“Is he even conscious?” someone else said.
“Someone needs to help him. Gortat, patch him up if you can,” another voice said. All of them sounded so familiar and yet like complete strangers.
“Zarao!” someone shouted, the person was standing over him, looking down, he seemed extremely tall. “I don’t think he’s okay; we’ll have to—”
“Gortat,” said Zarao, suddenly remembering. He blinked, feeling some degree of coherency return. He knew he was on his ship. And Gortat was standing over him. But the rest of his memories were just flashes. Violent, terrible flashes.
How did I get here? he wondered, realizing that he was lying on the floor. Did I sleep here?
“Yes, Zarao, it is me, Gortat,” said the person standing above him; he looked very anxious. “The ship is under attack. All of our ships are under attack. What do we do?”
It took him a moment to process what was being said. It didn’t make sense. Not at first. The ship? Under attack? As Zarao thought about it, considering each and every word, trying to make sense of everything, the man standing above him, Gortat, bent over and began pressing against Zarao’s wounds and using cloth from a med kit to try and control the bleeding. Zarao understood that much. He tried to sit up, but Gortat stopped him.
“It’s okay; just lie still,” said Gortat. Gortat then looked away to the others. “It’s obvious we need to move the ship before it’s too late.”
“The ship!” said Zarao, and something inside him clicked. They were at war, fighting an endless horde of Polarians. He and four others had gone aboard a Polarian cruiser, only to discover a well-armed force of Teldari soldiers waiting for them. The battle itself was a blur. All Zarao remembered was clawing and slashing, and then he was here, back on the Thunder Sun.
“Five had gone. Only one came back,” said Zarao, remembering that his friends, the rest of the boarding party, had been slain in the action. He felt a surge of emotion—rather multiple emotions, some combination of rage, sorrow, and despair—it was enough to awaken some of the lycan within him and he immediately felt stronger. He tried to sit up again, and when Gortat attempted to stop him, Zarao shoved Gortat’s arm aside and stood up. He didn’t feel strong, in fact he still felt dizzy, but he also didn’t feel weak.
“Zarao!” said Mycha, who looked pleased to see him standing. “Are you all right?”
“Can you understand me?” asked Gortat, who was now standing at his side.
“I am a warrior,” said Zarao. “I am not so weak as to fall this easily. Of course I am all right.” Zarao turned toward Gortat, “And, yes, I understand you.”
“Zarao, we need your instructions, wise leader,” said Mycha.
Zarao remembered where they were, remembered the battle, and knew that, at this point, he and his people must be in great peril. Assuming others had survived. “What is the state of the ship?” he asked.
“The Thunder Sun remains intact,” said Mycha. “But the shields are down and much of the armor has been destroyed. There is a hull breach on the lowest deck, but it has been contained.”
Zarao nodded. “So the ship is bleeding. As I am.” Again, he looked down at himself; every inch of his body seemed to be covered in blood, wounds, or both.
“You could say that,” said Mycha.
“And the other ships?” asked Zarao. “The rest of the squadron?”
“Half of it has been destroyed,” said Gortat, answering before Mycha could. “As for the rest of the ships…they are wounded, like ours. None of us will last much longer if we stay. We need you to tell us, what is your wish for us?”
“My wish?” asked Zarao, still not quite feeling entirely himself.
“Do you wish us to leave, while we still probably can—there is a window we can use to escape if we act quickly—or do you wish us to remain and fight on in glorious battle, until all our blood has been spilled?” Gortat asked the question as though either answer was equally acceptable to him.
Zarao shook his head. “No, we have given up enough blood. Half is already too much. We must go. Take this ship, and the others, and move us away from the battle.”
“Yes, Zarao,” said Mycha, and the others immediately got to work.
Zarao took the seat at the center of the ship, smearing blood all over it as he did so, but not caring. “We have shown these enemies what we are made of. Now we must retreat and survive, if we can.”
“Do we retreat to the human and Rotham defense force?” asked Mycha.
“No,” said Zarao.
“Back to Raidan and the Harbinger then?” said Mycha.
“No,” Zarao repeated, to the surprise of the others. “Now we go home. As soon as we’re clear, jump us out of the system. Tell the other ships to do the same. Any that are left.”
“Yes, Zarao,” said Mycha, complying with his instructions.
“I do not doubt your wisdom,” said Gortat, who stood by Zarao’s side, arms folded. “But I must wonder. All we have given this day…only to leave in defeat. Did we accomplish anything? Or has it been all a waste?”
“It is no waste,” said Zarao with determined ferocity. “We have shown these enemies our venom. What we are capable of. They shall think twice before going to Remus Nine.”
“I see,” said Gortat, his tone was agreeable. Clearly, this made sense to him. “And what of the humans?” he asked a moment later, just as the Thunder Sun pulled away from the enemy fleet, whatever power it could muster bolstering its barely functional aft shields.
“We have done what we could for them,” said Zarao, somewhat regrettably. “But now their defense is their own. We have bled enough.”
CHAPTER 11
Alone, he stayed. Lying in wait. He was the lone sentinel, the guardian of the future of the Polarian Confederacy.
There was a twisted irony to it that was not lost upon Rez’nac. He himself had become Fallen, perhaps even a Dark One, when he had proven unable to complete the Arahn-Fi. It showed he was a blemish upon Khalahar, and he had been stripped of his Essence and cast away from the Essences, to feel only the shadow evermore, and nevermore the Light. Yet still he stood there, no matter how Fallen and no matter how Dark, as if he were a soldier of the Light. A champion who would defend—even in death, should today be his day—those Prelains who had fled into the escape tunnel. The true Prelains. The Prelains of the Light.
And though his feet were unworthy to stand upon this hallowed space, he refused to move them. Instead, he waited. Knowing the Darkness was coming. That the Darkness would try to slay the Prelains of the Light. The Darkness wanted nothing but chaos, and now that their false Prelains had been exposed and destroyed, the Darkness would seek to destroy the True Prelains. Those of the Light. Rez’nac was sure of this. That was why he stood here. Ready and willing to protect the Prelains. No matter what came. Be it an army or be it a man, he stood resolute and unafraid.
The Dark Ones and their corrupt beliefs in a One True God were a stain upon the universe. A black mark that had come from those Fallen who had been cast out and now had seduced even some of the Polarians of the Essences to abandon the ways of the Light.
Rez’nac would not abide it. Perhaps Grimka, in all his youth and ignorance, had been right. Perhaps he and his fundamental loyalty to the purest forms and ways of the Essences was what was necessary to stamp out the rise of the Darkness. Perhaps it was because so many, like Rez’nac, had not remained pure to their ways that the Essences had allowed the Darkness to rise. For Rez’nac could not believe that the Darkness was mightier than the Light. That the false One True God was somehow stronger than the true Essences. No, it could not be so.
It must be true that the Essences have allowed this conflict, this rise and return of the Darkness, and the Dark Ones, devils from hells too cold and too black to describe, to ascend back into the universe and attempt to reclaim their thrones and kingdoms, as once they had done before, as the histories told. Those of the Light, guided by the Essences, had defeated the Dark Ones then too. Eventually. After
much blood was spilled and many battles fought. The Darkness bowed then to the Light, and the Fallen, along with the Dark Ones, were again cast out. Some were slaughtered. The rest were banished to the nether regions of the galaxy, where they were slaves of their own corruption, guided by the Darkness that had ultimately failed them and betrayed them.
For it was the domain of Light to govern the civilized galaxy. More than that, it was the domain of Light to govern life and to nurture each Polarian, chosen of the Essences themselves, to achieve inner tranquility and the perfect balance that all life sought, knowingly or unknowingly, but only few achieved. In fact, only few were capable of achieving it. And such was the fate and the origin and the purpose of the Polarians. Rez’nac had no doubts. Those were the true ways. And, although he had failed when tested, and had therefore become Fallen, he refused to believe that made him a Dark One. Perhaps it did, and he could not see it. But, until he drew his final breath, he vowed inside himself to live the ways of the Light, as much and as best as he could. Even though it would avail him nothing in death, for he had no soul anymore, just as the humans and Rotham…he was rakh. Soulless. No after existence awaited him, because there was no Essence for him to rejoin. He had betrayed his Essence, and therefore was banished from Khalahar, and no amount of work, be it good or evil, could ever restore him to his Essence.
Just as the Polarian saying went: For as the future is written in the sky, ever out of reach; the present is written in water, formless except for the shape you give it; but the past, the past is written in stone, unmovable, unchangeable, and destined to last through all of time, never to transform.
Just as a life could not be returned from death, the loss of one’s Essence could never be reclaimed. Not by any means. Nor by any way. An Essence lost is the death of a soul. And a little fragment of the Light disappears, forever. And while Rez’nac wished there was some grand gesture, epic deed, or ultimate sacrifice he could make that would restore his Essence, there was nothing. The Arahn-Fi was in the past. It was written in stone. Never to change. Destined to survive all of the ages.
When Rez’nac had been unable to kill Grimka, though mortal life was but a small thing in the immortal eyes of the Essences, Rez’nac had shown himself unequal to the task. Such weakness revealed to him, and all, that some portion of his Light had already gone away. And, by exposing that, the rest of the Light, however much remained inside him, left him forever. In that moment, his soul died, and, like mortal death, it could never be undone. And, although his lungs still breathed, his heart still beat, and he walked, and moved, and could feel the air upon his skin, he knew his mortal body was but a vase of dust and earth and the elements of the stars. A container for a soul.
But, once the soul is gone, the vase is empty. Even if unchanged on the outside, the vase can no longer serve any purpose. It exists briefly, truly only a blink in time, as a reminder of what should have been. But it is nothing more. And eventually, after some years, inevitably, the vase returns to the dust from which it was made. Only, for him, and for any who are Fallen, there is no Light inside it to be liberated at death, nor any soul to rejoin its Essence. There is only blackness, emptiness, and oblivion. The fate of the rakh. He would experience death the same as the humans and Rotham did, and all other non-Polarian life. Without Essence. Without soul. Merely a flash of intelligence, over an instant of time, and then nothing.
That was the destiny awaiting him. Nothing he did here, or anywhere, would affect that, or could. And yet he stood, ready to fight and die, to send his corpse to the grave and intellect to eternal oblivion, if necessary, all so that the Light would be safe from the Darkness. For the water of the present was in his hands and, though he had no hope to cling to, and no sky awaiting him, he molded the water as best he could, giving it shape, as meaningfully as he could, because he knew no other way. Nor did he wish to know any other way. For his ways were the teachings of the Light. And, be he Fallen or Dark or rakh, or whatever he now was, he could not, and would not, abandon the ways of the Light, the rituals of the Essences, or anything that he knew to be the Truth. It was what he had always known. And, though he had failed, he would cling to the Light, like a barnacle to a water ship, perhaps unwanted, perhaps unworthy, but clinging there all the same.
That was why he stood here, prepared to give his all, willing to bleed every drop if necessary, to protect the True Prelains from the Darkness he knew was coming. The Darkness would reach this place before the Light. He knew it was so.
He could not stop the tide of Darkness alone. He knew that too. But he could fight it. Stall it. Resist it. Long enough for the Light to arrive. The Light would protect the Prelains, and the Prelains would select a new High Prelain, and restore order. The Light would again prevail over the Darkness and the Dark Ones—despite all their schemes, plots, cunning, and artifice, they would fail; then all would be right with the galaxy once more. The Dark Ones destroyed, or sent back to their black pits, far away, and the Truth—the Light and the Essences—would reign unchallenged once more. As things should be. As things were meant to be. As things must always be.
I am here for a purpose, he thought. Though I am not of the Light, the Light has placed me here, carefully guiding me every step of the way, so that I may stand and defend the Prelains of Light, the True Prelains, against the Dark Ones, long enough for soldiers of the Light to arrive. Then I shall be fulfilled. As fulfilled as an empty shell and mere mortal can be.
Rez’nac looked at his surroundings, thinking of the firefight that had just taken place here. Now, though, as he stood there alone, among the overturned tables and chairs, seeing the needles in the walls, the scorch marks everywhere, and catching glimpses here and there of that unpleasant oozing residue of a dead Dark One, the Council Chamber felt haunted. There is a bad spirit about this place, he thought, feeling a chill.
The feeling, the sensation, the aura of this place—there was no exact word for it—was no longer that of a soul of the Light, or the tranquility of an Essence; rather, it was cold and disturbed. The fact that the Darkness had spread so far, that its taint had even befouled the Council Chamber in the Sacred Dome on the Forbidden Planet…it defied belief. And yet, here he stood, surrounded by the evidence, feeling the chill of the Darkness still emanating from this lifeless place.
It was enough to rattle the nerves of even the most hardened warrior, and so Rez’nac retreated away from the Council Chamber and into the secret corridor—where he could more easily defend himself, the narrow entrance forming a choke point.
Then he waited. Waited and reflected upon life, death, the universe, the Essences, the purpose of it all. These thoughts made him feel so insignificant in the grand scheme of it all, and yet, he had a part still to play in it. That much he was certain of.
He took his ceremonial dagger and wiped the blood from the blade, as much as would come off, with the edge of his shirt. Although it was not considered an improper practice to keep the blood of a slain enemy on the ceremonial blade—provided the enemy was slain justly—Rez’nac decided he wanted to see it shine silver again, one final time, before he painted it red once more with the lifeblood of his enemies.
Most of the Dark Ones bled, as did the Fallen; it was only the truly Dark Ones, those which emerged from the foulest pits of blackness, in the farthest regions of space, who did not bleed true blood. They whose evil was so great and connection to the Darkness so powerful, each of them could steal the form of another and wear his image like a mask. The Replicants, as the humans called them. But to Rez’nac, they were of another name. One so dark he dared not even to think it.
No, they do not deserve a name, he decided. To name them would be to honor them in some way, and creatures without honor deserved to be given no honor. To me, they shall be nameless, he thought. Born somehow from the matrimony of Darkness itself and pure corruption, these tainted creatures existed in their black misery far away, banished for all time. It was bad enough for the galaxy that it must suffer their existence in
any form, to any degree. But for such creatures to come here, befouling the most sacred of worlds, and then to stand in this holy place, and defile it with their dark presence, corrupting its very walls with their taint…it was unspeakable. And, worst of all, they had stolen the faces of many of the Prelains of the Light—the Prelains of the Essences—including the High Prelain himself! Such a crime was of such evil that it defied description. Even thinking about it made Rez’nac’s blood boil. He clenched the dagger tighter in his hand, its blade shimmered in the light, and he waited, feeling the impatience gather within him like the winds of a circular storm, spiraling into an uncontrollable rage.
These may well be my last moments of life, he thought, of experience of any kind, but I would sooner not delay the destiny that awaits me. The purpose for which I have been called to this very spot at this very time. I may no longer be of Khalahar, but I remain a soldier. A warrior. A destroyer. Let the Darkness come, if it dares face me, let it so much as try to reach the Prelains of the Light. And I shall serve upon it a vengeance like none before seen. I am ready, Essence of Khalahar. Although you will not receive me, and my soul is forever lost to you, my brothers and sisters of Khalahar, at least know that I will safeguard the Prelains of the Light until the very last drop of my lifeblood is spent. I am the line that stands between the Light and the Darkness. I am the grey. The lost. The outcast. The Fallen. But I am not afraid.
A little more time passed; he was not sure if it had been seconds or minutes, so lost had he been within his own thoughts. But the instant the sounds came, footsteps, hurrying into the Council Chamber and then headed his way, he became fully alert. He took up his stance, listening to the call of voices speaking to one another, and the noise of hurried footsteps drawing ever nearer. As they approached, he felt something change inside him, like the flip of a switch, and, with one final, tranquil deep breath, he raised the dagger and waited. Silently.
The first to round the corner and enter the tunnel died before he could suspect a thing. Rez’nac took the Polarian in the eye, thrusting his dagger in deep, slicing through bone. As the Polarian collapsed, Rez’nac withdrew his dagger and counted inside his own head. One.
The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7) Page 21
