Haladras (29 page)

At that moment, Skylar’s peripheral vision caught sight of a
soldier leveling a blaster directly at him. He made to raise his shield for
protection, but even as he did he knew it would be too late. In a fraction of a
blink it all happened. A roar of attack. A flash of steel. An anguished cry.
Skylar looked up from his shield, still alive, still whole. His
would-be-assailant lay in a lifeless heap on the sunbaked Haladrian earth.

“Always getting into trouble. That’s the problem with you.”

The massive form of Rasbus stood before him, bloodied sword
in hand.

“You saved my life,” said Skylar, his voice quavering from
the near miss.

“Perhaps,” grunted Rasbus. “Don’t make me regret it.”

With that he raised his sword and pressed his way deeper
into the fray, felling imperial soldiers with each mighty stroke. Taking a deep
breath, Skylar lifted his own weapon and moved further in, searching for an
enemy to engage.

In only a short time, they had begun to thin out. Skylar
moved about with greater confidence, feeling less dizzied by the battle frenzy.
Vaguely he wondered how many he’d killed. None, he hoped. Wounding them was
sufficient for him.

At one point during the fighting he caught a glimpse of
Rolander waving his sword about wildly at a formidable-looking opponent. The
sight made Skylar’s heart stutter with fear for his friend’s life.

Oh, Roland! Just fall down like you’re dead. No one will
blame you.

He had little time to dwell on it or go to Rolander’s aid
before the battled sucked him back in.

Onward the Haladrian forces pressed, drawing closer and
closer to their enemy’s lines. Yet no new battalions pressed forward to meet
them, to support their falling comrades.

“Why do they hold back?” said Skylar to Endrick as the two
paused to rest a moment. “More than half their forces have not engaged.”

“Frightened, no doubt,” replied Endrick. “Or they’re just
exhausting our strength.”

“But their own men are being slaughtered.”

“Lose one, kill a dozen.”

Skylar was about to respond when Endrick pointed toward the
enemy lines. He turned just in time to see the battle cannons spring back to life,
bombarding the battlefield with heavy blaster fire. Skylar’s face froze with
horror, for everywhere the cannon’s blast struck an explosion rent the spot,
sending the bodies of a dozen soldiers hurtling through the air.

“They’re killing their own men, too!” cried Skylar.

“At least they don’t discriminate,” replied Endrick. “Come
on, or we’ll be one of them.”

Already the captains were signaling the retreat back to
their barricade, and the Haladrian soldiers were fleeing for their lives.

“We have to do something about the cannons,” insisted
Skylar. “Otherwise the battle is lost.”

“Yes, and I foolishly left my cannon-destroyer at home
today. Come on, Skylar!”

His stout companion was urging him with a strong hand to
fallback. Skylar resisted, his mind scrambling to find a solution to the
problem. One came into his head. Without giving himself a chance to realize how
dangerous it was, he sheathed his sword, cast aside his shield, and took hold
of his jetwing.

“Are you insane!” shouted Endrick, as he realized Skylar’s
intentions. “You can’t—”

But Endrick’s words fled away as Skylar’s jetwing shot him
into the open sky.

For a few blessed moments Skylar felt the freedom and rush
of exhilaration that only flying could give him. The feeling was short lived.
Once the enemy registered what he was, the barrage of blaster fire came in full
force. It assailed him like a wind-swept hail storm. Scarcely able to think, he
barrel rolled, dove, rose, banked to and fro—any movement he could think of.

It’s no good,
he realized,
I’ll never make it.

He was about to pull up and gain altitude before turning
back, when another idea stuck him. Swerving far right, he maneuvered a swift
dive straight toward the ground.

Closer.

Closer.

He could almost distinguish the individual grains of sand.

Closer.

Now!

Clenching his teeth and closing his eyes, he pulled up as
hard has he could.

He opened his eyes, still alive, and flying mere centimeters
above ground. Blaster fire struck the earth around him, spraying him with sand,
but they didn’t hit him. He inched lower. He could have almost reached out his
tongue and licked the sand. He’d never flown so low.

The rightmost cannon loomed directly in front of him. Its
stilts providing a partial shield between him and the soldiers on the
frontline. It was closer now—seventeen meters away.

Almost there.

Eight meters.

Almost...

Three meters.

A little more.

Now!

Immediately he pulled up, sending him shooting up the side
of the tower. A fresh volley of blaster fire assailed him. Letting up on the
throttle, he prepared to alight on top of the blaster cannon. A meter away from
his target, a blast struck his left thruster, knocking it free of his grip and
sending him flailing in the air.

Careening upwards, he collided with the cannon’s side,
knocking the wind out of his lungs. Instantly, gravity caught hold of him.
Desperately, he grabbed at the cannon’s body, trying to find some grasp. But
there was nothing, nothing. He was falling.

The metal hull of the cannon slipped past his bruised
fingertips in a blur. He felt himself lose contact, as he descended rapidly.
For a split second the terrifying sense of free-falling paralyzed him. Then
something solid struck the palm of his right hand. Like a mechanical claw, his
hand clamped on with a death grip. For a moment he dangled by one hand, before
he was able to latch on with his other. A handle, or foothold, had saved him, a
single u-shaped bar protruding horizontally from the cannon’s underside.

As he hung there, trying to catch his breath, heart beating out
a desperate rhythm, he took quick stock of his situation. The storm of blaster
fire directed at him had all but ceased. Perhaps because they feared hitting
the cannon. The handle he clung to was part of a series of footholds spaced at
intervals along the cannon’s base. Having few other options, he reached out and
took hold of the one just to his right.

Thus he moved around from the side of the cannon to its
rear, his hands tired and white-knuckled from the exertion. At the rear he
discovered another set of handles, leading upwards. Quickly, he scrambled up.

Uncertain of his exact plan, he peaked his head over the
cannon’s edge and peered into the back of its gunner’s cockpit. The gunner,
unaware of Skylar, continued firing at the fleeing Haladrian troops—Skylar’s
troops, his comrades, his father.

Sudden rage swelled in him. Pulling himself up another step
higher and drawing his sword, he made to strike the gunner before the man could
pull the cannon’s trigger again. Sword raised in one hand, his resolve faltered.
It would be so easy. Yet he couldn’t do it. It would be murder, the gunner
never having a chance.

A cry of anger rose from his throat.

“Stop firing or I’ll let my sword fly!”

Startled, the gunner whirled around to see Skylar standing
over him, sword upraised. A sneering smile soon replaced the gunner’s look of
astonishment.

“What’s this?” he jeered. “Does Haladras send boys to fight
its battles? I’ll teach you to wish you’d stayed home with your mummy.”

With unexpected speed, the gunner produced a blaster,
leveled it at Skylar, and fired. Skylar moved quickly, too, and the blast only
grazed the side of his left arm. Unhesitatingly, he brought his sword down upon
the gunner’s arm. The blaster fell to the floor, as the gunner let out a cry of
pain. With his uninjured hand, the gunner struggled to grab the blaster. Skylar
moved swifter, snatching it up and tossing it over the side.

“You little...”

The gunner’s face screwed up like a goblin’s. He lunged
forward to grab Skylar and knock him over the edge. Skylar dodged. Stumbling,
the gunner fell headlong over the side. Skylar shot out his hands and caught
the gunner by his boot. It was no use, though, the boot slipped through his
fingers.

For a moment Skylar just stood there, breathing heavily,
trying to recover from the shock. The body of the gunner on the ground below
did not stir. Was he dead? Skylar’s stomach churned to think of it.

Pulling himself away from the side, he sat down in the
gunner’s chair and went to work at the controls. The blaster cannon proved
simple enough to operate. He soon had it rotated and aimed at the second
cannon. Pressing the blaster trigger, he let loose a stream of blaster fire.
His aim was true, the cannon exploded and collapsed in a fiery heap.

Cheers and hurrahs rose from the Haladrian line. And soon
they were charging again back toward the empire’s frontline, swords raised and
spirits rekindled.

Skylar had little time to celebrate. A dilemma now faced
him. His jetwing was destroyed. He had seen a small group of imperial soldiers
rush to the base of the stilts, no doubt to regain control of the cannon.
Within moments they would be upon him. He was trapped.

“They won’t get it back without a fight,” he said aloud. “Or
without retribution.”

Taking hold of the controls again, he turned the cannon
toward the enemy troops and put his finger to the trigger. He paused. Krom’s
words came into his mind, “Created by a coward to achieve wicked purposes.” He
groaned.
Why must honor come at such a price?
Leaving off the trigger,
he stood and drew out his sword.

With swift downward strokes, he struck the controls over and
over, until nothing remained but a mangled pile of metal and sparking wires.
Then he jumped to the rear and prepared to make a stand against the ascending
foes.

The first soldier was a fool and reached his hands onto the
top ledge to pull himself up. Skylar struck at them with the flat of his blade,
sending the soldier falling back and colliding with his companions following up
the ladder. Skylar smiled, believing that he might be able to hold his little
tower. His smile soon faded, however, when the tower shuttered violently. He
looked below. They had given up on regaining the cannon. They were now out to
destroy it, ramming its base with a large transport.

Boom.

The towered shuddered more violently.

Boom.

What to do? He looked about frantically for something,
anything.

He felt the tower begin to tilt. Farther, farther. The
bending metal squealed in protest. It was falling.

Crouching on the floor of the cockpit, he grabbed onto the
gunner’s chair and held on fast.

TWENTY-EIGHT

S
KYLAR MOANED AND
forced his
reluctant eyes to open. For a moment he just lay there, gaze fixed on the
blurry ceiling above him. He was alive. How, he did not know. Alive,
nonetheless. But what of the battle? Was it over?

He attempted to sit up, but fell back, his left side jabbed
with pain.

“Easy now, my boy,” soothed a voice which sounded anything
but soothing. He knew that voice...from a dream, another life. “Quite a fall you
had. Lucky you are to be alive.”

Skylar slowly turned his head. His eyes met with the crooked
teeth and hooked nose of Dr. Beezin, the Cloud Harbor physician.

“The battle,” said Skylar anxiously, “what of the battle?”

“Over,” answered a different voice, deep and familiar.

Despite the pain and Dr. Beezin’s caution, Skylar raised
himself a little in his bed. Krom had just entered the tent, looking
customarily serious.

“Over and won,” he continued. “The empire has retreated back
to Ahlderon.”

“Won!” said Skylar, scarcely able to believe it.

“Yes, thanks to you, and to Allega.”

“Allega? But how did they—”

Skylar broke off. Krom held out his hand toward the tent’s
opening, as in stepped a man he never expected to lay eyes on again. The man
doffed the leather cap from his bald pate, which he bowed rather awkwardly.
Skylar gaped at him, confused and dumbfounded.

“Begging you pardon, your majesty,” said Grüny Sykes, the
moody captain of the Luna, “but, I make it a common practice...policy, you
might say, to eavesdrop on all my passengers. Helps to pass the time.”

“So, you knew who we were, but you didn’t say anything?”
said Skylar.

“I didn’t know one of you was King Athylian. I knew you must
be Prince Korbyn. Why else would Morvath be after you? I’m not so daft as I
look. No, I didn’t want you ‘specting I knew anything. As soon as I dropped you
off here, I went straight to Allega. A real devil of a time I had seeking an
audience with Rowvan. All numbskulls, to be sure.

“Forgive my saying so, your majesty, but it was a downright
foolhardy thing you did not going directly to Allega.”

Skylar bowed his head.

“I’m sure Krom agrees with you.”

“You did what you believed was right, Skylar,” said Krom.
“No one can fault you for that.”

Looking up, Skylar caught Krom’s gaze. In it he detected a
hint of respect—something he rarely sensed from Krom. With a slight turn, Krom
broke off the gaze and addressed the doctor.

“Is the prince well enough to leave his bed?”

“As well as anyone newly missing his right leg can be.”

“What!” cried Skylar, jerking away his bedcover to see his
leg. He sighed and leaned back in his bed. Still intact.

A high-pitched chuckle escaped Dr. Beezin.

“Gets them every time...”

Skylar shook his head and felt foolish at being tricked
again by the same prank.

“No,” went on the doctor after he’d had his laugh, “he’s
well enough. A few scrapes and cuts, one nasty bruise on his side—physically,
that’s all. More fortunate than many, he is.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” replied Krom. “Skylar, we must go to
your father. He desires to speak with you. I can help you walk if you need.”

“My father?” said Skylar in reply. “Is he hurt? Where is
he?”

“Come, Skylar. Time may be short,” was all Krom replied.

They found Endrick, Captain Arturo, and a tall regal figure with
a mane of white hair and beard all standing solemnly around Athylian’s bed.
Skylar’s mother, too, was there, mopping the brow of his father with a cool
rag. She smiled at him when he entered, but her eyes were red from crying. For
a moment he simply stood there taking it all in, his eyes gravitating
involuntarily to the lifeless body on the bed.

“Is he...” he said, swallowing the last word.

“The king yet lives,” said the tall figure.

Holding out her hand his mother beckoned for him to come
nearer. He felt a strong hand on his shoulder—Krom’s hand. It seemed to say,
do
not lose hope.

Timidly, he approached the bedside, near where his mother
knelt nursing Lasseter’s wounds. Not until he stood at her side and felt her
warm hand clasp his own did he find the courage to truly look upon his father.

He looked as pale as a corpse; pale as the bandages wrapped
around his head and chest. The only color, spots of blood seeping through to
the surface. His eyes were shut. If not for the faint up and down motion of his
chest as he breathed, Skylar would have believed him dead.

“What happened to him?” he asked.

“A cannon blaster,” replied Captain Arturo, “struck near
him. The explosion killed everyone around him instantly. Some heavy shrapnel
from shattered swords and shields hit him squarely in the chest. A few smaller
pieces struck his head.”

“But he’ll recover, won’t he?”

Skylar’s voice sounded pleading, like a child’s.

“Dr. Beezin has done all he knows to do, Sky,” answered his
mother. “All we can do now is pray and wait.”

She squeezed his hand gently.

“He does wish to see you. I’ll try to rouse him again.”

She leaned forward, putting her mouth next to Athylian’s ear
and gently whispered, “Lasseter...Lasseter, can you hear me? Skylar is here.”

At first he remained unresponsive. But then his eyelids
began to twitch and then his eyes slowly cracked open. Skylar leaned forward so
that his father could better see him. Two green eyes looked up at him,
accompanied by a brief smile.

“My son,” he said in a throaty whisper. “My son...”

“Yes, Father, I’m here,” said Skylar, fighting to keep his
voice from quavering.

“My son, we won...we won.”

“Yes, we won. It’s over. Now you can rest.”

“No, it’s not over. You must continue the fight. Tarus must
be deposed. The command...I leave it to you.”

“No, Father. The command is yours. You’ll be well soon. You
must.”

Athylian’s eyes closed for a moment, as if to say no. Skylar
did not speak, but furrowed his brow, his face filled with anxiety.
Instinctively, his eyes shifted to his father’s chest. Still breathing.

“I tried to tell you,” said Athylian again, his eyes
re-opened, his voice sounding even weaker. “Your sister...I believe...yet
lives.”

“She does!” cried Skylar. “How come...where is she?”

“The Tors kidnapped her the day your mother was killed. You
must find her. Promise me you will.”

Skylar nodded his head furiously. “Yes, I promise—I will.”

“G-o-o-d,” breathed out Athylian as though it were his last
breath. But the king spoke on. “One more thing…” With evident pain, Athylian
lifted his left hand and pointed to something behind Skylar. Turning, Skylar
saw the tattered, old gray cloak his father had always worn draped over a
chair. Handling it as though it were a priceless gem, he brought it to the bed.

“Inside the left breast,” his father instructed.

Skylar put his hand inside the cloak and fumbled around
until he discovered a small pocket. From it he drew out a palm-size leather
pouch—one he’d seen before.

“The limbreath?” said Skylar, not entirely questioning, for he
seemed to know. His mind flashed back to that strange encounter with Mansyl
Magorik, the old apothecary.

His father nodded slowly.

“Use it in your hour of greatest need.”

“You keep it, Father. For you shall live to use it someday.”

“No, my son.”

Skylar swallowed a lump in his throat and fought back a
tear.

“Tell me what I am to do with it, then.”

But Athylian did not respond. His eyes were closed again,
his chest heaving almost beyond notice. He waited. But those green eyes did not
open. His chest ceased heaving.

“Father,” cried Skylar, tears already welling up in his
eyes. “Father!”

The king did not reply.

“Father!” he pleaded, his tears wetting the bed sheet. And
then he broke down and sobbed uncontrollably, his entire body shaking. The warm
arms of his mother embraced him. He scarcely felt them. All he could feel was
grief. He wept on, not caring that those proud and noble men saw. For his
father was dead; like Grim, gone forever.

It seemed much later when the last tear drop dried on his
cheek. Sometime since, his body had ceased convulsing. When he looked up,
Captain Arturo and the white-maned figure were gone. Still holding him tightly,
his mother remained.

Turning his head mechanically, he looked upon the face of
his father. Dead. The truth hit him like a swift kick to his stomach. Dead.

First, Grim. Now his own father—his newly-dicovered father.
Why had he not hugged his father when he had the chance?

Fresh, hot tears roiled in his eyes.

“Why!” he yelled aloud. “Why...”

None answered.

Skylar turned toward the entry. Silently, Krom still stood
by, his expression inscrutable.

“Is this what we fought for? Is this what we won? Death,”
cried Skylar bitterly.

“Have you so quickly forgotten your father’s own words?”

Krom’s tone bore no edge of reprimand or defense. He spoke
the gently reminder of master to pupil.

“‘Before us lies not death, but freedom; freedom from those
who would shackle your lives with the chains of oppression and tyranny.’

“He died for freedom, Skylar; for Ahlderon; and, like Grim,
died so that you could become king.”

“And how many more must die before that’s realized? How many
others lie dead already on the field of battle? I feel numb to think of it.”

“How many more?” repeated Krom. “No man knows the answer.
That the sacrifice of the fallen be not in vain...only you can give them that.”

Then Krom turned and walked slowly out of the tent.

The following day, Skylar voluntarily joined in the somber
labor of entombing the bodies of the dead. The work, though heart-rending,
helped to keep his thoughts from driving him mad. He’d heard the report: five
hundred Haladrian soldiers killed. Among the fallen lay Kindor Nightstar—news
which shattered his already broken heart; several of his schoolmates, and many
of his fellow dock hands from the harbor, were laid to rest as well.

Of the fifteen hundred soldiers yet alive, hundreds more
sustained serious injuries. Rolander was one of them. Dr. Beezin had joked with
Skylar about losing an appendage. With Rolander there was no joke. Where used
to be an arm and five-fingered hand, only a bandaged stub at his forearm
remained. It was his right arm, his dominant arm, too.

Though relieved that Rolander did not die in battle, Skylar
keenly felt sorrow for Rolander. He struggled to cheer up his old friend. Whereas
Rolander had been full of zeal and patriotism, now he lay subdued, reticent,
almost glum.

“I promise you,” said Skylar, just before he had left
Rolander to rest. “If I ever become king, I’ll bring you to Ahlderon to live
with me. You’ll have whatever you want.”

Rolander had not replied.

“Give the little one time,” Dr. Beezin had told him. “His
body’s still in shock and his brain’s in denial.”

Despite Dr. Beezin’s reassurance, Skylar couldn’t help but
worry about his friend. Rolander’s injury did give him one consolation. It
meant that his friend would not fight again. Rolander was safe.

Not wishing to go home—it reminded him too much of his
father—he stayed the night at the encampment. He had requested his own tent.
Many were readily available now. Endrick insisted on keeping watch outside the
entrance of the tent. At first, Skylar refused, but Krom quickly put an end to
the debate.

“Either accept Endrick’s offer or have me as your guard.”

Skylar yielded. He felt little desire for quarreling.

And so he lay on a cot in his tent, while Endrick kept
guard. Outside, a sea of bright stars sparkled in the night sky, calm and
serene. Within, sleep evaded the prince. His thoughts too full, he simply lay
awake staring blankly up at the dark ceiling of his tent. Over and over, the
same thoughts cycled through his brain:
my father’s dead. Kindor’s dead. My
sister’s alive. Where is she? Rolander...will he ever be the same? The
limbreath...
‘
use it in you hour of greatest need’.
Father...Kindor...Grim...Why?

These thoughts haunted him until sleep finally showed him
pity, and he slipped into troubled dreams.

Several hours later, he awoke abruptly, startled out of
sleep by nightmares of the battle. A cold sweat coated his skin. He breathed
heavily, as if he’d been running. For several moments he laid there, his eyes
open, taking deep breaths, allowing his heart to stop pounding. Then slowly he
closed his eyes.

Sleep had almost come again when an audible voice gently
parted the black curtain of silence.

“It did not have to happen this way,” it said so softly that
it might have been uttered by the night air.

Yes despite its softness, Skylar sat bolt upright in his
cot, and swept the room with his eyes. In the darkness he saw nothing, only
dark shadows.

“You could have saved your father,” said the voice again.
“It’s your fault he is dead. Your fault five hundred Haladrians are dead.”

“Who’s there?” said Skylar, his voice quavering. He reached
for his sword and held it out in front of himself protectively.

“Do not fear, Prince. You would be dead already had I
desired it.”

“Who are you?” demanded Skylar, his voice still a whisper.

His eyes detected a shifting movement among the shadows, so
faint he thought his eyes were deceiving him. It was no deception. A shadow was
moving nearer and with it grew a coldness which only one being in the galaxy
could produce. Morvath.

“What do you want?” growled Skylar between clenched teeth,
anger quickly overtaking his fear.

The shadow stepped even nearer, ignoring Skylar’s hostile
tone and outstretched sword.