blood, rather than death?”
The two men answered as one a final time, “I will not.”
Kraada completed the formal words. “It has been asked, and you have answered. You will now enter the eight, where one or both of you will join your ancestors. May the gods give righteous strength to he who deserves it, and through that strength cast down he who has failed them. So may it be.”
Drovaa echoed his final statement, “So may it be.”
The two men faced one another. “So may it be.”
In a ritual battle fought to first blood, this would be the moment where the combatants grasped hands and prayed together for the safety of their battle. In this case, they shared only a vicious glare.
An attendant motioned them into the arena, and the plasma barriers activated behind them. Kraada murmured to Drovaa, “It seems like this must be something that’s been growing for some time, given their intransigence.” Drovaa confirmed that these were his own thoughts as well with a nod.
The two leaders moved to their seats to oversee the combat, climbing high enough to have an unimpeded view down upon the proceedings. Small cameras hidden in each post fed an array of monitors at their feet, vital to judge first blood battles, but nothing more than additional perspective in a fight to the death. They would also record the battle so, that others might learn from it.
It was Drovaa’s turn to speak, “Combatants, prepare.”
The two men in the octagon moved to opposite sides. The captain drew his weapons first, a longsword in his left hand and matching short sword in his right. Although they were ancient blades, handed down through generations, it was clear from how they caught the light that the edges had been refurbished with modern technology to make them laser sharp. Each was curved, a testament to the martial technique that relied upon fluidity and speed. The captain enacted a formal warm-up, flowing through a set of motions with the swords and stances with his body. It culminated in a crouched, ready pose with the longsword raised over his head, the point forward, and the short sword positioned over his front knee, ready to defend.
The priest chose the standard weapon of the clergy, a heavy spiked mace. In his off hand, he held a large edged shield. The purpose of the mace was obvious, and it was weighted to compensate for the priest’s lack of bulk. Kraada himself had won many a battle with a similar mace in his hands. The shield was atypical, a family heirloom modified over several generations. As a defensive tool, it was designed not only to block incoming strikes, but also to catch a blade on the many tiny projections in its uneven surface. Properly used, the shield could wear down the edge of an attacker’s weapon over the course of a battle. The edges were sharp enough to cut flesh even if not enough to pierce armor. The priest closed his eyes for a moment, spread his wings, and looked up to the sky in prayer. When he finished, he banged his mace against his shield, indicating his readiness to begin
Kraada spoke, addressing the crowd that had gathered and the two combatants. “Today we ask the gods to watch over us, as we put a question of duty into their hands. Regardless of the outcome of this battle, by turning to the gods, we give them the honor that is their due, and we trust in their beneficence and their goodwill toward all the Xroeshyn.”
He paused, waiting for his words to sink in, hearing scatterings of the closing phrase, “So may it be,” from the onlookers that had gathered to witness the battle.
“Combatants, begin.”
The captain of the Jade Breeze took a cautious approach, moving forward carefully, always on balance, ready to attack or defend. The priest was wrapped in a burning, holy anger that had been building from the moment that the captain refused to follow the alien ship into the wormhole. He vented it in a screaming charge, rushing forward and using the momentum to launch a spinning attack. His shield swung in first, clearing the defending swords out of the w
ay. The mace followed, a quick strike intended to end the battle with one blow to his opponent’s head.
The captain evaded with a spin that followed his deflected swords and dropped low under the swinging mace to aim a cut at the priest’s legs. Armored boots stopped the blades, and the priest chopped down with the point on the bottom of his shield. It struck the captain’s right hand and his short blade fell to the ground.
Sensing his advantage, the priest increased the rate of his attacks. The captain retreated, raising his sword in defense where necessary, but more often choosing to dodge.
Drovaa leaned over to Kraada and whispered, “Are all of your priests this aggressive?” He raised a hand to hide his grin, the dark humor inappropriate in this time and place.
He shook his head in reply. “Actually, Reenat is one of the most peace-loving of the brethren. Most of the rest of us claim at least twice-eight victories within the lines.”
Their attention was recaptured by the combat below, where the priest had backed the captain into one post of the octagon. The shouts of the crowd easily displayed which combatant they supported. Those on the side of the priest cheered loudly, as the captain’s supporters watched quietly. The latter group erupted into cheers as Traan counter-attacked. Blocking high with the hilt of his sword, the captain interrupted a downward blow from the mace at its apex. Kraada noted that on these grand strikes, the priest’s shield arm swayed backward for balance, leaving his chest exposed It seemed that Traan had come to that same realization. Although a strike wouldn’t get through that armor, the captain had other plans.
After knocking the priest slightly off-center with the block, Traan delivered a jumping kick to his chest, both heels slamming him backward. The captain recovered quickly, rolling and levering himself back to his feet.
The priest lost his footing and tripped backward to the ground. His skull made an audible crack as it hit the hard surface of the arena. When he rose, it was with a wobble, shaking his head as if to clear it.
