Haladras (27 page)

“Aye, a committee.”

“Nay! Nay!” answered several more voices.

“Send him to the king!” came a shout from high above,
followed by cheers.

Soon the whole hall had erupted in a din of voices, which
all seemed to be against him. Skylar lowered his head in defeat. What more
could he do? Those he’d come to help did not accept him. What could he do?

He simply stood there while the biting curses swirled around
him like a bad dream. Then out of that dream a solitary voice began to rise, at
first low, scarcely distinguishable, then clear and commanding,

“Fools! Fools! Fools!” it cried. “Fools! I am King Athylian.
And that is my son.”

TWENTY-SIX

S
KYLAR SPUN AROUND
to see from
where the voice came. His mouth gaped in astonishment at what he saw. There
stood before him the uncloaked figure of Lasseter, proud and erect as a king.

The rest of the council was blurred in Skylar’s memory. The
green flash of lightning in Lasseter’s eyes and the silence that rent the
clamor asunder were all that he recalled clearly. And Lasseter’s words...they
had echoed and re-echoed in his thoughts a thousand times.

I am King Athylian.

How could it be? Any moment he expected to awake from this
dream. Lasseter—the king? His father?

Of how the Council meeting concluded he possessed only a
vague idea. That none questioned Lasseter’s claim, he felt certain. How could
they? Standing there with his head held high, his jaw set as if hewn from
stone, his voice booming like thunder and his eyes blazing with such fiery
indignation, who could doubt him? No, all present
knew
it. Though some,
to protect themselves might openly deny it.

Nothing pertinent remained to deliberate in the meeting. A
call-to-arms was all that was needed. And to that they had yet to see how the
Haladrians would respond.

He slept that night at home, in his own room, warm and
comfortable in his own bed. Krom approved his visit home, provided Endrick stay
close at hand. Now that his identity was public knowledge, there was no longer
a need to hide from prying eyes.

As of yet he and Lasseter—his father—had not spoken. After
the assembly, Lasseter was instantly swept away with matters of state, of
raising an army and preparing for war. Skylar felt a mixture of relief and
disappointment. He wanted to speak with Lasseter—to his father. Yet he didn’t
feel ready. What would he say to him now that he knew?

For now, Skylar felt content simply to be back at his home
in the Gorge with his mother. He’d missed her more than he realized. They spoke
little that night, both overcome with emotion at being together again and the
weight of everything heavy on their minds.

In the morning, though, they spoke. Skylar felt more at ease
and let loose his tongue, telling his mother of nearly all that had befallen
him since he left, saving her only from the most harrowing moments. Of Grim’s
death he kept silent, though he wished to confide in her his deep sense of
guilt and remorse. She listened to all with admirable composure.

“I’m so sorry, Sky,” she said softly once he had finished
his tale. “I’m sorry you had to find out about who you are the way you did. I’m
sorry I couldn’t protect you anymore—save you from all of this. And I’m
sorry...for me...that I’m no longer needed.”

She bowed her head and looked on the verge of tears.

“You needn’t feel sorry. You did all you could. You are
mother to me. Nothing will ever change that. I wish things had never changed,
that I could go back to just being Skylar. I know now that’s not possible.”

She smiled, her eyes glistening with bated tears, and
ruffled his hair with her hand.

“What happened to my boy? You left me scarcely a fortnight
ago and you already seem ten years older.”

“I don’t feel older. Indeed, I’ve often felt younger than I
am, unequal to the tasks required of me.”

“Well...now you know the secret,” she said with a smile.
“True adulthood does not come with age, but acceptance of adult
responsibilities. Few adults, I imagine, ever feel entirely equal to the
difficult tasks sometimes laid upon them. It can make one feel young and
inadequate, truly.”

Skylar did not respond, but let his thoughts dwell over what
his mother had said. Eventually his thoughts returned to Lasseter.

“Did you know about Lasseter?” he asked. “I mean, did you
know he was really my father and not some former servant?”

His mother slowly shook her head. “He never told me, no. At
times the idea would enter my head. But I never entertained it long. You two
always bore such close resemblance...”

She paused, and looked to be considering something.

“Are you disappointed that he’s your father?” she said
hesitantly.

Skylar felt a slight pang of guilt. The question hit close
to home. He sighed.

“Yes, a little, I suppose.”

“You expected someone different,” she replied, more as a
statement than question.

Skylar shrugged.

“I guess...it’s just that I’ve always heard such incredible
things about Athylian; how all his people loved him; how he was a great king.
Yet, when I think of Lasseter...” his voice trailed off before he finished the
thought. His mother knew, though, what those unuttered words were.

“Sky, he was not a great king because he possessed some
superhuman power or because he stood as tall as a giant. Athylian was great
because he loved his people. He was great because he was good.”

Skylar nodded.

“I know...I know. It’s just...well, I’ve not been very kind
to him the last few years. In fact, I’ve been ashamed of his strange behavior.
I worried what others would think of me because of him. Now I know he did it to
protect me.

“In a way, I’m glad it’s him. I don’t know that I could call
anyone father but him. I’m ashamed for thinking otherwise.”

His mother rubbed his arm tenderly.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Sky. This would be a
difficult thing for anyone to accept.”

By the afternoon of the next day, the battle preparations
were evident everywhere. And over the course of the next several days the signs
of war only grew. Many women and small children were transported to smaller
mining units far outside Kaladra, where they might escape possible harm from
war. Skylar had tried to convince his mother to go with them.

“No, Sky, I won’t leave you. If and when the battle happens,
I shall serve as a nurse for the wounded.”

That had been the end of it.

Infantry units of inexperienced soldiers carrying makeshift weapons
and clad in rusty armor arrived almost hourly from all corners of their small
planet. Every forge in Haladras sung with the hammers of metal smiths as they
pounded out sword after sword on their anvils. They could not make them fast
enough. Shields were mass produced, cast from a molten teryleum alloy, capable
of deflecting the rays of Morvath’s blasters. Ballistic cannons, too, were
hastily assembled.

Despite Athylian’s distain for blasters, he permitted
Haladras’ meager arsenal of blasters to be put into action.

A battle encampment had been situated on the outskirts of
Kaladra, between the Gorge and Cloud Harbor. There Skylar spent most of his
time, receiving instruction from Endrick in the art of sword fighting, learning
combat techniques from Arturo’s drill sergeants and sitting in war council with
his father, Krom, Arturo, and the other newly-appointed war captains.

Athylian looked different now. He had shaven his beard and
trimmed his hair. He no longer went about cloaked and hooded. But there was
something else, too. Something Skylar had never before noticed in this man he’d
called uncle. Skylar didn't know any other way to describe it other than to say
that Athylian had a kingly air. Perhaps it had always been there, and Skylar
merely had failed to see it beneath his uncle’s eccentricities.

The days passed rapidly. The buzz of war increased with each
passing one. It was all the kind of thrill and adventure he once dreamed about.
Now upon him, it brought him nothing of excitement and anticipation. Instead,
dread filled his heart, for he’d seen enough of death to want no part of it.
Yet he knew the battle was inevitable. He refused to shrink from it.

On the fourth day since they met in the Council hall, scouts
returned confirming Skylar’s assertions about Morvath’s intent.

“A military convoy from Ahlderon has been spotted, your
majesty,” reported one of the scouts. “We’ve projected its course and believe
it is heading straight for Haladras.”

“How big?” questioned Lasseter.

“One starcruiser, Sire—sufficient to transport several
legions of soldiers; a dozen frigates and a destroyer.”

Skylar stared wide-eyed at the scout.
Several legions!
Several legions of well-trained, heavily-armed soldiers?
How could they
possibly stand against such an army?

Lasseter looked as unruffled as a statue.

“And Morvath?”

“On Fenorra, your majesty, preparing to embark for Haladras,
another legion to join him.”

Another legion!

“How long before they arrive?”

“We estimate two days, your majesty.”

To which reply Lasseter simply turned to his captains. “You
have two days. See that your men are ready.”

In the two days that followed, Skylar prepared himself as
much as possible. He trained with Endrick for hours a day, at the end of which
he could scarcely lift his arm, much less his sword. What discretionary time
was granted him he spent with his mother and visiting anyone who came to see
him.

Ever since the news of his true identity had spread through
the community like a swarm of Trackers, there had been no end to the callers
wishing to see the “lost prince.” Few of these visitors Skylar knew. Most that
he did know were neighbors he’d rarely talked to, friends of his mother, or
previous intructors from the Academy. Skylar made an effort to be gracious. But
often he would ask his mother to tell whatever visitor that he was too
exhausted to see anyone else that day. Which wasn’t entirely untrue.

The one visitor he did wish to see never came. Skylar
wondered what Kendyl thought of him.

She probably thinks I lied to her,
thought Skylar.
Hates
me, I’m sure.

Despite some feelings of embarrassment, he spoke to his
mother about his concerns.

“I’m sure she doesn’t hate you, Sky,” she had reassured him.
“At least not in earnest. She might tell herself she’s angry—even act like
it—but it’s all superficial.”

“What? Think it? Act like it?” replied Skylar in
stupefaction. “How is that different than actually hating me?”

“Girls are…uh…complicated with these matters. You should go
see her. I’m sure she wants you to.”

“Why? So she can pretend that she’s mad at me to my face?”

His mother’s words had only left him feeling more confused
and hopeless than before. He decided not go to see Kendyl. Whatever courage he
had to do so was now gone.

Rolander Finch, his ever-faithful friend spoke with him
often during the days preceding the battle. The freckled-faced boy had somehow
managed to enlist in one of the infantry units. Unlike Skylar, Rolander spoke
excitedly about all that was happening. He marveled at Skylar’s adventures away
from Haladras, listening with awe to all he said.

“I wish I could have been there with you,” said Rolander.
“I’ve been just dying to dissect one of those so-called insects. And you were
attacked by an entire swarm of them. Incredible! Can you imagine what it would take
to construct something so small? And those Mauwiks...fascinating! I’ve never
read any book that mentioned anything about them. I’d love to study them in
their forest city.”

Rolander’s mouth moved with dizzying speed, salivating as he
spoke. Skylar smiled good-naturedly at his friend.

“It wasn’t quite as exciting as it may seem,” Skylar assured
him. “I wish I had stayed on Haladras. Not a day went by that I didn’t long to
be rid of all the adventuring.”

“That’s only because you forgot how boring Haladras can be.
Or perhaps it was a particular red-head you missed?”

Rolander gave him a goofy, conspiratorial smile. Skylar
ignored him.

“At least,” continued Rolander, “I won’t miss out on the
fighting.”

“You actually want to fight?”

“Indubitably.”

“Why?”

“Adventure. Action. Glory. Honor. A chance to fight for our
liberties. What could be greater than that?”

“You make it sound like a game, Roland. There will be honor
enough, in standing for what’s right. But there seems little glorious about
blood split on a battle field.”

“Who cares about the blood of Tarus’ soldiers!” exclaimed
Rolander.

Skylar did not reply, only sighed within. How could Roland
feel such confidence? Skylar had seen his friend during training. He had
watched Rolander’s scrawny arms heft a sword that looked to weigh more than his
entire body and swing it clumsily at a smirking opponent.
Oh, Rolander,
Skylar’s heart ached,
shall I lose you, too?

The following day, the watchtower guards sighted the
empire’s military ships. The type and number of each agreed precisely with the
report from the Haladrian scouts. The king’s forces remained outside the
planet’s atmosphere, waiting for the command to descend and destroy.

Within a quarter hour the Haladrian war council had
assembled to discuss the situation. Skylar stood silent and uneasy within the
large tent which served as command post. His eyes were fixed on Athylian, who
sat listening to the report with calm assurance.

“What word from Allega?” said Athylian when the brief report
concluded.

“None, your majesty,” replied Captain Arturo. “Neither from
the dispatch carrier or from Rowvan himself.”

Athylian nodded his head knowingly.

“Captured by the empire, no doubt,” he said absently.

“Indeed, your majesty.”

Athylian sat quietly for several moments, pondering,
weighing the odds and possible outcomes in his mind. No one interrupted him.

Skylar noted his father’s composure and confidence under
such a heavy burden.

How can he feel so sure of himself when so much is at
stake?
he wondered.

Suddenly a commotion broke out somewhere beyond their tent
walls. Everyone looked toward the tent’s entrance. One of the sentries entered
and hurriedly bowed.

“Your majesty,” he said, “a messenger from the empire has
arrived. He claims to bear an epistle from Tarus’ chief minister. Shall I bring
him in, Sire?”