Fenturi Fate

by Bevan Greer

  Now that Garen stood so close, Zedrax could see why the entire Legion quaked before his son. My son. Bitterness and anger consumed him. Why had it taken him so long to see the dominant Bylaran blood running through the boy? For so long he’d only focused on Garen’s hated Fenturi side, blinded by prejudice and fear. Yet as he looked at his children, he couldn’t help noticing their likeness to each other…and to himself.

  “Well, old man, I have not the time nor patience for such a waste of time,” Garen growled. “If you’ve called us to watch you die, get on with it.” The boy stared at him with dislike bordering on hate.

  The others gasped. Zedrax laughed. Garen had spirit in spades and never failed to amaze him with his aggressive nature. A fierce warrior like that made a man proud.

  “Quite so—” Zedrax wheezed and coughed into a blood-soaked handkerchief. “Garen, I have called you here, along with our beloved prince and my most trusted advisors, to discuss plans for the return of the Ragil Horde.”

  The others murmured their disbelief, but Zedrax kept his gaze on his sons. Zebram’s eyes widened, but he said nothing, no doubt having heard the rumors circulating about the return of their most dreaded enemy.

  “What of it?” Garen asked.

  “You have heard?”

  “All the System has heard speculation of a Ragil ship floating in the Outworlds, but none give it any credence.”

  “They should.” Zedrax felt the finger of death pulling him closer and hurried with what needed to be said. “When I heard rumor a year ago, I gathered with other members of the Council, and we decided to send out a secret mission to prove or disprove evidence that the Ragil Horde somehow survived the last battle so long ago. Only recently have two men in a crew of a hundred survived and returned to us. The Ragil come again.”

  Zebram scowled. “Why wasn’t I told before?”

  “I’m telling you now, my son. Soon you will be king, and you will need to act on this. And you, Garen.” Zedrax turned to his eldest. “You must support Zebram and the kingdom in its time of need, or Vinopol may be lost.”

  “But the Ragil wars occurred over a millennia past,” Rorn said. “How do you propose we fight them now when our air superiority is still so much in question? Even our Nexian best is barely a match against their starships of long ago. Now, if we had to fight them in hand-to-hand combat, I grant you our Stalkers would be a force to be reckoned with, but those starships…”

  Zedrax agreed but couldn’t do more than cough, and his shuddering body caused the gathering to pause. The royal healer drew close and soothed him with a rank-smelling ointment. Then he gently wiped the blood from Zedrax’s lips and fled to the corner of the room once more.

  “Leave us,” Zedrax rasped to the men around the bed. Garen turned to leave with the rest of them, eager to depart from his king’s distasteful company, no doubt. “Not you, Zebram, or you, Garen…my son,” he added in stronger voice.

  The crowd stilled for a moment before the councilmen hurried from the room to announce to one and all that Zedrax had finally acknowledged his eldest son. But as Zedrax had known, his words had come far too late to influence Garen, who stared down at him with loathing.

  “Why did you do that?” Garen asked in a deep voice filled with distrust.

  “It was nigh past time I made that right,” Zedrax said tiredly. He wished he could stop time, that he might take what he had learned through age and experience and apply it to the foolish man who had sired this proud warrior.

  Zebram nodded. “Yes, way past time.” He reached up to pat his older brother on the shoulder, but Garen stalked to the other side of the room.

  “What do you do now, old man? You think to make right a lifetime of lessons burned well into me?” Garen asked in a cold voice. “I will do my part to fend off the Ragil Horde. That acknowledgement was completely unnecessary.”

  “But Garen, I owed it not only to you but to the kingdom as well. If not for your mother…” Zedrax ended in another coughing fit.

  At mention of his mother, Garen went completely still, his hand perilously close to the hilt of his sword.

  The king noted the gesture as well as Zebram’s uneasy glance. “Hold, son.”

  “I am not your son,” Garen said through gritted teeth. “And I never will be.”

  “Just listen, I have not the time to argue,” Zedrax said before racking coughs shook his frail body.

  “So it is that weakness and death lay upon you and you seek some peace? Find it beyond, Your Grace,” Garen mocked. “I’ve got nothing but disgust for your pitiful frailty.” He stormed from the room, his temper apparently goaded past reason.

  Zedrax watched him go with tears in his eyes. “I tried. I did try.” He closed his eyes. “Zebram, you must tell him how sorry I am that I treated him so poorly. Make him see that the fault lay not within him, but in me, in my fear of the unknown. Let him know that I see him now—” Zedrax gasped as pain sucked his breath from him. He barely managed to whisper, “Know that I will always love and be proud of you,” before he took a final, shuddering breath, and faded into the beyond.

  Zebram sat next to his father, tears coursing down his face. The king had fallen and would never again offer him sound advice, would never cross swords with him on a training field or play Bylaran cross-cards over a round of bitter ale.

  And the Ragil Horde would come again. Yes, he’d heard the rumors and had even gone so far as to try to study the old battle. But few texts remained on the subject. He needed advice only the ancients could give.

  Zebram sighed and placed his father’s slack hands upon his chest. Now he not only had to deal with grief over his beloved father’s death, but he had to shoulder the responsibilities of the kingdom as well. With news that the Ragil Horde was again upon them, he would need everyone’s help, including Ren’s.

  With a tired sigh, Zebram moved to the window and pushed aside the heavy drapery concealing the darkness of the room. He stared down at the kingdom, thinking of his new responsibilities. His father had made many mistakes in his arrogant life, but he had given Vinopol a time of prosperity and even peace.

  But at what cost? Zebram remembered tales from some of his old arms’ masters of the bloody battles fought against the Fenturi. The Fenturi people had committed no crime save to exist, and for that his father had continued their slaughter.

  In all his secretive studies about the Fenturi, Zebram had learned much, and he’d mourned their loss. Unlike his father, he believed unity with the Fenturi would have made Bylar stronger, not weaker. The Fenturi had never lived to conquer. His studies had pointed to a race devoted to laughter and art, music and the skill of the hunt.

  Much like their guidecats, the Fenturi had an almost feline nature and loved to play. They indulged in their inherent sensuality, and though arrogant, did not destroy life around them as the Bylarans had, but embraced what they did not understand and used it to advance their part in the world.

  What use is thinking of the past? Now is not the time to put in motion my plans for planetary unity. He had much to do, especially now. Zebram turned to see his father pale and still in his large bed.

  His mother suddenly stepped through the doorway, and he crossed to her to offer sympathy. She held him long and hard before she gently pushed him away. He left, giving her the space she needed to deal with his father’s passing.

  His head held low, he almost stepped over the messenger bowing before him.

  “My lord, Prince,” the young boy said awkwardly. “Er, my king. A missive for you. I was told it’s of utmost importance.”

  Zebram took the message and stared down at the words floating before him, trying to make sense of the garbled text. A vast emptiness overwhelmed him as his grief surged to the surface, refusing to stay buried. Then a name caught his attention, and he stared at it in shock.

  Myla had never before contacted him. Ever. For her to do so now meant urgency beckoned. He would have questioned the messenger, but the boy had darted away.<
br />
  Impatient to talk with her, Zebram went in search of his advisor and informed Cyka he’d be indisposed. Racing to his chambers, he donned a peasant cloak and hat to hide his distinct features. Then he passed through the secret passage connecting his chamber to a web of concealed underground tunnels and traveled with haste to the end.

  He emerged into a heavily wooded area and took the path to her cottage. He passed no one on the way, which didn’t shock him. Myla felt it safest if she lived on the outskirts of their village. For protection, he wondered, or to be close to her natural world?

  He approached her door, not surprised when she opened it before he could knock. The Fenturi woman had an uncanny sense and always had.

  As soon as he entered, she clasped him to her in a warm hug and held him tight. “I’m so sorry, Zebram.” Her gnarled hands were strong as they cradled his head. “I know your father did not go easily.”

  Zebram withdrew and blinked to hide the tears gathering still.

  “Enough of that,” she chided. “If you’ve a need to cry, do so. Hiding who you are and how you feel is unnatural. That nonsense was your father’s doing. Strong emotion, real feeling, is a blessing, and you should embrace it.”

  He embraced her lecture and let the tears fall freely. She nodded her approval and fetched him a cup of tea.

  “Did you call me here to offer solace?” he asked. He watched the elderly woman bustle about the cottage at the speed of a woman a third her age. She was tall, almost as tall as him. And yet she did not hunch over as many of the elderly did.

  Myla still stood strong, proudly so. Her once black hair was now peppered with white, and the fine skin of her face wrinkled easily, hinting at the lines of laughter around her eyes and mouth.

  Her violet-blue eyes glowed with emotion as she stared at him, and he sat at her table and drank her tea, feeling at peace for the first time since his father had taken ill so many months ago.

  “All will be well…if you and your brother can work together,” she said calmly as she sat next to him.

  He blinked in surprise. Myla had often listened to him talk of Garen and even offered her opinion now and then, but she had never made reference to their familial tie. Like Garen, for some reason she had refused to name them brothers aloud.

  “Yes, well, I guess that’s why you’ve called me here.”

  She nodded. “Zedrax was right. The Horde is coming again. I’ve heard the reports and seen things. And they’re even stronger now than they were a thousand years ago.”

  “From what I’ve read, the ancients used an alien weapon to defeat them.” He frowned in thought as he sipped his tea. “It all happened before we had even landed and colonized Bylar, back when the planet was known as Fentra.”

  “That’s right. Unfortunately, in the Bylaran pursuit to rule this planet, your forefathers may have unwittingly destroyed the very thing that can save our System.”

  Zebram stilled. “Explain this.”

  “I’ll be brief, for you have much to do, but I have some texts that can further clarify things.” She left the table and returned with a large volume. “In the year 3022, the Ragil Horde floated throughout our System. Of course, back in 3022 we only had three Motherworld planets and that mess we now call the Nearworlds.”

  “Nexios, Ocaia and Fentra were the Motherworlds. And in 3022, there were only ten Nearworld planets.” Zebram knew his history.

  “Just so. The Nexians were just as odd and scientific-minded then as they are now. They devised a weapon called the Thrax. Only they weren’t exactly sure how they’d created it since it just seemed to pop into their heads one day.

  “Over time, as the Horde demolished races and Outworlds, our enemy suddenly turned their attention on us and began chipping away at the Nearworlds. So the Motherworlds gathered on Nexios to determine what they could do to stop the madness. It was the very first time the worlds had joined to fight against a common enemy.”

  Myla grinned, exposing bright white teeth, now curiously sharp at the ends. “And now, to modify the history the Bylarans have taught you over the years. The Nexians did not figure out a way to work the Thrax, nor did they power it. One of the Fentra representatives,” she emphasized, “had brought his wife and child to the delegation. His daughter Mari, named so for our Mari moon that glows bright during the growing seasons, found a way to make the weapon work.”

  Zebram sat stunned. “How did she do it?”

  “No one knows,” Myla answered with a shrug. “But the Ragil Horde was destroyed, allowing your people to travel from the Outworlds and settle on Fentra. Then two more Outworld planets, not destroyed by the Ragil, grew to be a part of the System.”

  “What of the Thrax?” Zebram asked urgently. “Why was this truth never told?”

  Myla sighed. “Because everyone felt safer believing the Horde demolished. The brothers Bylar and Lynar arrived to recolonize their races on their respective planets, and the Legion was born. Then too, the civil unrest on Bylar quickly replaced the history of the Ragil defeat. Fentra was no more; the Horde was no more.

  “One Fenturi, an Ocaian, and a Nexian with the surprising foresight that we might one day need to use it again hid the Thrax. But in the midst of reshaping worlds and the destinies of ‘great men,’ they forgot that a Fenturi was needed to power the weapon.”

  Zebram absorbed that information, growing more and more horrified. “My father and those before him have been systematically wiping out all traces of Fenturi from this planet for ages.”

  “Yes. Your job now becomes even harder. Not only must you find the Thrax, but you must also find a Fenturi of Mari blood. It won’t be easy, but I do believe it is possible.”

  Hope lit him from within. “It is?”

  Myla had a way of knowing things. The Fenturi woman had advised and helped him in numerous ways over the years, and he knew the time would come when he would have to make her presence known to all. He’d hidden her Fenturi nature all these years to save her from his father’s irrational prejudice and fear—which was now no longer an issue.

  “It is possible,” Myla repeated, her expression somber. “But it is not your journey to take. You must stay here and work to hold the kingdom together. Now more than ever the Legion must be strong to defeat the Horde. Garen is needed. This is his journey to make.”

  Zebram gaped at her. “My brother? Myla, the only thing he hates worse than my father are the Fenturi.” And thus, himself. “You want him to track down this savior and not kill him?”

  “It’s past time Garen faced the truth inside him,” she said firmly. “Zedrax’s poison is no more. We can only hope the damage he’s done throughout the years is not irreversible.”

  And that my brother will finally learn to love and accept himself, in turn saving us all. By the stars, maybe we truly are doomed.

  -3-

  Dare moved quietly through Mra’s quarters and wondered again how the Stalker cat had ended up with the largest room on the ship. It had been several days since the incident on Vembi, and she’d made good use of Mra’s healing talents to extract the Shorhu poison from her leg. A good thing she had, before her leg had possibly atrophied and severed from her body.

  Mra had lectured her, slashed as her with displeasure, then used her coarse tongue to inject a healing saliva into Dare’s injury. Despite the pain of the rough contact, within moments of receiving it, Dare had felt better. In mere days she moved without pain. Not one trace on her leg remained to show any indication a wound had ever been present.

  Now, she gave in to her instincts to play—under the guise of reaffirming that her injury had healed, of course. She leapt into the tall tree near Mra’s sleeping form and settled in its thick branches, patiently watching Mra’s even breathing.

  The cat’s tail didn’t move, nor did her ears twitch, and Dare knew Mra slept true. Carefully, she climbed her way up the tree with nails that had instinctively grown into claws. From this higher spot, she looked down through the thick vegetation hopin
g for movement on the ground.

  No luck.

  Mra must have eaten the remaining Lugrats, because Dare couldn’t see or smell their presence in the jungle-like room.

  She settled her attention instead on Mra. Like the cat had taught her, she moved quietly, easing her muscles into a slow stalk. Then, as she neared the large cat, she jumped suddenly, pouncing on Mra just as the cat’s blue eyes opened in shock.

  Mra growled as Dare knocked her from her perch, and they fell to the floor together, gracefully landing on their feet.

  The cat hissed with displeasure made deeper by Dare’s laughter. You’re obviously better, young one.

  They stood close, and Mra’s fur rippled under Dare’s loose hair. Bemusedly, Dare thought they seemed almost like one entity before she moved aside to soothe her ruffled companion. She stroked the soft brown fur randomly streaked with red and gold and soothed the cat’s bad temper. Sorry. I couldn’t resist some fun. You’re usually more of a challenge.

  Just wait. When you’re not looking... The cat flipped her tail and walked to the trunk, scratching her scent into it.

  Dare ran a hand through her own hair, vain about the thick brown mass that ended in fluttering waves of auburn and gold. She’d often wondered if mere coincidence or something more lay in her and Mra’s coloring. She liked to think fate had sent her to planet Kre long ago but knew the more likely reason for their similarities was in Mra’s ability to change her coloring.

  Dare watched the large cat gracefully take to the tree from which she’d been ousted and sighed, her diversion gone. Once again, her thoughts turned to a man she had no right thinking about.

  Since their time on Vembi, Dare hadn’t been able to get that troublesome Legionnaire out of her mind. She’d been careful to shield her thoughts from Jace and prayed he hadn’t perceived anything unusual in her uncontrollable dreams.